#dark age journal series

[venusdian]

Venus Dían Network's Line up for Fall '24 - Summer '25

Fall '24:

RU:TFG | Book 1: Sophomore SZN [CH. 1-10]  Patreon | Inkitt

Winter '24 & '25

Bloody Roots [Ch.1 - 10]  Inkitt

RU:TFG | Book 1: Sophomore SZN [CH. 11-20] (2025) Patreon | Inkitt

Spring '25: 

Melancholy Stars [Ch. 1 - 10]  Platform: TBA

Unbreakable [Ep. 4 - 7] Patreon | Tumblr

Summer '25: 

Clandestine [ch.1-10] Tumblr 

RU:TFG | Book 1: Sophomore SZN [CH. 20-30]  Patreon | Inkitt

[coryosbaby]

2. 𝓢𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓴 𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓮𝓽𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓟𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓸𝔀𝓼

𝓢𝔂𝓷𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓲𝓼: Inviting your incredibly nice and incredibly married family friend to your birthday party was not meant to be a way of seduction— or was it?

𝓢𝔂𝓷𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓲𝓼 #2: Anakin sneaks into your room when everyone is asleep, finds your diary, fucks you, and then his wife asks your mother if she can stay the night.

𝓒𝔀: bimbo! Reader, infidelity, age gap (reader is twenty, Anakin is in his mid to late thirties), Anakin with nipple piercings— nsfw . daddy kink, pillow humping, doggy | | 𝓝𝓲𝓬𝓴𝓷𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓼 𝓾𝓼𝓮𝓭: baby, little girl, kid, honey, kitten

𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: This is part 2 of the Insatiable series ! (Click link for series masterlist)

With honeyed eyes and a smile, you can’t stop thinking about your next door neighbor.

You can’t help it! He’s so dreamy, with his big muscled arms, dark hair, and pretty face. And he wants you.

It’s ridiculous; you’re swooning, writing in your glittery pink journal with brushy strokes — Mrs. Skywalker , Mrs. Skywalker, Mrs. Skywalker.

And although it isn’t true— although another woman is taking that name instead of you— you know that this is who you’re meant to be, who you’re meant to love.

Not her.

It’s a hot summer night, a good three days since your last Anakin encounter, and you’ve opened your windows. Warm air streams in through your pink curtains, giving way to a breath of fresh air on your cheeks. Your tank top strap has fallen down, showing some of your collarbone and a bit of your cleavage. Your nipples poke through the fabric, pebbled and— if you’re being honest— you’re incredibly horny.

You can smell the scent of your favorite vanilla candle burning on your desk, but you wish you were smelling Ani instead.

And like clockwork, as if the gods themselves intend it, there he is.

You don’t see him at first— your hand is about to slip down the front of your pajama shorts instead of writing. But when you hear a clatter and a small murmur of “fuck,” from outside of your window you immediately know who it is.

He’s dressed in a black button up and jeans with a cross necklace. Clearly he hasn’t been sleeping even though it’s three in the morning, though you suspect it’s because he’s waited up for you. He grins at you as you take sight of him. His shirt is unbuttoned, leaving little to the imagination. You’ve never noticed it before, given you hadn’t taken his shirt off that first time he fucked you, but his nipples are pierced. Metal barbels sit through them and his chest glistens with a hint of sweat.

Oh, Jesus, you’re swooning.

“Doing that without me?” He teases, grinning. His arms lean against the top of your window.

Excitedly, you get up and run to him as he slips into your room. Your arms wrap around him, and you press your face into his chest. He smells like sweat, cologne, and a hint of alcohol— that must be why he’s become so brave, sneaking into your room like this. You don’t mind. He pulls you to him, and without warning he picks you up and swings you around. You squeal, holding onto his neck as he brings you to your bed and lays you down on it.

“What’s got you so happy?” You ask him. One of his hands grabs your hip while the other comes up to your neck. Your fingers stroke his messy tendrils of hair out of his face. He grins.

“Gettin’ to see you..” he teasingly brings one of your fingers into his mouth, nibbling lightly on your knuckles. “Also, I got a raise.”

You know working as a contractor is no easy job, especially with today’s day and age where money is hard to come by. So the announcement of that has you extremely excited for him.

“That’s fantastic, Ani!” You praise him. You kiss the tip of his nose, and biting your lip as you remember the wetness seeping through your panties, your eyes come down to his chest.

“Didn’t know you had those,” you murmur. Your fingers come down to flick at one of the nipple rings. Anakin sucks in a breath of air, his eyes following your hands on him. “Did they hurt?”

“Like a bitch…” he lets out a tiny sound in the back his throat when you move the barbells side to side and play with them, the stimulation making his cock kick. “Worth it, though. Got em’ a few years ago.”

“Oh yeah? Trying to fit in with the cool kids, old man?”

He snorts, a small smile playing on his lips. “Old man. I’m only fifteen years older than you, little girl.”

“A whole teenager when I was born.” You sigh.

Anakin’s face drops for a moment, curiosity and hint of worry etching across his features.

“Does that bother you?” He questions.

“If it did, I wouldn’t fuck you.” You reply nonchalantly. There’s a playful glint in your eye as you look down at his bulging crotch. “Speaking of…”

You palm him, and he groans lowly.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Speaking of..”

His knee falls in between your legs, grinding up against the spot that you want him most. “Came to see you, but also came to see this little pussy.”

You whine, rolling your hips up against his touch. His fingers reach between your legs, pulling another mewl out of you as he flicks your clit with his thumb. Anakin coos, mockingly pouting.

“Does it hurt when daddy isn’t touching you, baby?“ You nod your head, and it has Anakin grinning ear to ear. “Thought so. Missed this, honey… missed you purrin’ like a little kitten for me.”

He lifts himself up onto his knees, pulling your legs towards him so your thighs are wrapped around his waist. He lifts your shirt up to your ribs, beginning to leave small kisses as he slips his shirt off of his shoulders. He bites down into your belly, leaving a hint of teeth marks there. All while you’re mewling the whole time— your hands are in his hair, pussy clenching. His arm hits something, mid kiss— what could it be? Pulling away, he takes sight of your journal. Closed, with sparkly pink glitter all over it and your name written in jumbled letters on the front. His curiosity peaks, and he picks it up with raised eyebrows.

“Is this your diary?” He asks, amused. You blush, trying to reach up and grab the book away from him. But he just tsks, and holds your arm down with his much stronger one.

“Wonder what you’ve written in here, baby.”

“No! Don’t do that!” You struggle against him, but to no avail. “Ani, c’mon…���

He flips through the pages with one hand, opening it mid air. And there, in between the pages, falls out a small square photo. Anakin’s Facebook profile picture— him, with his wife. Except his wife isn’t in the photo because you had cut her face out of it.

Anakin should be a little freaked out. Especially since when he continues to flip through the pages, he sees the entry where you had wrote Mrs Skywalker— and Anakin’s name. Just his name, over and over. But he isn’t. Quite the contrary, he gives you another one of his toothy grins and lets out a laugh.

“Jesus, kid. You’re a little stalker, aren’t you?”

“I-I’m not!” You squirm, and he loosens his grip on you. You scramble to put the photo back in between the pages and shut the book abruptly. You hastily move away from Anakin and off the bed to put it into the pink safe in your closet where it belongs. Anakin trails behind you. Quick to forget the pain in your knees as you sit on them and close the lid, you begin to lock up the safe.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” you mutter. You lean forward and nervously fumble through your hair as your hands rest on the lid. “It’s embarrassing.”

“I think it’s cute,” Anakin replies wholeheartedly. But then, his voice has a dangerous lilt to it, as his fingers make their way to the locks of your hair. He grips it tightly, pulling it back so your head lifts to look up at him. He bends down, just enough so he can graze his lips against your ear. “Sweet, even.. you like me a lot. Don’t you, kitten?”

Flushed, you nod your head. He lets go of your hair, and your head drops back to its regular position. You let out a tiny whimper. As you stand up, Anakin watches your tits bounce through your tank top with a hungry stare. His mouth is on yours, then. Hot and heavy, licking into your mouth and shooting white hot heat up the expanse of your spine. It’s so sudden— your knees practically buckle. You love the way he kisses you. Hungry, aching, hot. His arms envelope your body into his much wider one, and he begins to guide you back towards your ruffled pink sheets. Your knees hit the edge of the bed and you tumble down onto them with Anakin’s fit body straddling your legs. His big hands fist the hem of your tank top and pull it up over your chest so he can get a taste of your sweet, plump tits. He grab your wrists and pins them above your head as he takes one of your nipples into his mouth.

“Ani..” you moan, watching the way his lashes flutter and he desperately laps at your pebbled bud. He hums, but when you let out a particularly loud whine, he’s putting his hand over your mouth and pulling away.

“Be quiet,” he says. “Don’t wake them up, or you’re in big trouble.”

You nod, obedient, but instead of diving back into your chest, Anakin’s eyes fixate on your pillow wrapped in silky pink satin. He grabs it, positions it on the bed, and lifts your body up. He slides your shorts down your legs, exposing your wet, clenching cunt. He positions the pillow underneath you.

“Hump it, baby. If you’re good, I’ll fuck you nice and hard. How’s that sound?”

You nod, heat creeping up your neck at the thought of Anakin watching you in such a way. Your pussy lips hit the pillow, and you lean onto your hands to gather friction. You move your hips back and forth, and oh, the silk on your sweet cunt makes you drenched. The way it catches just right on your puffy little clit, your pussy beginning to quiver as it gets the stimulation it so desperately needed. Anakin watches, on his knees, and you look back behind you to see him stroking himself. He’s standing in front of the bed, your ass facing him on the edge. He’s got his thick cock out in his hand, his eyes fixated on the fat of your ass and your pussy peeking out from between your legs. The sight only makes you fuck yourself harder.

It isn’t long, with Ani’s depraved little phrases, watching his precum drip down his fist, that you can feel yourself getting close. You desperately hump the pillow with everything you have, little whimpers of, “daddy, daddy, I want it” spilling from your angelic lips. Anakin grunts as he watches you fall apart, your cum coating the pillow in white, gooey strands. Your body relaxes lazily against it, and you can feel Anakin’s cock prodding at your entrance. Your legs shake, the overstimulation making your head spin.

“Ani..” you say, and that’s all it takes for him to slide himself inside of your tight heat. He groans, low and heavy, as he feels your cunt for a second time. Your body still rests on the pillow, and he looks down to watch the little wet patch under it growing evermore prominent. Your cunt is practically dripping on his cock.

“Oh, baby,” he breathes out, his hands grabbing the flesh of your ass. He lands a teasing little smack to one cheek, making you clench and bury your face into the sheets below you. “Aww, look at you. Daddy’s perfect little cocksleeve..”

“All for you,” you moan out, as he begins to thrust inside of you. “This pussy is all yours, daddy.”

And he wants to reply to you. He wants to agree, say that he’s all yours, too. But the both of you know that it isn’t true, that he will never fully be yours. Not if he’s married to her.

He shakes the thoughts out of his head. Not now. Not when he has you all spread out on his aching dick, not when your plump ass is bouncing back against his hips. No, he’s going to savor this. He’s going to spread open all of your holes by the time the night is done.

—

And when he’s done that, after hours of fucking (love making, is what the both of you secretly whisper to each other. Not fucking, not screwing. Just making love), he lays there with you. There is no sense in leaving. Padme has definitely noticed by now, that he’s out and he’s not coming back for the rest of the night. He holds you to him with his big arms and he whispers little stories to you about his life. You tell him about school, about your passions and your dreams. Things you’ve told him a million times before, but things that Anakin doesn’t mind hearing more than once. His fingers draw teasing circles into your naked back, and your eyes almost flutter shut.

Almost.

The sound of loud knocking on the door makes them shoot open. You hear your mother padding downstairs, and you and Anakin look at each other completely frozen.

Padme.

It’s her voice, ringing out through the house, talking to your mother with a cry in her voice.

“He’s doing it again! He’s cheating on me, cheating on me with some skank, he hasn’t come home…”

Your eyes widen, heat creeping up your neck. She’s talking about you. She doesn’t know that, but still. She knows what Anakin is up to, she knows that he’s seeing another woman. Even as hypocritical as she is, being a cheater herself, you fear getting caught.

You want to cry.

Your bottom lip wobbles, crystalline tears threatening to spill, but right before they can you hear footsteps coming up to your room. Your eyes widen, and without even thinking twice you direct Anakin towards the bathroom interconnected into your room. You close the door on him, and gather up the courage to answer whoever is on the other side as you hastily throw your clothes back on and hide your cum stained pillow.

You look at yourself in the mirror, fucked out and hair messy, but you can just say you were asleep.

Your hand on the doorknob, you let out a breath of air as you open it.

It’s her. She’s covered in rain, and she’s crying.

“I’m sorry to wake you up,” she says to you. You try not to gape like a fish. “Your mom said you had an extra blanket in here. I’m sleeping in the guest bedroom, and the comforter isn’t washed yet.”

You gulp, your heart beating out of your chest, but you manage a smile.

“Yeah. Sure, Padme. Wait there.”

You leave the door open merely a crack, and you move to grab the extra blanket sitting in a basket in the farthest corner of the room. You open the door back up and lend it to her. She says thank you, and wanders down the hall.

You close the door with an ache plaguing your chest.

[1800-lemonadeg1rl]

Isolation

Part two of the craving you series (part 1)

Dark! Wanda Maximoff x reader

Minors dni!! Masterlist°•☆

Summary - you settle into your new job while Wanda undos your life

Warnings - manipulation, dark Wanda, obsessive Wanda, unhealthy obsession, breaking and entering, theft, bribery, catnapping, Wanda calls herself mommy, not proofread again srry

Words - 1.8k

A/n - this took me ages to write srry, I still think part one is better tbh

When you first got the job as Wanda's personal assistant you expected it to be strange like the meeting you'd had in her office prior, the one in which she'd has you begging on your knees. Much to your surprise however Wanda was more professional than ever, keeping to herself and only talking about work matters. Little did you know this was because she was too busy eyeing you up to make conversation.The job itself wasn't much too difficult either perhaps even easier than your original job and for the same wage. Your days consisted of planning phone calls, picking up mail, getting her lunch and coffees, taking notes in meetings, arranging taxis, responding to emails and then collapsing in to bed with your darling cats.

Wanda watched on eagerly as you slipped into a blissful false sense of security over the weeks working. Enjoying every second especially since she got to gaze at you every second of the day. The way you did your hair each morning, how you rolled around your wheeled chair had you been sat too long, the same pen you always fiddled with in meetings, how your nose scrunched when your were confused, the cuteness of your little yawns when you were tired. It was all the little quirks she hadn't got to see in you before that she grew to love now.

Her obsession love for you only grew the more time you'd spent with her. Your little smiles and nervous way of talking had her fighting back blush. Wanda was always ever so excited for you to go out on some pointless errand so she could take a look in your bag, one time even being lucky enough to find your treasured journal. Her favourite page, which she took photos of so she could re read it anytime, read as; 'my boss Wanda has been more kind than I could ever wish for, with giving me a new job instead of just throwing me out onto the streets. I wish she could know how grateful I am to still be employed as she could have easily had rid of me. I've always had such a good gut feeling about her as a boss and it's finally been proved correct.

I'd never admit this aloud as I don't think it's appropriate for work but I think Wanda is possibly one of the most pretty women I've ever met, she always has a radiant smile when she looks at me joined with such cute freckles.' Oh if only you knew how Wanda swooned when she read that entry.

Slowly though this new found closeness was not enough for Wanda, she felt as if your gratefulness was dwindling and the time you spent together was hardly enough for what she craved. For what she needed.

Wanda needed a new way to make you come to her to make you rely on her. She needed something you loved, she just had to think of what. That's when she figured it out, she was watching you through her computer one night as you lay in bed peacefully sleeping beside your cats. She knew how much you loved them, how lost you'd be without them.

Her plan was simple, tell you she was going out for lunch with a friend when really she was heading over to your flat to take Marlo and Nixie. Arriving at your flat she saw the front door unlocked and tutted to herself, how silly you really were lucky she was looking out for you or someone could have just waltzed right into your home. Stepping through the front door she was overwhelmed with a euphoric feeling of being surrounded by you and your things. Briefly forgetting about the cats she went around your room, going through your wardrobe, admiring your jewellery and lying down in your bed. But all that wasn't enough for Wanda she wanted a little souvenir from her trip and that's exactly what she got. Going back into your wardrobe she carefully went through your underwear drawers deciding to take a matching red lacey set with rhinestoned buckle, you wouldn't need them anyway the only person you should be trying to impressing was her.

After successfully stifling your underwear she moved onto getting the cats. She'd brought her own little carriers for them, Wanda was no monster of course she'd never harm the small animals you held so close she'd just keep them safe and away from you for a while. Marlo was easy enough to convince to get in the carrier being friendly and easy going almost just like you however Nixie was another story hissing and trying to claw at Wanda anytime she tried to pick her up. Lucky for her shed planned this having overheard you discussing with a coworker several weeks ago about how Nixie didn't tolerate strangers unless she had some catnip. Needless to say she'd prepared for this event. Smiling to herself as she poured the catnip into the carrier and trapping the unsuspecting Nixie inside.

The next day at work Wanda hid her smirk well when she saw you shuffle in with puffy bloodshot eyes with big dark circles underneath, deciding to feign concern instead.

"Oh darling, what's up? You can tell me anything." A comforting smile on her face makes you sure you can talk to her about the cats.

"My.. my cats went missing and no one can find them." Your voice is hoarse from crying as you speak and more tears threaten to fall from your eyes.

"That's no good at all sweet girl." She stands from behind her desk walking over and engulfing you into a strong hug. "If there's anything I can do to help you at this difficult time don't hesitate to let me know." She tells you in a warm voice as she pulls your head closer into her chest making it hard for you not to become flustered.

"Thanks, thank you miss Maximoff." Your stumble through your reply while burying yourself into her strong body.

A few days later and your cats still haven't returned and you find yourself further falling into despair.

That's when you find a letter in your house. One that pushes you over the edge. The one you never wanted to see. An eviction notice. It felt like the life you'd fought so hard for, one you'd dreamed of since childhood was being torn apart before your eyes. As if God was punishing you for some unforgivable sin.

Wanda watched on eagerly as she saw you find the eviction note in your pile of post, a sick grin contorting on her face at the sight of your misery, at the knowledge she'd be the one to bring you back up. The one to heal you. The one you'd grow to adore, worship and crave as she did you.

Of course she was at fault for that letter after having heavily bribed your landlord to get rid of you. At first he was much opposed claiming you to be 'one of his best tenants' and how you never missed rent but after seeing the cash being offered to evict you he couldn't help himself. Wanda knew he'd break easily after all Money really is the root of all evil.

When she saw you sobbing at the kitchen table, shaking hands clutching the eviction notice she wished she could comfort you and tell you it'd all be okay. To hold you tight like she did not a few days ago. Wiping the tears from your delicate face, once you were hers you'd never feel this kind of pain again. Your suffering was only temporary but still it broke her heart to see you so down. Obviously she'd never regret what she'd done. It was all for you.

When you were next in work you felt and were sure you looked like hell. All your energy had been spent trying to find somewhere new to stay but all properties nearby were so expensive or just boxes. Your regular floral dresses had been replaced with knit sweaters and plain black trousers as if this was your autumn, the beginning of your end. When you saw Wanda it didn't help the way you felt when she appeared more put together than usual, her suits crisper somehow and jaw sharper as if while your life fell apart hers had blossomed.

"Darling, you look ill has something happened?" She asks with a practised act of sympathy, she already knew exactly what had happened after all she'd orchestrated the undoing of your life.

"My landlord evicted me for no reason and-.. and-.." You felt yourself becoming choked up as you struggled to tell Wanda what had happened. She picked up on your feelings almost as if in tune with your mind and quickly pulled you into her before beginning to stroke up and down your back in comforting patterns.

"Its okay, I'm here darling. Nothing bad will happen just tell mommy what's wrong." Your eyebrows raised at what she called herself but for some inane reason decided against questioning her.

"And.. I cant find anywhere to stay and my-.. m' cats are still missing and I'm gonna be homeless." She knew youd begun crying when she could feel damp on her blouse where your head lay. Wanda pulled your head back to face her and stroked across your cheeks in such a gentle fashion that you felt you legs may give out beneath you.

"Well you could always.. nevermind it wouldn't be appropriate." She says with pause to look down at your face. "Oh screw it. I can't stand to see you go homeless over some stupid eviction, y/n if you wanted you could stay in my home until you find somewhere permanent." What Wanda hadn't quite anticipated was the way your eyes lit up at the suggestion, she thought you'd have needed much more convincing than you did.

"I.. if your sure it wouldn't be a bother."

"Sweet girl you could never bother me."

That night Wanda took you over to her house and gave you a tour. It was the biggest and fanciest place you'd ever been. More things existed than you thought one person could need. She had everything from pools to inside tennis courts, acres full of forest land to a sauna. You finally understood what it must feel like to be rich. Wanda claimed her guest rooms were under renovation so you'd have to share her room for now. When you accepted sleeping next to her she was so ecstatic she could barely hide it behind the mask of sympathy anymore.

Tags: @reginassweetheart @alexawynters

[felassan]

The Art of Dragon Age: The Veilguard preview pages Part One, under a cut due to spoilers. Preview pages come from Google Books.

[Foreword]

[Part Two]

Life in the Tevinter Imperium.

Part One: Post-Inquisition

Top: Returning to Rivain with a precious quest object. Middle: Exploring Par Vollen, the home of the Qunari. Text: Halfway through the development of Dragon Age: Inquisition we created a series of illustrations we called “beat boards” (intended to cover a major moment or “beat”, they are more polished than a storyboard). They proved to be helpful as we brought the game together. As Inquisition was coming to a close, and a sliver of attention was being paid to the next game, we wanted to try doing beat boards right at the start of the game, rather than the middle. With a few general ideas like “We’re going north” and “Maybe there are Titans” and a sense of story momentum, we started creating exploratory beat boards, asking ourselves the simple question: “What would be cool?”

Top: On a secret mission in Tevinter. Bottom: Receiving an assignment from the Inquisitor

The Red Bride's grave.

Top: An old Warden that was avoiding the Calling. Bottom: The first attempt at designing Weisshaupt Fortress. Text: Northern Thedas - Designing the cultures of northern Thedas was like a fun speculative-archaeology project. We were starting with fragments. There were occasional props, characters, or journal entries that hinted at these cultures, and we had to reverse-engineer living, breathing societies from those fragments. The most important aspect was to design them in a way that respected our fans’ engagement with the material but also attempted to exceed their imaginations (or at least do them justice).

Top: In an ancient magical city, some buildings that would have collapsed centuries ago are kept frozen in time. Bottom: Infiltrating the Archon’s throne room.

Middle: One of the first ideas for a player base was a secret lair in Minrathous’s forgotten undercity. Bottom: The very first concept art of Minrathous. Trying to capture the elegance and pride of the Imperium.

Top: The Divine sends out ships to hunt Solas in the hopes that his capture will restore peace to Thedas. Bottom: A Tevinter magister, a Chasind witch, and a Ben-Hassrath commander plot against the player.

Top: A war room in the captain’s quarters. Bottom: We explored making the player base mobile. It would give us water access to most of the regions in northern Thedas.

Top: Early on we explored the return of the griffons – in this case, using them as mounts to hunt dragons. Bottom: Something in the depths has scared the dwarves enough that they’re fleeing to the surface by the thousands.

A coastal town in Rivain.

Top: Elves from all over Thedas answer a mysterious call to Arlathan Forest. Bottom: Exploring a possible endgame scenario where Solas has summoned a Titan in the middle of Minrathous.

Top: Solas returning like a regal figure out of the distant past. Bottom: What if we return to the Fade and rescue whoever was left behind? How would their time in that alien landscape change them, and what insights could they offer into Solas’s plans?

Top: The part runs into their Tevinter counterparts, and they have to work together to survive. Bottom: Solas interrupts your mission, wiping half your team off the board and forcing you to make an unlikely alliance.

Top: Your ship is stolen, and you have to sneak into enemy territory to get it back. Middle: Journey to the heart of darkness to find Colonel Kurts… er, Solas. Bottom: We created piles of sketches and line work to explore story beats. We could iterate quickly and throw things away if necessary.

Top: There are multiple factions in Veilguard. To make sure they were always recognizable, from their buildings to their belt buckles, we began with shape.   Middle: We had explored Tevinter’s shape language in Inquisition, so in their case, it was a matter of expanding on what was established. Some shapes just felt right (like Wardens and the pointed arch). Bottom: A residential Tevinter interior.

Various captions on this page: An upward-pointing triangle for the mages’ college. We explored some sturdy shapes for the dwarves. The Wardens��� pointed arch could be turned upside down into a shield. Rivain has a been a neutral faction, so the circle worked well. The Necropolis factions started with a half-circle “crest”. A downward-pointing triangle for Tevinter. Ben-Hassrath started with an X shape language.

[no captions]

A wealthy Tevinter mansion. To show off, most of the house is built on top of a floating stone slab veined with lyrium. Visitors try not to think about what would happen if the magic was interrupted.

Slice-of-life illustrations like this weren’t prescriptive, but they helped to explore the feel of certain regions we had only ever heard references to.

Rivain is a trade center. It’s one of the places where you’ll see the greatest overlap of cultures.

[no captions]

Tevinter is a complicated place. While there are lofty towers and powerful magisters, we also wanted to explore what the daily life of Tevinter might be.

Top: Peaceful beginnings, gentle giant gardeners, and curious spirits. Middle (1): The spirits saw the dwarves as they tended to the Titans, and they wanted to try making bodies for themselves. Middle (2): The spirits made physical bodies for themselves from the “flesh” of the Titans. The first elves were born, and the first war began. Bottom: A brutal war raged on between the elves and the Titans, only ending when one elf (Solas) rendered the Titans “tranquil”, capturing their souls.

Top: The elves brought a powerful war trophy home. Middle (1): With the Titans rendered tranquil, dwarves lost their connection to magic. They fled into the bodies of their fallen homes. Bottom: With the power that came from the captured Titan souls, the elves built the greatest empire Thedas would ever see.  

Top: Solas fought against the self-proclaimed gods, earning the title “the Dread Wolf”. Middle: The gods drew upon the power of the Titans’ souls to gain more power. The imprisoned souls became twisted with rage. This became the Blight. Bottom: To contain the Blight outbreak, Solas performed a desperate blood-magic ritual. He bound up the magic of the world behind a Veil and powered it with the blood of the evil gods. Text: Black Codex – There was a top-secret document on BioWare’s network that contained the objectively true history of Thedas called the Black Codex. Each culture had its perspective, its own emphasis and style, and over time more was added and taken away. It was decided to reveal a lot of truth in this game, so early on we wanted to illustrate the Black Codex. This would help to act as a visual guide to the events that formed Thedas as we know it.

Top: What remained of the elven empire collapsed. The early human empire of Tevinter discovered it in shambles. Bottom: Eons later, the Blight reached out to power-hungry Tevinter magisters through their dreams. They were lured to the Golden City, but the magisters found it already blackened by the Blight.

Various captions on this page: At this stage, just about anything goes. Writers and artists both have ideas for what kind of characters they’d like to try, so we dump them all out on the table. We created some comics to explore the tone of the story. Some of these characters were designed specifically for that purpose. The Heir of Andraste: Finding the last living descendant of Andraste, a rough-around-the-edges warrior living among the barbarians. The Gladiator: A Tevinter gladiator that has earned her freedom. Her arm’s protected by mail made of keys from all the slaves she has rescued. She wears her former shackles as rmor: a reminder and a threat.

Various captions on this page: The academic and the mage college scholar forced into the field. Initially we work from very simple premises, often only a couple of words, like “happy necromancer” or “Qunari assassin”. An awakened darkspawn mercenary. Text: Early on we thought about creating a new set of advisors for your ship. It’s satisfying to revisit characters from previous games, especially if time has passed. It’s a chance to try and make their story visible. In this case, we see a Morrigan that has embraced her new gift, who can offer insights into the mysteries of magic and the ancient elven world. This version of Dorian is like Mathis from Casino Royale, someone who can advise you through all the ins and outs of Tevinter culture. Smuggler Admiral Isabela can get you into and out of just about any port in Thedas.

[poniesart]

[Image description: A series of images depicting a song-based comic about Stanley and Stanford Pines from Gravity Falls.

Image 1: The top panel shows Stan, a grey-haired older man in a suit, breaking out of handcuffs in an interrogation room. Lyrics to the left read "They tried the handcuffs, but they won't lock."

The bottom panel shows Ford, a similar man with less grey in his hair, wearing a sweater and jacket. He has a shock collar on that emits blue electricity. Lyrics to the right read "electrical courses, but they won't shock."

Image 2: The top panel shows Ford holding a gun, looking behind him and running. There is a "Wanted" poster of him, on the wall beside him. Lyrics to the left read "You pulled the fire alarm."

The bottom panel shows Stan holding a suitcase of money, looking behind him and running. Behind him is a police car with its lights on, and a cop laying on the sidewalk. Lyrics to the right read "You tried punching a cop."

At the bottom of the image, six busts of Stan and Ford show them aging over thirty years. Lyrics above them read "You're just too tired to stop."

Image 3: An all-black background. White text shows the lyrics "You old pine box." Below is a white outline of a coffin.

Image 4: The left panel shows Stan in a basement, looking down at a journal with his head in his hands. The top of his head is breaking open, and flower pot shards drift away. A plant with a few leaves grows out of his head. Lyrics atop the panel read "You old pine box, with your head full of rocks, sharp like a cracked flower pot."

The right panel shows Ford at a cooking fire, drawing plans for a weapon called a "quantum destabilizer" as he glances suspiciously behind him. Eyeballs with bat wings fly out of an open portion of his head. Lyrics atop the panel read "You old paper head, on your skull full of bats, there's no percentage in that."

Image 5: The top panel shows a younger Ford in the foreground clutching a journal. Behind him, Fiddleford, a man wearing circle glasses and a cultist robe, is walking away from Ford. Further back is Caryn Pines, a dark-haired woman reaching out to Ford. In the very back is Filbrick Pines, a man with sunglasses and a mustache. Lyrics to the right read "They called relations, but they declined. They called the fanclub, but they'd resigned."

The bottom panel shows a younger Stan in the foreground with a grim look on his face. He is walking away from a crashed car on fire in the background. Lyrics to the left read "Left your car in a field and some questions behind."

Image 6: A night view of the second stories of some buildings. In the middle building, Caryn is leaning outside the right-hand window. She has grey in her hair, and is smoking a cigarette and looking up at the stars. Text in the sky reads "Your mom thinks you're out of your mind."

End ID.]

Song: They Might Be Giants - Old Pine Box. Again, I recommend reading with the song playing!

Another year, another Gravity Falls lyric comic, because I am always in my feelings about it!! I could froth at the mouth for ages about Stan and Ford being more similar than they might think - self-isolating, determined, desperate - but instead I drew this.

This is another one I had cooking in the back of my head for, probably, years, because my brain makes so many connections between TMBG songs and GF. I hope you like it!!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 10: Poseidon, God Of The Sea]

A/N: Only 2 chapters left!!! 🥰💜

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 7.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

It’s Friday, November 1st, and it begins like every day does: with you sneaking a birth control pill and swallowing it with a handful of cool water from the sink. Aemond is usually gone before you wake up—writing speeches, reading newspapers, strategizing with Otto and Criston and Sargent Shriver—but you always lock the bathroom door just in case he reappears. You’ve popped the tiny pink pills out of their circular packages and hidden them in hollowed-out tampons, each opening sealed with cotton balls. You don’t like taking the pills; you don’t fully understand how they work, and you don’t like feeling out of tune with your body’s own rhythms, but they are infinitely better than the alternative. You can’t imagine having to carry Aemond’s child now, sacrificing your comfort, your health, your future, your life for a man who doesn’t know the real you and doesn’t want to. You return the modified tampon to the box you keep in the linen closet, then begin to pin up your hair.

When you venture downstairs, you’ve thrown on a long flowing floral skirt and chunky black sweater, black flats, small unceremonious gold hoops in your ears. You’ll have to change before the journalists arrive to fawn over the children as they bake homemade apple pies this afternoon. You’ll have to wear whatever Aemond tells you to. But presently, it’s Aegon you’re looking for; you begin with the basement.

He isn’t sprawled across his futon, he isn’t lazing on the floor. He isn’t there at all. As you stand on the steps, you see only Eudoxia, muttering irritably in Greek and crawling around on her hands and knees as she picks globs of red out of the shag carpet.

“What is wrong with him?” she says when she glances at you. “Can you believe this? Melted candle wax everywhere. He is a pig. A pig! Someone should make bacon out of him. Then he could finally be useful. He’s just about fat enough. He could feed the whole family, and all the dogs too.”

You don’t know how to reply; you can’t apologize for helping to make the mess, you can’t agree that Aegon is a plague and nothing more. “Do you want help cleaning up?”

“If Aemond saw me putting you to work, I would be deported back to Tyrnavos.”

“No, Doxie. Asteria would fall into the sea without you.”

She peers up at you through fallen strands of her hair, dyed a palpably artificial pitch black. Then she grins, large doughy cheeks, crinkles around her eyes. “Go help Aemond win his election.”

“Yes ma’am,” you say dutifully, and head back upstairs.

In the living room, Aemond and Otto are hissing like snakes as they leaf through the Wall Street Journal. The newspaper reports that Nixon’s poll numbers are climbing in this crucial eleventh hour. They can’t decide if that’s true or if the Wall Street Journal, a Nixon-friendly publication, is trying to give him a little extra momentum as Election Day approaches. Criston nods at you from where he sits on the couch, looking exhausted, dark shadows around his eyes and shoulders slumped low; Aemond and Otto don’t notice you at all. You keep moving.

There is chatter and giggling and the clanging of bowls and pans in the kitchen. You peek inside from the doorway. Fosco, Helaena, and the nannies are making pancakes with the children. Butter sizzles, spatulas scrape, bubbles appear in wells of batter. Helaena is lifting Evangelos so he can pour a cupful of smooth, milky batter into one of the pans on the stovetop. Cosmo, drizzling maple syrup over an ambitiously tall stack of pancakes, waves at you. You smile and wave back. In the corner of the room, Ludwika is smoking one of her Camels and shooing away Aegon’s second-youngest son Thaddeus, whose fingers are covered with flour.

“Please take your paws elsewhere,” Ludwika says, flicking ashes into the kitchen sink. “This dress is Prada.”

Fosco spots you. “Would you like some pancakes?” he asks as he approaches, wiping his palms on the apron tied around his slim waist. Flour dusts his eyeglasses. “We have enough batter to make about 500. Although I cannot promise they will not be burnt. Our chefs are rather inexperienced.”

“Thanks, but I’m not really hungry.” You take one last look around the kitchen, wondering where Aegon could be.

Fosco understands. His voice drops low and discrete. “I have not seen him this morning.”

“He isn’t usually up yet.”

“He’s not, this is true.” Fosco taps his chin, leaving white dabs of flour there. “Maybe he’s sailing?”

“Maybe. I’ll check.”

“And I have no idea where you’re going or why,” Fosco says with a wink before returning to the stove.

Outside it’s grey, misty, only 50 degrees. It would be a bad day for sailing. The wind rips at your clothes and your hair like a man’s lustful hands; the waves are choppy and treacherous. You think of Icarus plummeting into the ocean, of Andromeda being offered as a sacrifice to assuage Poseidon’s wrath, of sirens beckoning doomed sailors. From where you’re standing in the backyard of the main house, shivering with your arms crossed over your chest, you can’t see Aegon’s boat Sunfyre bobbing in the rough surf. You turn left to investigate Helaena’s withered garden.

As you walk, the hem of your skirt dragging dead autumn leaves, you skim your fingertips over the evergreen emerald hedges, cool and damp. At the center of the garden—like a diamond in a wedding ring, like the sun surrounded by its planets—you don’t find Aegon smoking a joint or napping under Zeus’s shadow, only a silent stone circle of gods who watch you with unmoving, all-knowing eyes. You spin slowly, studying each of them, deities who loved and cheated and offered mercy and cursed and killed. From his gurgling fountain in the middle of the clearing, Zeus glares at you most fiercely, wielding his lightning bolts, aching to loose them. The wind rattles the leaves of the hedges; crows caw from somewhere out in the mist.

“Oh! You’re here, darling?” Alicent says from the arched doorway cut into the greenery. She’s pushing Viserys in his wheelchair. Sparse white spiderweb-strands of hair hang limply from his head, mottled with liver spots. His fingers are bony and clawlike. “In this awful weather?”

You scramble for an explanation. “I just, um, needed some quiet.”

“Yes, the children are very rambunctious this morning, aren’t they?”

“Children?” Viserys echoes, as if he is only just learning of them.

“Your grandchildren,” Alicent reminds him. “Aegon and Helaena’s kids. Orion, Spiro, Violeta, Thaddeus, Cosmo, Daphne, Evangelos, and…” Panic crosses her face. She realizes she’s forgotten one, but she doesn’t know who.

“Neaera,” you say.

“Of course. Such a sweet girl, gentle like a lamb.”

You weren’t blessed with that sort of disposition. Sometimes you wish you were. Life seems easier for women who don’t feel bitterness or forbidden ambition, who pain moves cleanly through like clear water. They have no thorns for it to snag on and grow roots into the bones, the soul. They are never at risk of becoming poisonous like Jupiter’s moon Io. “What brings you to the garden on a day this dreary?”

“I feel close to them here,” Viserys rasps.

You stare down at him, baffled. “Close to who, sir?” You rarely interact with the ailing patriarch of the Targaryen family. He is often confined to his bedroom, attended by Alicent and Eudoxia and his nurses, and even when he is physically present his mind is sluggish, alien, impenetrable. Now Alicent’s eyes are downcast, and she drifts away to inspect the statue of Poseidon, a formidable bearded man holding a trident and with dolphins and sea turtles emerging from the waves of white marble at his bare feet.

“I left them back in Greece,” Viserys says, his gaunt face vacant, distant, vaguely sad. He is bundled up in a thick wool robe that hides how skeletal he has become. “I thought about having them brought over to be interred at the mausoleum, but it felt wrong to disturb their bones. Now I cannot visit their graves. I can only hear them here, among the gods our ancestors worshiped.”

“Who…?”

“Aemma and Rhaenyra,” Alicent tells you from where she now stands by Aphrodite, gazing longingly at the goddess of love. You notice that she is clutching a komboskini in one hand; she must believe that what her husband is saying is blasphemy, but she doesn’t condemn him. “Viserys had a wife and daughter before he met me.”

You feel a sudden and overwhelming stab of grief for the old man; you are thinking of Ari. “What happened?”

“The sea took them,” Viserys explains. “A riptide off the coast of Euboea. We found their bodies three days later.”

“Oh God. I’m…I’m so sorry for your loss.” You don’t know what else to say; it’s too disastrous, too unspeakable.

“Aemma was pregnant. It was a boy. She delivered him in the water, a coffin birth.” And you know from his face, his voice, that Alicent and her children never stood a chance, that Viserys has only one true family, only one set of names carved into the scarlet chambers of his failing heart. You think of Aemond’s heart, claimed by Alys and her son; you think of your own.

“They’re at peace, Viserys,” Alicent says. “They are in heaven with my mother and Ari and Mimi.”

He continues, as if he hasn’t heard her: “I thought that if I made something of myself in America, if I helped contribute something incredible to the world, then they would not have died for nothing.” Viserys reaches out with trembling, gnarled hands, and when you realize he wants to hold yours you let him. His grasp is weak and cold. “Aemond will be president. He will save countless lives, he will save this nation’s soul. And you have made that possible.”

Where’s Aegon? Is he okay? Why is no one else ever looking for him? “Thank you, sir.”

Viserys begins hacking, doubling over in his wheelchair, and Alicent hurries to soothe him and provide a handkerchief that Helaena embroidered green spiders onto. When he has recovered, you leave them with the gods: Viserys to grieve his old life, Alicent to mourn the one she never had.

You plod through sand dunes out to the Atlantic Ocean, peering into the fog as you search for Aegon’s sailboat. Still, there is no sign of him. You glance back towards the main house as sea spray peppers your cheeks and your knuckles. You’re beginning to get nervous. Where the hell is he? Is he passed out somewhere, is he sick, is he hurt?

And then, at last, you see him: sitting at the bottom of a small bluff so he is invisible to anyone not at the water’s edge, arms linked around his bent knees, not smoking, not drinking, not gulping pills, just gazing out into the waves that thrash and rumble beneath a grey sky, his too-long blonde hair whipping in the wind. He wears one of Daeron’s army jackets over a white turtleneck sweater, ripped jeans, no shoes, a collection of other men’s dog tags slung around his neck.

“Hey,” you say as you join him, dropping down onto the cool, crumbling sand.

Aegon smiles. “Hey.”

“It’s strange to see you awake before noon.”

“Yeah…I didn’t really sleep.” No, he didn’t, you can tell: his eyes are bloodshot and his voice tired, husky. He is watching you, so hopeful but so afraid. “What are we gonna do?”

About us. About Aemond. “If he loses on Tuesday, I can leave him.”

“What if he wins?”

You don’t have a good answer. You shrug, avoiding Aegon’s eyes. “It’s not forever, you know? It would be four years, and then…”

“Four years?” Aegon says. “No, I can’t wait another four years. I’ve been waiting my whole life for something like this. And what if he gets a second term? Eight years? I’ll be almost fifty. We’ve already lost so much time, I can’t surrender another decade.”

“Aegon, first ladies don’t quit. It’s never happened before, not once since 1789. It’s a part of the democratic process. People aren’t just voting for Aemond, they’re voting for me too. You know that. You told me we were a package deal, and you were right. If they trust me and I walk away, it’s…it’s…it’s treason, it’s abandonment, it’s wrong. And Aemond needs to have the political credibility to get what he wants done.”

“Look,” Aegon says, like it pains him. “I get that my life is already half over, and I haven’t done anything worthwhile with the last forty years, but I want to be different. I want to be better. And I can do that, but I need you to give me a chance.”

“You think Aemond would let me leave? If I publicly humiliated and undermined him?”

“We don’t need Aemond, we could figure it out—”

“What do you think he and Otto would do to you, Aegon? They would ruin you anywhere you go, they would have you declared mentally unfit and take your children away.”

“They don’t own us!”

“They do,” you insist. “And if you try to fight them it will destroy you. You’ve never cared about strategy, and I love that you’re truthful, and I love that you’re real, but I need you to understand what you’re asking for right now.”

“But he breaks the rules,” Aegon says, and his eyes are glistening. “He has Alys. He has a kid out of wedlock.”

“Yes,” you agree softly.

“And what, I’m supposed to hope Aemond loses?” Aegon swipes tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Because that’s the only way I get to touch you? Nixon wins and more draftees get butchered in Vietnam, and Daeron doesn’t come home, and the white supremacists get to resegregate the beaches at Biloxi, Mississippi and wherever the hell else they want to, and civil rights protesters get attacked by police dogs, and teenagers get sentenced to decades in prison for marijuana possession?”

“I’m sorry.” You can’t tell him he’s mistaken about any of that. He isn’t.

“I’ve spent my whole fucking life in a cage, but I’ve never felt this powerless.”

“Aegon?”

“Yeah.”

“Am I…” It’s terrifying to ask. “Am I the same way Mimi was when she was younger? Is that why you like me?”

“No,” he says immediately. “No, you’re different than Mimi. Mimi was fun, and we could party together, and I cared about her, obviously, but…” He stares out at the ocean, shaking his head. “She wasn’t as strong as you. And she couldn’t really get to me. I feel like you could kill me if you wanted to, you could reach inside my chest any time it crossed your mind and crush me in your fist and I’d be gone.”

You stretch out your fingertips until they collide with his sweater, warm yielding flesh woven over his ribs. “Not so easy,” you say. And then Aegon smiles and he leans in to kiss you, the ocean roaring like an ancient beast, a titan, a maelstrom. The wind rakes through your hair and stings your eyes. You ask when he rests his forehead against yours, your hand on his face, your thumb stroking his cheek: “Do you wish you could go back to when you hated me?”

“Never. I’ve gotten used to not being alone.”

“The kids made pancakes. You should go have some.”

“Come with me.”

“You first. I’ll be five minutes behind you. We shouldn’t walk to the house together.”

“Why?” Aegon teases. “Because people might think we fucked in the basement last night?”

“I’ve already told them. Aemond is waiting for you in the kitchen with a bazooka.”

Aegon laughs and struggles to his bare feet, slipping on the sand. “Okay. See you soon.”

“See ya.” Once he’s gone, you recite the full length of Here’s To The State Of Mississippi in your head, then trek across the sand and through the backyard to rejoin the rest of the Targaryens.

When you open the sliding glass door, Otto is standing in the hallway. His icy blue eyes sweep from your simple black flats to your windswept hair, still pinned up but unacceptably tousled. “Why the hell aren’t you dressed for the reporters?”

“Because they won’t be here for another two hours. Surely you are well-acquainted with the itinerary that you yourself arranged.”

“Don’t get yourself in trouble, girl.”

“Remember when you used to defer to me about things? Were you stupid then, or are you stupid now?”

“Do you know what Joe Kennedy did when his daughter Rosemary threatened the family’s reputation?” Otto says, eyes glittering cruelly.

You really don’t know; you weren’t aware that JFK had a sister named Rosemary. “What?”

“He took her to a surgeon to be lobotomized. Now she’s hidden away in a little cottage in Wisconsin, can’t speak, can’t walk, with full-time nurses to wipe the drool off her face and change her diapers. How would you like that? Would your obscene little flirtation still be worth it? We could tell people that you were in a car accident or fell down the stairs. The doctors go in through the eye socket, you know. And you’re awake the whole time.”

“You can’t do that to me,” you say, shellshocked.

“Oh, if that’s what it takes, I’ll find the will somehow.”

There is shouting from the basement, and you and Otto both bolt for the staircase. At the bottom of the steps, Aegon and Eudoxia are embroiled in a ferocious confrontation, red faces, hands itching to slap and shove. Aegon roars, jabbing his index finger at her like a petulant teenager: “I told you to stay the fuck out of my room!”

“You are filthy, you leave crumbs everywhere! We will have mice!”

“Where’s the garbage?” Aegon demands. “Huh? Where’d you put it? Out by the curb?”

“It has already been picked up.”

“No, no way! That’s bullshit!”

“You’re too late!” Doxie says. “The truck went by 20 minutes ago. And why is this a problem? What precious heirloom did I steal from you? An empty rum bottle? A magazine full of naked women? Candy wrappers, cigarette ashes, melted candle wax? You live like a pig, you should not be so outraged when you are treated the same as one.”

“Aegon, what happened?” you ask. Otto is equally bewildered, surveying the markedly clean basement, his brow knitted into deep crevices.

Aegon doesn’t answer. He only glances at you—frustration, anger, but shame too—and then sighs in defeat and stomps up the stairs to the main floor of the house.

Eudoxia looks at Otto and shrugs nonchalantly. “At least there were not so many used condoms this time.”

Your gaze catches on the end table by the futon. The empty cups are gone, the ashtray is spotless…and there is no folded white corner of a receipt poking out from under it.

The math problem from Mount Sinai, you think, that relic, that talisman, that worthless scrap of paper that Aegon never wanted to talk about but kept so close to him, just like you cling to the card he gave you and Aemond cherishes his engraved Ouija board. It’s gone. It’s almost like it never happened.

~~~~~~~~~~

After the journalists arrive and the apple pies, so quintessentially all-American, are made—you help Cosmo with his job, layering strips of dough into lattice crusts that turn golden in the oven, glinting with sugar crystals like diamonds—Aemond’s retinue begins the last of their campaign stops by travelling via limousines to Philadelphia, just an hour and a half across the width of New Jersey and over the Delaware River. In your penthouse suite at the Ritz-Carlton, you soak in a bath opaque with bubbles, steam hot and dewy on your skin. Your hair is long and free. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Tomorrow Never Knows by the Beatles.

Your hands have just slipped beneath the hot water—your skull full of Aegon, things he’s done, things he’s said—when you hear the bathroom door open behind you. You rest your arms on the spotless white rim of the tub, porcelain-enameled steel, and try not to look like you’ve been interrupted. Aemond’s footsteps cross the linoleum floor, then he kneels by the bathtub and wraps his arms around you, his long uncalloused fingers skating over your shoulder, collarbones, nipples, before linking like a long necklace. He likes you best like this, when your scar is hidden, something that might have been a nightmare or a sad story that happened to somebody else. He rests the mutilated left half of his face against the right side of yours; his eyepatch scratches against your temple. You shift uncomfortably, you can’t help it. You don’t want him touching you. His arms tighten around your ribs.

“You know, JFK’s mother went through a crisis of sorts as a young wife,” Aemond says calmly. “She realized her husband was a hopeless philanderer and tried to leave him and go back to her parents. But her father sat her down and explained that she had made a commitment. Marriage is for life, and you don’t abandon your vows when the circumstances prove difficult. So she went back to Joe. And if she hadn’t, there never would have been a John F. Kennedy, or a Bobby, or a Eunice or a Ted, or a million other things too.”

“I am so fucking sick of hearing about the Kennedys.”

“You used to love being compared to Jackie.”

“I’m not her. I’m never going to be her.”

“I’m giving up things too,” Aemond says. Now he’s combing his fingers through your hair, unraveling tiny knots, yanking at your scalp. “If I win, I won’t be able to see Alys and our son. It would be too risky, someone might catch me. For as long as I’m president, I’ll have to be apart from them. You don’t think that’s painful? But Alys understands. She knows it’s for the greater good.”

“Please stop touching me.”

“You’re mine to touch as much as I want to.”

You stare at the seafoam green wall and try to pretend you’re in another place, another year.

“I’ve been thinking,” Aemond says sympathetically, an appeasing sort of tone, like he’s trying to strike a bargain. “I’m a realist, I’m aware that I can’t keep you locked up in a basement or put you in a straightjacket for the next fifty years. That doesn’t serve either of us. If you are truly desperate to be rid of me, there’s nothing I can do to change your mind. And I require a partner who is fully committed to my cause, my legacy. Not a captive. I can’t fight Nixon and you too.”

You twist around in the tub to look at him, skeptical, amazed. Is there a way out? “So what are you offering?”

“I need you for as long as I’m president,” Aemond says. “If I win, I need you for at least four years, probably eight. And a short while after that to establish myself in retirement and fade from the headlines, another few years. But then…we could work out some arrangement that is mutually agreeable.”

The hope is so fragile, so fearful, splintering glass. “You would let me go?”

“We’d have to negotiate the details, particularly as far as our future children are concerned, but…yes. In some sense, at least.”

You can’t find any words. You don’t want to offend him, to shatter this moment. And yet the price is so steep. Four years, eight years, ten years. But then…but then…

Aemond smiles, his remaining blue eye bright and cunning. His fingertips trace the slope of your jaw. “I care so deeply for you. You are my Aphrodite, you have made my wildest ambitions possible. You will help me save this country. I am worshiped because of you, I am trusted, I am envied. No one has a wife as beloved as mine, and everybody knows it. So I feel…I’ve considered…” His hand moves down to your throat, drawing invisible chains of gold or silver. “If you’ve given me so much, I can extend some mercy in return.”

“You can’t harm Aegon,” you say. “Or take his children away, or do anything else to punish him.” And then you lie, a necessary fiction, an invention, a myth, Prometheus stealing fire to give it to humans, Zeus hiding Io from Hera. “He hasn’t betrayed you.” And he’s saved me over and over again.

“Of course I won’t harm Aegon. I need him too. This act he has now of the devoted, reformed, tragedy-besieged single father? People adore it. At this rate, I’ll be able to make him the attorney general for my second term if he uses the next four years to rack up some experience. And his children are gold mines for the photographers. They have filled the void left by our own son’s death.”

“Ari,” you say.

“What?”

“He had a name. He wasn’t just ‘a son’ or ‘our son.’ His name was Ari.”

“You’ll feel better once we’ve had others.” Aemond stands and holds out a hand to you. He’s wearing a black suit like he’s getting married, like he’s going to a funeral.

You gaze up at him, not wanting to leave the water. You belong to him, but when he touches you it feels like the earth dying when Persephone is stolen away by Hades each autumn, it feels like Eurydice’s spiderweb-fragile life evaporating when Orpheus dared to look back at her as he led her out of the Underworld. “What if I can’t get pregnant again?” you ask. “It took over a year the first time. And the surgery…what if there’s too much scar tissue, what if I’m just…just…broken?” There’s real pain in your voice that staves off any suspicion Aemond might have. You do want more children, you believe, you know; just not with him.

“Then it is God’s will. But we’ll keep trying.”

Aemond draws you out of the water like a fish from the sea, something to devour, skin and muscle, delicate bones sucked clean.

~~~~~~~~~~

The sunlight is cloudless and glaring. Leaves swirl in the brisk wind in jewel tones: gold, ruby, fire opal, honey calcite, tiger’s eye, red jasper. Aemond has just finished a speech at Franklin Delano Roosevelt Park, standing in a stone gazebo that you can’t help but think resembles a Greek temple, tall columns that house deities of love and death, oceans and fire. Alicent and Helaena have taken the children to attend the opening of a new public library on the other side of the city. The rest of Aemond’s entourage—you, Criston, Otto, Ludwika, Fosco, Aegon—are arranged in a semicircle around him on the stage. Only 50 yards away, there is a small parking lot full of police and press vehicles. Philadelphia residents have walked miles to hear Aemond speak, to glimpse him, to cheer for him, to take leaves he’s stepped on or loose threads from his navy blue suit as relics like the bones of a saint. You match him, as you always must: navy blue dress, high heels, hair neat, makeup mature and understated, gold jewelry gleaming on your ears, throat, wrist. Ravens flap their wings from the skeletal limbs of bare trees. A car radio is blaring Break On Through by The Doors.

“Senator Targaryen,” a reporter calls as flashbulbs strobe dizzyingly. “What do you think about Tommie Smith and John Carlos getting death threats for raising their fists in the Black Power salute at the Olympics in Mexico City?”

There is a split-second lull; it is a difficult question. Aemond must remain the savior of the hippies and college kids and civil rights activists, yet he must not let the old-money urban elite or suburban families mistake him for a discord-sowing radical. You and Aegon exchange a glance; Otto placed him on the opposite side of the gazebo, and this is not a coincidence. Then Aemond decides what to say. “Peaceful protests—even those that can make us confused, defensive, fearful—are not a threat to democracy,” he speaks into the microphone steadily, deliberately, commandingly. The crowd leans forward as they listen, enraptured. Journalists’ pens fly across the pages of their notebooks. “They are not the harbingers of some doomed descent into anarchy. They are a manifestation of the fact that we have already failed. Our nation has failed, our laws and our leaders have failed, and this is our chance to address those dire inadequacies. I urge every single American to listen to what Mr. Smith and Mr. Carlos have actually said about their concerns and their hopes, to be empathetic, to be honest when reflecting on what our country has achieved and yet so desperately still needs to improve upon. These men are not enemies of the United States. They are the United States. They are a part of us, and we are a part of them, and we must not allow prejudiced, ignorant voices”—he means Wallace, he means Nixon—“to draw divides between us. The harassment that Mr. Smith, Mr. Carlos, and their families have experienced is a travesty. It is something that we should expect from a fascist or communist regime, not from a democracy. And to do my small part to show my admiration for them and atone for the mistakes of this nation that I so fervently hope to make better, I would like to personally fund private security services for the households of Mr. Smith and Mr. Carlos for the foreseeable future.”

The crowd erupts into applause, cheers shouted, signs held aloft. Your eyes snag on one, clutched by a middle-aged woman bundled up against the cold; only her eyes—grey, tearful, shining like quarters—are visible above the red plaid of her thick wool scarf. On her sign is a large photograph of a young man in uniform, maybe nineteen, maybe twenty. Below the photo in red marker is written: Ryan Farrelly, my youngest son, burned to death in Phan Thiet on September 21st. Bring Daeron home! Bring them ALL home!

The woman waves at you. You raise your hand wave back. And then there is a sound that comes from everywhere, a boom of thunder, an explosion, bullets like the one that demolished Aemond’s left eye in Palm Beach back in May, a lifetime ago, a truth that has become mythology. There is something hot and sticky splattered across your face, and you can’t see; when you wipe it away with your sleeve and open your eyes, there is a hole in your palm that you can look through like a window.

Where else?

But when you check your chest, your belly, you are whole. It is only a hand would, and that won’t kill you. It doesn’t even hurt yet, though the blood runs in torrents down your arm. You peer frantically around to see if anyone else is hurt.

Aegon, Fosco, Ludwika, Criston??

People are rushing the stage to shield Aemond and his family from bullets. Police are tackling somebody in the audience and beating him bloody with their batons. Aegon is screaming and shoving through the chaos as he fights his way towards you. Otto slams him against one of the columns of the gazebo and holds him there, because Aegon is not the one who’s supposed to get to you first. Now Aemond’s arms are around you, and he is ushering you down the stone steps towards the parking lot, and Criston is running alongside him and telling Aemond that the closest hospital is Jefferson Methodist, but UPenn is better and only two miles farther.

“Who else?” you ask as you cradle your hand against your chest, blood turning your dress from navy to black. Now it hurts plenty, like waking up from your c-section, like a crimson wave that is scalding and crushing and dragging you under to be drowned. “Is anyone else—?”

“No, just you,” Criston says, a reassuring grip on your shoulder. “Don’t worry. Nobody else is hurt.”

“Senator Targaryen, this way!” a police officer is yelling, and he leads the three of you to his black and white car. Criston leaps into the passenger seat; Aemond pulls you into the back with him and slams the door. The sirens shriek and the police officer careens out of the parking lot, Criston giving directions, Aemond yanking off his suit jacket to wrap around your hemorrhaging hand.

“I’m not going to lose it, am I?” you ask dazedly. None of this seems real. You wish Aegon was here. “I need my hands.”

“No, honey. I don’t think they’ll have to amputate.” Then Aemond stares down at the blood on his palms, warm scarlet ruin, water and oxygen and iron that once pulsed in your arteries and veins and now stains him. He frowns, then wipes his hands on his white shirt until almost all the blood is gone from his skin. He is cleaning you off of him. He is readying himself for the cameras that will undoubtedly be waiting at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania.

Inside the glass doors of the building, dust motes circle in aisles of sunlight; you watch them as doctors and nurses push you towards the operating room on a stretcher.

“We’re going to take excellent care of you, Mrs. Targaryen,” a doctor says as he ties a sterile white mask over his nose and mouth.

Don’t let Ari die, you almost murmur in response; and then you remember that’s already happened.

There are needles gliding into your veins, bright lights, pain vanishing like the memory of a dream dissolving when you wake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Four hours later, you are propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows, your hand surgically repaired and bandaged, morphine in your IV drip. The doctors think you shouldn’t lose much function—the bullet was from a pistol, blessedly small in size and missing most of your major tendons and nerves—but you won’t know for sure until it’s healed. Ludwika is here with you, lounging in the chair beside your bed and flipping through a copy of Cosmopolitan with her Louis Vuitton stilettos propped up on the ottoman. She is content to be here, but this is technically a job; she has been tasked with supervising you while Aemond and Otto meet with the Philadelphia police who are investigating the attack. The rest of the family—everyone except Aegon, who you suspect has been forbidden to enter the premises—has already been here to fret over you and ask if you need anything. But you aren’t in the mood for visitors. You are stunned, and aching, and you hate hospitals. You keep thinking of tiny babies in incubators, priests in black robes.

Your room is already filling up with flower bouquets. Every few minutes, the phone rings and Ludwika has to answer it. Each time she announces who it is—“Oh, hello Lady Bird, so nice of you to offer your well-wishes!” and then looks to see if you nod, agreeing to take it. The current first lady says that you are already as beloved as Jackie Kennedy and Eleanor Roosevelt. Pat Nixon calls you a gladiator.

There is a mint green Zenith radio on your nightstand, the volume turned way down low, and a television mounted on the wall. NBC news is on, but you’ve muted it to attend to the barrage of phone calls. There is a knock on the doorframe. Aegon stands there in his khaki pants and ill-fitting viridian button-up shirt and tan moccasins, wide searching murky blue eyes, carrying a white Dairy Queen cup.

Ludwika observes him as she puffs on a Camel cigarette. “I am suddenly struck by the inspiration to spend Otto’s money at the gift shop. I hope they take American Express.” She rolls up her magazine, shoves it into her oversized Gucci purse, and clicks in her heels out of the room and down the hallway.

Aegon commandeers the chair and drags it closer to your bed so he can feel your cheeks and your forehead, so he can get a good look at you. “Hey, little Io. You hurt your hoof, huh?”

“It’s not that bad. The caliber of the bullet was really small. Who shot me? One of Wallace’s Klansmen?”

“No, just some insane guy who thinks Aemond is a Russian double agent trying to overthrow capitalism here and put us all in gulags. I heard you could see right through the wound.”

“Yeah, I had a hole in my palm.”

“Just like Jesus.”

“I guess they fixed it.”

“Messiah status revoked.” Aegon sets the Dairy Queen cup on your nightstand. “I brought you a lemon-lime Mr. Misty.”

“I need to get out of here.”

“They gotta make sure you’re okay, babe. You could spike a fever or something.”

“Aegon,” you say seriously. “I can’t be in a hospital. I need to leave.”

He understands; his voice is gentle. “I might be able to get you out tonight, okay? I’ll try. I’ll talk to the doctors.”

“Okay,” you whimper.

Aegon turns up the Zenith radio, Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl. He sings along, snapping his fingers and shimmying his shoulders, his hair shagging over his eyes:

“Hey, where did we go?

Days when the rains came

Down in the hollow

Playin’ a new game…”

Reluctantly, you give him a smile. And you think very clearly, though you don’t say it: I love you.

Aegon leans across the bed to rest his head on your lap. He says softly as you run your fingers through his hair with your good hand: “Maybe Aemond will lose.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

On the muted television, Nixon is giving a speech in Charlotte, North Carolina to a euphoric crowd. You can’t hear the people gathered there, but you know their applause are thunderous. Nixon is flashing peace signs with both hands and beaming radiantly, this man who was once so poor, tragic, ordinary, unwanted, unloved. He has learned what it feels like to be a god.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Sunday, November 3rd, and your hand hurts like hell. You swallow your pills, smiling a little. Now Aegon is getting clean and I’m the one swimming in a haze of narcotics. Who could have predicted that? Still in your robe and bare feet, you swish to the hotel bathroom to wash your face, brush your teeth, rebandage your hand and make sure it isn’t growing dark insidious vines of blood poisoning.

When you venture out to the kitchenette, Aemond is in a sapphire blue suit and seated at the table, reading the Wall Street Journal, his face hidden by columns of black ink and interspersed photographs. This is unusual; he should be scheming with Otto and Sargent Shriver by now.

“Everything okay?” you ask with only vague interest as you go to the refrigerator to get yourself a leftover slice of apple pie, meticulously wrapped and packed in a cooler by Eudoxia before your departure from Asteria. Aemond doesn’t answer. You plop a piece of apple pie onto a plate, return the rest to the refrigerator, and then turn to your husband. And only now do you register the newspaper’s front-page story.

The photographs, all three of them, are of you and Aegon. They are blurry, taken from a distance, but you recognize the moment immediately. You can feel it again: ocean wind in your hair, his lips on yours, your hand on his face as you willed him to be closer, healed, permanent. You are sitting at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, turbulent and perilous. The journalists must have been north of you, shrouded in mist, their camera shutters clicking feverishly. The headline reads: A Family Affair?

And you remember what Aemond said on your 23rd birthday before he left for the Washington State Convention in Tacoma, how he scolded Aegon when he saw him lighting a joint in the backyard at Asteria: You know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know we’re never truly alone out here.

You can’t speak, you can’t breathe. Aemond knows. The whole world knows.

Slowly, Aemond lowers the newspaper so you can see his face, scarred and hateful and horrifying, lethal like the volcanic hellscape of Jupiter’s most cursed moon.

~~~~~~~~~~

What are my earliest memories? Aegon getting drunk on his futon in the basement while I played with toy soldiers on the green shag carpet, Aemond with his poems and his myths, Helaena letting a praying mantis creep across her knuckles, Criston teaching me how to swim and sail, my mother cleaning sand from my face and hands and giving me water to wash the grit out of my teeth, my father wandering through the doorways of Asteria like a ghost, always on the periphery of my vision, and I had the sense that if I reached out to touch him my hands would pass resistlessly through his skin and sinew like a stone through water.

These are the things I think of here in the rain-dripping darkness, bruises down to my bones, eyes swollen almost completely shut, teeth broken and throbbing like blows from a hammer, fingernails ripped out. I know Tessarion is here because I can hear her, soft sympathetic squeaks, the padding of her tiny feet. I know John McCain is still alive because sometimes he taps back through the cracked concrete wall. I have run out of folklore, so now I tell him the truth. I tell him that I am afraid each beating will kill me as my body becomes a stranger, someone weak and brittle and helpless. I tell him that all my life I wanted to run as far as I could from home, but now I would crawl back to them through razor wire, I would fall into their arms in a shredded bloodstained heap and I’d be happy to do it. Isn’t that funny? I mean, I don’t laugh much these days. But maybe you can appreciate the irony.

Has the election happened yet? Has Aemond won? I’ve lost track of the days, but it has to be getting close to November 5th. What happens if he can’t get me out? What happens if Nixon wins?

I don’t want to be a hero anymore. I don’t want to have adventures like Heracles, Achilles, Jason, Odysseus, Perseus, Orpheus, Ajax. I just want to go home. Please let me go home.

I can hear keys jangling against the lock on my cell door. My heart jolts into a breakneck, pounding rhythm; I think that sound will terrify me all my life. Some things you just can’t forget, you know? Some things dig down deep and build a home in the marrow of your bones, a rust-red cave of immutable memory. I know exactly what the communists want from me. They’ve been asking since they dragged me out of the Loach four months ago.

Everyone has a breaking point. This is mine.

[toxicanonymity]

Let me stay awake.

7.2k, vampy!Joel x f!reader | vampire masterlist | playlist SUMMARY: Joel tries to take better care of you and plans a date night in. Next time he takes your blood, it feels amazing. WARNINGS: I8+, big girthy age gap (440s to 20s-50s), reader is in captivity, angst, hurt/comfort, dark fluff, POV alternates (twice?), a lot of character dev in the first half, a former blood donor joins the cast, chains, shackles, ankle collar, dry humping, groping, perfectly timed ejaculation. Captivity dubcon. SERIES IMMERSABILITY: Reader can menstruate, be lifted by vampire Joel, and has no allergies.

After Joel took your period, you told him he was doing a bad job taking care of you, which was true. But he did a good job at something. You slept like a baby. He was back with when you woke up. Now he’s sitting next to you on the mattress, back against the wall. Against his thighs, he’s holding a pen on top of a book that looks ancient.  He adjusts his glasses and opens the book. The pages are blank, discolored, and thick. Some have been ripped out. He takes the cap off his pen and asks, “What’d ya have at your old house that we don't have here?” then rests his hand on the page to write. His hand dwarfs the page, and you feel a surge of desire recalling his sounds of pleasure. No, you don’t want him, you tell yourself, as if you didn’t fantasize about him on your way to sleep.

“Freedom,” you answer, and he winces. 

He closes the journal with the pen keeping it partly open, then he turns toward you. “If ya just gimme a chance, sweetheart. . . I'm really gonna do my best. . .” 

When you stay quiet, he says, “Ya know. I think one day, we’ll get there.” 

“Get where?” 

“Outside, out in the world together.”

“Really?” 

He nods. “That walk we took was nice, right?”

“What walk?”

“Through the alley, that first night, when I walked ya to your car?” Right. . .what a gentleman. 

“Yeah, I guess.” Now your mind is drifting back to the way he gently pushed you against the brick wall to kiss you on that walk. Did he already know what he was going to do to you when he first pressed himself against you? 

His eyes are earnest.  “It can be like that again,” he nods.  “Just need a little time.”

You nod. 

He clears his throat, opens the journal, and picks up his pen. “So what do you need?” 

Your stomach twists. Answering would feel like resigning yourself to some dark fate. “I'm not gonna help you keep me prisoner,” you mumble. 

“Prisoner?” He dips his head and his brow furrows. “God, no,” he softly reassures you. He reads your face, then stares into the mattress and swallows.

You rephrase, “Well I’m not gonna help you keep me.” 

He looks you over with pleading eyes.  “I'm gonna go out for a while, okay? Can I get ya anything?”

There are things you need, but you still can’t bring yourself to acknowledge you’re there for the long haul. So you shake your head no. He goes to get the chain from the floor.

“Hate doin’ this,” he mumbles. “‘s’just for now.” He drags the chain over and lifts the sheet to expose your feet. He sees the scrapes and irritation on your ankle. “Shit,” he shakes his head at himself. “Hold on, sweetheart,” he mutters. “Stupid,” he mumbles at himself as he gets up.  He goes upstairs and takes the tray from breakfast with him.  He returns with the same tray. It’s holding a pair of his own wool socks in a fair isle pattern, a paper bag, and a translucent teal bottle full of water. “Lunch,” he says as he sets the tray down next to you. He puts the socks on you, and they're toasty. Then, he puts the cuff on over the sock. “Little better?”

“A little,” you answer. 

“Good,” he whispers. 

— JOEL —

He’s gotta do something about that chain. He’s about to lay down on the sofa to think, but when he moves a decorative pillow out of the way, he feels a rush of shame. “Oh my god,” he whispers. He’s so stupid. How did he not think to give you a pillow? He goes straight to a guest bedroom. The tall, oak door creaks as he opens it. The light from the window nearly blinds him. He blocks it with his forearm as he hurries over to close the heavy curtains.  He sneezes. He picks up an old pillow off the bed and fluffs it. Dust swarms around. There's no way he's giving you that. This whole room has a sad vibe. But he could make you a different room, maybe. His wheels start turning as he goes back downstairs - he has ideas for what room he could use, and what he could do with it. 

He says your name as he descends the final steps. “I'm so sorry, I wasn't thinking,” he apologizes as he crosses the room.  He hands you the pillow and assures you he'll get a better one. Then he goes back upstairs.

After a little research, he packs a leather, cross-body bag and checks the weather. “Damnit,” he grumbles to himself.  Cool but no cloud cover. If it were another sunny day, he’d stay home, but this is too important. He puts on a scarf and grabs his parasol from the coat closet and tucks it under his arm as he pulls on his gloves. He’d rather endure the strange looks than come home without the energy to take care of you. 

-

-

Joel’s first stop is an erotic boutique. It's been a long time since he was anywhere like this. The mannequins in mesh bodysuits and strappy leather catch his eye on the way in, and he almost forgets what he came for. He can't help but imagine you wearing some of these things, but he'd rather just see you naked. 

He slowly makes his way through the store. Should he get you a toy? It seems like sexual health would be a basic need. No, he decides. It might make you uncomfortable. He doesn't want to assume, and doesn't want to invade your privacy. Plus, he has to be careful. He doesn’t want you to think this is all just to get him off. He knows how it feels to be fetishized.

“Can I help you?” Someone asks. Joel turns around and squints through his transition lenses at the worker’s face, then their name tag. Craig.  Where does Joel know him from?  Joel stays home a lot, but not as much as one might think. He needs some kind of social contact. 

Craig interrupts Joel’s thoughts, “You’re the one with the mansion, right?”

Joel chuckles. “Uhh, I dunno if–”

“Oh, sorry,” Craig  holds his hand up. “Ya know what? I must be thinking of someone else.” His lie is an unconvincing attempt to allow Joel his anonymity after the slip-up. He probably thinks Joel is in disguise. 

“No, no, it’s okay, man. I was just gonna say. I wouldn’t call it a. . . mansion,” Joel feels stupid as he finishes the sentence. 

“Okay,” Craig concedes with a playful eye roll.  “The house with the Christmas party” 

Oh, God. Joel hadn't even thought about his party. It's gotta be small this year, if it happens. Maybe it would be nice. Joel pictures you in a fancy dress sitting next to him at the table. He imagines having someone to kiss at midnight. 

“New year’s, “ Joel corrects him and sticks out his hand. “Joel.” 

“Right, right.” Craig shakes Joel’s hand and asks, “Friend of the Fishers, right?” 

Joel snaps his finger, “Yes! Right. You're in David's choir.” Another thing Joel forgot. His life has revolved around you ever since you stepped into it.  You're all he thinks about.  Joel starts to apologize, “Look, I dunno if I'm gonna make the Christmas concert this year, it snuck up on me.”

“It's okay, it's okay,” Craig reassures him with a wave of his hand. “Can I help ya find anything?” 

“Yeah, uh, it said online y’all have some cuffs and chains and stuff?”

“Oh yeah,” Craig nods. “Come with me.” He guides Joel to a back wall covered in all sorts of contraptions. “Looking for anything in particular?” 

“Yeah, something really comfortable and secure.”

–

As Craig rings up Joel’s purchase, Joel silently worries if this is going to work. 

“Want me to show ya how the lock works?” Craig asks. 

 “Uhh, sure,” Joel says. 

Craig takes the leather cuff out of the package and demonstrates the metal lock. He dangles the two keys. “One for you, and one for them,” he smiles. 

“And both cuffs have the same key?”

“Yep,” Craig nods. 

The cuff seems comfortable–the inside is suede and there's metal over the leather-–but Joel wonders if it's secure enough. What if you get away and he never sees you again? He looks at the metal loop on the cuff.

“Hey,” Joel asks and scratches his neck. “Y’all don't have any, uh, ID tags or anything do ya?”

“ID tags?” 

“Like the little metal ones that hang on a loop.”

“Ohhh, like for a collar.” Craig raises his eyebrows. 

“Or for this?” Joel asks, holding up a cuff. 

“Cool,” Craig nods as if Joel is an innovator.  “Gimme one sec.” 

Craig goes out to a nearby shelf and comes back with a few collars that have their own tag – mostly hearts, either blank or with something generic like princess. “This is all we got.”

“Y’all do engraving here?” Joel asks. 

“No. . .But if ya only need the tag, and it's gotta be engraved, I can tell ya where to go.”

–

When Joel is done with his next stop, he opens his leather bag and slips the metal tag into a zippered pocket. Damn, he thinks.  He doesn't even know your favorite color. He hopes you’re okay with a black heart. Certainly better than a bone shape. He starts his car and heads toward the library. 

-

When Joel walks into the library, he politely nods at the information desk, then heads to the computers. He sits down at one in the back row. He takes his gloves off, pulls his journal and a pen out of his bag, then logs onto the computer. He searches the catalog and the internet. What do you need? Food, water, shelter, this all seems obvious. What do you want? Freedom, he can hear you saying it. How much can he give you? How can he make you stay? How can he make you understand how much he cares? He retrieves a book and opens his journal to make some notes.

-

Joel puts down his pen, looks over his notes, then takes off his glasses, and rubs his eyes. He wishes you’d talk to him. What do you really want? 

He whispers your name out loud. “God I wanna make you happy.” He closes his eyes and rubs his temples. He has a headache. The sun is catching up with him. He shouldn’t have gone out today. He should go home. When he opens his eyes, he puts his glasses back on. Someone is approaching. He swiftly locks the computer screen and closes his notebook. 

“Joel.” It’s a kind, grandmotherly voice.

“Carol,” Joel smiles, and leans back as casually as he can. 

“You alright there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Joel nods, trying not to wince. She looks at the empty computer screen and closed notebook. 

“Okay, well, you know where to find me, dear.” 

“Great sweater, by the way,” Joel tells her. “Perfect color. Really makes your eyes pop.”  

“Oh, Joel,” she coyly pats down her white curls. “Thank you, dear--OH, Christy asked if you came in. Do you want me to get her?” 

Joel didn’t even think about her on his way in. He feels a twinge of guilt for silencing her call, ignoring her text. 

“Joel?” Carol asks, looking concerned. 

He snaps out of it and feigns a little smile. “Uh, no. No, thank you. Don't bother her.”

“Okay,” Carol says in a sing-song voice. “I'll leave you to it then.” She smiles and walks away. 

–

So she was expecting him. Oh, shit - he thinks through his mental calendar - Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. Warmth rises to his cheeks. It’s been so long since he’s felt his cheeks get warm. It must be something in your blood.  Not only has Joel taken blood from Christy, but she’s been his wingman before. They'd go out somewhere, and he'd listen to her drone on and on–she never took a breath–about  her armchair detective community. 

She’s always been a little too into the whole situation. If Joel thanked her for her help, she’d beam, “Any time.” She wasn't with him the night he met you. He wasn't on the hunt. But you smelled special, and he couldn't physically resist. 

Joel hears Christy greet someone. He can't dodge her, he just has to hope she walks on by.  He picks up his leather bag and puts it in his lap. He rifles through it until he finds a stick of menthol balm. 

“There he is,” Christy calls. 

Too late. He stuffs the menthol back in his bag without using it. He looks up, and she’s paused in the middle of the library with one hand on her hip and her eyes wide, even wider than usual.  

“Hey, Chris.” 

She hurries over. “So you are alive,” she teases with her arms crossed, then tilts her head, widens her eyes, and whispers, “figuratively speaking.” She laughs at her own joke. 

She knows as much about him as anyone alive. It's made a big difference having a friend who knows. This has been one of Joel’s better eras, but the era he’s moving into with you will be lightyears better. And it’ll be more than an era. 

“Kinda late,” she cringes lightheartedly. 

“Oh, no, no, none for me. I’m good, thanks. Sorry, I’ve uh – I’ve gotta go.” 

He stands up and puts his bag on.  She’s gonna know something’s up. He scratches the back of his neck, weighing whether to break down and tell her everything so she can help him know how to make you comfortable and happy. Plus, he just wants to talk about you. He wants to tell the world. But today he has one priority: taking care of you. 

“Waait a second,” Christy says knowingly, studying his face. “You’re glowing. You just got some good stuff, didn't ya?” She playfully punches Joel’s arm.  “Good for you,” she beams, then raises her eyebrows and lowers her voice. “Bet it was menstrual, O positive.”

“The blood type doesn't–”

“--You say that, but if you’d let me do my experiment. . .Oh! We’ve got some new microfilm downstairs. 1880s, if you can believe it.” 

“Not today,” Joel replies a little too quickly if he doesn’t want her prying.  

Her lips form a line and her eyebrows go up, then she shrugs it off. “Okay, mister. Hey, can you still take care of Cal next weekend? Nat and I are–”

“--Uh, yeah,” Joel starts to walk off. “If you can drop her off.” You might enjoy the cat’s company.

“Joel!” Christy calls after him. “Don’t forget this!” She’s holding his parasol. 

–

Next, Joel stops by the hardware store to get some supplies to secure you more comfortably. He’s sure he’s forgetting something, but this is a good start, and there’s always delivery. He doesn’t want to leave the house again this week. Thankfully, the hardware store is next to a Walmart, which has groceries, clothes, and pillows. He gets you some loungewear, socks, and new bedding. It’s the least he can do.

—--

When Joel gets home, he brings you four different pillows and some bedding. 

“Wasn’t sure what firmness.” 

He unlocks you and shows you the socks and lounge clothes. “These looked comfortable. Here, I can help. . .”

“I can do it,” you tell him. 

“Right.”  He turns around. While you’re changing, he says, “Let's order in tonight. Too tired to get anything started.”  

“I’m not hungry yet,” you tell him.

Then he shows you the new cuffs and chain. He rings the heart shaped tag onto one cuff, then puts it around your ankle. “Better?”

The chain is much lighter.  “Yeah, I guess,” you admit. “What’s this?” You look at the tag. 

“Oh I dunno, I just–I started worryin’.” 

You stare at him blankly. 

“I dunno, just in case.” 

“In case what?”

He swallows. “If ya. .” He looks around. He doesn't wanna say it out loud.  “If ya left. . . so ya could . . . I dunno, get back.”

Now there’s a hint of pity and bewilderment in your eyes. 

“It was stupid, sorry.” He takes a deep breath and manages a small smile. “Alright, sweetheart. I’ll be right upstairs.” 

-

When he gets upstairs, he looks at his phone and has a message from Christy. His stomach drops when the picture loads. It’s his search history about taking care of adult human women and what makes them stay.

“God damnit,” he curses himself. Of course he didn’t clear his search history. He didn’t even log off. She's typing. She stops, then starts again, and he presses the heels of his palms into his temples. What now? Should he call her? She wouldn't tell anyone, but – Her message comes through with a woosh: “this is what librarians are for.”

“Ha," he scoffs with the slightest smile. He shakes his head and turns the screen off without answering.  He should be relieved, but can’t help but worry. He's seen her at her worst. God, he hopes that was her worst.  What does she want?

Another message comes in: “let me help you."

Of course that’s what she wants. Funny enough, he’s seen her at her worst specifically when she was trying to help. But it’s still tempting, because she’s smart and resourceful. She could tell him everything there is to know about you within an hour. He’d love to know what kind of clothes you’d like, your favorite foods, how to make you happy. But for now, he’s doing alright on his own. He doesn’t text back. 

-—You—

A while after Joel goes upstairs, you hear drilling, then clanking, metal jingling, things being dropped. 

Later, he brings you dinner. He doesn’t eat, but he sits with you.  Then, after you’re done, he faces you, cross-legged on the mattress.  He’s wearing his glasses and has his journal again. There are handwritten notes in it. From upside down, you can see the words “buy” and “do.” Some items are crossed through.

“I was thinkin’,” he studies the page, then looks up at you. “Ya might need a bed.” He looks at your face for confirmation.   “Right?” he asks. Wow, he really wants an answer. 

“I mean. . . yeah, I sleep in a bed, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Okay, I’m workin’ on a room for ya.”

For the next few days, he’s hard at work. 

—----

He comes downstairs one evening around dinner time and says,  “I was thinkin’, maybe we could watch a movie or somethin’.”

“Here?”

“Uh, no sweetheart. I was thinkin’, if ya wanna come upstairs for dinner, then maybe, after that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he smiles.

“Okay.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. Great.” He goes to the other end of the chain and takes a key out of his pocket to unlock the cuff from the floor.  As he's doing it, he mumbles, “You can, uh, pick the movie. If ya want.” The chain is sliding around on the mattress as he fiddles with the cuff. When the cuff is free from the hook, he puts it around his wrist, then locks it. Your breath hitches. He sees you looking at his wrist. 

“Don't wanna get separated,” he chuckles sheepishly, then puts a hand on your wrist. “Want yours here?” 

“Yeah.” 

He moves the leather cuff from your ankle to your wrist, and it's nice to feel his hands on yours as he fastens it. He smells good. Fresh, woodsy. He opens his palm and takes your hand to help you up. He holds the slack of the chain as the two of you walk upstairs. 

—

It's a large room with high ceilings. It's dark, but cozy. A fire is lit. There are plants, lots of plants. And bookshelves in the walls. He takes you through the main room, to a dining room with a huge table already set for two.  He offers you the head of the table and pulls out the chair for you. He lets the slack of the chain pool between your chairs, and you're both still wearing a cuff on your wrist. 

 You eat mostly in silence, which makes the jingling of the dog tag deafening when you move that hand. He asks where you’d like to travel. You’d love to just travel outside, down the driveway, but you humor him with more ambitious places.

The space is lit with gas candelabras, and it’s hard not to admire his handsome face and the way his eyes sparkle in the candlelight. Sometimes a flicker catches the silver in his beard just right.

After dinner, he takes you back to the main room. There's an oversized sofa with a large, soft blanket draped over it and pillows like the one Joel brought downstairs. There's a big, square ottoman. There's also a side table with two clean, empty wine glasses. The sofa faces the fireplace, which is quite wide, and there’s a screen mounted above it. Joel offers you a glass of wine, and you accept but won’t drink much of it. He starts the movie.

-

Joel puts his arm around you while you watch the film. The chain lightly clinks against itself as he strokes your shoulder, then your arm, and you feel yourself melting. He arranges the pillows and asks if you want to lie down. You do. He spoons you, with his free hand resting over your body. His chained hand is under the pillow, and it finds yours as the movie goes on. Your fingertips brush, and you don’t pull away. Then he fully rests his hand on yours. 

The hand draped over your side gradually begins to wander. He slowly, lightly strokes your side. . .then your hip. . . then your stomach, over your clothes. His breath deepens. His light, meandering touch makes you weak with desire and lulls you half asleep. 

“Thanks for being here,” he whispers. He kisses the nape of your neck. “I know it’s a lot to take in.” He kisses your hair. “But it'll be worth it.” His light touch continues, and you begin to tingle. “Won’t be stuck here forever. . .we’ll travel the world one day.”

His hand travels higher on your body as he moves it in loose circles, until he’s skimming the bottoms of your breasts. His palm grazes the outline of your hard nipple, and a hard shape twitches against your ass. You don’t flinch, but you inhale sharply through your nose, trying to suppress a wave of desire. 

Joel pulls his hips back and tucks the blanket between you, to your secret disappointment. Then he props his head up to admire you. “So many things I wanna do with you,” he murmurs, running his massive hand down your side again where he started. “And for you,” he whispers, draping his hand over your lower belly. Then, barely audible, so quiet you might be imagining it, “and to you.” He puts his head back down on the pillow and inhales your hair, skimming your top with his fingers.

His hand nudges under your lounge top, then his fingertips slip into your waistband ever so slightly, and you’re throbbing.  His fingertips skim your bare belly, dipping a little further into your pants. 

He asks, “You okay from. . .”

Your heart rate quickens. “Yeah, I think so.” 

“I can check,” he quietly offers. “Make sure I got it all.”

“Ok,” you whisper. 

“Good,” he slides his hand down your lounge pants. You’re not wearing underwear. You gasp softly as his fingers reach your clit. He pauses there, and an involuntary push of his hips lets you feel him through the blanket before he pulls back again. His fingertips get lower, then hook between your legs, and he softly gasps when he reaches your wetness. He runs his fingers through your folds, then uses his massive hand to hold the waistband open while he peeks at his fingers. 

“You did,” you whisper. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Shoulda waited, though. I wasn too rough. Shoulda let it happen.” He lets the waistband close over his wrist and cups your  mound.

“You weren’t,” you tell him, closing your eyes, embarrassed at the whole situation. Now he knows how wet you are. 

His middle finger twitches and nudges your clit, then begins nudging it rhythmically. Soon, it evolves toward a more deliberate, pleasure-focused rub, and he inhales deeply, chest expanding against your back. 

“I think I should go to sleep,” you whisper, overwhelmed. His finger stops moving, but his hand stays in your pants.  

Joel offers, “Might sleep better if–” 

“Not tonight.”  You twist your hips away from his, already hating yourself for cutting this off, but knowing you’d judge yourself for continuing. 

He slowly withdraws his hand. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Somethin’ came over me.” 

On the way downstairs, he tells you again, “I’m workin’ on a room for ya. Just gimme a couple days.” 

He chains you back to the floor, then makes up the mattress with a new set of bedding and a comforter. He tucks you in, and leans over you. He wets his lips, looking at yours. You look away. He kisses you on the cheek, soft and slow. Somehow, it feels just as sensual as if it were your mouth.

“Night, sweetheart.” 

—-

The next evening, your room is finished.  He brings you upstairs and shows you what he’s done. It’s an actual bedroom, with a nice, roomy bed. There’s a reading nook with a big, comfy chair and a wall of books.  It’s dim, of course, but he shows you how to use the dials to remotely adjust the flames of the candelabras and chandelier. There’s a window with a curtain. It has steel bars, but at least it’s there. There’s a closet with clothes and some packages not yet opened.  There’s even a fireplace. 

“And here’s the best part,” he says excitedly, gesticulating in a way that makes the chain between you jingle. He brings you outside the bedroom and closes the double doors. There are two dark panels that create a heart where the doors meet.  “Check it out.” He retrieves a key from his pocket, and locks the door from the outside. It’s a heavy, satisfying click. He looks at you like you’re going to be excited. “So you can take this off,” he explains, holding up the chain. 

-----

You see Joel more often once you’re out of the basement. He’s happy to have you close, and you’re glad to have the accommodations. But you’re also confused, and a little depressed. You crave his presence and his touch in a way you know is unhealthy. You know it must be because he’s all you have right now, but your heart tells you there’s more to it. The whole situation has felt like a dream, and maybe that’s how you’ve coped. But the longer it lasts, the more real it feels.

One night, it catches up with you and you have a good cry. You try to be quiet. You try to stop, but you can’t. So you let it go, you just sob. 

After a while, you hear the heavy lock, and the massive door opens just enough for Joel to come in. He closes it behind him, then stands there rubbing his beard.  He looks at you like he’s lost, then cautiously approaches. 

“Hey,” he whispers. He sits down on the bed. You’re curled up, facing him. You don’t turn away. He strokes your arm, and you cry harder. “Oh, sweetheart.” His eyes are sad. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He knows. He lies down, facing you. He hugs you into him and you cry into his soft t-shirt, inhaling his scent with every gasp for air.  “It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

You close your eyes, wanting him to kiss you, and you’re disturbed by your own desire.  You pinch your lashes shut harder, and your whole face tenses. It hurts.

“This isn’t okay,” you sob. “It’s not gonna be.” You try to push him away, but he holds you still. After all the times he’s folded, apologized, and backed off, that’s not what he does. He holds you in his arms, making you stay there. “What are you doing,” you whine, and you push at his chest. He doesn’t budge. You half-heartedly hit and kick at him, and he cages you with his leg, too. It soothes you, like a weighted blanket, but you fight it. 

“Shhhh,” he holds you tight. His voice is deep and quiet against the top of your ear. “We’re gonna be happy one day,” he insists. “Promise, sweetheart.” You exhaust yourself crying, and he holds you. “I love you.” You try to ignore it, but that doesn’t stop your heart from fluttering. Soon you’re nuzzling your head into his neck, gripping his shirt in a fist like you don’t want him to go. He drapes a heavy blanket over both of you. He holds you like that until you fall asleep and your fist releases his shirt. He stays a little longer, then kisses you on the forehead and leaves. 

—--

The next afternoon, Joel approaches you and sits down on the edge of the bed. “How ya feel? Ya look good,” he whispers, and cups your cheek. You don’t shrug him off. 

“I’m fine,” you reply, wishing he would lie down with you again, but not wanting to invite him. 

“What do you want for dinner?” he asks. 

“I don't care,” you answer.  

He sits there in silence and places a hand on your knee. 

“Got ya somethin’,” he murmurs, and stands up for a moment. He appears to get nervous as he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a shallow, velvet jewelry box. He sits down again and holds the box out for you to take, but you don’t. He opens it for you. It’s a necklace. He tells you what the stone is. It’s your birthstone. It’s thoughtful, but he only knows your birthday because he has your wallet. He faces you and puts his hands around your neck as he puts the necklace on, getting his face close to yours so he can see the clasp. With his temple nearly brushing yours, you feel a surge of want. There’s no denying it. The scruff of his cheek scratches you lightly as he finishes fastening the necklace. “There,” he says, and looks at you adoringly.

“Thanks.” 

“You’re one of a kind, ya know.” 

He wets his lips and you notice they’re chapped, dehydrated. He’s pale. You find yourself wanting to hug him, kiss him, but you don’t. He kisses you on the cheek. 

—

One night, Joel makes you a special dinner. He cuffs the two of you together, and you eat in the dining room at the big table with him again. He tells you he needs your blood again. “I don’t have to take much,” he says. “It can be tomorrow,” he offers. “Don’t wanna spring it on ya.” 

“It’s alright,” you tell him. “You need it.” And the truth is, you want it. You want him to take it. You want to be taken back to that moment against your car. You want something that overwhelms your senses and puts you on another plane. You need something to remind you that you aren’t just a girl in a room, and he’s not just some guy keeping you there. If you can physically feel all of that, maybe you can let yourself relax. 

After dinner, he brings you back to your room and unchains you. You sit on the bed. He turns on the fireplace and tells you he’lll be right back. When he returns, he has an old medicine bottle with a cloth. He wets the cloth and says, “I’ll lay with ya, til ya wake up, okay?”

You look at the cloth in his hand and say,  “You don’t have to put me to sleep.” He adjusts the cloth in his hand. “Don’t,” you shake your head. 

His brows knit, and he reads your eyes for a few seconds. 

“Let me stay awake,” you plead. 

“You sure?”

You nod. He closes the bottle again and puts it on your nightstand. 

“Thought it scared ya,” he mumbles. 

“Well it did, when it was a surprise.” 

He nods solemnly. “I’m sorry ‘bout that. I really shoulda. . . I don’t even know.”  If he had asked, you wonder if you would have let him. Surely not, so you can’t exactly blame him. 

-

“Okay,” he looks you over and gets on the bed with you. “You warm enough?” He nudges the cardigan you’re wearing. 

“Yeah,” you nod, and shrug it off. You’re cozy enough from the fire.

“C’mon, let’s get up here.” He guides you up the bed and gets you to lay down with your head on a pillow as if you’re going to sleep. 

He gets close to you, and starts lightly stroking your shoulder as he looks you over. His eyes glue to your neck, and he wets his lips, then he pulls his eyes back to yours. 

“You can choose,” he offers. “Where I take it.” 

You bite your lip as you watch his face and inhale his scent. 

“I can take it here again,” he caresses your neck. Then he holds your arm and lightly brushes his thumb across where you’d normally get an IV, giving you an unexpected surge in arousal.  “Or here.” 

He checks your face, then lays his hand on your waist. His palm skims your side, down your hip. “Or,” he runs his hand up your thigh under your dress. His thumb caresses your thigh, right near your pelvis, and he whispers, “I can take it here.” You’re nearly overwhelmed with desire already. 

“I dunno,” you whisper. 

He gently rolls you onto your back. He takes a deep breath, scoots down the bed, and gets between your thighs. He nuzzles your inner thigh with his nose, then whispers, "up to you, sweetheart."  You're throbbing.

“Tell me what feels right,” he murmurs and nuzzles your inner thigh with his nose.  His hair is fluffy and his eyes are dark and sparkly as he looks up at you. “God, you’re . . .” He reaches up and wraps a hand around your arm. “You’re perfect.” 

“Where do you want?” you ask. 

“Everywhere, anywhere. I want every inch of you.” 

You allow yourself a little smile and hold his eyes for a few seconds. 

He sits up again and offers, “I can make ya feel good.”

“I know,” you nod with a laugh.

“I mean, it’ll feel best, if you’re already feelin’ good.” 

You nod with butterflies in your tummy, telling yourself it’s for a practical purpose, and you might as well enjoy it. 

He nods and whispers, “Okay. . .good.” His eyes rove your body hungrily. He asks, “Anywhere ya don’t want me to touch ya?”

You say "no" so fast your cheeks heat in shame.

His eyes darken and he growls, “good,” as he prowls back up your body.  His triceps swell out from under his shirt.

He kisses you tenderly below your jaw and brings a hand to your breast.  You lift your chin with a sigh. He drags his lips and nose down your throat to your chest, pausing at your neckline. He looks up and you nod. He nudges the fabric aside with his nose, then plants a wet kiss on the swell of your breast, and his eyes close. He moans into your skin. Your gaze fixates on his softwash khakis, and he briefly removes his hand from your chest to adjust himself. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“s’okay,” you whisper.

“‘Sposed to be about you right now,” he murmurs, looking up at you. You tilt your head, trying to look at his pants, but the room is too dim. Truth is, you’re finding it hard to think about anything but his cock at the moment. You only felt the briefest hint of it the other night. You want to feel it all.

He slides his hand up your thigh again, and his thumb nudges just slightly under the crotch of your panties, making you twitch. He takes a deep breath through his nose, then withdraws his thumb and lets down the edge of your panties. He scoots up to lie to your side again, leaving his knee between your legs. He rests his hand on your mound, and slowly ghosts your clit, closing his eyes.  When he opens his eyes again, they sparkle, and his face drifts toward yours.  You don’t flinch, you don’t pull away. You let him kiss you.

With one hand still between your legs, he slides the other one under your head. He kisses you slow and deep, stroking your most sensitive spot through your panties.  Your mouths remain connected as his massive hand slides up to your bare abdomen. He gives your side a little squeeze before sliding back down and nudging his fingers under the hem of your underwear. He pulls his lips from yours and looks at you darkly. It’s not a question, but you nod as his hand slides down.  You gasp and his knuckles strain the fabric as he cups your naked heat.  “Good,” he whispers when he feels how wet you are.  “What if ya just. . .” he kisses you again, then murmurs,  “let your body decide." He plants a soft, open mouth kiss on your cheek, then whispers in your ear, "I'll go everywhere. You tell me when.”

You wrap your wrists around his neck and he catches your inner arm with his mouth. He wetly kisses the inner crook of your elbow, looking up at you. Then he drags his lips down toward your chest, where he pulls your dress down. Your skin hardens with goosebumps as your nipples sharpen, and he groans softly. He kisses your bare breast, then fixes your dress, and kisses your hard nipple through the thin cotton. You arch your back and sigh. He gets between your legs and backs up as he kisses his way down your torso. He lifts your dress and thumbs your panties, sighing “oh, God.” 

He lifts one of your knees over his shoulder and kisses at your cunt through the damp fabric.  Your hips lift into his mouth. He licks along the edge of the crotch, then your inner thigh. He leaves a meandering trail of kisses around your inner thigh, then plants his lips and leaves a hickey. He glances up at you and adjusts himself again, and you let out a little moan.  “C’mere,” You nudge him, pulling at his arms, wanting nothing more than him on top of you. 

He prowls up your body and plants his hands on either side of your chest.  Lays his hips into yours, and when the shape of his warm, hard package presses into your most sensitive place, you gasp and he lets out a low moan. “Should I take-” he asks, reaching for his belt.  You’re nodding before he finishes the question. He uses his left hand to unbuckle his belt. “Sorry,” he mumbles as he pulls away from you enough to take his pants off. Now he’s in long johns, and it’s quite a bulge you’re looking at. Your face and chest burn. You pull him toward you with your feet. He presses his throbbing arousal against your aching heat, and you moan. You card your fingers through his hair. “Feel so good,” you whisper. 

“Good,” he whispers, then kisses your neck again.  

He puts his hand on your thigh and you wrap your leg around him. He lightly grinds into you as he kisses your neck, then your cheek, then your lips again. Your mouths open and draw each other in. You breathe each other’s air and drink each other’s spit. Your lips tingle. Your chest tingles. As you kiss harder, he grinds harder against you. You badly want him inside you, but  you won’t, you can’t, you shouldn’t, you tell yourself. 

The next time his mouth comes to your neck, he teases you with his tongue and a bolt of pleasure shoots down  your spine. Your nipples harden.  He opens his mouth wider against your skin. “Do it,” you whisper, then feel the prick of his fangs against your flesh. “Do it,” you repeat, and his arousal swells against you as he sinks his teeth into your skin. Your hips lift against his. He moans into your neck, and as your blood flows into him, he gets harder. You shudder in pleasure as he takes what he needs. You move his hand from your thigh to your breast, and you lift your pelvis into his, whispering, “yeah.” You’re not lightheaded, not yet. He’s doing this slowly, pacing himself. 

His warmer, harder cock twitches against you, and you reach down to grope it desperately. He groans. You grind up against him and moan, “Joel,” with a surge of need overtaking you. He ruts against you slow and hard, warm and stiff, then his cock pulses right against your clit. He groans into your neck, and you grind back against him, and the whole front of you begins to pulse with him. “Oh God,” you gasp and grab his ass, pulling him against you harder as the warmth of his cum seeps through the thermal fabric, “oh fuck,” you sigh as you cum with him. 

As you finish convulsing, his fangs release you. His breath is humid against your neck. “Fuck, i’m sorry,” he mutters. He leans his cheek against your shoulder, and you can feel how warm his face is. 

“Don’t be,” you whisper. “That felt really good.” He pulls back and looks at you, cheeks blotchy. 

“Really?” he asks. He cups and adjusts his manhood through his damp bottoms. “I never. . .”

“I know,” you reassure him. “It’s my blood, isn’t it?”

He nods with his eyes half closed. “It’s incredible.” 

You nod. “It was good for me too,” you admit. 

“I could feel it,” he puts a hand on your panties.  He sighs and lays half on top of you. He strokes your face. “Can I do somethin’ for ya?”

You shake your head no. “I’m good.” 

He caresses your neck. “I’ll get ya some ice.”

“No,” your hand comes to his back, and you don’t let him leave. “Just stay right here.” 

You lay in silence with him half on top of you. Then he props himself up to look at you. 

“We're made for each other,” he whispers, looking at your mouth. He kisses you softly, then meets your eyes. “You don’t believe it yet.  It’s okay.” 

“It’s not that I don’t-”

“It’s okay. Don’t have to,” he reassures you. He rests his head close to yours on the same pillow, and nuzzles his nose against yours. “Just hope ya feel it one day,” he murmurs into your cheek. “I know ya will.” 

You feel it. You disagree, you think, but you feel the truth in it. 

He puts his arm all the way over you. His arm is solid, and you imagine very heavy, but it's not dead weight. It's tense, like he's actively holding you there, just in case. 

—----

---------

--------

His parasol was inspired by @gasolinerainbowpuddles mood board. 

Thank you so much for love for vampire!Joel and your patience for his story to continue.

I hear you about notifs not working, and tags too (i'm not receiving a lot of my tags either). consider checking my fic notifs blog @toxicfics or the "latest fics" link on my profile header once in a while to see what you might have missed.

[space-dreams-world]

Another twin Au: D and T twins

D and T twins part 2: more info on the twins

When Danyal was pretty young, by accident, he tripped into the pits when no one was looking and came out fine, by after his trip he had gained some abilities that while he wanted to share with his sister, her treated of him was pretty negative and kept to himself, in fact after this he spent his time at the All-Caste to hone his skills partly, but distant himself from his sister.

During this time, he was contacted by a Deity named Chronos/ Clockwork who promised him some clarity on the future of the League as well as some insight into his family and his place in the league.

Now, Danyal knew that the League was not a good nor safe environment to promote the betterment of others, but had a fate that maybe it could change. Both himself and his sister were trained in the art of combat and assassination, but Danyal excelled better in emotional manipulation, strategy and the element of surprise, while his sister was the brutal attacker with her deadly charms.

Talia forgot due to trauma, that one of Ra's tests was to have some assassins assassinate them in their sleep, but one was a little more handsy than they should of, so when Danyal heard his sister's quiet tears, Danyal was there and with quick efficiency and brutally the assassin was dismembered into chunks that Talia had to change sleeping quarters and they could never really get rid of the bloodstains in that room. (This hints at some aggression that can be seen in Dan Phantom)

This is where Ra took a personal interest in Danyal and had mandatory sessions with him. During or after some sessions, Danyal was able to get into Ra's journal without being caught and he read the first-hand account of Ra's deeds. Danyal is appalled by this but understands that from an early age, his father has been mentally unwell from his Lazarus pits baths and that whatever remains is his brain struggling to process all the years he has been alive and that his mistreatment of his sister is due to old ways thinking. After the failed switch between Danyal and Ra, Ra trained his sister to be on equal footing as her brother, but without the spiritual resilience Danyal had.

[During Danyal's trip into the Danny Phantom universe, Danyal had been reduced to being reborn again into the Fenton Family and lived his 14 years ( and experienced his sister's frustrations with a "Golden child" sibling with Jazz) with them until his accident. Danyal, now Danny was good friends with both Tucker Foley and Sam Manson but had some reservations about their goals in befriending him. With Danny's new abilities, he dons the character of Ghost superhero as he had opened the portal and was partially responsible for its work.

Danny played the role of a failing high student who was bullied by peers,( a Clark Kent/Superman role) cut to the episodes where Danny deals with enemies such as Vlad, Freakshow, the GIW, the Observants, Valerie, Pariah Dark and any other big names. Danny had made friends with some of the ghosts including the deity Clockwork after a false assassination attempt and had learned the true nature of the Lazarus pits i.e. ectoplasm. Danny doesn't really entertain the idea of dating but accepts that he has preferences for strong driven individuals...batman.

At the end of the series, not including Phantom Planet, the Sr. Fentons have discovered Danny's true identity as Phantom as well as Danyal Al Ghul that he briefed to his sister, his clone (That after being discovered and rescued from Vlad was kept in the Zone to properly stabilize) and friends some time ago, the Fentons are outraged and in a move of pure idiocy, they blow up their portal that blows their home up and killing them and turning them into ghosts.

They spend their afterlives in ghost zone prisons, learning to correct their biases in death. Jazz ends with either the Foleys or Mister Lancer as Danyal is declared dead at the scene along with his parents. (He's not but once he gets back to his dimension, and Jazz has finished her education she will join him. Sam and Tucker may summon him, but he is not bringing them as he feels that there is no need for them to join him in the assassination and Danny is mentally older than them both as he played Danny as he never experienced normal childhood. Even if Sam harbours a crush on him, he has stated that he reserved his affections for someone else.]

More in part 3...

[scene-pup]

100 AgeRe Questions

Credit: pickledratinajar

1🐝 What Age(s) Do You Regress To ~

2🍯 Do You Pet Regress As Well / What Animal ~

3🥮 How Long Have You Been Regressing ~

4🐌 Is Your Regression Voluntary, Involuntary, Or A Mixture ~

5🐻 What's Your Personality Like When Regressed ~

6🐴 How Often Do You Regress ~

7☕ What Helps You Get Into Headspace ~

8📜 Are You A Baby, Toddler, Or Big Kid Regressor ~

9🦇 Do Your Likes Change When Regressed ~

10⏳ Do You Have A Baby Voice In Headspace ~

11🍪 What Makes You Instantly Small ~

12🧋Why Do You Regress ~

13🌙 Pink Or Blue ~

14⭐ Dragons, Unicorns Or Fairies ~

15☁️ Dinos, Princesses, Space Or Safari Theme ~

16💫 Neon, Pastel, Neutral Or Dark Pallets ~

17🐮 Favorite Regression Clothes ~

18🌸 Favorite Color ~

19🐭 Do You Collect Stickers ~

20🧁 Coloring Book Or Paint By Numbers ~

21🍧 Playdoh, Legos Or Slime ~

22🦄 Finger Paint Or Brushes ~

23🧼 Crayons, Colored Pencils Or Markers ~

24☀️ Do You Have A CG / Name For CG ~

25🌻 Do You Have A Baby Sitter ~

26✨ Do You Have Any Sibbies ~

27🧺 Do Your Parents Know About Your Regression ~

28🧋 Favorite Nicknames / Pet Names ~

29🍕 Ideal Playdate ~

30🐱 Sleep In Crib Or With CG ~

31🍼 Favorite Snack ~

32🧸 Favorite Juice ~

33🍪 Favorite Icecream Flavor ~

34🩹 Favorite Type Of Milk ~

35🐶 Sweet, Sour, Spicy, Bitter Or Savory ~

36🍰 Favorite Dessert ~

37🍦 Favorite Type Of Chocolate ~

38⏳ Mac & Cheese Or Nuggets ~

39🎒 Favorite Movie ~

40🍬 Favorite Cartoon ~

41🚀 Favorite Game ~

42🎀 Favorite Disney Princess ~

43⚾ If You Could Have Any 1 Superpower What Would It Be ~

44🍄 Anime Or Cartoons ~

45🍓 Favorite Carebear ~

46✏️ Shows Or Movies ~

47🐛 Do You Believe In Fairies ~

48🐸 Do You Have A Comfort Character ~

49🌱 Do You Like Rain At Night ~

50🦕 Are You Easily Scared ~

51🧃 Are You Also A Carer ~

52🌵 Are You Independent Or Dependent ~

53🍃 What Pulls You Out Of Headspace ~

54🍏 Are You Scared Of Bugs ~

55🦝 Favorite Toy Series ~

56🚛 Do You Use Pacis ~

57🦴 Do You Use Diaps ~

58🦈 Gear Wishlist ~

59🍵 Favorite Regression Item ~

60🐾 Sippy Cup Or Bottle ~

61🦊 Oldest Stuffie ~

62🎃 Do You Sleep With A Stuffie ~

63🔥 How Many Stuffies Do You Have ~

64🍂 Newest Favorite Stuffie ~

65🏵️ Build A Bear, Amusement Park, Or Disney Store ~

66🥧 Stuffed Animals Or Dolls ~

67👽 Do You Have A Bedtime ~ 

68🍭 Do You Keep An AgeRe Journal ~

69⚡️ Do You Have Rules ~

70🍥 Blankie Or Paci ~

71🌈 Night Light Or Glow-In-The-Dark Stars ~

72🌿 Bedtime Stories Or Lullabies ~

73🎩 Favorite Thing To Do Outside While Small ~

74🐵 Favorite Thing To Do Inside While Small ~

75🦋 Blanket Fort Or Bouncy House ~

76🐯 Stroller Or Walk ~

77🔮 Dress Up Or Tea Party ~

78🦜 Do You Like The Playground ~

79💖 Early Bird Or Night Owl ~

80📝 Indoors Or Outdoors ~

81💕 Warm Or Cold Weather ~

82🦢 Dogs Or Cats ~

83☎️ Do You Have Any Pets ~

84💌 Favorite Animal ~

85🍒 Favorite Holiday ~

86🐇 Favorite Season ~

87❤️ What’s Your Big Age ~

88🌼 What’s A Nostalgic Place For You ~

89🐳 Playdoh, Legos Or Slime ~

90🐙 Do You Collect Anything ~

91🐠 Bubble Baths Or Bath Toys ~

92🍑 Are Your Agere Interests More Fem Or Masc ~

93☔️ Do You Stim More While Regressed ~

94🎨 Favorite Place To Regress ~

95🧵 Favorite Regression Youtuber ~

96🌈 Favorite Site/App For Regression Community ~

97💐 What Do You Wanna Be When You Grow Up ~

98📒 What’s The Most Nostalgic Electronic For You ~

99📀 A Toy You Always Wanted But Never Got As A Kid ~

100🪐 What Is Your Favorite Thing To Learn About In Headspace ~

ASK ME! :D <3

[hellishjoel]

ride

7.2k // pairing:dbf/neighbor!joel x f!reader Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

summary: Joel whisks you away to Houston for the weekend under the guise of a work trip. You keep a secret from him to try and keep your fling undetected from your parents. warnings: MA 18+ (minors DNI), no outbreak, dbf/neighbor!joel, smut, swearing, age gap (reader is in her early 20s, Joel in his 40s), pet names, fingering, oral (f! receiving), unprotected p in v (shower sex hehe), a little overstim if you squint

A/N: sorry not sorry this chapter took a month+, but I hope you like it! A little drammaaaa. and a reminder, they still have all day saturday and sunday together ;)

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You gulp. “Joel-”, it’s almost in a warning tone. “I don’t- fuck, it feels-”  “Uh-huh,” Joel murmurs against your core, nodding gently, grazing his nose against your clit in the process before his warm mouth tightens around your clit. And he suckles.  You cry out, walls clenching around his fingers as he milks an orgasm from you. You damn near crumble, but he tightens the hold on your hip to keep you afloat.  “There ya go, princess, come on my fingers,”

June 23rd 7:48 P.M. 

I’ve had some time to think about Joel, and how much I like to think about him, and how things aren’t an accident. 

Thinking about how unlikely it is that we sparked. 

How Joel could have turned left, and I could have turned right. But we didn’t. 

Instead of running away, I said yes, and so did he. 

The impossibility of us seems so incredible, almost unbelievable. 

I love that so many things had to happen for us to be where we are right now. 

I saw the sun melt his eyes into amber, and he liked the way I smiled in the moonlight. 

This feeling was radical, unnerving, scary. 

I didn’t know why it was called falling or crashing into love. Perhaps I do now. 

“You could sit there and read all day, huh?” Joel interrupts your thoughts as he starts to guide his truck off the freeway, passing a large aluminum Welcome to Houston! sign lit up by the truck’s headlights. 

Butterflies flutter in your stomach, cheeks squished from smiling as his hand settles on your upper thigh, thumb drawing lazy circles on your sweet skin.  

“I’m not reading anymore. Got too dark.” He’s referring to the novel you brought for the trip from your to-be-read pile that you started when you first got on the road. 

The drive from Austin to Houston was two-and-a-half hours long, so you decided to saddle the passenger seat with different activities and snacks to keep yourself busy and out of Joel’s hair, much to his behest. He said he enjoyed letting you ramble on about whatever you were thinking about; said it was like listening to a podcast.  

“But I am writing.” You hum quietly, penning in your last thought before it gets lost in the black of night. 

“What’cha writin’, then?” Joel's curious eyes wander to the nest you had made for yourself in the passenger seat as he tilts his chin up to try and read beyond your journal cover. 

You snap it closed and slip the pen in somewhere between the pages. “Keep your eyes on the road, old man.” Your tone is teasing, making you grin even more as he grumbles in annoyance under his breath as the truck slowly approaches a stop light. 

Once off the freeway and down to the local roads, you roll the window down. You watch the moon start to rise in the sky, feeling goosebumps grow on your arms and exposed legs while the wind lazily flows through your hair. The gentle night breeze is welcome to air out Joel’s stuffy truck. 

You were supposed to be his navigator once he got off the freeway, but you were a bit preoccupied looking around yourself. 

You and Joel left Friday evening as soon as he was done with work, and now you were lightly coasting the streets of Houston as the sun finished setting. You could see the diverse architecture of downtown, the skyline of skyscrapers and high-rises were all crowded together. As you moved further into midtown, Joel drove past small businesses and parks. You let your hand float out the window, surfing the wind like a wave. 

“Hey, space cadet, if you’re not gonna give me the directions to the motel, the least you can do is toss me a french fry.” 

Your head cocks back to him, curiously smiling as you reach your hand aimlessly into the fast food bag, retrieving a fry and bringing it up to his lips. You settled on McDonald’s before you left Danbury, partially because Joel felt like being a little cheap, and you agreed they had the best, saltiest french fries. 

You feed it to him, and he teasingly sucks the salt off your fingers. 

“Gross, Joel.” 

He sneers as he watches you wipe your hands on your thighs to rid yourself of his saliva. “You like it.”

He’s not wrong. You force yourself to look back out the window again to hide the heat creeping up the back of your neck. 

Joel smirks and squeezes your thigh to bring you back to him. When you look over to the handsome man donning his usual green flannel, the wind furles your hair in messy, unkempt streaks. 

He hesitates for a moment, but now that you’re no longer preoccupied with reading or writing, he holds your hand. You feel him test the waters, settling for just lightly clasping it in your lap, but it’s not enough for him. His thick fingers and calloused hand meets the heart of your palm as his fingers weave with your own. He lets out a little sigh and settles himself there. 

You feel like teasing him. You’re afraid to hold my hand but not to fuck my throat in your woodshed with a party right outside? But then you remember how difficult it was to kiss him. It still felt like a slip-up, you had to admit. Especially if this was supposed to be just a casual relationship. It felt intimate and emotionally charged. But it was just kissing, right? And this was just holding hands. 

Your thoughts wrestle around your head a bit. Joel feels it. You’re not sure how he always seems to know what you’re thinking, but he does. His thumb strokes a gentle line up and down the muscle of your thumb, a silent way of saying stop thinking for once.  It’s appreciated, the sense of care and thoughtfulness he provided without even speaking a word. 

Ever since he took you to that bar, Past Lives, all you could think about was Joel. Joel on repeat. Joel taking you away from the distracted environment of the lakehouse. Joel showing you the map, saying there was more to the world than Texas. Joel kissing you. Joel touching you. Joel fucking you. Joel protecting you. Joel saving you. 

As much as you’ve had time to reflect on Joel, you’ve also reflected on your parents. They were hardly bad people, but they didn’t respect your adult choices. You came to tearfully realize that your relationship with them had slowly deteriorated since leaving for university. You grew independent, and that was especially hard for them. Something you had trouble understanding, something Joel didn’t understand either. 

You called Joel Thursday night before your trip under the guise of asking if you should pack any specifics, but the conversation ended up landing on his relationship and parenting with Sarah. You told him how you appreciated the way he let Sarah grow and experience things, that it was good for her. 

“She’s a tough girl, and I trust’er. Nothin’ much left to say.”

“So, what-” you stumble and scoff over the phone. “My parents don’t trust me? Or think I’m not tough enough to tackle the world?”

“S’not what I’m sayin’, darlin’. I don’t know what’s up with your folks. But you don’t need their approval, you’re an adult. All you need is t’… t’ trust yourself. Sounds fuckin’ cheesy, but it’s true.”

You pause, twisting a strand of hair around your finger as your eyebrows furrow, thinking over his words. “Y’think if I act a little more confident about it, they’ll start believing it too?”

Joel’s chuckle is a little crackle-ey on the line as he wanders around his house talking to you, going in and out of good reception. “Gotta start somewhere, buttercup. At the end of the day, it’s about your happiness, not theirs. Don’t gotta be such a people pleaser all the time.” 

Yes, I do, you think. 

“Thanks, Joel.”

“Sure thing, hon’.” 

Dusk on the outskirts of Houston. The houses become few and far between. There’s more green grass and flourished trees. Joel slowly pulls into a small driveway, a large blue neon-lit sign designated that you were at your motel for the weekend. The entire truck is highlighted in a pale blue from the illumination, you nearly have to squint. There were no more than two or three cars parked outside. It was a two-level motel, with an outside staircase to navigate the different floors. 

“The Blue Swallow Motel.” Your attention strays to Joel with furrowed brows. “Why here?” 

Joel shrugs and navigates himself into a parking spot with ease. “Don’t know. Like blue swallows.”

Curiosity sparks you. 

“You like blue swallows? You’ve seen one in person?” 

He shakes his head and says nothing for a moment, but it almost looks like he can’t help himself to dispel some information. “They’re native to Africa, only ever seen the North American variants  ‘round here.” He lets the engine grumble down once he pulls the key from the ignition, but you’re still awestruck in his passenger seat.  

“I’m sorry- Joel Miller Bird Enthusiast?” The eager tone in your voice gives away your excitement, and Joel seems to despise it when you get too excited about him. He has to close his eyes and hang his head, wishing he never said anything. 

“Oh, Joel Miller, don’t even try to deny it, I’ve seen those bird guides on your bookshelf, you’re a birder.” 

His neck swivels, eyes wide and defensive. “I am not a birder.”

You throw your head back in laughter, and eventually, he cracks a smile. “They’re interestin’, okay?”

You playfully pat his shoulder with reassurance, nodding in agreement. The two of you settle down from your fits of laughter and look over the exterior of the motel once more. 

“Y’said you wanted somethin’ quaint? Small?” 

Being with Joel and having no other distractions was your goal for this weekend. Since this trip was coming out of Joel’s pocket, you insisted you didn’t need some fancy hotel. You’ve traveled to Houston a handful of times before, and the last thing you wanted was for your view outside some high-rise hotel to be Danbury in the distance. 

You squeeze his hand once more and nod, stars lighting up behind your eyes. “It’s perfect. Thanks for finding something simple.”

Joel teeters on your appreciation but ultimately ends up shaking his head. “Could’ve gotten something a little nicer for ya, maybe closer to downtown-”

You stop him right there and bring his rough knuckles to your plush lips, adding a kiss to each one. “I said it’s perfect, so it’s perfect. I like it, it’s got charm, chutzpah even. Plus, looks like we’ll have the pool to ourselves.” You hum with a devious little smirk. You hop out of the truck and open the backdoor to grab your things. 

“Pool, you say?” He retorts, an eyebrow raised with narrow eyes on you. You lightly shrug as you grab your backpack. 

“Might have forgotten my swimsuit, though. Shame.”

You brush past Joel, who is scoffing lightly under his breath in disbelief, duffel bag brushing against his calves as he walks with you towards the motel office. You would be the death of this man. 

“Damn shame.”  He mutters, a smirk hanging low on his lips.

---

Room 135 was marked on the dark chestnut door, a small white plate with black numbering decked on. 

There wasn’t much to be said about the motel room itself. You tried to stifle a laugh when you and Joel both walked in to see two separate queen beds. The sheets were white, but the top cover was an extravagant red pattern that looked like it got lost in the 80s. A side table was resting against the wall towards the headboards with a beige telephone placed on top, resting over a few local restaurant menus. Two small lamps were attached to the wall above the beds, perfectly opposite of the television sat on top of a tall dresser. 

“Is this your idea of a romantic getaway?” You teased as you walked further inside over the beige carpet. “Two beds don’t exactly scream romantic.” You set your backpack down on the foot of the bed furthest from the door and closest to the bathroom around the corner. You assume this bed will just be used to hold both of your luggage, not a person. 

“No,” Joel said through a tight gruff as he strained to lift his bag of tools and luggage onto the edge of his own bed. “S’a work trip. Not a romantic getaway.” 

Your smile falters as you purse your lips and fiddle with your hands behind your back. 

“So, this really is a work trip?” You clarify, to which Joel looks at you a bit confused. 

“Course it is.” 

A light boil simmers through your chest. Maybe you will be sleeping in your own bed tonight. Joel could sense your flattened mood, and he quickly felt the need to sweep up the pieces of what he broke. He was bad with words, terrible really, but he tried to find the right ones for you. 

“I said that wrong. It’s a work trip but,” he trails off and falters as he saddles his hands on his hips for a moment and sighs, your doe eyes looking up to his own. “But I brought you here to spend some real time with ya. Didn’t wanna,” he shrugs and rolls his eyes. A classic Joel Miller sign that he wants to say something a little personally emotional. 

“What?” You probe him, a smile tickling your lips as you loop your hands to rest just above the ones on his hips. “You didn’t want to what, Joel?” You ask, setting your chin on his chest and looking up at him with a goofy grin. 

He sighs and rolls his eyes again, having a hard time looking at you. “I didn’t wanna go on this trip alone. Didn’t want to leave you at home when I could bring ya with.” 

Joel wasn’t a social man. In fact, if the world went to shit, you think he might really enjoy the solitude. But for him to admit that he would rather have you in his space than out of it, it’s quite endearing. 

Now you’re the one who's hiding a blush. You settle your cheek against his chest and sigh, soaking in his scent and his warmth. Joel’s hand comes to rest on the side of your head, gently stroking your hair away from your face as the two of you relax into a gentle hug. 

“Were you serious about that no bathin’ suit thing?” He asks after a moment of silence, causing you to roll your eyes and shove him a good distance away. 

“As serious as a heart attack.” You sneer as you round the bed to the bathroom, needing desperately to relieve yourself after the drive. Of all colors, it’s a beautiful mint green. Incredibly retro, you think as you use the toilet and stare at the shower absentmindedly. You roll your phone around in your hands once you finish washing them, a lump rising in your throat. 

Your mother’s words echoed in your ear. 

“If it gets serious, we want to meet this young man.”

There was no young man. The young man your mother referred to was really Joel. Panic was spreading through your body just at the thought of trying to fix this situation. They figured out you were seeing someone, they just didn’t quite know who. A few heavy breaths labor out of you, anxiety nestling in your chest. 

“You okay, buttercup? Been a minute.” Joel asks cautiously from the opposite side of the door, his knuckles offering a few polite knocks. 

Your chest surges. You didn’t want him to know you’d slipped up, half-told your parents the truth. You didn’t want him to end things out of fear of them finding out. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine, Joel. Just.. gimme a minute.” 

His feet don’t move on the other side of the door. He doesn’t want to leave you, feeling something slightly wrong. 

“Really, Joel, just- checking out the facilities.” God. 

He sighs before you hear him back off. “Alright. Lemme know f’you need anythin’.” 

You need to act, or else this feeling will eat you alive. Finally, with some accurate cell service, you text the first person you think of. Nathan. Remember that childhood crush of yours? You hadn’t seen him in years, and with how gorgeous he was growing up, there was a scary feeling that you might be texting a man who had a girlfriend. But he was your only hope to cover up the mess you had made. 

Growing up with Nathan and his parents being friends with your own always felt like a setup. Your mothers always cooed that you two just might end up marrying one another. At the time, you wished it was true, that all this exposure with him would lead to something romantic. But then you grew up, saw each other a little less over the summers, and grew apart. You still kept in contact via social media, but not often. You saw his life in pictures. One from a homecoming dance, a group picture of him and his friends, an action shot of him playing basketball, a high school graduation picture, and a similar one for college graduation. He was still alive somewhere out there, you just didn’t know him like you used to. 

Nathan was always kind, goofy, very golden retriever-like. Summers spent apart created a rift, but he was your childhood best friend and crush once upon a time. If he was willing to help you out, you owed him big time. So you shoot him a text and cross your fingers that this is still his number. The last thing logged in your messages was a silly conversation about cheetahs versus jaguars. You were team cheetahs, obviously. 

You felt a slight sense of relief once you came up with a plan. Talk to Nathan. See if he can act as your fake boyfriend for your parents. See if he doesn’t think you’re damn crazy for concealing your forty-something-year-old fuck buddy. 

You’re not really sure how to reignite the conversation, it’s been so damn long. You stare at the blank screen before you craft the brilliant message: 

Hi

A sigh leaves your parted, anxious lips, and you shove your phone away. 

---

You really did bring a bathing suit, much to Joel’s eagerness for the rumor to be true. You change into it with your back turned to him. You feel his eyes boring holes into you, sending a small dash of goosebumps up your arms. “I’m going for a dip before bed.” You say as you fiddle with the strings of your bikini top, struggling for a moment before you feel a warm presence step in behind you and fuss away with the strings himself. 

You hum softly as he fastens the strings, making a bow at your midback. Joel’s lips brush against your shoulder before they start sponging gentle kisses up your neck. The hair you tied up into a loose bun tickles his nose. 

“Such’a pretty girl.” He hums against your skin, a soft shiver trickling up your spine, lips parting in pleasure. “Too bad you’re not a very good girl.” Joel murmured as his hands slipped lower, past your hips, past the curve of your ass, until he was cupping both cheeks in his large palms. You gasp at the sensation, feeling his fingers squeeze at your flesh. A moan escapes your lips, you just can’t help it. You love it when Joel is handsy for you, the needy one. 

You swallow the lump in your throat and turn in his arms, eagerly kissing him as you cup his cheeks. He fights for control instantly, pulling you in at your hips so your back arches backward out of habit. You let your head dip back, eyes dipping closed as his lips trail down your neck, then between the valley of your breasts, all while his wiry beard creates scratches in his wake. 

“Do you have swim trunks?” You ask breathily, shoving him lightly by the top of the head further down your body. He drops to his knees and continues to trail kisses down your stomach. 

The question catches him off guard.

“Do I- what?” He asks breathily, looking up at you as he sponges kisses over your clothed center. 

“If you don’t have swim trunks,” you try to continue, “you can’t go swimming with me.” You say with a teasing smirk, stepping around Joel, who was awestruck kneeling on the ground, his hands still in place where he was cupping the backs of your thighs before he slaps them down on his own to show annoyance. 

He was probably thinking how you just up and disappeared when you were just standing in front of him a moment ago. Joel grumbles something, but you’re already out the door of the motel room. 

---

The pool is glowing in its blue hue, lit by dim lights around the perimeter and the silver moon in the sky. 

In a world so vast, you couldn’t help but feel a little lost in wanting to explore it. 

You take a breath in through your nose and test the water with a dip of your toe. A bit cold for your liking, but the warm Texas summers make your skin sticky and the air a bit stale. So you dive in. 

The cool water is a shock to your system at first, with goosebumps growing on your skin like wildfire. Your face breaks the seal of the water, emerging over the light ripples you created upon diving in, catching your breath. You take a few leisurely laps along the outskirts, feeling weightless, free. 

“Nice night.” Joel’s brassy voice breaks the gentle chorus of the summer cicadas. You hum as you carve your way through the water until you meet the pool’s edge. You rest your arms on the lip of the pool, bringing your breasts just above the surface of the water. 

“Get. In.” You say with an authoritative voice, despite your eager smile. 

He cocks his head a few degrees to the right, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “No. You look like a shivering chihuahua.” 

His joke elicits a giggle from you. 

“It’s only cold for the first few minutes. You’ll warm up.” You’re only half-lying, the pool was so fucking cold. 

Joel merely shakes his head. “You’re crazy, buttercup.” 

You hum as you push off the edge of the pool, moving towards the center, letting the water dance around you as your arms glide back and forth to keep you afloat. 

“Sounds like you need some motivation.” Your eyes lock on Joel’s as your fingers navigate to the back of your bikini strings, slowly pulling the tie loose, feeling the water aid you in floating the material off your upper half. The top strings around your neck are still tied, concealing the full reveal of your breasts. 

Joel’s once secure face fizzled, eyes straying and lips parting. A soft sigh escapes his lips as he kneels down, pointer finger curling towards him impatiently.  “Get over here.”

You shake your head disobediently. “Now.” His barking urgency makes you stifle a smirk. 

“Joel Miller afraid of a little cold water.” You shrug and move your fingers to the strings tied behind your neck, slowly tugging loose the threads. The material falls limp into the water, floating in front of you free from your body. 

Joel watches with impatience, the spill of your breasts making his cock twitch inside his swim trunks. The mesh material was forgiving, allowing him to swell at the sight of you. The cold water has your nipples taut, drawn into sweet peaks. You’re just out of his fucking reach, too far into the pool for him to grab you. 

He grunts quietly, jaw tight as you slowly swim closer to him. You shiver at his glance alone. 

“If you want me,” your voice drops innocently, doe eyes making their appearance to reel him in, “you’ll get in the pool, Mr. Miller.” 

Just out of his reach once more, you swim back to the center and push your thumbs into the band of your bikini bottoms, down your legs, leaving you bare in the pool for anyone to see from the highway or their own motel rooms. You must admit, Joel’s desperate gaze filled with want makes you squirm with excitement. Disobeying him lights that explosive even more. 

He offers you his hand, one final offer.  “Last chance, angel, get out of the pool.” 

“Why do you even have swim trunks on if you aren’t going to get in?” You ask, eyes gazing over the tangled hair he has scattered across his chest. 

“I was hoping these would appease you alone. Now come here,” he juts his hand out as an offering one last time. 

You roll your eyes and swim closer, your breasts lapping in the water as you take Joel’s hand. And tug with all your strength. 

His feet skid to try and hold him back, but he ultimately summersaults into the pool. You cover your mouth with your hand, unable to conceal your laughs as Joel emerges, sopping wet, cold, angry. 

“Y-You-” He chatters his teeth, eyes screwed tight on you as he pushes his hand back through his soaked curls and down his face, grazing his wiry beard. “You’re gonna get it.” 

Joel’s threat makes you squeal. You attempt to doggy paddle away, but the grip he catches on your arm is iron.  He pulls you back to him, and your body glides through the water, arms securing on his biceps once you’re locked in his hold. He’s threatening, but not as much so when you wrap your legs around his waist and feel his half-hard length. 

You raise your eyebrow at him, and he half-chuckles. 

“Such a fuckin’ piece of work you are.” He grunts out, hands searing the flesh of your hips as he skirts his hand down lower, cupping the globes of your ass. 

A hum tickles your throat as you lean in and press your lips to his jawline in a tempting kiss, smiling as Joel’s nose playfully nudges yours, leaning in for more. 

It’s stomach-twisting how you feel so comfortable with Joel, how you sink into his body, and how he warms your core. You kiss him until your lips feel bruised, and he grips your beautiful curves with eagerness. The two of you kiss like hungry teenagers, finally outside the watchful eyeline of your parents. Joel’s cock is hardening against your naked core.

He forces himself off of you, groaning lightly as he strays from your eyes. Cupping his jawline, you angle him back to you, resting your foreheads together. 

“Makin’ me get all riled up like a damn teenager.” His warm breath puffs across your face, his words make your bundle of nerves tingle. 

“I like that I’m the one causing it.” 

Joel chews at the inside of his cheek before giving you a tight little nod. “Me too, buttercup.”

---

Joel decides pool play is over. He gets out first, snags your bikini pieces that floated to the edge of the pool and starts walking leisurely back into the motel room. 

He only hears your cursing and belligerent rambling after he returns from turning on the shower, piping hot. 

“Can’t hear ya when you’re chatterin’ your teeth.” 

Joel returns to the bathroom and strips his swim trunks off, still half-hard. He tests the water with his hand, giving you an affirming nod it was okay to step in. 

You’re still angry and seething, having to streak your way back to the room naked and freezing your bare ass off. He looks at your crossed arms and playfully tuts. “You’re the one that thought t’drag me in there with ya, princess.” 

Joel follows you into the shower, the water splashing searing hot droplets. It only feels that hot because you’re readjusting from the pool’s temperature. You find yourself huddling into Joel’s warmth. 

He finds it endearing, the way your head settles on his chest, your ear to his heart, too chilled to let him go. He angles the showerhead downwards, letting it focus on your body first. He could wait. 

You gently release your crossed arms, letting them wrap low around his hips. He had a few extra pounds of flesh low on his tummy and on the sides of his waist. You gently pinch the area and smile. 

“Stop that.” He hisses, eyebrows knitted together. 

“But I like it. You’re my favorite person to hug.” 

The sentiment splashed warmth on the back of his neck. Joel has picked up a few extra pounds from town barbeques, and beers tossed back during football games. He used to not like it, the way he had to loosen his belt after a big meal, or having to purchase his new t-shirts in a size up. He didn’t think about it much, but naked with you in the shower, feeling you admire his ever-changing body, was a comfort. 

You look up after a few moments of silence, setting your chin on his chest and feeling his chest hair graze against your skin. 

Joel wants to warm you up, get you to relax under the showerhead. He presses a nimble kiss to your lips, pitter-pattering kisses along the extent of your body before he is down on his knees, angling your back to rest against the shower wall. 

Tired after your car ride and melting under the shower’s sprinkling water, you ache for a relief that will come from your head hitting a pillow. But Joel had other things in mind, things that would make you forget you were tired in an instant. 

Now under his watchful eye, lips and wiry beard scratching at your soft skin, you lightly part your legs for his entrance. God, please don’t let me slip and embarrass myself right now. Let me have this one good thing, this man’s tongue against my pussy would make me a God-willing woman. 

Joel can feel your exhausted body, begging to find a bed. But he had you where he wanted you, and his mouth was watering to taste your sweet musky arousal. His hands settle themselves on the backs of your thighs, supporting your weight as his head leans into your warmth. 

He brings two fingers forward, parting your center, licking a slow draw up your core. His tongue flicks off your clit, your bundle of nerves twitches. Something flips in his stomach, and his cock grows heavy against his thigh. 

You taste sweet and serene, something he’s grown an appetite for. With several days apart awaiting your weekend trip away, he often found himself at night, spilling into his hand thinking about your young, beautiful pussy flushed against his mouth. He takes this opportunity to relish in you moaning his name, without any curious ears. 

His tongue sinks lower, swirling around your tense entrance. The swell of his tongue gushes more arousal from you, and he gets a proper taste that isn’t mixed with water from the shower. 

Joel’s grip on your thigh tightens, and he laps at your clit like a famished man. 

The constant flicks have you gasping for air in the all-too-warm shower. Your fingers weave into his soaking wet curls, still finding a grip as your thigh twitches against his hand. 

Joel’s two fingers parting your center gently massage at your entrance, wiggling in gently as he suckles on your clit, and you mewl weakly. 

His tongue and teeth lightly graze your sensitivity, feeling stars clouding your vision as his fingers set a gentle pace. 

“Ooh,” you sigh weakly, feeling his fingers hit the perfect spot, one that makes you shake. 

Joel knows that sound, knows the feeling. He looks up, admires the way your pretty lips are parted in bliss. The hand on your thigh is brought to your stomach, gently stroking over the flesh. 

You watch him a little curiously, a little fucked. His mouth returns to your clit, but his hand still falters on your lower abdomen. You whimper as he adds a little pressure, and quickens his fingers. It’s jaw-dropping, the friction and pressure, piling on top of each other.

You gulp. “Joel-”, it’s almost in a warning tone. “I don’t- fuck, it feels-” 

“Uh-huh,” Joel murmurs against your core, nodding gently, grazing his nose against your clit in the process before his warm mouth tightens around your clit. And he suckles. 

You cry out, walls clenching around his fingers as he milks an orgasm from you. You damn near crumble, but he tightens the hold on your hip to keep you afloat. 

“There ya go, princess, come on my fingers,” he grunts, jaw tight, and teeth clenched as he watches your cum-arousal mixture glide down his fingers in a sticky mess. He slowly stands, watching you pant for air, as he sucks his digits clean with an evil smirk. 

The temperature in here is too much, heat consumes your body as you weakly grip his biceps. 

“God damn, Mr. Miller.” You say breathlessly. You take him in a quick kiss, moaning weakly into his mouth at your taste. His tongue tangles with you, and he keeps his fingers on your core. His first two fingers start to slowly circle your clit again, but it’s entirely too soon. 

You whimper weakly into his mouth, your clit aching and still recovering from your oral orgasm. 

“Mmm- can’t do it, Joel.” 

Joel snarls as he swiftly turns you around, his foot hitting the insides of both of your ankles to spread your legs. Your face is plastered against the shower wall, watching him out of the corner of your eye with your jaw dropped. 

“Be good for me, baby girl, show how thankful you are.” 

You whine at his raspy voice, feeling its timbre bounce against the walls. 

“Please,” you beg in a whisper, inching your feet farther apart for him to take you in the shower. 

Joel strokes his cock, seething through his teeth at the desperate relief he’s feeling. His swollen tip vies for your attention. He lines himself up, his other hand on your hip as he notches himself inside. 

You visibly flinch away, Joel hushing you softly as he tries again. 

“Gotta relax for me, pretty girl.”

You sigh weakly and let yourself melt with the warm water, fluttering your eyes closed as you gently jut your hips back into this, needing to be filled. 

Joel tries again after lining his tip up and down your slit and gathering your arousal. He notches inside of you once more, causing your eyelashes to flutter. He slowly presses on. 

The drinks must have really loosened you up since the last time the two of you fooled around in his truck. He wasn’t so hard to take then, but now he feels thicker, rounder. You could feel the thick vein on the underside of his cock as he ruts his hips into your ass. 

Finally, you will yourself to breathe, moaning his name in desperation. 

Joel’s trying to contract his lungs, but you’re gripping onto him so tight, the heat of the shower going to his head. 

You hum and purposely grip your walls around him, squeezing for his last breath. 

Joel snarls and smacks your ass from below, watching the fatty flesh jiggle. It stings, but you like it, thinking about his large handprint marking you red. He winds his hips back up and presses in, groaning lowly as he fills you to the brim. 

He sets a decent pace, one that robs you of what air you have left in your lungs. Your entire body feels sensitive, your cheek growing sore from being fucked against the shower wall. But it feels entirely too good, a certain itch that only Joel Miller can scratch. 

Every thrust he makes, you moan his name like a broken record. “Joel, Joel, Joel,” you moan and grunt it so much, that it starts to sound like it’s not a real word anymore. 

You reach back an arm blindly, gripping his bicep and stitching your nails into his skin. 

Joel grunts out weakly, the burning sensation you caused on his arm making him go wild. He reaches for both of your wrists and plants them at the base of your back, forcing your face to be your only weight to keep you up against the shower. 

But it unlocks a new angle, one that has you crying out curses and his heavenly name. 

“Fuck me, Joel, fuck- fuck your favorite little pussy,” you mewl out, feeling his cock twitch inside you. 

“God dammit, fuck me good like that, like that,” your eyes clench close, panting heavily. “Right there, daddy, please, Mr. Miller, touch my clit, please,” you beg, the pet name rolling off your tongue. 

It makes him snarl. He sets a hellish pace. His chest puffs up, his broad biceps locking around you as his fingers stroke over your pussy. 

He loves the way you wind him up. Because you are his favorite young pussy, one he’s made his own, railing you so good that you forget about anyone else that may have had you before. 

All you know is Joel Miller. 

His thighs and lower tummy smack your ass cheeks, a distinct slapping sound filling the shower and pinging off the walls right back into your ears. 

Stars flutter behind your eyes, you feel light-headed. The water splashes warm across your back, allowing Joel even more slip. 

The harder he fucks you, the closer he moves in. Now he has his entire torso flushed against your back, flicking his hips up into you with precision. 

Suddenly he’s grabbing your leg by the underside of your knee, hiking it up, and planting it against the shower wall as he exposes a whole new sensation. 

You can’t last any longer. His fingers circle dangerously around your clit, and now he’s pounding you into the wall, forcing friction against his glorious thrusts. You whimper loudly as his tip kisses your cervix repeatedly, feeling your walls clench around him as you come. 

It’s jaw-dropping, heart-surging, mind-fucking how good he feels coming inside of you. It’s warm, warmer than the water still raining over you. It’s comforting the way his seed spreads throughout your core, his grunts filling the shower as he drops his last load inside of you. 

And goddamn, he loves how you milk him dry. 

You weakly slide down the wall, tiredly dropping your leg once he pulls out. 

“No ya’don’t.” Joel quickly says, snagging a strong arm around your waist and hauling you up. You whimper as he peels your face off the wall, blinking rapidly as he spins you to face him. “C’mere.” Joel embraces you, and you lean weakly into his front like a bear hug. 

“Water,” you whisper against his pec. He turns the shower temperature down, a more comforting heat surrounding you now. 

“You’re alright.” He assures. 

After time to recuperate, Joel reaches for the shampoo bottle, squirting a small amount into his palm and lathering it between his hands. You feel a little better standing, but you still stay wrapped up in his arms, in his hug. 

He massages the shampoo into your locks, gently massaging it against your scalp, before he gently washes the bubbles out. He gathers conditioner next, letting it soak into your ends.

You hide your smile against his chest, knowing that he probably had to learn this type of stuff for Sarah. Hair care, skin care, tampons and pads, all the sort of stuff single dads fear. You wonder whatever could have been in Sarah’s mother’s mind to leave a guy like Joel Miller. Sure, he wasn’t perfect, but he seemed to fit into your life like a glove right now. For however long that perfect fit would be.

A weak sigh leaves your lips as he strokes your head sweetly, his fingers then grazing your cheek. 

“Y’alright? Feel good?” 

You nod weakly and smile, letting your arms drop gently as you pull away. “M’tired.”

Joel stifles a chuckle and nods. “Me too, baby. Sit tight.” 

Once Joel is assured you’re not going to lose your strength standing up on your own, he shuts off the water and steps out of the shower, wrapping his towel low on his waist. You gaze at the lines around his hips, and how they dip down into his towel. 

You clear your throat as you quickly look away once he approaches you with two towels. He wraps one around your shoulders, gently moving his warm hands up and down the sides of your arms. 

You look so sweet, warm and cozy, cum-filled, at ease. The stress he usually sees you carrying around is wiped away. He hoped he had something to do with it. 

Joel leans down and presses a light kiss to your lips. Not hungry, not desperate, not chasing. Delicate. Assuring. 

You smile tiredly and shyly evade his eye contact, something that he hates to admit is goddamn adorable on you. 

Both of you towel dry off any remaining droplets of water. Joel forces you to show him how you even get the towel you wrap around your hair on your head. 

“This is girlhood, Joel Miller.” You say once you secure it on, watching him shake his head in disbelief. 

“A mystery to me.” He says with a boyish grin.

You both exit the steamy bathroom and search your bags for pajamas. You packed a few comfy shirts for bed. And only one extra pair of panties. You better be damn careful with your one last sacred pair. You toss it back into your pack for now, deciding that they would probably be taken off in the morning anyway. You slip under the covers of Joel’s bed, saving him a space you hope he fills. Of course, he does. 

Joel flips off the light switch, indulging the room in a black and blue hue. He grunts quietly as he slips into the covers. The both of you just melt into the mattress. 

You nuzzle into his side, and he wraps an arm around your shoulders. He makes gentle circles into your back as your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You sigh and turn your back to Joel to retrieve it from the charger. 

“Your parents askin’ if we made it okay?” Joel murmurs tiredly, eyes closed, waiting for you to return to his side. 

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s a text message from Nathan. 

Hey stranger

“Yeah,” you lie, your fingers gliding across the keyboard to configure a response. “They uh.. They’re tellin’ me to not bug you too much on the trip.” You awkwardly chuckle, your back still turned to him as you stare at Nathan’s message. 

Joel dryly chuckles as he reaches a hand out and settles it on your hip. “Quite the opposite.”

You feel terrible concealing this from Joel. But you don’t want him to think you were young and foolish letting your secret fling slip. This was to make things work, to keep the secret buried from your parents.

Another message from Nathan makes your phone buzz in your hand.

Heard you’re in Danbury for the summer with your folks. Wanna catch up? 

Your heart sits in your throat, shocked by his ask. 

You flip over your phone, opting to reply in the morning. You’re beat. You sigh weakly and return to Joel’s side, hiding your face in his shoulder as you gently kiss along the muscle. He was already passed out. 

As messy as this felt, being with Joel felt like being tossed a life jacket in open water. And you weren’t going to lose that safety, not if you could help it.

---

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[frannyzooey]

On the Green: 4

Ezra x f!reader

Rating: age gap, mature-ish, bordering on explicit?

A/N: thank you thank you thank you to @imaswellkid for reassuring me that I actually understand this man in some capacity and for giving me praise when I needed it the most. ily. ❤ thank you also to @the-scandalorian who had the patience to decipher my half-asleep ramblings and assure me that I was on the right path. ily. ❤ and thank you to YOU, reader, for sticking with me during my unintentional months long hiatus of this story - I hope you enjoy!

Series Masterlist

--

The back of your suit disappears in the lush greenery as he follows you through the forest. You guide him deeper and deeper, the light reflecting off your helmet flickering between the leaves. Moss gives way to thick, creeping vines, and then the earth opens up into a deep, gaping pit. 

You stand at the edge, and his glove reaches through the air to pull you away from danger but before he can grasp your suit – you jump. 

You’re at the bottom of the pit together, your profile alight as he watches you dig. His eyes slip over the flutter of your lashes, the tip of your nose, your plush lips. You turn and say something to him, and he smiles. Opening his mouth to reply, he tries to take a breath in, but the air is…thinner. Like his suit has a leak. 

He checks his filter and when he looks up, you’re gone, the connection hose between your suits cut. 

You’re running again, and he’s chasing you. 

Ezra. 

It’s your voice, but it doesn’t sound the same as it does from within his helmet. It sounds like you’re outside of him and inside of him all at once, whispering his name. He loses sight of you, and panic blooms in his chest. His lungs constrict with every gasp for air, his body breaking out in a sweat underneath his suit and then several things happen all at once:

He’s in the pod with you beneath him, your body arching underneath his. 

A moan breaks free of your throat; a masked person hiding in the bushes before they disappear. 

A scream – he can’t decide if it’s a cry of ecstasy or of pain – and he’s pushing forward between your spread thighs. 

Ezra. 

He reaches for your face, your lips parting to allow for his thumb to press inside. 

He does; another masked person peering in through the pod window. 

Ezra, you moan. 

You suck hard on his thumb, a deep groan reverberating from his throat as his hips rock forward and — 

He jerks awake. 

With his heart pounding and his cock hard, you perch at the edge of his cot, your delicate face etched with worry. 

“Ezra. Ezra, hey.” 

Your hand presses down on his chest, and he covers it with his own for a moment as the surroundings of the pod become clearer, sharper. Your face comes into focus, a luminous, soft thing in the hazy dark and for a split second, he feels an overwhelming draw towards you. As if he should sit up and meet your mouth with his. 

His cock throbs, and he flinches. Shit. 

“Hey,” he breathes, taking his hand off yours. He sits up, trying to disguise the aching heft of his cock under his thermals. They leave nothing to the imagination – he knows, since he’s seen you in yours. 

“You okay?” you ask. “Another nightmare?”

He’s used to them after being in this line of work for as long as he’s been in it, but he’s not used to someone else seeing them. He feels slightly sheepish, but can’t decide if it’s because he feels vulnerable or guilty, like you know what he was dreaming about. 

“Seems so,” he replies, the corner of his mouth lifting ruefully. “Sorry to have woken you, Birdie.”

You shrug. “Wanna talk about it?”

He pauses. “Not particularly, no.”

He’s grateful for the way you immediately drop it. 

Weeks on the Green have left you with a certain sort of familiarity with each other, one that’s grown and flourished in the way only sharing a very small space allows. You know about his nightmares, and he knows things about you as well. 

He knows you prefer to start your day in silence: a hot beverage, your headphones, your journal. You look even younger then, swaddled in your blanket by the window, your face still puffy with sleep. 

You like it neat, a good balance to his own disarray. 

You’re a good cook, which has saved him from a diet that used to consist purely of Bits Bars. 

You’re methodical and measured, which, paired with his own impulsive ways, makes for a good partnership. 

However, he’s been careful beyond that. 

Whatever role you assumed during life with your father is not one he intends to make you relive. You’ve taken every single thing he’s thrown at you in stride, but to make up for it, he’s tried to balance the scales by teaching you anything he can. He hasn’t allowed you to assume the role of caretaker. You’re equals, or, if anything, he’s over corrected in some sort of fucked up recompense for everything you went through before this. Just like he promised, he’s protected you. 

And he’s needed to – with word getting out about your ship, he’s had to take care of two more people in the last month alone. He taught you how to shoot after you asked him to, and he was grateful for it later on when the second one almost got the better of him. It was a close call, and he hated you being in it. 

Hated the man more though, which he satisfied with a shot between his eyes. 

He blamed the pull towards you after that on the adrenaline, but he wasn’t being honest with himself. It began long before that. The lessons themselves had been tests of his self-control: your smaller back tucked against his chest, your eagerness and willingness to learn, the way you preened under his praise. 

He fucked his fist in the shower that night and blamed it on so many things: the needed release of stress, the forced proximity, how long it’s been since he was able to sink into a willing partner. His loneliness crept into the dark room while you slept that night and he thought about how, until now, it had been satisfied with your close companionship. 

That night, he’d laid awake and wondered how eager you’d be underneath his hands. 

Would you beg him to teach you what he likes? Would you ask for more the way you do now that he’s encouraged it?

Then the dreams started, and it got worse. Your face, so close to his each time you woke him. The warmth of your body next to his cot. They only made the urge to protect you fiercer, both from himself and the scavengers, and that didn’t even take into account the real threat. The one he’s waited for to show up since he found you. The one who he promised –

They appear in his dreams, alongside you. Hiding in the bushes, peering in the windows. But they aren’t ones who come looking. They wait for you to come to them, and so far, he’s avoided it at all costs. He made that deal when he was desperate for a ship, but now he’s more desperate to keep you safe.

You both need to get off this fucking planet. 

He shakes the thought of the others free as you crawl back to your own cot. Your headphones discarded on the floor next to your face down journal and your rumpled socks, you tug the blanket up around your shoulders, rolling over to go back to sleep. 

Too unsettled to follow you, he stays awake. 

–

He watches you frown in concentration, focusing on the tiny piece of metal in your hand. 

Your fingers are so much more nimble than his, but even you’re having a hard time finding purchase. It slips within your grip the longer you hold it, and not for the first time, he marvels at something seemingly so insignificant in size, yet so crucial to your plan. The converter in your palm is what sparks the engines to life – just a tiny scrap of intricate wiring, one of many that clips into a board that then fits neatly beneath a panel on the floor. 

And unfortunately, the thing that took the hardest brunt of impact upon your rough landing. 

There are forty in total needed and you have twelve that function. Thirteen, he counts, if you’re successful with this one. 

Satisfied with your work, you blow gently on the piece. His eyes drop to your mouth when you purse your lips, and it stays on your profile until you break his reverie, handing the converter to him. 

He blows out a breath, prepping the voltage pen. 

“Here goes nothing, little bird.”

He attaches the pen to the converter, and the pod is silent for a fraction of a second. 

His thumb presses forward and – red. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, letting out a heavy sigh. 

“I don’t understand what the issue is.” The statement is laced with frustration, and he runs a broad hand down his face before dropping it onto his lap. “Do you have any idea?”

You shake your head, defeat etched into your features. “I wish. I’ve rewired it a couple of times. I’m scared if I keep messing with it, it’ll strip what there is to work with.”

Leaning back on your hands, you arch your back to stretch the muscles and the action draws his gaze downwards, focusing on the way he can see your chest through your tight thermals. 

“I feel like we should call it,” you suggest. “We’ve been at it for ages, and I’m starving.”

You crawl over to the cupboard next to your bed, your pert little ass in the air as you rifle through the contents and he thinks about how he’s starving too. His mouth waters, and his tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip. 

“I can read through the manual again,” you start to say, the rest of your words fading into the background as he continues to stare. Your thighs, the flare of your hips, the peek he has of your cunt. He can see the shape of it through your leggings, a tiny hot little space that he imagines the heat of. He longs to touch it. It calls for his fingers, or his tongue and he imagines the taste of it through the thin material. 

What would you sound like if he put his mouth on you that way? Would you let him?

“Maybe I missed something.” You straighten, sitting on your knees to thumb through the pages of the ship’s manual and the youthful way you bite your lip as you study it stirs shame in his gut. It’s a sensation he’s not used to, and though it would normally be easy to ignore, he can’t. Not when it comes to you. 

You are so fucking young, and he needs to get out of here. 

Still, he wonders if you feel it like he does. The tension that fills the space sometimes, the magnet that pulls the two of you together. He might be inclined to say you don’t feel it…but he also knows people. He’s seen a flicker of interest on your face, he’s seen your pretty eyes hooded with what he’s sure was lust. With anyone else, he’d have already broached the subject of a…mutual arrangement, but with you, guilt stops him every time. He’s not used to the feeling stopping him from doing anything, but the imbalance of the situation is too much for even him to think about taking advantage of.

Though if you were to ask him, he wouldn’t say no. 

You continue to flip through the manual, and he imagines you making the first move. Asking him to help with an ache you have, telling him only his fingers could soothe it. You, hovering at the side of his cot, whispering please. It’s perverse, the dynamic that makes him throb. You, helpless and begging for relief, and him, competent and so very willing. 

Your youth plays into it, he’s sure. Your eagerness does too. You’re so sweet, and it’s been so long – which is exactly why he shouldn’t even think about sullying you with his dirty hands. 

You want it though, he can tell. Maybe not everything he wants, but you do want. You’ve dirtied your hands and liked it, reveled in the things he’s been able to teach you: how to defend yourself, how to shoot, how to dig and plot and survive. 

You’re a fighter, and he loves it. 

He feels your eyes on him. 

What would you do if he stood up and took what he wanted?

“Ezra?”

He blinks at the sound of your voice bringing him back to the present. 

“Want some dinner?”

“Sure.” . 

Watching you cook, he’s momentarily transported outside this pod, off this planet and into wherever you lived before this. Every action is a practiced, deft one. You work in silence, as if you’re used to it. A solitary creature, much like himself. Not by choice though – also much like himself. He’d almost think you prefer to be alone, but the way you’ve leaned into his companionship tells him differently. 

Feeling the guilt press against his ribcage again when he hungrily takes in the nape of your neck, he tamps it down. Helping you instead of fantasizing about you is the least he can fucking do. 

He comes to stand next to you, and you look up at him, confused. 

“Want some help?”

You smile, and he mirrors it, taking the meal packet from your hands. Dehydrated rations vacuum sealed in tiny pouches, he pours the contents of two into the pan on the stove, adding water. He stirs for a moment, watching a porridge of sorts form. Chicken, he thinks, from the color of it. 

“I can’t say this looks entirely appetizing.”

“Feel free to feast on your Bits bars,” you toss back, and the edge of his mouth lifts. 

“Now now, I didn’t say I wasn’t going to eat it.”

You set the bowls out, and he pours the contents of the pan into them, dividing the portions up. Your cots parallel to each other’s, he sits across from you, each of you cradling a bowl in your hands. 

Rain hits the roof harder, making the small space intimate. 

“What are we going to do if we can’t fix it?” 

Your question gives him pause, but it’s your face that affects him more. So open, so trusting. Looking to him for guidance and reassurance, and an image of you flat on your back on your cot with the same face flashes through his mind. He clears his throat.

“Somethin’ I’ve been trying to avoid,” he replies. “Though it seems that I can no longer.”

You wait, and he meets your eyes directly. 

“We’re going to have to scavenge some parts,” he says. You chew thoughtfully for a moment, and he keeps his eyes on your own, studying your expression. He lifts his eyebrow in question. “You ready to be my right hand man?”

“...I think so,” you reply hesitantly. “I mean, I’ve got the hang of the thrower.”

“That you do,” he agrees, taking a bite of his dinner. 

You picked it up much faster than he thought, but it shouldn’t have surprised him the way it did. You were a determined, fierce creature – one who was capable of so much more than you thought you were, and one who reveled in it every time he encouraged you to learn something new. Sometimes, when he thought about the man he never knew, he felt frustration flare bright. He wasted you. You could have been so much more, and not just a harvester partner either. 

You could still be so much more, he reasons – and not for the first time, he wonders what will become of you once you go home. He’ll be sad to miss it. 

“Do you think I can do it?”

He lets the question sit for a moment. Can you? Yes. Should you? That’s a question he can’t answer. You shouldn’t even be here in the first place. But you are here, and so you have to do what you have to do. 

He leans forward, as if to let you in on a secret. 

“I think you can do anything, little bird.”

You smile, and he returns it – but only for a moment, before his expression sobers. 

“We need a few things, and I don’t think we can get them all from the same ship. That means we’ll have to throw ourselves in the face of confrontation more than a few times. You understand?”

You nod. “What do you need me to do?”

The question is asked without hesitation, and he fights the urge to tell you to forget he ever said anything. That he’ll find another way to get the two of you out of here without putting you in direct danger. His mind races for an alternative…but there isn’t one. He knows what this place demands of people. There isn’t any hiding from it; it’s better you understand the risk and prepare for it. 

“I’ll be the muscle, you the mechanic. I’ll need your nimble fingers to harvest those converters. I know where we can find some, but it might take us a couple cycles to get them all.”

“Where?”

“The other prospectors that are here. They have ships – between those and some wreckage sites I’ve come across, I’m hopeful we can gather enough for what we need. I’m not sure if they’ll be functioning or not, but it’s worth a try.”

You nod in agreement, and he scrapes the rest of his bowl clean. Spooning it into his mouth, he catches the way your eyes linger on the action and he knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help himself. You make it too easy with your expressive face, and feeling guilty only goes so far against his impulses. 

Keeping his eyes on you, he sticks the spoon back in his mouth with relish, sucking it clean.

“Tastes sweeter than I thought it would,” he hums.  

You swallow hard, staring at his throat. He feels the thrill of victory, but only for a split second though, until the tension between your bodies immediately fills the small space. Your eyes hood, and his own calculating gaze narrows. He drags his tongue across his bottom lip, taking note of the way you watch it. 

Will you ask him now?

Taking a deep breath, you stand instead and reach for his bowl. 

He hands it to you, keeping his eyes on your ass while you walk away. 

—

It started with the lessons. 

Actually, it began in flickers before that: glimpses of his profile, the feeling of his arm across your chest when he stopped you from tripping over a vine, the sound of his steady breathing in the night. The lessons had only amplified it, dragging the fleeting sparks of attraction to the surface, letting them catch fire under the intensity of his presence. 

You asked him to teach you how to shoot and the whole while, you felt it dripping down your spine to pool between your thighs. Two suits between you, and every word he uttered through the comm link left you feeling stripped bare.

“Easy does it,” he murmured. The speaker in your helmet added husk to his voice, and that only made it worse. 

“Grip it harder,” he said, pressing his hand around yours, and your knees almost buckled. 

He must have felt the tension, because he brought it up afterwards. Not directly, but that was never his way. He danced around it, until he pounced. 

“Small space. Before. How did you…seek relief?” He lifted his eyebrows meaningfully. 

It was a bold question, but then again – everything he’s done told you he’s a bold man. 

“I don’t –” you shied away from the question, looking away. "Let's not talk about it.”

“So you didn’t.”

“I didn’t say that, I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“So you did?” His eyebrows raised. 

No, you didn’t, but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. 

“Why are you so worried about it?” you asked instead, and he lifted his hands in surrender. 

“Not worried, little bird. Just curious.”

He was always curious - and that was the issue. It wasn’t true attraction he felt, but rather misplaced attraction on your part. When you thought about it for too long, you felt foolish and immature. It wasn’t him, it was the situation. He was too attentive for his own good, too charming. He thought of you as someone who was dependent on him, not someone to be attracted to. Besides, how could it be him? Not only someone with ages more experience than you, but also someone so…rough? A murderer?

A murderer that’s done so only for you, a small voice whispered inside your head.

Logic told you that you were too young, too inexperienced for a man like that. But it didn’t stop your treacherous mind from rebelling. 

You did seek relief that night, hours after he teased you about it. The second he went to shower, you laid down on your cot and spread your thighs and let the fire you felt earlier consume you. You recalled his words, his touch, the solid breadth of his body behind yours. It didn’t take long with how worked up you were, but afterwards, you felt overwhelming shame. You scolded yourself, telling yourself never again. It was a violation of his fucking privacy for fucks sake, a violation of his boundaries that you did it while he was stuck inside the same small container with you. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who would mind, but still, the guilt consumed you for days, so bad that you couldn’t even meet Ezra’s eyes for fear that he would know. 

You felt like your fingertips were branded red, your come a permanent stain on the skin. 

Days later, you did it again. 

You couldn’t help yourself. It seemed like everything he did was unintentionally filthy. The phrases he said, the little grunts he let out while working, the strain in his voice sometimes through the helmet. Everything sounded like a double entendre to your horny, shameful ears and that said nothing for the way he looked at you. 

You never stood a chance against that empty promise to yourself. 

Weeks of living together has taught you that he likes to shower at night before bed, and tonight is no exception. You watch as he gathers his clothes from underneath his cot, his thermals stretching across his broad back. The muscles shift underneath the thin fabric, and you track every movement out of the corner of your eye. 

Pretending to clean the dishes, you’ve been waiting all day for this, and after today especially, it takes everything you have to feign nonchalance. 

That spoon. The way he licked it, the sound he made, the look on his face. The mental image joins others: his hands while he works, the shift of his back muscles underneath his thermals, the heat of his knee knocking into yours when he sits close. Sounds join: his breathing through the commlink, the soft sound in the back of his throat that he makes when he shifts in his sleep. 

Images and sounds cycle rapidly through your head, all joining the swirl of arousal that feels like an empty pit low in your belly and it’s everything you can do to wait until you’re sure he’s showering before you bend over the kitchen counter, thrusting a hand beneath your thermals. 

The second your fingers find slippery wetness, you sigh with relief. It’s a pained sigh though, one of desperation that has you rubbing the pads of your fingers over your clit with a steady, firm press as you bite your lip to quell the telltale sounds of what you’re doing. You hurt with the way you’ve wanted him, made worse by his close proximity. It’s been raining for days and you’ve been stuck inside with him and the sounds he made last night while he was sleeping echo in your mind. You breathe hard, condensation fogging the counter top.  

The sound of water splashing in the background, your imagination supplies the rest:

His tanned skin, flush with heat. His hair, even darker when wet. The line of his throat as he tips his head back, the swirl of hair around his belly button and down, the broadness of his shoulders in that small space. His forearms flexing as he washes himself – an image that automatically turns into his hand braced on the wall of the shower, steam filling the air around him as his other hand pumps frantically between his thighs –

You climb higher and higher, a heady pulse throbbing between your legs, your thighs trembling as you ascend with frantic, little whines between your clenched teeth. 

The phantom weight of his cock in your grip and then the smooth, blunt tip of it sliding across your cheek, between your breasts, your lips stretching around it as your tongue molds to fit the underside.

You don’t have a ton of experience under your belt, but you have enough to know what a cock feels like. His though? Would it be thicker? Bigger? You picture him stripping out of his suit the way he does, his thermal inching up just enough to see the thatch of hair that collects underneath his belly button to lead down beneath his waistband, and you start to come, pressing your face into the crook of your arm to muffle the sound. 

“Hello, sweetheart.”

“Watch my fingers.”

“Easy, easy, Birdie. That’s it.”

“Hold it nice and tight. That’s it.”

Every word he’s spoken to you taken out of context to supply the scene in your head, you bite the fabric of your thermal when you come. You let out a breathless sob, your cunt pulsing as the sparks of your release burst bright between your hips, and your fingers work the last dregs of it out, savoring the intensity of satisfying the ache you’ve felt all day.  

You slump against the counter, your limp hand resting between your thighs and catch your breath. The blood rushing through your ears fades, clarity bringing the sound of silence. 

Silence. 

The shower is off. 

–

He heard it. 

He thought he was hearing things as he dried off; lingering echoes that remained from his release moments ago. It was faint, but when he paused toweling, he heard it. 

A muffled groan, a soft whine and even while still feeling the throbs of the spend he painted the shower wall with, he begins to harden. 

He fucking knew it. He clasps himself in hand, giving his cock a firm squeeze, and listens. 

There is silence on the other side of the door, and he wonders where you are in the pod right now. Where did you end up when you took your relief? He pictures it, and the flare of lust that instantly clouds his vision almost has him opening the door without getting dressed. He’ll come and find you, push you down onto your cot, rip the clothes off that have been giving him everything and nothing all at once these weeks and finally consume you, like you’ve consumed him. 

He dresses quickly, pulling his thermals over still damp skin. Opening the shower compartment, he finds you at the sink, scrubbing your hands. 

In the kitchen? You didn’t even lay down on your cot? Your need must have been too urgent, and he grins at the idea. Will you let him fuck you there?

He feigns ignorance, coming to lean casually against the counter. Leaning in close, he wears a mask of politeness. “Thanks for cleaning up.”

“No problem,” you reply, not meeting his eyes. 

In any other situation, he’d revel in the game of cat and mouse. He’d plot out ways to get you to break or bend to his will, letting you dangle on the edge until you were begging him for relief. But now…he pauses.

“You okay, Birdie?”

“Yea.” Your expression is one of fake brightness, your eyes giving it away. “Just…thinking about tomorrow.”

It’s clear that’s not the whole truth. He knows what he heard and from the rapid beat of your pulse under your delicate skin tells him that you’re obviously hiding something, but the mention of tomorrow is like being doused with cold water. 

Tomorrow, when he brings you out into the Green, putting you in the path of danger that you never asked to be in. You never asked for any of this, and he feels sickened at the previous idea of pushing you down on your cot to take what you’re “offering”. He should be focusing on preparing you for the danger that’s out there. He knows better than this, and for the first time in a long time, he feels chastened. 

“You’ve got this,” he reassures you, and though he can feel the slight hitch in your breathing when his hand rests on your shoulder, he ignores it. “We’ve got this. As your partner, I swear on my life I won’t let anything happen. Understand?”

He feels you lean slightly into his touch, and suppresses the urge to pull you close. It’s been a long time since he’s comforted anyone, and he’s surprised the impulse comes back so quickly. 

You look up at him, and the impulse grows with how vulnerable you look. So open, so trusting – yet resolute in your faith in him. 

You nod. “We’ve got this.”

[lumosatnight]

23 Fic Recs 2023!

This year has definitely been a year. I've devoured so many wonderful fics by so many amazing authors. Thank you @hprecfest for the super fun rec categories and for some fic inspiration! Here are 23 fics that I read and loved in 2023 (although some are quite a few years older) ordered by ship.

🌼 - fluff | 💔 - angst | 🔥 - smut

—

💫 DRARRY 💫

1. A post-canon fic

The Discreet Gentleman's Connection by pluto (gayrights420) [Drarry, E, 80.4k] 🌼🔥 I had the absolute pleasure of beta-ing for this fic, so when I say it is amazing, it truly is just that. Fast burn on the smut via Floo sex, slow burn on the in-person falling in love. Satisfying in all the best possible ways.

2. A fic that made me laugh

AITA for being "obsessed" with my childhood nemesis? by @rainstormradish [Drarry, M, 4.3k] 🌼📲 Draco on a reddit forum is hilarious just on its own, but the banter and formatting really bring this fic to life. Amazingly creative, had me in stitches!

3. A comfort fic

The Eighth Tale by @letteredlettered [Drarry, E, 12.0k] 💔⏳ An oldie but a goodie. I constantly find myself coming back to this fic and having my mind blown every single time. Time travel timey-wimey angst.

4. A fic with art

Dating Draco - A Visual Game by @itsphantasmagoria [Drarry, M, Video Game] 🌼🎮 This is a fic in video game form!! Amazing art and lovely story where YOU get to make the choices for Drarry's happily ever after.

5. A favorite series

The Journal of Dreadful Things by @lilbeanz [Drarry, G, 112k, WIP] 🌼📖 Hilarious, witty, AND COMES WITH ART!! Lilbeanz draws and writes a wonderfully delightful series starting from Draco's First Year. His characterization had me in hysterics. Book 4 is starting soon!

—

💫 COMMON SHIPS 💫

6. Fic with the hottest smut

Moonstruck by @prettyremus [Wolfstar, E, 3.8k] 🔥🐺 Found this gem while scrolling through the werewolf smut tag (don't judge me). I love the switch in dynamic with Sirius taming Remus's wolf through, ahem, rough sex.

7. An unreliable narrator fic

Sea of White by @dividawrites [Harrymort, E, 8.6k] 🔥🤍 Deliciously hot, creepy, and strangely sweet. Love their dynamic here, the unrestrained lust. Harrymort "die" and lose their memories, so, of course, then they bang.

8. A fic that made me cry

Far Apart, Far Away by @unmistakablyoatmeal [Hinny, minor Drarry, T, 1.6k] 💔💍 Infidelity angst has never been this good. I love the layers of emotion in this fic. Quick punchy sections that really pulled me in.

9. A Muggle(?) AU fic

Pleasant Hope by @ac1d6urn, @sinick [Snarry, E, 41.6k] 💔⛪️ Pastor Severus!! The angst, pining, and self-discovery in this fic is superb! I love the interwoven magic and detailed world-building of this little town.

—

💫 RARE PAIRS 💫

10. A fav amongst faves

The Last Trial of Peter Pettigrew by @sleepstxtic [Prongstail, M, 20.8k] 💔 🐀 Holy moly, this fic!!!! Is this my new favorite fic?? Possibly. The concept is brilliant, so creative and nuanced. The Peter character study using outsider perspectives is genius. Seamlessly balances canon and new scenes.

11. A pre-canon fic

Careless by @tax-onomic [Luther, E, 1.5k] 🔥🪞 Lucius/Arthur my beloved rare pair!! I am captain of the Luther ship, and Tax's fic hits all the right spots. The pining, the sniping, the prickly personalities with emotional vulnerability underneath! And all in the middle of a hot smut scene. Perfect.

12. A canon-compliant fic

Scottish by thepadfoots [Chedric, G, 749] 💔🌟 Lovely Cho character study focused around her Asian identity and the boy she loved.

13. A fic rated G (more like T though)

Lion-Hearted Girl by MinnieQuill (odainath) [Minmione, G, 4.5k] 💔🦁 I know the large age gap might scare some, but their relationship feels very organic in this fic. The setting is grim, but there is always hope in the darkness!

14. A fic rated T

You're So Vane by @patriceavril [Romelina, T, 6.8k] 🌼💄Romilda is so delightfully characterized, I was smiling through the entire fic. Angelina is the perfect foil (and love interest) to Romilda's attentions.

15. A rare pair fic (less than 2000 fics on AO3)

Snakeskin by @cntrl15 [Bellastoria, E, 3.7k] 🔥👠 Talk about a rare pair! Astoria/Bellatrix only has 2 tagged fics on AO3: this fic and the drabble I wrote based on it. But read this fic, and you'll see why I felt the need to write more in this universe.

16. A fest fic

Master of None by @nanneramma [Snormac, G, 5.5k] 🌼🧘 Severus is so wonderfully cranky, and Cormac is fine AF. The surprise pairing of 2023 that I never knew I needed and now I'm obsessed with!

17. An under-rated fic

Sun, Shadow, Shade by @naomijameston [Snuna, G, 700] 🌼☀️ Post-war fluff. Sunshine Luna is the perfect match for sullen Snape. A short and sweet fic for this underrated ship.

18. A canon-divergent fic

but somebody's gotta do it by nocturn [Pangulus, T, 920] 😄🧟‍♂️ This fic will make you say WTF but also huh, okay that totally works. The concept is WILD but Lyra executes it wonderfully. Pansy drags Regulus out of the inferi lake and they flirt a little while he gets de-corpsified lol.

—

💫 POLY SHIPS 💫

19. A dark fic

In his embrace by @loneamaryllis [Snarrymort, het!Snarry, E, 48k] ⚡️👀 Dark and dirty but so so good. A Voldemort Wins AU where fem!Harry is taken as prisoner. Snape's mindset as he tries to save her (and is forced to rape her) is so twisted and mesmerizing. Mind the tags!

20. A thought-provoking fic

Icarus by @thistlecatfics [Millvansy, M, 20.0k] 💔🍾 War trauma, addiction, codependency! This fic is messy with emotions but has a strong, beating heart underneath. I am in love with Parvati as she deals with Pansy's addiction and Millicent's denial — three beautiful, imperfect girls.

21. A holiday fic

A Time, Dark and Divine by @moonflower-rose [Dronarry, E, 17.0k] 🔥⛱ HOLY FREAKING FUCK!! The sexual tension in this fic is off the freaking charts. Drarry seducing Ron while on vacation in Portugal. Sign me the fuck up!

—

💫 GEN 💫

22. A favorite fic under 5k

The Scrunchie by @saintsenara [Lightning Era Girls, G, 4.5k] 💖👭 Such a lovely look into some of the female background characters, all following the path of a single scrunchie. Lisa, Padma, Parvati, Hannah, Sally-Anne.

23. A fic with an ending I can't stop thinking about

Through the Middlegame by @sandervansunshine [Astoria & Peter, T, 6.6k] 💔♜ Devastating, heart-wrenching, tragic. 10000% would recommend. Kylee has already heard me screaming in the servers about this fic. If I could get a fic tattooed straight onto my brain, this would be it.

—

💫 BONUS RECS! 💫

A podfic

Plenitude by @wilfriede, written by eldritcher [Amelmione, M, 14 min] 💔🥀 Amazing voices, amazing music, amazing ambience. Wilfriede really brings one of my fav Hermione/Amelia Bones fics to life in this podfic!

A comic

War Prize by @mrviran [Snegulus, Reggiemort, M, Comic, WIP] ☠️🐍 The panels are awe-inspiring. I am HOOKED on this comic. The murder and the TENSION. Ughhhhh so good. I am so invested in Severus's arc!!

A self-rec (completely self-indulgent)

For I Have Found Salvation by @lumosatnight [Snarry, E, 7.1k] 🔥✝ My first time writing Snarry! Priest Kink, church sex, and blasphemous religious imagery. Priest Severus is oh-so-tempted by Teen Harry. So fun to write and even more fun to go back and read as a guilty pleasure.

—

⚡️ Want more fics to read? ⚡️

Try my rec tag: #lumosinthelibrary

Year in Reading, b-day oneshots, WLW Library

[pearlessance]

Her Love Endures - Idle Threats [vi]

Series Summary — Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for.

Chapter Summary — Joel steals a morning with an angel he doesn't deserve. She confesses all.

Pairing — Joel Miller/Reader

Warnings — Explicit sexual content MDNI, brat taming, age gap, mean!Joel, religious imagery and symbolism, catholic guilt, added backstory to progress the plot, loss, canon typical violence

SERIES MASTERLIST

[cross posted to AO3]

The first two days go smoothly, though you’re uncharacteristically quiet. You follow the map southeast, sticking to the forest and away from the interstate as much as possible. You only stumble across a handful of infected—most of which you take down silently with your bow, leaving Joel impressed with your unshakeable aim. Once, when you notice a stalker long before it notices you, Joel raises his rifle as you dismount and creep up behind it. He trains his scope on its head, ready to pull the trigger the moment he thinks you may be in danger. 

But he never has to. And he watches, filled to the brim with reverence, as you scramble silently through the brush, take the stalker by the throat, and sink your serrated sawback knife deep into its skull.

As you return to your horse, threat averted, Joel feels something warm stir inside him. Because your shoulders are pulled back, and there’s a cruel and death-like shimmer in your eyes and blood splattered across your cheek, making you look like some sort of divine creature of slaughter…but then you look up at him. And your eyes soften, and your smile lights up your face as you say, “There’s a piece of your hair sticking out by your ear. Like, straight out. How’s it doing that? Defying gravity.”

It’s the innocence in your voice that does it to him, he thinks. You may be the best runner Jackson has, may have a sniper’s eye and a knife-sharp tongue, but beneath it all you’re just a little girl. Amused by the smallest, most childish of things. Untainted but deadly, lethal but pure. And he wants you to hold onto that softness for as long you can. He can see it’s been diminished, parts of it snuffed out by loss and grief and disappointment, but Joel vows to protect the parts he can for as long as he’s able. He hopes he never has to miss the sound of your laughter.

He doesn’t even try to fix his hair.

The winter snow has become nothing but slush and mud, and you’ve used your jacket more as a pillow at night than for warmth. The two of you take watch in rotation. The first night Joel insisted you sleep first, but then you’d fixed him with a dark stare and reminded him of your agreement; your run, your rules.

He complies, but he doesn’t sleep much. It’s far more fascinating to him to watch you on the other side of the fire, bow in hand, arrow half-knocked. The moonlight reflects in your hair, and Joel wants so badly to hold you but knows to keep his distance. Knows that you still harbor some of that anger you have towards him for not respecting your wishes of solitude, knows to give you space, to wait until you approach him. 

You don’t sleep much, either. Half of the night you’re writing in that leatherbound journal while he keeps watch. Sometimes you don’t write at all and read over old entries instead. His curiosity gets the better of him once, and Joel asks, “You writin’ about the clickers we killed today?”

Without even looking up from the journal propped against your knees, you say, “Nope. I’m writing hardcore sex scenes.” It makes him chuckle. “Nothing funny about it, Joel. You’re the star of the show.”

And for a second he wonders if you might be telling the truth, until you burst into a fit of girlish laughter at the look on his face. Joel thinks it’s his favorite sound, those giggles of yours. Still, he shakes his head with a smile on his face and says, “Brat.”

He doesn’t press for more after that. He’s given you the chance to talk about it, and you evaded him completely, so he decides he can live with the mystery for now. 

On the fourth night it rains. It’s dark by the time you find shelter, and it comes in the form of a barn out in the middle of nowhere. Joel hasn’t seen an old vehicle or a stoplight in miles, and part of him knows a watch rotation is a little unnecessary but you insist anyway. He tries to find comfort in the stale and brittle hay that blankets the cold floor but fails to. He spends most of the night thinking of you, thinking of God. Joel can’t shake the feeling of filth that covers him, a grime that has nothing to do with the lack of soap he’s had access to since leaving Jackson, and everything to do with his morals.

Because even now, several days later, Joel is so angry with Maria that he could kill her. She should never have sent you out here. The thought shouldn’t have ever crossed her mind. Putting you in the watchtowers, on the walls, hell—even on patrol…that’s one thing. Sending you this far out, though? And alone? Joel would die before he ever let Ellie out here alone. But even though Maria is good at putting on a concerned front…Joel sees right fucking through her. Knows it was a planned conversation she had with you. He knows, too, without ever being there that Maria told you all about Miley and her operable tumor before she ever broached the subject of this run.

It’s calculated. Cold. Cruel. 

Maria might not think of it that way. You might not think of it that way. But Joel sees it for what it is. Sees that she ‘loves you like you’re her own’ not for who you are but instead for what you’re capable of. Maria recognizes your potential and your selflessness and uses it to her own advantage. 

Joel only wishes you could see it, too. And he thinks maybe you did at one point when you stormed into the dining hall and screamed in her face. But it must’ve been for only a moment, because here you are again…doing whatever Maria needs you to. No questions asked.

A part of him hates her, but how truly different are the two? Maybe Joel sees Maria for what she is because they’re both doing the same things to you. He might not be sending you on suicide missions for pregnancy cravings or medical supplies…but he does take advantage of you. 

And the worst part, the part he hates to admit…is that he enjoys it. Never in all his life has Joel found pleasure in anything the way he has in you. In your soft skin, your soft sounds…it does something to him spiritually. The way you fight him so hard only to give in and do as he says inevitably…it makes him weak in the knees just to think about it. The way you trust him so wholly, trust him to keep you safe, to make you feel good, to take care of you …it fills him with this deep, dark desire. 

He’s long since given up trying to resist you, forbidden fruit tasted and swallowed and consumed. There’s no going back from that. And he knew it at the first bite. What he didn’t expect, though, was to be offered seconds, thirds, a fucking feast of you…if only he’d convince himself to sit at the table.

But doing so will damn him, he knows. And though Joel’s got little faith in God left in him, he worries that the moment he ravaged you was the moment he became undeserving of you.

For the first time, you fall asleep moments after Joel takes watch. Maybe it’s the sound of the rain or maybe it’s just exhaustion. You use his coat as a blanket and yours as a pillow, and he watches in awe and admiration as you finally rest. Your hands are beneath your head, and a piece of your hair has fallen into your face, and you’re so fucking beautiful it makes him ache.

As if he ever deserved you in the first place, Joel thinks.

It stops raining an hour before sunrise. And he notices there’s a glass pane in the ceiling that he hadn’t seen in the dark. The sun’s rays leak through it, highlighting the dust particles in the air, illuminating the space on the ground where you lay on your side. 

He doesn’t believe in God, Joel tells himself.

And if he did, he would scream and shout and try to strike him down for punishing you like this. For surrounding you with people who are supposed to love you who don’t know how to love you, for embodying Judas in the form of a bratty twenty year old little girl, for making your greatest sin the sin of disobedience. For cursing you with his presence, for cursing you with this looming, haunted old man who you will never be rid of. For giving Joel this perfect gift he’ll never deserve but now can never surrender.

He doesn’t believe in God, and if he did he knows he should be crawling to the altar and begging on his knees for forgiveness for all he’s done. Begging mercy not for his sake but for yours. Pleading to give you peace, solace, safety. To give you warmth like sunlight and love like absolution and to give you someone who feels like home. To give you everything you’ve given him.

But Joel doesn’t believe in God. He sets his rifle down and crawls to you instead.

Space. He knows you need space. But he needs you and he’s such a selfish man. Joel swipes the hair from your face, watches you stir in your sleep, sighs in tandem with you when he presses a kiss to your forehead. He inhales deeply, lying on his side, letting his thumb stroke your cheekbone languidly.

Your eyes open slowly, blinking once, twice. And he half expects you to make some snarky remark about how bad a job he’s doing keeping watch, but all you do is rest your hand on top of his and scoot closer, pressing your body to his. 

Joel kisses your cheek, the arch of your brow, the tip of your nose. By the time he makes it to your lips, they’re pulled up into a sleepy smile, and he can’t resist the urge to drink you in. Your mouth is warm and soft and fits perfectly against his. His hand on the side of your face slips to the back of your neck, thumb caressing your pulse. You feel more alive right now than Joel has ever felt himself, and he has the sudden, striking thought that belief in God has nothing to do with what he’s been taught and everything to do with the sanctity he holds in his hands in this very moment.

His fingertips wander down your back, between your shoulder blades, over each disc of your spine, the divot in the small of your back, over the denim of your jeans, down between your legs. Joel lifts you slightly, crushes your center hard against his, and feels himself unravel at your closeness.

You start to rut against him, hips canting over his erection, the friction of your jeans on his the only sound apart from the breaths you breathe into his mouth, breathing life, sweet, golden life, into his aching bones. Your tongue is slow in its pursuit of memorization, lazy and perfect but still so unbearably needy.

Joel won’t make you suffer. Not today. He wedges his hand between your bodies, unbuttons your jeans with a single, swift movement of his thumb, and reaches beneath the fabric. He finds home in a second, movements rehearsed and ritualistic. Your clit throbs beneath the pads of his fingers as he circles it slowly, pointedly.

The smallest noise, like a moan at the back of your throat, invades his mouth. Joel smiles to himself, knowing that if he reached just a little lower he’d find that telling wetness, knowing that you’ve needed this but just too stubborn to ask for it.

So stuck in your own head, your own ways. Never letting anyone else take care of you, because you know they can’t. 

Until now. Until Joel. 

He pulls his mouth away from yours long enough to catch his breath, to admire the art of your face as he strums faster between your legs. You say his name a little like a prayer, and it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard, his name in your mouth. He thinks he’ll never grow tired of it for as long as he lives. He presses a wet kiss just beneath your ear, delighting in the rush of goosebumps left in the wake of his lips.

He finally shifts his fingers down through your slit and pushes his middle finger in deep. You let out a pretty sounding gasp, and Joel runs the tip of his nose up your throat with a quiet laugh. 

“Shh,” he says. “S’alright, little girl. I’ve got you.” Joel pushes you onto your back, allowing him easier access. He adds another, his ring finger this time, and even though your jeans constrict movement and dig into the back of his wrist, the sounds you make as he begins to pump them slowly in and out of you are worth it.

Pretty, sweet sounding moans that he wants to swallow up. So he does—kisses you deep, licks into your mouth, bites your bottom lip between his teeth. The heel of his palm puts pressure on your swollen clit, and he can feel you squeezing around his fingers already, legs trembling with each slow, punishing thrust of his hand.

“Joel,” you whimper. “I..I’m—”

“I know, baby,” he whispers against your lips. “S’okay, go ahead.” All it takes is one more deep press against that sweet spot inside you before you’re gripping his flannel, knuckles blanched. It’s fast and needy and desperate but somehow one of the softest most gentle moments he’s had with you. And Joel knows he’ll always hold this close, knows just how remarkable and holy this time with you is.

Your chest rises and falls in quick succession as you come down, trying to catch your breath. And when you look up at him, he recognizes the longing in your eyes, knows that this religious moment has only scratched the surface of your desire, knows just how hungry you are because he is, too. 

And so Joel crawls between your legs. He unlaces your boots and sets them aside, peels the too-tight denim down, takes the pretty lilac panties with them, and gets rid of those, too. He sits there on his knees for you, calloused fingers stroking lazy patterns up and down your bare thighs. You watch him in silence as he admires you. “You’re so pretty, baby,” he says.

Your breathing picks up a little as he shifts backward, just enough so he can lean over and kiss your clit. You taste heady and sweet and delicious, and he thinks he could live off of just the essence of you and be satisfied for all eternity.

His tongue moves intentionally, savoringly, because this is a selfish act. Joel supposes everything he does with you is selfish in one way or another, but this is purely for him. His cock throbs painfully behind the metal of his zipper as he palms the inside of your thighs and spreads your legs wide. He licks up your wet slit, smearing the taste of you over his lips, down his chin.

A cracked, sleep-addled moan leaves you as you arch your back, pressing yourself against his mouth. Your hands find their way to his hair, holding him in place right where you want him. And Joel lets you without protest, lets you lose yourself in this moment in the same way he has.

Joel slides two fingers back into you easily, encountering no resistance thanks to the mixture of your slick and his spit. He twists and curls them up, pumping hard against that spot again, sucking your throbbing clit between his lips and circling it with a pointed tongue.

“Ohh, fuck, fuck— Joel.”

A little faster, a little harder. You’re squeezing tight around his fingers, needy little girl sucking him in deep, and Joel shows no signs of stopping even as you start to shake. He wants it, wants to taste you in his mouth, wants to push you over the edge so you can be here, here, with him, where you have cast him forever. Wants you to know what it is to want, to hunger, to be ravenous with a singular source of relief.

You’re about to come, and he knows it, but he pulls away. You let out a soft whimper at the loss of contact but then he’s unbuttoning his jeans, pushing them down his hips just enough to pull his cock out. He squeezes it once in his fist and a blinding wave of pleasure shoots through him. Joel lines himself up between your legs and pushes in with a long, contented sigh.

Here, inside you, is the only place he’s ever felt adored, cherished, loved, divine. 

Because your eyes are wide and sleepy and beautiful. You look at him like he’s the greatest thing to ever happen to you and not some God-given curse. And it’s this he craves, the intimacy you share at this exact moment, where he knows he could ask anything of you—anything—and you’d give it willingly, freely. And fuck he just wants to keep you safe but maybe that means from him, too.

The thought is awful and comes to him unbidden. Your brows furrow as he rocks into you, cock reaching depths you’d never known existed. You place your hand on his jaw, lean up, and press your lips to his. You breathe his name and say, “I’m sorry I was mad. I forgive you. I’m yours.”

His. His, his, his, his. All his. His table, his fruit, his fault.

But his all the same.

He fucks into you deep, hips grinding against yours, his dark pubic hair rubbing against your sensitive clit. Joel takes your face in his hand, cradling your chin, thumb tracing the outline of your lips. His breath is labored and sweat beads at the back of his neck. He’s not going to last long. Not when you look at him like that, not when you look at him like you love him. 

He reaches between your bodies with his free hand and circles your clit. Sinks his thumb into your sweet mouth when you let out a salacious moan. He can feel your pussy flutter around him, knows you’re nearly there, knows he’s destined to follow you. “Come with me, baby, come with me,” he says softly.

Your breathing stills for a moment, and then you’re trembling, shaking in his hands, sucking his thumb deeper into your mouth.

His own release trickles in slowly at first, building in his spine, and then it slams into him with no remorse as he fills you up, cock pulsing inside you. “Oh, fuck, yeahhh—that’s it. That’s it, little girl—mmm—you feel so fuckin’ good, baby. Such a good girl for me, huh? Pretty little baby…there we go.”

He fucks you through it, thrusting into you real slow even when you’re breathing has slowed and he’s spilled every drop he has to offer. His thumb is coated in your saliva when he pulls it out of your mouth to kiss you, leaving a wet smear on your cheek. And when he leans back, wincing as he pulls out of you, you look up at him with straw tangled in your hair and say with a pretty smile, “Good morning to you, too.”

It is, he thinks. Joel can feel the good day ahead, can feel the weight of your irritation lift from his shoulders at the sight of your grin. “C’mon,” he says. He holds a hand out for you, pulling you up with him. 

While you dress and stretch and run your fingers through your hair, Joel feeds the horses and gathers your things. He picks up your bow and your backpack and brings it to you, and in ten minutes you’re both saddled and on your way.

The storm has passed and the sun is shining brightly, and Joel forces his mare to trot just a little slower than yours so he can appreciate the view. He thinks you’re beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with your age; elegant, graceful, timeless. Even before the world ended he would have noticed you, would have felt that same magnetic pull.

You glance briefly over your shoulder at him and ask, “What do you think could be in there?”

He has no idea. Can’t even wrap his head around the thought, really. “Hard to say. Twenty-five years is a long time for something to go untouched.”

“I’ve never been inside of a hospital,” you say. “I’ve seen pictures in those medical books in the library back in Jackson, but this will be the first I’ll ever actually see in person. What’s it like?”

“Confusing,” Joel answers. “They’re usually pretty big. Lots of floors and rooms, all set up differently.”

“Tommy told me they had special rooms for surgeries and stuff.”

“Operating rooms,” he explains. “They were away from everything else so they could be kept sterile. Doctors had to wash their hands in a specific way before doing a surgery, used all new tools every time, left them unopened until it was time to use them.”

“That seems excessive.”

He chuckles at that. “Was a different time back then,” he says. “We were more afraid of germs than fungus.”

You remain silent for several seconds, and Joel wonders if he’s somehow said something to upset you. But then you ask, “Do you think things would be different if they were afraid of fungus back then? Maybe they would’ve found a cure before it got too bad or something.”

There’s something like longing in your voice, and it makes Joel’s chest constrict. He wishes you would’ve been able to experience the world before it went bad, wishes you’d gotten a single day to not live in fear. “I don’t know,” he tells you. “Maybe.”

“If you could go back to before the outbreak, what’s the first thing you’d do?”

Joel sighs as he contemplates his answer. It doesn’t come to him very easily—because all he’d want is to find Sarah and be with her. Doesn’t matter where, doesn’t matter what they’d do. He would just want to be together, to hear her laugh one more time, to see her smile or roll her eyes or blink. 

It’s still foreign to speak about it, still painful, but it’s you and so Joel decides to tell the truth.

“I, uhm…I had a daughter,” he says slowly, testing the waters. He half expects you to turn and look at him, sporting some kind of surprise on your face. But he’s thankful when you don’t because it makes the words flow a little easier. “She loved soccer,” Joel continues. “Played in a little league team at her school, called themselves the Defenders. Her jersey number was fourteen, and she was the best player they had—and I’m not just sayin’ that. She loved it.” 

Pressure builds behind his eyes. Joel swallows hard. 

“One day, Tommy and I were shopping for her birthday at Scheels —you don’t…uhm, it was this big sports store up by Dallas. Had all kinds of stuff. Anyway, I couldn’t afford much at the time. Tommy and I were gonna go half and half on a new skateboard for her—she liked doin’ that too. We were heading up to check out and saw this set of soccer goals that’d been marked down all because the box had been open. Never been used, never put together, nothin’ at all wrong with ‘em. We were able to get the goals and the skateboard, and Tommy an’ I spent all afternoon setting them up in the backyard while she was at school.”

It’s a fond memory. One he sometimes dreams about. They’d bought a case of beer on the way home, played music through the speakers of Tommy’s truck, and sung along to every song that played and laughed at the stupidest things. It was just a few short months before the outbreak. The last birthday Sarah would ever have.

“She loved them,” he tells you. “I knew she would. We spent all day in the backyard, the three of us. Played with that goddamn soccer ball until it was so dark out you couldn’t see a foot in front of your face. Even grilled out for dinner, so we didn’t have to go inside. It’s all she wanted to do for the rest of the summer. She was out there for so long I had to…to make her start wearing sunscreen every day,” he says with a low chuckle. “And when school started up again I had to limit it to soccer practice on weekends only.” 

Joel knows he has yet to answer your question, but it’s so nice to talk about her that it just pours out of him unchecked. You don’t seem to mind. There’s a small smile on your face and a misty look in your eye as if he’s painting a mental picture for you. 

“Anyway,” he says. “I guess…I guess if I could go back to before, I’d just want to go back there. To hear her laugh and see her smile, to cook burgers for everyone and eat them on the deck. I’d go back and relive that day so I can appreciate it a little more.”

“It sounds nice,” you say. “I bet I would’ve liked her.”

He thinks you would’ve, too. Thinks Sarah would’ve loved you, would’ve picked up on that bratty tone of voice you sometimes have, and adopted it into her vernacular. The two of you have the same sarcastic tendencies, and Joel wonders why it’s taken this long to recognize it. “Yeah. You would’ve,” he says quietly. 

“What happened to her mom?”

The question is phrased so bluntly that it gives him pause. But it’s not malicious in any capacity, and so Joel doesn’t mind answering this one, either. “Just…saw things a little differently, I guess,” he says. “We became parents real young. Not everyone is cut out for it.”

You nod slowly in contemplation. “You had Tommy though, right? You two seem really close.”

“Yeah, we are. I mean, he’s my brother. Family. Been through everything together.” He watches your jaw feather. He wonders what he said to make you clench your teeth. Joel gives you a moment of silence to say something, to spill your guts even half as much as he has today. But you say nothing, and so Joel asks, “Are you and Maria close?”

It makes you roll your eyes, a sound of irritation slipping past your lips. There’s something cruel on the tip of your tongue. He can see it as you fight the urge to let it free. Joel wishes you would if for nothing else than to give him a clue as to what’s going on inside that pretty head of yours. Instead, you say, “We’ve known each other a long time. A lot of history.”

He nods at the open expanse of land before you. “Ain’t got nothin’ but time to fill, sweetheart.”

Your cheeks flush, and Joel thinks it’s even prettier than the sight of you bathed in sunlight. “I met Maria before Jackson was like it is today,” you explain. “It was just a handful of people and a couple of abandoned houses back then. But she saw it for what it could be, ya know? Saw how much potential there was. Maria’s real good at that…seeing things that aren’t there.” 

Joel wonders what that means. Wonders if you’re talking about Maria seeing things in you that aren’t there. But before he has the chance to formulate the question in his mind, you’ve moved past it. 

“Me and my…group—we were in bad shape. I was born in the Detroit QZ, but things started getting really bad between Fedra and the Fireflies when I was twelve. We left when the bombings started.”

It makes his chest ache. Twelve. Younger than Ellie.

“We didn’t really have anywhere to go, we were just sort of… wandering, I guess. She, uhm…one of my group members…she got hurt pretty bad. Wasn’t anyone’s fault, she just tripped and fell and ended up with a pretty nasty gash across her face. The wound wasn’t the problem but the infection…” 

Joel watches you shake your head, clearing memories best left behind. 

“It was a good thing we stumbled across Maria when we did. She helped us. Gave us food and water, a place to stay. But it was the medicine that made the difference. I owed her my life with no way to repay her. Maria didn’t ask for anything but I was old enough by then to know nothing comes for free. She suggested we stay a while, help them fortify the town, help build the greenhouse they were working on. Said we could leave whenever I felt we’d earned it. So, we stayed for a few more days. And when it was time to leave, my…group and I didn’t see eye to eye.”

He can hear the lie in your words, can sense there’s something you’re not telling him. It’s hard for him to imagine a twelve year old girl at the head of a group at the end of the world. But if anyone could do it, he supposed it would be you. And, really—it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, you’ll tell him when you’re ready. “Some of them wanted to stay?”

You nod in answer. “We came to a compromise. Said we’d just stay a couple more days. But then days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months and before I knew it, I’d become Maria’s go-to runner. And my group, they’d made a home in Jackson. They saw what Maria did, knew it had the potential to be…well, to be what it is now, I guess. I don’t know. Things just…evolved from there. I started picking up things I didn’t need on my runs. Decorations, books. Started getting to know people, to remember their names. To grab stuff I knew they’d like. And the runs became more and more frequent, too—once we opened the bakery, the grocers, the bar. Eventually my runs became less about essentials and more about comfort as Jackson became more and more self-sufficient.”

“And Maria?”

“I…I trust her,” you say. “She’s looked after me a long time. She lost a son a year or two before she found us and one of my group members…I think she used them to—to fill that hole. Someone she and I were both really close to.”

It’s not lost on him that he’s done something similar with Ellie. It’s also not lost on him that you used the word were. He hates that he can read between the lines. Hates even more that you know loss as intimately as he does. 

But none of it hurts Joel half as much as when you say, “I think Maria tries to do the same with me sometimes, but I’m not as easy to love.”

Silence fills the air between you and there’s so much Joel wants to say but he’s never been good with words.

Up ahead, there’s a wilting billboard advertising a church. It reads, ‘God speaks through angels. Will you speak to an angel today? Left at exit 34,’ and Joel thinks God might be laughing at him. 

It doesn’t make sense to him. He’s spent all his time grappling with his morality because Joel shouldn’t want you as bad as he does but he just can’t help himself. You’re too tempting, too irresistible. And all the while you’ve spent your time believing you’re hard to love? His stomach turns. 

Will you speak to an angel today?

“I…” Joel pauses, tries to formulate his thoughts. To his relief, you give him as much time as he needs. “You’re not…that ain’t true.” He doesn’t know how to explain it.

Doesn’t know how to explain that you are, undoubtedly, the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Doesn’t know how to explain that the best thing in his life is something he would’ve killed a man for, were you his daughter. Even before the outbreak, he would’ve seen red, would’ve spilled blood if a man his age ever looked twice at Sarah. And even though this isn’t that, even though he knows it’s different…old habits die hard.

But he tries his best and doesn’t think too much about how it comes out stumbling and wrong. “I used to own a construction company,” he says. ���Had a coupla’ guys on my crew I worked with all the time. Tommy had a friend in need of a job, and I didn’t know much about him but I trusted Tommy and so I hired him.”

You slow your horse just enough that the two of you are side by side. You’re listening intently, though your eyes are turned straight ahead.

Joel swallows hard and continues. “Name was Mike or Michael or something. Anyway, We had had a pretty hard day and Tommy and I had decided to split the check and buy everyone on our crew a beer after work. Mike said he couldn’t go cause his girlfriend was waiting for him outside to give him a ride home. And he seemed like a good guy, always showin’ up on time, never complained about anything, just did the job. So we told him to have her meet us at the bar so we could all get to know each other. But, uh...problem was his girlfriend wasn’t old enough to drink. Which should’ve been the first warning, considering Mike was a couple of years older than me at the time and an age difference like that wasn’t normal…’specially back then.”

It makes the corners of your mouth turn up. And Joel knows you’re holding back your laughter, can almost hear the smart remark you’d make. But to your credit, you remain silent. 

“But I gave him the benefit of the doubt, told him to bring her along anyway. Offered to buy her some bar food instead. ‘Cause they used to let you in the bar if you were under twenty one, they just wouldn’t serve you—” He waves a hand in front of him. “It doesn’t matter. Mike, he…he had to dumb it down for me. Had to explain it like I was a toddler because I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. He told me…he told me she couldn’t come because she was sixteen.”

A crease forms between your brows.

“Tommy didn’t know. No one knew. But I told him…told him he’d have to find a new job. Told him he couldn’t work for me, because all I could see at the time was my own daughter, ten years into the future, just got a driver's license and going to pick a grown fuckin’ man up from work because he’d manipulated her into…” He swallows, shakes his head to clear the image his words produce.

“This isn’t the same,” you say quietly. 

“No,” he answers. “It’s not. But, look, I didn’t even know that sixteen year old girl and I had only known Mike for a week. But I wanted to kill him. Because he knew better. He knew what he was doing was wrong and he did it anyway.”

“Joel…”

“Just—just listen to me for a minute, okay? Kids born after the outbreak, I know it’s different for you. I know you have no concept of…of what’s acceptable when it comes to stuff like this. But I do. I know it’s wrong, and it makes me no better than he was.”

You shake your head. “Stop it,” you say, voice stern. “Don’t do that to yourself. I’m not a kid, Joel. And you’re not a bad man.”

There’s so much certainty in your words, and Joel begins to wonder just how well you know him. Better than anyone else in Jackson aside from Tommy and Ellie, but you still don’t know. You don’t know about the raids he was a part of, the dealings and the killings he did in the Boston QZ, or about the way he left Tess in that Capitol Building, you don’t know about his blatant eradication of the fireflies, or the selfish decision he made that put an end to all hope of ever finding a cure when he pulled that trigger.

But that isn’t the point he’s trying to get across. 

So, he shakes off the tenderness in your voice and the way it makes his heart beat a little faster in his chest and says, “What I’m tryin’ to say is this: I know it’s wrong and I know this will be the thing that condemns me but I can’t stop. None of it matters when I’m with you. An’ I’ve tried to keep my distance, believe me. But, uh…here I am. So…don’t give me any of that shit about how you’re hard to love. I’m the last person who’d ever believe it. ”

He can feel your eyes on the side of his face, can feel the strain his near confession has created, but Joel can’t bring himself to look at you. Because he knows, he knows the moment he does and is smothered in that warmth you bring, the words will come spilling out and then there really won’t be any going back from this. There will be nothing left uncomplicated, nothing to unspool or untangle.

You ride in silence for several miles. It’s not an uncomfortable thing. As long as he can see you, as long as you’re within arms reach, he doesn’t panic. There’s no reason to, Joel thinks. 

An hour before sunset you come upon the Casper city limits. The hospital is less than a mile away when you steer your horse down a residential street and say, “We’ll rest for the night. Hole up in one of these houses. We’ll find a way inside in the morning.”

It’s a good plan, a solid one. One Joel would make himself. The two of you work together to ensure the abandoned house you chose is safe enough, and even though the night air has a bitter chill to it, you decide against a fire.

You feed the horses while Joel prepares food for the two of you, and by now you’ve got a routine so he prepares a makeshift bed while he waits for you to finish up. 

The two of you eat together, and you’re nibbling on a piece of the apple he cut into chunks for you when you say, “I lied to you. Earlier, I mean.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. And then again, “Yeah, I know.”

You narrow your eyes. “What do you mean you know?”

Joel shrugs casually. “Not gonna force you to talk about anything you’re not ready to talk about.”

It seems to give you pause. You stare intently at the ripped spot in your tight jeans, right over your knee, and take a slow, contemplative bite of your apple.

And then you tell the truth.

“It wasn’t a group,” you say quietly. “It was just me and my little sister.” 

It makes his heart clench. Because he doesn’t need to ask why he’s never met her. The words linger for a moment, and Joel lets them. Questions form behind his teeth that he doesn’t allow himself to ask.

“She used to…uhm—she used to carry this book around. Had all kinds of stuff about flora and fauna. Mostly, though, it was stuff about bugs and moss. She loved stuff like that. Could tell the difference between butterflies at a glance, could tell you all about the migrating cycles of moths and where they would be at any given time of the year, knew what kinda moss you could eat and what would just taste like dirt.”

A small, sad smile pulls at your mouth, and Joel wonders if you’ve talked about her with anyone else. With the affectionate tone that flows from you, he doubts it.

“The book, it was this massive thing. Like that big encyclopedia we have back in Jackson, you know the one?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure, I know it.”

“Well, sometimes she’d find a bug she didn’t recognize. Maybe a type of beetle or caterpillar or something or other. And she couldn’t just…she couldn’t wait. So a lot of times she’d be walking and reading at the same time.” Your face falls just slightly. “That’s how she tripped.”

“She was the one with the infection?”

You nod. “We used to laugh about it. You know, after we got to Jackson and had access to antibiotics. It was no one’s fault just…an accident. Still, she was my little sister, and I…I think I blamed myself for a while. Sounds silly now, but I don’t know. I was young.”

“Was?”

It makes you laugh, that carefree demeanor peaking through the gloom. He savors it. “You know what I mean.”

He does. Joel knows all too well what it’s like to be an older sibling. Knows that no matter how old he gets, he’ll always feel a sort of responsibility for his little brother.

“Anyway, she loved Jackson. Loved Maria, too. She was so personable. Sweet and kind and just… good. Ellie reminds me of her. And Jackson was so new back then it was just a handful of people, all curious to meet the newcomers. And they all took a liking to her right away. Not like…not like me. I was weary which made them weary. I didn’t want to stay.” 

Joel’s glad you did. Glad he was able to meet you, to experience this.

“She talked me into it, though,” you say with a sigh. “But we spent a lot of time on runs. Especially in the beginning. I think I missed it being just the two of us sometimes and even though she wanted to stay and help the town she never complained. It’s like she just knew what I needed without me ever having to ask.”

The look on your face grows somber. Your eyes lose focus. And Joel knows what’s coming next before you even say it.

“We were out on a run for copper. Trying to get the dam fixed up. I dont…I—uhm. I don’t know. I didn’t look. I just…”

Your voice breaks, and Joel abandons his post near the door. Abandons his rifle, too, to hold you instead. Your hands are trembling, something he didn’t notice before. But he sits beside you, places his warm hand on the small of your back, and waits for you to muster up the courage to speak again. 

“There was a stalker. In the brush. She was talking to me about this bug called a death's-head hawkmoth. And it felt like…it felt how it used to be. I was distracted, you know? Just listening to her ramble on and on about this fucking moth and then…and then she was screaming.” You wipe furiously at your cheeks. “I killed it quick but she was bitten either way and I had to…after. I had to…”

He pulls you close. Wraps his arms around your middle and pulls you into his lap. You’re cold and small and nothing like damnation in his hands. It’s okay, baby. It’s okay, he wants to say. But he knows it’s not okay and it never will be. So instead, Joel just kisses your face and your hair and your knuckles and he promises to never let anything else hurt you. 

You’re still in his lap, head against his shoulder, when you find enough of yourself within your cloud of grief to speak again. “That’s why I don’t go on runs with other people,” you say. “I don’t want to be the reason for anyone else dying.”

Joel takes your chin in his hand and tilts your head up so you’ll look at him. The sun has set and it’s dark but he can still see you, thinks that perhaps he’s always been able to. Even before knowing your something. “Hey,” he says. “No. Look at me. That ain’t true.”

“But I should’ve seen it,” you say. “I should’ve been paying attention. I should’ve—!”

“Don’t do that to yourself,” he says. And Joel knows it’s hypocritical, knows he’s telling you not to do what he’s done every day for the last twenty years. But he doesn’t want that for you, doesn’t want you to suffer if he can help it. So he tells you what no one’s ever told him. What he’s always wanted to hear but never had the courage to ask for. “It wasn’t your fault, sweetheart. You did everything you could—I know you did. It wasn’t your fault.”

“You can’t go with me,” you say with a sniffle. “Tomorrow. Joel, you can’t. I can’t lose anyone else. I can’t lose you.”

Pride swells inside his chest because even though he hadn’t had the guts to admit his need for you to Tommy, you have the guts to admit it to Joel. You set the truth right out in the open for all eyes to see. And even though it’s just the two of you, the horses, and the moon—Joel Miller thinks you might be the bravest person he’s ever met.

He loves that about you.

Wants to say it. Doesn’t have the guts to. He’s not the one with an abundance of bravery.

“You don’t get to do things alone anymore,” he says instead. “It’s too dangerous. I’m going.”

There’s no room for argument in his voice but you find yourself doing it anyway. “Joel, just listen to me, okay? When I had to tell everyone at Jackson what had happened to her I couldn’t stand the way they looked at me. Because I could fucking see what everyone was thinking. It should’ve been me.”

He shakes his head, feels panic climbing up his throat at the very idea. “No. No, you—”

“They knew it, I knew it—God, Maria never lets me forget it. It should’ve been me, Joel. And I can’t fucking do that shit again, do you hear me? I cannot face them. Maria, Tommy, fuck— Ellie. If I have to look them in the eye and explain how I made it and you didn’t?” You scoff. “Joel, I’d rather die. I can’t do that again. I won’t survive it.”

He holds your face in his hands. “Look at me, baby. Stop. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

“But you don’t know—!”

“I do know,” he says. Because I’m cursed to live forever, to endure my sins, he doesn’t. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, little girl. Alright? I swear.”

And he means it. He really, truly means it.

You press your mouth to his, fingers tangled in the roots of his hair, and though you don’t say it Joel can taste the desperation, the love, on your tongue.

It was never supposed to go this far. Was never supposed to turn into this. All he’d wanted was to teach you a lesson, to scratch the itch of discipline your bratty ways bring out in him.

Yet he finds himself eternally grateful to have been born in a time where you exist. For the first time, he doesn’t think he was born thirty years too early and he doesn’t think you were born thirty years too late. For the first time, he accepts what is and what isn’t. For the first time, Joel Miller holds divinity in his hands and doesn’t think about how undeserving of it he is, he just pulls it closer. 

He thinks about how precious this is instead. About how extraordinary you are. About how he may never get to experience heaven but what is heaven compared to the way you look at him? What’s heaven compared to the way you feel? 

What’s heaven compared to home?

You drift off in his lap, and even in your sleep you cling to him like he’s something holy.

Joel loves you, he knows. 

And if the two of you survive tomorrow, he just might tell you so.

[part five] [part seven]

[cherubispunk]

NEPHILIM - Jackson-era!Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

summary: the disturbing comforts the disturbed.

a note from Lucy: I swear there is fluff! I swear, I swear, I swear! You just have to squint *reeeeaaaalllly* hard. Yes, I read the book of genesis and the book numbers along with some extensive Wikipedia deep diving for like…a paragraph of lore. But is it really ever enough?

playlist | moodboard

wc: 2498

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DARK CONTENT! no use of y/n, I tried to keep her body type as generic as possible but he might be slightly skinny coded so please let me know and I’ll change it in edits, reader is referred to as ‘Bambi’, verbally constipated Joel Miller, brief gore descriptions, heavy religious imagery and references to the bible, biblical lore, bombastic age gap!!! yahhhhh! (reader is in her 20’s/ Joel is in his late 50’s), smut, p in v sex, creampie, fingering, rough sex, possessive!joel, dom!joel/sub!reader dynamic, you know the drill with my writing, there’s probably some form of cannibalism as a metaphor, or brutal violence as a metaphor, religious imagery as a metaphor, etc. (aka, fancy word vomit)

series masterlist | m.list

Genesis 6:4 The Nephilim were in the earth in those days, and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bore children to them; the same were the mighty men that were of old, the men of renown.

The reality of it was, you and Joel were two people who lived in the same small town. Who’s paths crossed once to save your life, and the others when coincidence would grant you that small pleasure. He carried you to the care of an old man with blue eyes now milky in cataracts. Jude. Who nursed you to health in a metal framed bed of an old family home— now the town clinic. The knife that sliced open your side had been dirty, and sepsis soon spread in the bloody gash. Only with Joel finding you in the snow, and Jude delivering you antibiotics, did you recover back to health.

He wouldn’t visit you directly. He would visit Jude and glance at you through the doorway as he passed the hall to the elderly Man’s office. To distract from the man you read stories when bedridden. Parts of biblical scripture; Read the book of Genesis; Read the book of Numbers. Jude being a religious man who had the fortune of holding God in his heart, kept them among his medical journals and books. And the former was far more interesting than the later in your opinion. For in them were mentions of anthropomorphic creatures born of flesh, blood and divinity. Towering tall over common trees and temples built in the name of Lord God. You were no religious woman, but you found comfort in the fables of the Old Testament. And likened Joel to the Nephilim in all ways.

Joel Miller was something of a biblical figure to you. A small glimpse into the past of something archaic, untold, and harbouring on the dangerous. You liked to imagine him as one of the Nephilim. A son of god, offspring borne of a fallen angel and man. A giant of misunderstood nature. Who’s soul had been cast down on earth in punishment. His large hands had bloodshed on them, or so people had said. They whispered it quietly in the spaces between. The places he didn’t occupy often. But he was always on your mind…so there was no place for those whispers there. If he was all that bad…why did he save you? You saw his need to care, protect, understand. Not be understood. But just understand. You would let yourself dream of taking his rough edges to the smooth plane of a whetstone. People claimed you cannot buff brass into gold. That it will only be as such in your head. That it was a fools game, but the fool is rich in content, and poor in sorrow. For the fool has little to worry about while they live in ignorant bliss.

What wasn’t written in any of the books of the holy scripture was this; ‘The disturbing comforts the disturbed.’ But it might as well have been. It was practically the way god intended life to be. You are shaken, and you are weaned on being shaken, until stillness is a discomfort and your body begs to be rattled again. But harder.

—

You took a while to find your feet. Joel took it upon himself to wordlessly help you with any medial or manual task. You were given a house on the edge of town, up a hill in some remote street that was always quiet. It seemed the less social souls resided there. Not that you minded. It was jarring to say the least. Being cast out into the hostile wild. And then brought back into the warmth. Here you had clothes, food, a roof over your head, and community. It stung in the same way it does to run your hands under a scalding tap after labouring out in the cold. It made your fingers numb before they regained feeling. Stiff. And a trouble to flex them back and forth, closed fist, open palm; Closed fist, open palm.

It’s how you earned ‘Bambi’. A name only Joel would ever call you. Dear doe on her wobbly, spindly legs. He’d keep you upright. Despite being a good thirty year sicker than you. Dirty old man. Ditsy little girl.

Your time together was silent. And while he never said he cared, he showed it. By waiting for you each time you were in the stables. And he would walk through town with you a safe distance from his side, up to the top of the hill your house was on. The snow would crunch under his heavy boots and he wished he was lighter on his feet like you. Not a large bulk of a man with heavy feet and even heavier hand. Maybe Joel wasn't large by the world's standards, but he was still a giant to you- muscular, and broad shoulders. With hands that could engulf yours, or cradle the entire crown of your head with a single palm. His arms were strong, and large from manual labour, and tightly knotted with tendons and grizzly muscle like thick twisted ropes that held up sails. What you liked most, however, was his softer belly. Perhaps the only soft thing about him from what little you had seen, or heard, or assumed. You felt an intrinsic satisfaction in knowing he was well fed. And Joel didn't mind it either. It was a reminder to himself what he was in fact as safe as he could be. Anything to not go hungry again. He still kept his brawns either way. Kept his hands and mind busy with patrols and the odd job around town. Fixing roofs, garden sheds, building tables with spare lumber from the woodhouse, and chopping firewood for the colder months. At the beginning of winter he would spend most of his free time ensuring you had enough. He spent hours out in his backyard, swinging that axe down on log, after log of wood. Then carry it up the hill in a wheelbarrow to your front door. He did it for nothing. Nothing but the peace of mind that grew from the seed of knowing you were warm. But he was greeted with something you had baked, or sewn, or knitted, or grown in your empty hours alone. Apple and rhubarb pie, thick woollen gloves, sourdough bread with crunchy, thick crusts that crunched when he broke his bread.

“It’s nothin’.” He would say, and shrug, hands on his hips while he looked back at the finished product of whatever work he’d slaved over that entire afternoon. Be it a pile of firewood, raised garden beds, or a fixed gutter. “Just…do me a favour?” He asked.

“Yeah?”

“Keep that smile on y’face, Bambi. Don’t let anyone take it away from ya.” His face was stern. As if he was telling you, not asking you. But if you were to ever stop smiling he thought he’d keel over and die a little bit inside. Or part of him would anyway. The part of him you now had in your chest unwittingly.

You watched the mountain of a man, Big Bad Joel Miller, warm up. Day by slow day. He was on the threshold of it. Right there. But the toe of his thick winter boots never ventured onto floorboards. He stayed out in the cold. After a while you dared Joel to touch you. Tired of him only meeting halfway. He was a man of few words, but a man of so much action. And when you challenged him with your tongue, he countered with his touch. That night was hell under the guise of heaven for his restraint.

“Y’so bad for me, Bambi.” Joel grunted, his entire weight smothering you against the mattress of his bed. His cock dragging in and out of you slowly. “Old sinner like me ain’t made for you.” So slowly the anticipation ached in the joints of your toes that curled. His grip on your hips casting his handprint in a watercolour bloom. “That’s it, fuck– takin’ me so well.”

You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, back arching in a deep curve off the bed while his hips altered their pace. Just a tad quicker as you bucked up into him. The two of you climbing in tandem to the high. “That's it,” He repeated in a hiss, followed by a growl into your neck, “Keep archin’ that back for me.” You did just that, holding onto his forearms for leverage as you curled your spine a little deeper. A word came to mind. One you’d heard once before. Only once. But I held such a comfort to be able to label it. Hiraeth. He was that. And what you felt was that. A longing for a home. He treated you like you wouldn't break. But spoke as if words would lacerate you. One punctuated thrust, aided by your own slick was all it took, a moan for him deeper. A tear slipped from your eye and you let gravity do its work, pulling it from you. It slipped from the corner of your eye, and down your temple. “Good girl, Bambi.” He crooned, splaying both of his palms over your hairline and sweeping the hair that stuck to your forehead in the sheen of sweat atop your skin. His large hands dragged over the top of your skull to the crown of your head, down the back of your neck, and gripped. That soft fleshy part at the base of your skull and the top of your still curved spine.

It hurt. It deeply hurt. His calloused fingers, textured by the trigger of a gun, or the handle of an axe, pressing into your malleable skin. But you’d let Joel drag you to hell if it meant he would hold your hand. You didn't care how he touched you– how he was inside you. He could be buried to hilt in your cunt, or knuckle deep in an open wound. As long as he was there. You'd give the heavens, and the earth, and rot in hell if it meant he stayed. Joel swore you had the space for his heart next to yours. But you didn't have the stomach.

You gripped the skin of Joel’s back. Searching for a part of him to hold that would turn off the cynic in him. Or at least try. You gave up on that idea. Because the man that fucked you— the man that loved you in action and not words— was not kind. He was not gentle. He was bold, and sharp as broken glass, and blunt all in the same being. You knew the crease of his brow. You had it memorised.

He hooked a leg over his shoulder, opened you up to his greedy eyes. They misted into dark hickory at the sight of you taking him so well inside of you. Messy little cunt for him to play with whenever he pleased. His nostrils flared as he pressed deeper. And your reaction was as he planned. A cry of his name. Your sex drenched and accommodating every inch. “A cunt made for me.” He gritted through his teeth, leaning forward to sink his teeth into your bottom lip and lick into the wet cavern of your mouth; Take the taste of you back with him when he retreated again; Righting his hips and the angle he fucked you in.

“Made for you.” You agreed in a garble and a slur. As if drunk off the last dregs of his kindness that lay at the bottom of the bottle. Licking it dry for all it was still worth.

“Say it again.” Joel grunted, demanded.

“Made for you.” You repeated.

“Good little Bambi.”

From there it was the crescendo. And it came broken in two halves of two separate waves. The first wave was one of numbing pleasure. The one that fizzled through your legs until you were nothing but a mere speck for a second. And the second was the one that broke you. Had you shattering. It tightened in your womb, behind the mouth of your cervix, and then released in slow flutter; Your walls relaxing and then contracting. And he came after with a groan and spilled inside of you.

He was no gentle lover. In fact, he wasn’t a lover at all. When he fucked you that night…it felt like he was trying to love you— but couldn’t. He was too conditioned to violence. It showed the ache he left behind. Nevertheless, you would take more than he was willing to offer. But what he dropped in your palm you stored away and hoarded like a greedy magpie with shiny little trinkets. He was warm. But not warm like a campfire. He was warm like hellflame. And you were okay with that. You would take your time with him, and slowly pry open a gap in his ribs to slip past. To love him to the marrow. Even the mangled parts. Find him at his very worst — The part humanity suffocated in. And love him there. Silently.

Joel ran a hand over the flank of your ribs and then curled around your navel to pull your back to his chest. Then kissed the crook of your neck in a silent apology to your skin for each mark or tender bruise he may have left. One that wasn't really needed, but you accepted it by reaching behind you and running your fingers through his thick greying curls. In times like these after it all, in the clot and space in between, you came to realise loving him was like loving being hungry. It felt good to want things. To feed yourself you swallowed your fear instead. You lay there, exhaustion heavy in your bones, a hand of his slipping between your legs to feel the evidence of him being there inside you. His spend sticky and thick and warm between your legs. You couldn't fight the impulsive twitch that jolted your spine when he pressed on your swollen, slick clit and drew lazy circles. “Mine now, Bambi.” He murmured into the skin of your shoulder. He didn't kiss the skin there, but rather trailed his chapped lips over your flesh in such a light touch it felt like it was hardly there. More a trick of the sex hazed, lust crazed mind. “Understand that?” And you nodded in silence with a small smile, watching out the frosted up window pane as the dawn stained the sky a burnt orange and angry red. It refracted and smeared in the crystallised ice. A thin sheet that obscured the image of the sycamore tree outside his bedroom window. The bare branches looked far more like the bones of skeletal fingers than a tree bare of leaves. Its bleach white bark only emphasised your image of it. Your vision. Nevertheless; The blackbird would sing, once again on its branch, a morning song you knew by heart.

[felassan]

New BioWare journal entry:

"Journal #8 Exploration Across Thedas A look into how Rook will discover the world Hello everyone, Today, we’re back to share more about the world of Dragon Age: The Veilguard (minor spoilers below). While the game is a crafted experience telling a rich narrative, there are many areas to explore. The Lighthouse, for example, is a central place for Rook to rest, spend time with Companions, and learn more about the world through conversation. The Crossroads allow the Veilguard to traverse Thedas in seconds, connecting the Lighthouse to more of the world than ever before.  Throughout the story, you will go through many diverse areas, from the beauty of the lush Arlathan Forests to the busy streets of Minrathous. Veterans of the series have heard whispers in the past about each of these places in Thedas, but now you will actually be able to explore and experience them in-game. Each area has its own unique feel and style. There are several areas for exploration; each inviting you to delve deeper into the narrative and uncover the many mysteries Thedas holds. Check out a few of them here: Arlathan Forest – Ancient magic and powerful artifacts re-awaken and reality thins across the woodlands that once held the heart of the Elvhen empire. The Veil Jumpers, masters of ancient elven magic, seek to stabilize the region and keep reality from crumbling. Hossberg Wetlands – Much of this once-peaceful marshland has been consumed by the Blight. Darkspawn roam the swamps with impunity, but the Grey Wardens mount a valiant defense of the last safe haven – Lavendel. Minrathous – Capital of the Tevinter Imperium, the Venatori wield corruption as they try to turn the Empire’s heart to their own dark purposes. Yet the people resist, with the rebel Shadow Dragons leading the charge. Rivain – An ancient Grey Warden fortress sits among sparkling waters and lush greenery of the Rivain Coast; the Lords of Fortune call this paradise home. The servants of the gods have their own plans, however, and threaten to turn this sanctuary into a battlefield. Treviso – A merchant city known for the beauty of its canals – and the deadliness of its assassins – Treviso is under Antaam occupation, a state of affairs that sits poorly with the Antivan Crows.

WHAT'S THERE TO FIND? While exploring the world, the Veilguard will come across many things to do and people to talk to. Of course, there will be loot to upgrade your equipment but there will also be puzzles and lore! There will be ancient statues, letters, and artifacts left behind to read and collect those Codex Entries. There are also new modes of transportation to find throughout the world, including fast travel.  There will be new ways for your Companions to interact with the world as well, with specific exploration abilities. For example, you may come across some ancient Elven artifacts for Bellara to Tinker with while you wander through Arlathan. Even when the Companions are back at the Lighthouse, Rook can use the Lyrium Dagger to take advantage of their Exploration Abilities. You may also spot Companions out and about, interacting with the world on their own. When heading to Treviso, we recommend finding Lucanis and enjoying a cup of coffee together.

THE LIGHTHOUSE The Lighthouse will serve as your new home during Dragon Age: The Veilguard. Each companion will have their own room, for them to decorate to their own taste. Their rooms will progress over the course of the story, and it will also be the main location for one-on-one chats with them. Rook will have a room of their own, as well! Lastly, you will find the Caretaker’s Workshop here, where items can be upgraded and enchanted.

THE CROSSROADS From the home base of the Lighthouse, you will be able to access The Crossroads, a meeting place of many Eluvians. This area will serve as the main connection from the Lighthouse to the rest of Thedas, as well as lead to a lot of side content. The Caretaker will act as a guide throughout this area, ferrying the party to different islands in the Fade. Additionally, there will be more puzzles to solve in this area and even some extra missions, but we’ll leave those shrouded in mystery to discover on your own. We recently held our in-person Preview Event with Content Creators and Press, so keep your eyes out for interviews and coverage in the coming weeks. While you’re waiting, don’t forget to check out our podcast Dragon Age: Vows & Vengeance. Chat soon!             — The Dragon Age Community Team"

[source]

[stalkerofthegods]

Lady Nyx/Nox deep dive, straight to the point info

Lady Nyx is wonderful, her beauty even ascends the stars, May we respect and adore Lady Nyx as a goddess and as a wonderful mother.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

Herbs • Dahlias, Cannas, Some lobelia, Night-blooming jasmine, Moonflowers, Datura, Tuberose, Evening primrose, Queen of the Night epiphyllum, Herbs that only grow at night, black leaves, black flowers, Blackthorn, Cypress, Holly, Juniper, Locust, Pomegranate, Witch Hazel, Comfrey, Honeysuckle, Ivy, Lavender, Mugwort, Patchouli, Primrose, Vervain, Nectarines, Dragon Fruit, Morning Glory, Nightshade, Roses, Lilies, Poppies

Animals• Horses, Owl, dogs, bats, black bulls, Blue Jay, Crow, Sparrow, Snake, Turtle, cat

Zodiac • your moon sign. 

Colors • Black, Dark blue, Dark green, Dark Purple

Crystal• Obisidian, Morion, Jet, Hematite, Onyx, Black tourmaline, Black Sapphire, Black moonstone, Black agate, Shungite, Black calcite, Eye Agate, Amethyst, Andalusite, Apophyllite, Cat's Eye, Hematite, Moss Agate, Moonstone, Petrified Wood, Smokey Quartz

Symbols•  Black wings, Dark clouds, Black fog, Egg, New Moon, Stars, key, veil, poppy, serpents, owls.

you can wear in their honor• you can veil in their honor, PJs 

Deity of• Night, she is the personification of it

Patron of• Night, Sleep, Death, the Fates, Nemesis, Old Age, Darkness, Light, Motherhood, Magic, Mystery, and the unknown;

Offerings•  Black candles, Poetry or songs related to the night, Images of the night sky, Beef, Milk, Black flowers, Black fruits, Dark red wine, Black animal votives, Dew (the one that gathers after sunset), Dark feathers, Dark liquors/beers. Black Tea/Coffee, Symbols of Her children (ex-torch, skull, scissors), Black fabric/veil/cloak, Dark chocolate, Honey/molasses, Viniq (shimmery liqueur that looks like a galaxy in a bottle)

Devotional• Go star gazing, donate to owl shelters, go to the zoo to see her animals, draw her, listen to a playlist for her, go camping under the stars, go glamping to look at the stars, Take a night time walk, Get a good night’s rest, Learn a new star or constellation each week, Stay up late, do something you enjoy without fearing the dark, Sleep with your windows open, Burn a candle that represents the stars, Sleep in every once and a while, Watch an astronomy documentary, Be extra polite to those who have to work the night shift, Wear dark colors, Learn about which animals are active at night in your area, Go for a night drive, Do divination at night, Listen to music with your headphones in, Use silver, black, and gold glitter, Plant some flowers that only bloom at night, Use a star/constellation app, Read the House of Night series, Watch the evening light fade away into darkness (you can do this in your window, or watch a lapse on YouTube of it), Wear more things with the stars or planets on them, Defend someone who is vulnerableble, Turn your electronics off a couple hours before bed each night, Drink an herbal tea with cinnamon before bed, If you’re staying up late already, make your night productive. (Ex- Complete some homework, tidy up your room), Keep a dream journal, Learn how to identify owls by their calls, Make the night sky your screensaver/home screen, Wear scents that remind you of the night, watch a video of the stars, and sleep with stars in the background.

Ephithets• Bringer of Night, Mother of Daimones, Mother of the Cosmos, Subduer of Gods and Men, Mother of Mysteries, The Dark and Shining, The Winged, of the Great Shadows, Dressed in Stars, Dew Bringer, of the Witching Hour, 

of the Deep and Silent Dark.

Equivalents (alike but not the same)• Nótt (Norse), Selene (Greek), Hecate (Greek), Nox (Roman), Nyx (Greek), Al-Qaum (Arabian), Nabatean (Arabain), Itzpapalotl (Aztec), Metztli (Aztec), Tezcatlipoca (Aztec), Khonsu (Egyptian), Nut (Egyptian)

Signs they are reaching out• Sudden fascination with stars, seeing her Symbols and attributes all of the sudden, a pull to her and the night.

Vows/omans• None, maybe wedding vows, but many say she just has Erebus as a boyfriend, not a husband.

Morals• Unkown, but most suspect Morally grey.

Courting• Erebus (darkness)

Personality• She is motherly and protective of her children, 

Home• Tartruas 

Mortal or immortal • immortal 

Fact• The first Deity to exist, 

Roots• Gaia, Birthed at the beginning of time, lived in Tartarus. 

Parentage• Chaos 

Siblings• Gaia (goddess of the Earth/mother nature), Erebus (god of darkness), Uranus/Ouranos (god of the heavens), and Tartarus (god of the underworld).

Pet• The two/four horses pulling her chariot 

Children • Aether and Hemera (Day) by Erebus (Darkness), Thanatos (gentle death), Hypnos (sleep), she also made the spirits - the Fates, Sleep, Death, Strife, and Pain. Aether, Moros, Apate, Dolos, the Keres, the Moirai, the Hesperides, Oizys, Momus, Philotes, Geras, Eris

Appearance in astral or gen• In ancient art Nyx was depicted as either a winged goddess or charioteer, sometimes crowned with dark mists.

Festivals • Wiccan Yule, Wiccan Samhain, Winter solstice, you can do a ritual for her on the full and dark moon, but there is a feast you can hold in her honor, which is called Lemuralia.

Day • her time is Twilight, Dusk, and Midnight, and her day is Monday  

Season• winter 

Direction• north 

Status• Primordial Goddess of night, even Zeus fears her, one of the first primordial beings alive, she was there for the creation of the universe.

Planet• Moon

Her Tarot cards• Death, Temperance

Scents/Inscene • Myrtle, Camphor, Patchouli, Lavender, watery, musky, earthy

My opinion • She is a very hard divine being to find information on, I hope this helps, but I've never met her before, I assume she's great, my friend says she is kind and calls her ‘Mother’ 

Prayers• 

In general

Beautiful, black-eyed Nyx, cloaked in darkness, older than old, daughter of misty Chaos, mother of great and mighty spirits, I call to you. Ever-present one, you live in the shadows; we know you in the dusk, in the comfort of the night. Broad-winged Nyx, you clasp the hand of bright Hemera, each eve and morn, you greet her with love and sorrow for only in those moments may you embrace your child. Goddess, awesome one, in your realm are we all unblemished, in your realm do lovers’ promises ring true, in your realm are all things possible, if only until daybreak. Nyx, I honor you.

Small prayer 

“Nyx, mother of the night, mother of sleep, mother of death: Might your darkness embrace me Might your energy caress me Might you be mine and Might I be yours Blessed be.“

In general 

O ancient Goddess, born of Chaos and steeped in shadow, I honor you now and always. With eyes which have watched the beginnings of all that is, see us now embracing your sleep and mystery. With power that strikes fear into the hearts of the most revered of Gods,

I remember your strength when I am searching for my own. In the starless night where light shines not i will give my thanks to your Greatness, And surrender to the dark.

Links/websites/sources • Nyx - Greek-Goddesses Wiki - Fandomhttps://www.theoi.com/Protogenos/Nyx.html mystical-sleepy-musings <a href="https://greekgodsandgoddesses.net/goddesses/nyx/">Nyx – Greek Goddess of The Night: https://greekgodsandgoddesses.net</a> - Greek Gods & Goddesses, June 10, 2018 https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nyx https://www.theoi.com/Protogenos/Nyx.htmlhttps://www.britannica.com/topic/Hypnoshttps://greekgodsandgoddesses.net/goddesses/nyx/https://www.ancient-origins.net/myths-legends-europe/nyx-goddess-0017255 https://www.worldhistory.org/Nyx/https://gods-and-demons.fandom.com/wiki/Nyx https://www.moonfallmetaphysical.com/s/stories/nyx-greek-goddess#google_vignette https://www.moonfallmetaphysical.com/s/stories/nyx-greek-goddess#google_vignette https://mythopedia.com/topics/nyx https://oldworldgods.com/greeks/nyx-greek-goddess-of-the-night/https://www.vintageisthenewold.com/game-pedia/what-does-nyx-goddess-look-like https://aminoapps.com/c/hellenistic-polytheism/page/item/nyx/Vn7V_bmCvIP7XMLvlKzJJbl2lGY55JLxDZhttps://thebacchichuntress.tumblr.com/post/127160005123/offerings-to-nyx/amphttps://www.tumblr.com/heatherwitch/161308460295/nyxhttps://tuiliel.tumblr.com/post/139053552874/epithets-of-nyx/amphttps://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_night_deities https://greekpagan.com/category/prayers-2/nyx/#:~:text=older%20than%20old%2C%20daughter%20of,the%20comfort%20of%20the%20night.Magickal Spothttps://magickalspot.com › nyxGoddess Nyx: Prayers, Symbols, Books & More [Guide]https://www.tumblr.com/moonlitmagic/189775766368/prayer-for-nyx

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

This post is payment to my friend @briislame

May Nyx cover you with the calmness of night.

I use resources, I do not own the info, and most deep dives have UPG (that I use in my work.) And I only take some information from sources. I am 14, this is my hobby, I am learning but I spent many hours and days on this, and I am always open to criticism. I have been doing worship for 5 years. Please know you can use the info, I do not sue, but I will take action if this work is used without permission and not put as a resource if used in any work. without permisson and not put as a resource if used in any work, for the public.