#delicate stamens

[herbalnature]

A vibrant orange lily blooms gracefully, its petals catching the soft light beautifully. The flower's vivid color and delicate stamens stand out, bringing a touch of nature's elegance indoors.

[b-blushes]

some bees on the teasels :3

[hisui-dreamer]

Can I have orange blossoms with jade leech for eternal love and marriage please? Thankyou!

is it love or just really nice flowers?

Pairing: Jade Leech x gn!reader

Synopsis: jade likes giving you flowers, it probably doesn't mean anything special though... right?

Tags: fluff, pining, slowish burn, eels are cowards, mentions of marriage, reader likes flowers

Word count: 1.2k+

Notes: thank you for requesting anon!! i had a lot of fun squealing when writing this one hehe

Masterlist

flower of choice: orange blossoms

orange blossoms symbolise eternal love and marriage, and they are often used in wedding ceremonies as symbols of purity and eternal love

You suppose it all started on your first Valentine’s Day in Twisted Wonderland.

As a member of the Mostro Lounge staff, you found yourself amidst the bustling atmosphere of the Mostro Lounge, where Azul's ambitious plans to capitalize on the love-filled holiday were in full swing. The lounge pulsated with the presence of couples occupying every available table.

Soft, dim lighting cast a warm glow over the space, enveloping everything in an air of intimacy and mystery. The gentle hum of conversation and laughter filled the air, mingling with the smooth melodies of jazz music drifting from hidden speakers.

Couples nestled into plush velvet booths, their faces illuminated by the soft light, lost in each other's eyes and whispers. Waiters moved gracefully between tables, delivering trays adorned with exotic beverages and plates of delectable meals, their steps silent against the plush carpeting.

But what caught your eye the most were the bouquets given to significant others, adorning the tables like precious jewels. Each one was a masterpiece in its own right, meticulously selected and arranged to convey the deepest sentiments of adoration.

"It must be nice receiving flowers…" you murmured to yourself, lost in thought.

“You would like to receive flowers?”

You snapped your head around at the sound of Jade's voice, finding him with a curious expression on his face. Surprise flickered in your eyes at his question, but a smile bloomed on your lips as you considered receiving flowers from someone.

“Yeah," you replied, a hint of longing in your voice, "who wouldn't? Receiving gifts makes you feel so appreciated. Plus, who wouldn't be happy looking at something pretty?"

Jade took a moment to mull over your words, his gaze thoughtful. Eventually, he nodded in agreement. "Hmm… I see. That does sound quite lovely," he acknowledged.

The conversation was quickly cut short when new orders and tasks arrived. In the whirlwind of never-ending tasks, the conversation had slipped from your mind almost entirely, until he appeared later that week, returning from a hiking trip with a delightful surprise in tow.

"Here, Prefect," he began, his voice gentle as he produced a bouquet of orange blossoms from behind his back. "These are for you," he offered with a soft smile.

The bouquet was a sight to behold, a delicate ensemble of ivory-hued blooms that exuded an ethereal beauty. Each flower boasted star-shaped petals, arranged in a symmetrical fashion around a central cluster of stamens. These stamens, adorned with tips of yellow to orange hues, stood out like tiny flames amidst the pristine white petals, adding a touch of vibrant colour to the otherwise pure palette. With their intricate details and subtle fragrance, the orange blossoms seemed to radiate a quiet elegance, captivating all who beheld their serene charm.

You couldn't help but notice the faintest flush of pink tinting his ears, and your own heart skipped a beat in response. You were well aware of the symbolism behind orange blossoms—eternal love and marriage. But surely, Jade couldn't mean that, could he?

"You brought these for me?" you asked, a mix of surprise and delight colouring your tone.

Jade nodded, a warmth spreading through him at your delight. "Yes, I thought you might like them," he admitted softly.

As you accepted the bouquet, a rush of emotions flooded over you. The delicate scent of the orange blossoms enveloped you, filling your senses with a sweet, intoxicating aroma. Mesmerized, you found yourself unable to look away from the vibrant blooms, each one a masterpiece of nature, without a single flaw in sight.

Jade's gaze remained fixed on yours, his expression tender and sincere. It was as though he was studying your reaction with unwavering attention, and a flutter of anticipation stirred in your chest at the vulnerability he revealed.

"Thank you, Jade," you said, your voice barely above a whisper but filled with sincerity. "These are beautiful."

A relieved smile spread across Jade's face, his eyes alight with a mixture of joy and relief. "I'm glad you like them," he murmured, his voice tinged with warmth.

Though you’re not sure why, Jade had made it a habit to always bring back a bouquet of orange blossoms for you from his hiking trips.

"It doesn't really bother me," he'd say with a closed-eye smile, "since it's on the way."

Each time he presented you with the blooms, your heart fluttered with joy. Yet, you hesitated to believe there were underlying intentions behind his gift. After all, Jade had always been kind to you, and you couldn't fathom the idea of him harbouring romantic feelings.

As the end of his third year at NRC approached, a bittersweet anticipation filled the air. The impending farewell weighed heavy on your heart, mingling with a sense of melancholy. Although Jade promised to visit during breaks and holidays, the thought of no longer seeing him every day stung with loneliness.

Summer break was nearing, and the campus was buzzing with students bidding farewells and exchanging hugs. Amidst the flurry of goodbyes, Jade sought you out, as he always did, with a bouquet of orange blossoms cradled in his arms. His smile was tinged with a hint of sadness as he approached you, and you felt a lump form in your throat at the sight of him.

"These are for you," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper as he handed the flowers to you.

You accepted the bouquet with trembling hands, the weight of the moment settling heavily upon you. The sweet fragrance of the orange blossoms enveloped you like a comforting embrace, but it did little to dispel the sorrow that threatened to consume you.

"Thank you, Jade," you managed to say, your voice choked with emotion.

“I... I don’t wish for this to be the last time I give you flowers,” he confessed softly, his eyes searching yours with earnest sincerity. “Will you really not consider marriage with me?"

A heavy silence hung between you, each moment feeling weighted with unspoken words and unexpressed feelings. Then, Jade reached out to cup your cheek, guiding your gaze to meet his.

Caught off guard by his heartfelt plea, your eyes widened in astonishment. "Jade, I... I never realized... You…"

"But you knew, didn't you? You must have..." Jade's voice trembled with vulnerability. "Every flower, every gesture—it was all for you."

Your mind raced, memories flashing before your eyes like a vivid tapestry woven from moments shared together. Each bouquet, each flower—he had poured his heart into every gesture, his feelings hidden in plain sight all along.

Tears shimmered in your eyes as understanding washed over you like a gentle wave crashing upon the shore. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and you realized the depth of his devotion, the sincerity of his love.

“Yes, Jade," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath but filled with certainty. "Yes, a thousand times, yes."

The next thing you know, his lips are pressed against yours in a tender, passionate embrace. In that fleeting moment, the world around you faded into insignificance, leaving only the warmth of his touch, the sweetness of his kiss, and the promise of a love that would endure through every trial and triumph.

Masterlist

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[macfrog]

champagne problems sex on fire chapter ten

i'm not sorry!!!!! you'll never catch me!!!! (im, like, super sorry)

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: the secrecy between you and joel comes to a head. one huge, explosive, painful head.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, whew boy the angst is big in this one sorry, reader has a lot of internal struggle, daddy issues and commitment issues to the max (ha), memories of parental abandonment and adultery, sort of vague mention/description of reader having panic attacks, attempts to initiate sex (but alas, only one small mention of previous sex), Big Argument, alcohol consumption, cursing, sugardaddy!joel, soft!joel, fluff and angst. angst angst angst angst

word count: 11.1k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💚

The lavender is the first to wilt.

It stares glumly at the kitchen counter. Posture hunched and drooping. You stand before it, clutching a jug of water like you’re starving the purple sprigs for information. Why did he lie to me why did he lie why would he lie to me tell me why.

The daisies look on, awkward and curious. Their petals streaked with green – still fresh and still at least trying to bloom. The news hasn’t reached their delicate stamens yet – they still have blind hope. But they’re drinking from the same rotten water their lilac neighbors are. They must know it’s futile.

You fill the vase up and fix the lace bow – the one you’d transferred from the brown paper wrap to the vase last night, after seeing Joel out. He stayed until nightfall, until the rest of your apartment faded into a pale gloom, forgotten about while the two of you watched TV and kept secrets from one another in your warm-lit bedroom.

When he leaned down and held his lips over yours, you pushed yourself onto your toes and kissed him goodbye. He ruffled your hair, clipped your bottom lip lovingly. Said, I’ll call you tomorrow. Get some sleep, pretty girl.

You lay staring at the ceiling the whole night.

He was out all day Saturday at a charity event. He called you as he arrived home – you heard the elevator’s ding through the receiver, announcing its arrival at his top-floor apartment. And you stayed on the phone, the thing discarded on your mattress, as sleep blurred the edges of the world in and out of focus all evening.

Three times you thought about just telling him to come back over, hold you until you forgot what he’d even done. Pretend that the man who, possessed by lies and jealousy or something much worse, had taken your wrist and swept you off out of Jean-Marc’s penthouse isn’t the same one who brought you tea and Chinese food yesterday. The one who held you, blood and broken wings safe in his arms, while you wept into his body.

Three times you stamped the flame out, remembering. As if you needed reminding. Your stomach still sinks anytime the reel jerks back to its beginning behind your eyes. The words unfortunately and unavailable. The rustling of the bag in the kitchen. The padding of his footsteps drawing nearer and nearer.

Your phone buzzes somewhere across the room. You set the jug down and shuffle over, tilting the screen in the morning light.

We’re outside baby. Take your time.

You haven’t mentioned it to him, yet. Haven’t breached the conversation. You’ve no fucking clue where to start. It hurts too much to look at it just yet – like scalding yourself with boiling water and clamping a wet towel to the burn until you can stomach the sight of your skin, all blistered and bubbling.

The towel is still covering the wound. You’re still frantically pacing around the kitchen clutching it, heavy and sopping. You’re not sure what it looks like, but from beneath the cold cloth, it doesn’t feel good.

It doesn’t feel good at all.

Joel’s leaning against the Rolls when you totter down your front steps. Fall plucks the leaves from the trees one by one; they swirl down to the smooth pavement, brown and amber and golden. You’re in a floral tea dress, which took you an obscene amount of time to decide on, given the cocktail of nerves and confusion and outright panic rolling around your stomach.

Your heel scuffs to a halt in front of him. He pushes off of the car and swings your door open, squints at you in the sunlight. You watch his eyes move down your frame, a misplaced desire to impress him dripping through your veins, and then he looks back up.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he says, and your veins sizzle. “You look…” he shakes his head simply, “…you’re beautiful.”

Your lips betray you. Your mind – that poor, dead lavender; your body – the poor, naïve daisies. Still has blind hope.

You can’t help but reflect his expression, attempting to mask it with a soft shrug. “Are the heels too much?” you ask, glancing down and lifting your foot.

Joel shakes his head instantly. “I like ‘em. And even if they were, we’re late. You ain’t got time to change.”

“You said you’d be here at twelve. It’s ten after.”

“I run a construction company, not a watchmakers. You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say. Unconvincingly.

“I mean,” he circles a hand over his stomach, lifts his eyebrows, “you feelin’ okay? We don’t have to go – Martha wouldn’t mind, you know that.”

“I’m fine,” you chirp, and your painted lips flatten against one another as you dip into the car. “Hi, Rand.”

The driver lowers his sunglasses and tips his head in the rear-view. “Hi, baby.”

Joel shimmies along the leather, shifting his jacket from between you to scoop your body against his. You glance down, eyeing his soft sweater, the light shade of it paired against that of your dress. The glint of his watch as his wrist slips happily between your legs, hooking under your thigh. The bloody crimson of the birthday card envelope, trembling in the door pocket.

The car pulls off, dragging you from your daydream. Stealing you back from the dystopia where you and Joel match, where you go together. A couple. Removing the notion of it from your makeup, each cell in your body slowly reverting back to yours again. Just yours. No CEO boss to stake his claim to any of them.

Martha’s place sits at the end of a cul-de-sac; neighbored on one side by a retired couple who spent their entire summer arguing in the backyard, according to Martha, and on the other by a row of quaint cypress.

The front door, bordered by polished mosaic squares of glass, sits inside one of four gable roofs. Dark green shutters either side of each stark-white window frame. A smooth path snaking between neatly-fringed grass, a hierarchy of tiny bushes growing greener and greener the closer they draw to the front steps.

Come in through the back, she’d said. Gate will be open. We’ll be in the yard.

Joel makes some quiet remark just to you about how perfect the house looks. The red brick and marengo tile. How much effort gone into polishing the front, only to tell you to use the back entry. ‘s only for looking, he decides, and then offers his hand to pull you from the Rolls.

He bends over the car, hand flat on the roof, and calls back to Rand. “Do me a favor – don’t go far. Just –” he jerks his head in your direction, “– just in case.”

When he straightens up and the car purrs off, you shake your head. “I’m fine,” you whisper, and he hooks two fingers around the string of the giftbag, taking it from your grasp.

He replaces it with his hand, his huge palm against yours. “I know,” he mutters, glancing down the drive, “but it’s an excuse for when I get sick of Alan ‘n all his damn friends.”

“Henry,” you remind him.

He tosses you a half-second look, smirk scrawled on his lips. He knows.

She’s waiting for you by the French doors when you arrive – Martha. Glass of sparkling champagne in each hand. Your fingers slip free from Joel’s before you’ve even rounded the corner.

“Saw the car pull up,” she tells you, leaning to let Joel kiss her cheek. “Here,” she hands you a glass, then one to Joel, “and here.”

You sip at the bubbling drink, letting the sharp fizz assault your tongue. Letting the feeling wash down your throat, stinging and bitter. Joel seems to swallow his just fine.

He swings the bag in her direction, tongue swiping across his bottom lip. “Just a little somethin’ from the two of us.”

You frown, holding a hand up to shield your eyes from sunlight too faint to cause the stiffness of your face and the drawn string of your brows. Where is Deb? And her two sons? And their shared gift? Isn’t it totally platonic and professional after all, to sign something from you and Joel?

Martha’s hands clasp. She reaches gleefully for the bag, smiling at the striped pattern. “I got no idea where he is. Last I saw, they were all headin’ up to his room. Some zombie game on his PlayStation. He promises me they ain’t playin’ the R-rated version.”

“That’s alright,” Joel says, “I believe ‘im.” He leans closer, a weight apparent at the small of your back. It shocks like a surge of electricity up your spine, hurts like a sudden muscle spasm. And then it soothes the pain, his thumb rubbing delicately. “’s a nice place,” he tells Martha.

She feigns disbelief. “Well, thank you, Mr. Miller, C-E-O,” she sings, and then, cocking an eyebrow, “y’all want a tour?”

You both nod politely, following her towards the kitchen doors. Joel nods towards a table by the barbecue – an island amongst a sea of candy and pastries, chopped fruit and bowls of nuts: a two-tiered, sky-blue cake. The name Henry piped in red icing – the letters swirling much like a birthday card you once read in a house on Maple Street.

��Nice little cake for Alan,” Joel mutters, squeezing your waist.

A stolen laugh shudders from your lips; the two of you snicker together, and despite your best attempts to cover your grin with your champagne flute, Martha spots you.

“What’s so funny?” she asks, sidling back over.

“Martha,” you clear your throat, “would you do me a favor?”

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

“Would you please tell Joel your son’s name?”

She looks at you blankly. Blinks between you and the man at your side, both staring back expectantly. But her stone-set expression begins to crack, the lines deepening around her mouth.

“As in,” you clarify, “his real name. Not Alan.”

She makes to reply when the swish-thud of a window opening interrupts, the prepubescent bellow of an almost-teen from overhead.

“Mom!” Henry calls, his dark head of curls and long, boyish arms dangling over the sill.

Martha glares up at him. “What have I told you about hangin’ from there” she yells, fists propped on her hips. “What is it?”

“Mike brought Blood Cry III; can we play it?”

She shakes her head indignantly. “I have told you – how many times? No!” She holds her hands out in apology to you and Joel, and then scuttles off into the kitchen. “Go explore,” she waves, “I trust ya!”

Joel wordlessly takes your hand, leading you in Martha’s wake through the kitchen to the living room: its navy walls and white paneling, bookshelves spanning the entire length of one wall, and a pale-brick fireplace centering two leather couches. Very pristine, very perfect. Very Martha.

You amble around, slowing in front of the mantelpiece above which a gallery of framed photos hangs. Henry as a toddler on a green trike; Martha’s stepdaughter and her kid; Alan on a golfing trip. Your eyes jump from plump cheeks to missing teeth, sunhats and Thanksgiving meals, until they land on a photo of Martha and Alan on their wedding day – her veil pinned neatly into a permed updo, her puffy-sleeved dress and the lemon bouquet spilling from her hands.

Joel’s shoulder brushes against your own, his eye journeying across the photos, too. “Ha,” he tosses a finger towards the wedding photo, “nineties Martha. Nice hair, huh?”

You smile, lazily swatting his arm. “She looks beautiful. They seem happy.”

Joel agrees. “Wonder what their first dance song was.”

“I bet it was something classy. Sinatra or something. Martha wouldn’t be breaking the marriage in to anything cheesy, that’s for sure.”

He laughs, spinning off towards the dining room. “You ever thought about what you’d pick?”

You hesitate, rounding the table on the opposite side. “Uh…no. Not really.”

“Not your thing? Marriage.”

You chance a glance at him over a vase of lilies in the center of the mahogany table. The smell twists towards you, leering as it coats your skin and your clothes and the back of your throat in a sickly film that makes your head spin. “I guess not. I’ve never – Not since…”

He nods. He knows. “That’s fair,” he says, hands finding his pockets. The idea of Blake – his name, his shaking hands, the tiny box in his suit pocket – the thought of those images flitting through Joel’s brain pinches the air from your lungs.

You watch the silhouette of him as it crosses over the bay window, looking out onto the trimmed grass and smooth asphalt street. Something cracks deep in your chest. Something begins to unbind.

“What would yours be?” you ask him, and he turns.

“Depends,” he shrugs, “on when I’m gettin’ married or not. Makes no difference to me.”

You bypass the point he’s making. Turn away from it like you would a shadow in the night. “If you were,” you insist, “what would you pick?”

He nears you, never breaking your stare. His confident matches your nervous, his steady gaze on your shy. “Somethin’ special to me ‘n her. An our song kinda thing.” And then, as he brushes deliberately by your shoulder to head for the stairs, “AC/DC or som’.”

Your heels stick like they did that night in the dive bar. Ears hurt with a ringing loud enough to blur the edges of your vision. Your skin feels the same hot – only, not from the crowded room you’re in, or the mix of alcohol and sweat and something akin to lust seeping through your pores.

You stare fixedly at the view from the bay window, the perfect little cul-de-sac with its perfectly smooth roads; perfect for kids learning to ride their first bikes, perfect for couples wandering arm in arm, perfect for angry fathers taking off in cars packed with belongings.

When you were a kid, buckled into the back of your dad’s car, you used to fight sleep to watch the moon race you home. Her white glow surviving being split over and over again by the trees you’d whip past. Your eyes would flit from hers to the windscreen, watching the road up ahead as it threatened to twist and turn. No matter how fast you thought your dad must be driving, no matter which direction he turned – every time you looked for her, there she’d be.

It makes sense now. The notion of staying. Occupying somewhere in space or in time, and forgetting how to leave. Forgetting how to try. Forever fixed there, glowing in a brilliant melancholy, singing to nobody in the dark expanse of the sky. Waiting for the sun to make her return. Just waiting waiting waiting.

You – the moon, and your sky – that fucking driveway. The Toyota, the rust on its underside so bitter you could taste it like blood on your tongue. Searching all over for the scraps of yourself, the pieces he tore away as he fled: veins tangled around spokes, severed fingers tinged crimson and hooked around the steering wheel. Don’t go. Don’t leave me.

And then, the sun – some sharp-suited, quick-witted Texan; enough charm and ease to lift himself over the horizon, to give you something other than the glimmer in your own tears to reflect.

The moon stares down at you now as you sit, perched on your balcony. Your knees tucked under your chin, watching two cats wrestle down on the street below. It’s just gone two; Joel’s in bed fast asleep. You slipped from his grasp and crept out of your room, a blanket over your shoulders, and disappeared between the sheer curtains. Your chest tight, your breathing short.

It keeps happening, that thing from Paris. Your head begins to spin, your voice withers to nothing. Your legs push you to your feet and force you to flee, though you’ve still to figure out where to or what from. All you know is that blue-eyed stare of your ex-fiancé has been wiped, replaced by the dusted beard of your boss instead. The plastic ring between his fingers. The creaking leather of his office chair.

Those same four words keep circling your head, replaying on a loop between your ears: why did he lie why did he lie why did he lie. Like white noise droning around your skull, bubbling nausea in the pit of your stomach. No, darlin’. Why would I lie to you?

Why did you lie to me?

Why did he do any of it? Take you to Paris, let you meet his client. Why has he been sleeping with you, treating you like some kind of girlfriend? The word plucks goosepimples all over your body. His body around yours at Aspen Heights – what you wanted so badly to believe was endearment, was comfortability and generosity, now feels like territory-marking. Feels like the white-knuckled tightening of a leash in his wide fist.

The leaves of the trees across the street tremble, lit luminous green by the 7-Eleven sign they fringe. You watch as two men swagger out of the store; their chatter drowned by the buzzing of the fluorescent sign. They split off with a quick handshake at the curb, disappearing into two different cars, driving off in two different directions.

You sniff. Some skunky smell hangs low in the air. So thick that you can feel it coating your lungs from the inside out. You sink back into your chair, push your fingers into your eyes until you’re watching a mirage of stars pull across your vision. Blow a cracked, nervous breath into the sky. Slip your nose beneath the collar of your tee.

Joel’s tee, which pools in the dip between your stomach and thighs. You suck his scent in like one hit of some intoxicating drug, for every three hits of clean air. Just seeing you through. Pretending there’s no addiction there.

But fuck, if you’re not screwed. One half of you holding back on mentioning the email because – what the fuck do you even say? How do you begin to ask him about it? How do you approach the topic, without prefacing it with feelings you’re too afraid to admit even to yourself?

And the other half – for fear of what you might cause. What you might make him do. For the pure, cut-throat fear that he’ll become the third in a list of men to just – leave. To let you down, to let you go. Change between couch cushions. Wild flowers torn from the earth’s scalp.

Then, the fracturing realization that you don’t want him to go. That you’re used to him, now, in a way you never were with your dad or with Blake. Your dad – who would choose poker night over parents’ night. Who would choose a drink with his buddies over a movie with you and your mom.

Or Blake – who would schedule sex on the nights he figured he’d have enough energy to fuck you until at least he came, and would buy you chrysanthemums on your birthday even long after you’d told him you were pretty sure you were allergic.

And then there’s Joel. Joel fucking Miller. Who turned up at your door less than thirty minutes after Martha told him you were sick. Who said in the car ride to her house earlier, Tell me your favorite flower.

Why? you asked.

Just so I know.

Joel – who has never asked anything more than you’ve chosen to tell him about your father, but whose face still screws into an angry grimace anytime he’s forced to think of him. Who reaches out to adjust the broken heart around your neck, slip the clip back to your nape without you asking Who offers you the last slice of pizza, and when you refuse, compromises by splitting it. Giving you the bigger half.

Joel – with whom sex feels like a form of communication: Here are all the things I don’t know how to say, yet. Yet yet yet. A conversation, each movement deliberate; each nip and lick and bite weighted with purpose and meaning. It lives under your nails, behind your teeth. Here – I don’t know what else to do with all this longing.

Joel – who has not only set every foot right, but has carved his own path through your heart. Explored the caves himself, a lonely lamp hanging from his fist as he carefully, gently, politely weaved his way through a jungle of valves and tissue, monsters and darkness, slowly winding his way to the center.

Joel. Who has never let you down. Until that fucking email.

A 7-Eleven employee, some scrawny kid with a mop of black hair and a polo hanging from his skeleton, drags a cloth in wide circles on the inside of the windows. He swipes his forehead along his wrist, thick tresses disturbed, and stares out at the empty street.

You blink twice, and a figure materializes at your balcony door.

“Baby?”

“Jesus!”

“Woah, woah. Easy – ‘s just me.” The pale drapes surrender to his wide frame, letting him pass. “Sorry, pretty girl. You okay?”

“You scared the crap outta me.”

Joel bends before you, a sweet little chuckle in his throat, and presses a warm kiss to your forehead. You lift your chin, letting your eyes close over and your thoughts melt away on his lips. He pulls the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

“What are you doin’ out here at this time of night?”

You shrug as he settles into the wireframe chair opposite. Groans as he leans back. His wide chest constricted by a tight, gray hoodie splattered with paint.

“Just can’t sleep. Nice hoodie.”

His eyes dip to the mounds of your chest under plain cotton, the blanket slack around your breasts. “Someone stole my T-shirt. Stole somethin’ of hers back. Why can’t you sleep? You hurting?”

Yeah. “No. Just – not tired enough, I guess.”

“You want company?”

Not really. “Sure.”

He laces his fingers over his stomach as he settles back, studies you as your gaze skims the street below. He knows you’re lying. But it’s two a.m., and you’re weeks into an affair that you’re both pretty sure has gone past the point of no return, and so, voice plain, he asks, “What’s on your mind, angel?”

“How d’you know there’s something on my mind?”

“There’s always something on your mind. It’s you.” And then, readjusting in his seat, “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

You scrunch your nose with a sniff. Pull your arms inside the sleeves of his shirt and cross them under your breasts. “Your dad,” you say, locking eyes with him.

Joel lets it hang for all of three seconds. “My dad?” His face curls into a perplexed smirk, jaw tilting. He thinks you’re so fucking adorable, or maybe you think he is, and you’re not sure which one scares you more.

You laugh, chest lightening disobediently. It felt more comfortable when you couldn’t breathe. “What he did,” you explain.

“What he did,” Joel repeats, lifting his chin. Like a dog, sniffing out the truth. Something concealed in your fist.

So you unfold your fingers, holding it out in the palm of your hand: “Do you think he would’ve done it, still, if he knew what would happen?”

And then he really shakes off the humor. Sits forward, elbows leaning on his bare thighs. “What’re you talkin’ about, pretty girl?”

“Like,” you sigh, “if he knew he would split his entire family in two. You and your mom cut him off; Tommy moved halfway across the country. Was it worth it?”

“To me, or to him?”

You shrug again. He’ll choose the one he wants to answer. You’ll figure him out either way.

“Look,” Joel says, and hooks his fingers under the seat of your chair to pull you closer. He takes your ankles and you stretch your legs out, heels propped in the boxer-clad valley between his legs. A deep breath, hazel eyes pointed upwards like searching the skies for the words, and then: “People want what they want, right? They’ll do whatever they think is necessary to get it. He wanted to cheat, so he did. And he paid the price.”

“He wanted to cheat?”

It seems obvious to him. As though people seek out ways to hurt the ones they’re supposed to love all the damn time. The silver glint of a Labrador’s teeth as he sinks them into his owner’s skin.

Joel nods. “Wanted it badly enough that he did anything.”

“Lied?” you offer.

“Lied, cheated, left. Yeah.”

“And he risked everything.”

His head tips in agreement. “I guess he did. He was a damn idiot, you know? Had a wife who loved him, had two kids. He had the whole world in that house, and he threw it all away.”

“And,” the soles of your feet rest gently on the curve of his stomach, “would that – would it stop you? If you at least knew you were riskin’ something?”

“From cheating?”

“Anything. If you knew what you were risking was everything to you – would it stop you doing what you really wanted?”

His face tightens, brows knit with confusion and something else more difficult to place. “It depends. I wouldn’t risk something like you. I would n–”

“Somethin’ like me?” you interject.

Joel clears his throat. Looks up to the pitch-black sky again. “You…” He sighs. His answer is simple, black-and-white. There’s no way to hide it anymore. “I wouldn’t risk you, no. Not for the world.”

You fall silent. The moon stares down, seeming to melt around you. Her light like two steady arms holding you together, nudging you to ask the last question – the one spiraling around your mind like circling a drain.

Joel squeezes your ankle. “Where are you goin’ with this, baby? Are you asking me if I would cheat on you?”

Your heart jumps. The moon scatters.

Does he fall into the category of people who could cheat on you? Two months ago, he was just your boss. Two months ago, you hadn’t touched him more than a slap after a witty comment, the brushing of fingers as you handed him his morning coffee. But now…now, you’ve kissed his lips to shut him up. You’ve felt him come inside you. You’ve set foot inside his childhood fucking home, for Christ’s sake.

He makes you feel as though your heart is made of glass, delicate and laid bare but safe in his hands. He makes you feel as though a part of you exists outside of your own body – like there’s a piece of your soul wandering the earth by itself, touching base every time his hands are on your hips, his teeth in your neck.

Yeah. Fuck – yeah. He’s someone who could cheat on you. The way that email made you feel – he’s someone who could break your heart.

“I know you wouldn’t cheat on anyone,” you say, voice breaking. “No, I just – I don’t know what counts as a good enough reason to hurt someone you’re supposed to…supposed to love.”

Joel sits back in his chair again, the frame creaking under the weight of him. He reckons he gets it, now. You reckon he’s still wrong. “Come here,” he says, fingers flicking.

“What?”

He leans forward, takes your waist in his hands and pulls you from your chair into his lap, curling you up between his thighs. Safe. Protected by the shell of his body, protected by everything except from the thing scaring you most: the quickening of his heartbeat when you settle against it.

Your head slots under the curve of his chin, his voice a deep rumble over your skull.

“Your dad,” his chest swells, “he did what he did because he wanted to do it. Wanted it badly enough that he gave up you and your mom. And there wasn’t nothin’ you or her could’ve done to stop him, or convince him otherwise. You hear me?”

You turn into his neck, letting your tears fall hidden from view of streetlight or moonlight. You feel fucking tiny – a kid again, sat in a grownup’s lap, asking a never-ending series of why questions. Then, why did he do it? Why did he leave? Why are you staying? Why did you lie to me?

Joel presses his lips to your head, shushing you quietly, his body rocking back and forth like a boat on light waves. When he hears you sniffling, he holds you closer. Tighter. Your heart melds to your chest wall, desperate to seek his out. The hoodie he’s wearing smells like you, smells like him, smells like the chemicals of paint and the poison of love.

“It wasn’t your fault, darlin’, none of it.”

His arm hooked over your bare knees, the cotton keeping you warm. The other around your back, keeping you whole. You unstick yourself from his embrace, pulling your body straight until you’re straddling his lap, face to face with him in the light.

He looks up at you, almost afraid to blink. Afraid to lose sight of you at all. Your thighs lean heavily against his, your bodies locked together. You link your arms over his shoulders, anchor yourself to him as though the storm in your mind might sweep you away. And in the glimmer of light in his eye, the dazzling bulb of a lighthouse – you see the reflection of yourself.

Joel notices the shift in your expression. Holds you by the hips, follows the turn of your head. “You okay?” he asks, and you look down, avoiding his eye.

Glowing brilliant and lonely, blinking slowly. Your towering silhouette and caged-glass top. Drawing ships nearer just to ward them off when they pull too close. When they begin to notice the jagged shape of your shoreline, the ugly mess of your soul. Casting a blinding light on them, warning them to flee. And he didn’t fucking listen.

He docked anyways. Drew up on the beach, pulled himself into your body time and time again. You kept moving, kept warning him with each flicker of light, kept daring him to leave. And he never did. And there are pieces of you now living in him because of it, pieces you don’t understand how to take back. All you know, all you’ve ever known about Joel, is –

Your body sinks, hips lowering until you’re sure you’ve proven yourself right.

A stubborn weight between his legs. Not quite as hard as you’ve felt him before, not quite as heavy, but – a shape which sends a hot hiss between his teeth when you move over it, when the thin strip of your underwear courses over the thin cloth of his.

“P-retty girl,” Joel says, a groan seeping from the corners of his lips. A groan he holds onto with his molars, letting it snap like elastic when your hips circle again.

A weight as stubborn as the need slowly swirling in your chest. And pulled up into the cyclone are those same words: It wasn’t your fault. There wasn’t nothin’ you could’ve done to stop him. Why did you lie to me? It wasn’t your fault.

It hits you at once, the sudden realization that you’re lighter than you were before you first touched one another – really touched one another. Parts of you missing, passed over gladly the second his hand reached for them. The taste of you behind his lip, gums absorbing you like nicotine.

And you’re kissing him, your lips harsh against his, his stubble hurting your skin. Your tongue seeking out those parts of yourself. No. You don’t have me anymore. I’m taking me back.

“Hey,” Joel whispers into your mouth, steadying your hips. He pulls back and holds you still. “Why don’t we slow down? It’s late, you ain’t feeling too good –”

“I feel fine. I want to do it.” You lick again between his lips though he doesn’t budge; your attempts to move again, ineffective. “Joel.”

“It’s been a long day, you’re tired. Work in the mornin’, baby, I just don’t think we oughta –”

“You don’t wanna fuck me?”

He pauses, his tongue between his teeth. His brows pinch, almost painfully. “That is not what this is, ‘n you know it. I can see how tired you are – you ain’t even slept yet.”

“I don’t care. I want you to –”

His voice lifts to something you’ve only heard within the four walls of his office. Like chiding one of his guys, like snapping back at their red ties and crumpled collars. “I know what you want me to do. I just think we should go back to bed.”

“’n what if I don’t want to go back to bed?”

Joel sighs, looking out across the street. His tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek.

“I don’t get what the problem is,” you complain, still holding onto his shoulders. “You’ve fucked me in public before.”

“It ain’t that.”

“Then what is it?”

“Why don’t you go grab a sketchbook or something? Show me some of this artwork you been promisin’ since Paris?”

You blink back at him, watching the lighthouse swirl. The black waves begin to carry him off, sweep him from your view. “Maybe some other time,” you mumble, pushing yourself off of his lap.

Joel watches you, defeated. Keeps ahold of your hand when you stand between his knees. He swings your interlocked fingers gently. “Can you…can you tell me what’s wrong? Do you know?”

Your lungs pull in a deep breath, your shoulders rolling. “Same thing as always, I guess. Let’s just go back to bed.”

“Wait, pretty girl,” he tugs on your hand, reeling you back in, “waitwaitwait.” And then he’s standing, enclosing you in his arms again, asking, “What can I do to fix it?”

That same shrug. Tired. Deflated. Terrified. “If I only knew.”

You wait for Joel to move first, a sigh falling from his lips as he pulls the sheer curtains back, taking you by the hand and ushering you between. He follows your lead back into your apartment, sliding the door closed behind.

The living room is flattened by a gray silence, the liminal night swallowing up the air. Joel’s hand comes to rest at the nape of your neck, and when you turn to him, he says, “You wanna know if he thought it was worth it?”

You pause, fingers playing with the hem of his tee at your thighs.

He’s close enough that you can feel the heat near enough sizzling from his body. The right side of his face is shrouded in darkness; the chalky wash of streetlight painting the left. “My dad.”

You swallow hard, blinking in the shadow cast by his tall figure. The light clings wearily to his beard.

“She left him after two weeks. Went back to her husband. My dad died alone in an empty four-bed in Rosedale. You tell me.”

And then he pats the small of your back, takes you back through to bed – where you let him fall asleep on your chest, listening to make sure your fractured heart is still beating.

Joel Miller is in your shower. For the second time this weekend.

He’s not fucking you, not holding you against the rough tile wall as his cock draws come and blood and tears from your body. He’s not wrapping a towel around you, handing you a fresh tampon, kissing the parts of your skin still alight from your orgasm.

He’s just showering, before work. Using your peach-scented soap, pushing suds under his arms, over his stomach, between his legs. Lathering your shampoo like treacle between his palms, hair slick and foamy white between his fingers. Fixing the head so that his height fits under the stream of water, turning the knobs until it’s as hot as he likes it.

You’re lying across your bed, suffocating in the smell of his side and pretending none of it’s really happening. Face buried in his pillow, waiting for the intoxication to throw you under or wipe your mind clean or maybe just cut the air supply from your lungs completely. Whichever’s quickest.

The bathroom door opens; the sound of footsteps padding over to you. His weight sinks into the bed by your hip, then hovers over your back. His nose, still steamy and damp from the shower, nuzzles into the spot behind your ear. His lips leave a wet trail down your neck.

“You need another day?” Joel asks, kissing.

“I’m good,” the cotton absorbs the nervous edge of your voice, “just coming.”

“Stay home if you want, angel,” he says, hands roaming south to hold your waist. Like warning the pain, tempting it to show back up. See what he does about it. “I gotta go take this shareholders meeting, but I can come back as soon as it’s done.”

“Nah,” you groan, pushing your heavy frame up. Joel’s grip slackens. “I need the distraction, I think.”

He sits back, smiling dumbly when you straighten. His tongue runs along his teeth.

“You can use my toothbrush,” you mutter, heel of your palm wiping sleep from your eye.

“Hm?” He’s fixing the mess of your hair. Brushing one side flat, then the other; leaning back and forth with this dumb, half-there smile on his face. And your chest heaves, and you almost surrender to the impulse to throw yourself into his arms, almost lean into his cupped hands and burning caresses.

“I owe you. From Paris. You can use it, just this once.”

He scoffs. “I won’t use your toothbrush, darlin’. It’s alright.”

But you’re indignant. You already have every other part of me, don’t you? What’s one more? Just fucking –

“– use it. I swear I don’t mind.”

Joel’s head tilts, conceding. “Alright. Come get ready, then.”

Martha’s at her desk when the two of you wander back into the office. “Wait!” she calls, clicking around her desk as you pass by. She twirls a blue envelope between two glittery nails, holds it out to you.

Joel takes it, examining the childish scrawling of your names. “Nice, but – your calligraphy needs a little practice, Martha.”

“Hilarious,” she drones, sitting back against the desk.

You drift over to your own, dropping your back over the back of your chair, and shrug the coat from your shoulders.

Joel’s voice draws nearer as he speaks. “He have a good time?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah,” Martha replies, and Joel sits the card from Henry by your monitor, “barely saw ‘im the entire day. Thanks for comin’. For his gift, too – y’all really…You ain’t gotta do that.”

“Was all my idea, wasn’t it?” Joel asks, smirking to you.

An airy laugh pushes from your chest, loose with nerves. “Som’ like that. Glad he had a nice birthday.”

Joel saunters back toward his office, hands in his pockets. Fucking casual, like the world isn’t crumbling beneath your feet. Like the walls aren’t closing in, the sky lowering by the hour, the sun being steadily eclipsed minute by minute. He nudges the door closed with his foot, leaving you, Martha, and an awkward mist of realization between you.

“Your idea,” she muses, once you’ve plucked up enough courage to face her again.

You pick up Henry’s card, staring at the smudged handwriting to mask the horror peeling its way across your face. “Thought it was easier that way, y’know?” You gulp. “Don’t make it into anythin’.”

She grunts, something shaped like Ha. Her arms cross over her body, her eyes flitting between Joel’s office and you. “I sure as hell don’t remember me ‘n Alan ever doing something like that before it meant anythin’.”

“What are you saying it means?” you ask, rhetorically, dryly – a little meaner than you want it to sound. “What’s…?”

Her plucked eyebrows lift, forehead creasing. “Nothing, sweet. I’m just saying – you two are close, now. It’s nice.”

“We were always close.”

She holds her finger up. “Uh, no. Not turn up at my son’s birthday party together, leave together, then turn up at work the next day also together close.” Her eyes narrow, and you almost believe she might’ve been hidden between the trees last night – hell, for a second, you believe she might’ve been that scrawny kid wiping down the windows of 7-Eleven.

“I’m just saying,” she continues, when your throat closes around your nothing answer, “if something’s happening, I’m rooting for it.”

It shoots from your jaw like a bullet. “Nothing’s happening.”

Martha’s just as quick. “Okay,” she says, sweet and light. Breezy.

And then she shuffles back to her chair, resumes focus on some email. Twists the dial on her radio and fill the tense silence in the office with some smooth seventies song which lifts the hairs on the back of your neck the same way it did in that Parisian hotel. The dark suite, his eyes black and seeking. His hands on your body like he knew every curve and dip already.

Didn’t you believe that he might? That his hands were sculpted to fit the space below your ribcage? The plush cushion of flesh above your hips. The hinge of your jaw between his fingers.

Didn’t you think, for one fleeting moment, that maybe he was made just for you? As if you were so fucking lucky. As if anyone might stick around long enough to earn that label. Yours.

You settle back into your chair. The bubble writing on the front of the card stares menacingly back at you, the shapes seeming to swell and shrink in size the longer you stare at them. A bad trip, you think, this whole thing is just a bad trip. I’m gonna sober up any second, and I’m gonna be in bed, still dizzy after that night at the bar.

And none of it’s gonna be real. It’s not fucking real.

But then – lying on the opposite side of your computer, delicate and tiny, sparkling in the sunlight from over your shoulder: your ring. Your ruby ring, two euros in a gumball machine by the Seine. Like it’s winking at you, the accent rhinestones a taunting smirk. And the sight of it slings a thin wire around your heart, tight tight tightens until you’re sure you feel the tissue slice in half.

You take the ring in two shaking fingers, eyes bleary with sleep and salt. Blinking the dispersed light away, red rays bleeding all over your vision as you tilt the plastic. Joel’s voice muffles against his office door, like fists echoing against the flimsy walls of your little daydream. Time’s up. Hand him back over. It’s not fucking real anymore.

You roll the prize back onto your desk, letting it scatter shards of ruby until it hits the keyboard, the rattle echoing around your ears as you pace over to his office door. Your knuckles drum once, twice, three times against the wood before he opens it, and then he’s –

Staring down at you, breath shallow between slack lips. And he reads it all over your face, the panic and the words swimming around the tears in your eyes, and he steps back, and you step forward, and then the door’s closing again, and you’re settling against the arm of his couch.

“Ken? Hey, Ken?” Joel strides back over to his desk, hastily reaching for the phone. The voice from the receiver doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow. “Ken. Can I –? Jesus Christ.” He lifts the handset and drops it less than a second later, cutting Ken’s fucking droning, cutting the only sound in the room, cutting your blood short in your veins.

And then – “Alright. Talk to me.”

You don’t reply. He seems to tense up. Moves almost robotically over to you, lifts his hands to hold your shoulders. And when you lift yours to push him away, he almost flinches.

“Baby.”

Your jaw shakes once. You wrap your arms around yourself, squeezing the breath from your lungs.

“You’ve been actin’ off since yesterday,” he mutters, giving you some space. He’s moving slow, like he’s afraid you might lunge for him. “You gotta tell me. You’re scaring me, now.”

You haul your gaze from his open arms, his broad chest, the idea of letting him pull you in and calm you down. Your eyes land on his monitor. The text of that email flashes before you again. And your shell hardens.

“Is there anything you wanna tell me?” you ask, staring at the Apple logo. Your voice sounds timid, sounds so little that you swear you see Joel catch the words as though they’re made of glass.

His head tilts. His eyes narrow. It’s genuine confusion, you think. The penny hasn’t dropped yet. “…What?”

It pisses you off. Seems to shatter that glass into fifty angry shapes, brittle and sharp. The shards cut like a knife through the air between you. “Nothing you think I oughta know?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No, baby, I don’t…”

Your glare finally lands directly on him. Piercing straight into his eyes. But your jaw locks shut around the words.

“What the hell are you about to accuse me of?” Joel asks, mirroring your stance. Pulling his arms over his chest, jaw tight. “Cheating on you?”

Your chest jumps with a tiny laugh. “Why would I accuse you of cheating on me?”

“Sure sounded like that’s what you were thinkin’ last night.”

“No. I don’t think you’re cheating on me.”

“Then what is it?”

The gun fires. Gates open. Thunder rumbles. A fire lights in your stomach, blazing through your entire body.

“When were you planning on telling me about Jean-Marc?”

He goes quiet. Still. Realizes exactly what you mean in almost an instant. “How did you…? Where did you –?”

“I saw the email. On Friday. Gave me your phone to look for Alan’s Twelfth fucking Birthday, didn’t you?”

His face drops; a broken sigh falls from his lips. He looks up to the ceiling, something of a disbelieving, disappointed, fucking dismayed laugh loose between his jaw. “I wasn’t,” he eventually concedes.

“You weren’t?”

“No.”

You can’t believe him. You actually can’t believe him. Fists balling to hold your nerve, to hold the tremble in your voice steady, you ask, “Why?”

Joel’s body twists, rolls like some awkward wave as he readjusts, searches the surrounding room for an explanation. “There’s – there are a number of reasons why.”

“Start with the first one.”

“Alright.” He grips the wooden desk either side of his hips. Meets your stare, and it’s almost fucking admirable, the bravery with which he’s walking into this. You don’t scare him at all, not yet, anyway. Not even in the midst of a standoff in his office – guns loaded, eyes never blinking.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and then lifts his arm, waving his palm like he’s swatting the image of the Frenchman away. “He’s…He freaks me the hell out.”

“He freaks you out,” you repeat, voice flat. “Really, Joel? Big guy like you?”

You can’t help yourself. This is so fucking insane, it’s laughable. You’re like a snake shooting sharp shots at the ankles of a bear – and it’s too easy to take jabs when you’re still in disbelief at what’s fast turning out to be the truth.

“He’s sleazy, and inappropriate, and he doesn’t respect boundaries.” He counts them with three steady fingers. “Not mine, certainly not yours. I don’t like him, darlin’.”

“You like him enough to go have two meals with him in one weekend. Fly all the way to fuckin’ France for ‘im.”

“That was business. At least, the lunch was. The breakfast was a mistake.”

“What’s the second reason, Joel?”

He licks his lips. You can’t tell if it’s anxiety or anger. “You’re too good at your job. I didn’t wanna lose you.”

It’s simple enough. It’s more believable than six-foot-two Joel being afraid of five-foot-two Jean-Marc. You accept it a lot quicker.

“Any more?”

His expression drops. Yeah. There’s one more. And he doesn’t know how to say it.

“Joel.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Got that one.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. Expression unmoving. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

You suck in a deep breath, chest wobbling as your lungs fill. The snake retreats from the bear, jaw slackening. Your eyes sting, Joel’s figure blurs a little, and then you rein it back in.

“I didn’t want you to go. That’s all,” he offers, plainly. “Just…wanted you to stay here. With me.”

“’n what if I wanted to leave?”

“Then…” Joel’s arms lift again, gesturing to nothing, “…then we’ll work something out.”

You lift your chin, some sick expression pushing your eyebrows up. “We’ll work something out?”

He nods.

“Who’s we?”

And it’s the first time you see him falter. The first time he has to catch himself. “You said it yourself,” he says, “you ‘n me. This.”

You shake your head. No no no no. Not this. Not now. The snake coils up, preparing to strike again. “What, us sleeping together?”

“That’s…What?”

“You don’t think there are plenty other women you could be sleeping with here, ‘n plenty other men I could be sleeping with over there? You really want me to stay here just so you got someone to fuck?”

Joel’s lips fall apart. His grip loosens on the desk. “That’s all this is to you?”

“Uh, yeah. Last time I checked.”

You don’t believe yourself. You know you don’t. You don’t believe a fucking word being tossed out of your mouth. You’re being an asshole, deliberately being a dick to him, and you can’t stop. There’s a wall being built at rapid pace, shutting him out. Shutting you in. Bricks made of angry words, each one separating you a little more, hiding you from his view.

And then his mouth closes. Lips form a thin line. Brows lower, blocking any of the light you’re so used to seeing from his eyes. Dark, cloudy, angry. “Got it,” he snaps. “Anything else?”

“Huh?”

“Do you need anything else? Or are you just in here to piss me off?”

You lift from the couch, arms loose, hitting your hips with a slap. “Fuck off, Joel.”

“Oh,” he nods, “right. Fuck off, yeah. Keep goin’, baby. Tire yourself out. ‘s all you’ve been doin’, ain’t it? All this time? All you’ve been using me for?”

Good. It’s good. You want him to argue back. You want him to hate you as much as you hate yourself right now. You want to see the bear’s claws; make all the hurt you’re dragging up through yourself, just to dish at him, worthwhile.

“You know what?”

“What?” he spits.

“I knew you were gonna do something like this, eventually. I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

Joel follows suit, pushing himself off the desk in one motion, and then the pair of you are chest to chest, squaring up to one another atop his five-thousand-dollar rug. “You knew what?”

“Knew there was something about him. Knew you couldn’t stand him. And this is why, right? All ‘cause he wanted to hire me?”

He turns away and laughs, almost recognizable as the same laugh you could draw from him with a silly look on your face – except sharper, colder. “Not even close,” he says, reeling back in. “You didn’t see the way he looked at you? The way he talked to you? About you?”

“Of course I saw it, Joel, I’m not fucking stupid.”

“Then use your good sense ‘n catch up, baby. You’re right: you’re not fuckin’ stupid. You were like fresh meat to him, and what? You reckon I should’ve let him just – sink his teeth deeper? Really?”

It lights something in the back of your mind; a memory flickers to life. Loops like a static radio message through your ears. “Right,” you nod, “right. Because you don’t like other people’s hands on things that belong to you, do you?”

His head jerks back, face warped with confusion and…disgust. “The hell are you talkin’ about?” he demands, voice muscled with anger.

“Martha said it once. You don’t like people playing with your toys, or whatever.”

And that seems to hit him low in the stomach. Seems to knock the wind from him.

“Are you kidding me?” he asks, and you swear his breath cuts in his throat. “That’s what you think?”

No, you think, it’s not. You know him better than that. But admitting that you know him better than to use you as some little plaything – something he had any control over, some accessory to wear on his arm – would mean admitting that the problem lies elsewhere. Lies with you.

And that’s not something you’re prepared to do right now, either.

Maybe before you found that email. Before you found out he’d been keeping you on some invisible leash. Maybe when he had you in his arms, kissing you so soft you thought you might die right then and not even notice.

Maybe when he looked at you, twirling chopsticks clumsily in his fingers, face lighting in a grin when you giggled at him – and three words floated through your head. Dared to dance over the tip of your tongue before you caught them and hissed, What the fuck are you doing here?

But – no. It’s all fucked up now. And you can’t break the tightness in your jaw to admit any different.

“You don’t think there’s a chance I actually care about you? That I – Jesus, that I respect you? Are you this goddamn hellbent on convincing yourself that everyone’s out to hurt you?”

“Joel,” your voice says, and it’s not you controlling it. Some gravely, pained thing. A shriveled part of yourself, cowering from the light. You’re recoiling, physically backing up from him.

“Darlin’, I can’t –” He reaches for your wrist.

You whip it away. “Stop.”

“I am trying to understand you,” he pleads. “I’m tryin�� to figure you out. Why won’t you let me –?”

“I don’t want you to.”

A laugh ejects from his throat and plummets straight to the floor. “Yes, you do,” he says. “You don’t do everything we’ve done unless you’re in it.”

“In it?” you seethe. “In what? What are we in?” You pinch your fingers: air quotations around the words, or possible claws digging four more wounds into the same chest you wept into last night.

Your head shakes rapidly as you speak. “We were just sleeping together. We were just having sex. That’s all. We were just having sex,” you repeat under your breath.

“I wasn’t,” Joel says. Matter-of-fact. Like reading from a contract. He takes a deep breath, and then repeats, “I wasn’t.”

The words splinter painfully from your tongue. “Well, I was.”

And though your eyes are pinned to the buttons of his shirt, though his expression sits just too north for you to see the way his face pulls – you notice his head lift. Know that there are creases digging between his brows at the same rate cracks appear across his heart. You feel the warmth of his gaze slowly cooling. Freezing over.

“I’m sorry,” he says, holding a shaky palm out. The fear begins to sink in, plunging through ice water. He’s beginning to bargain. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should’ve, I should’ve told you ev–”

Your body moves as the words ricochet, refusing to let him finish his plea. “Glad we got that cleared up, Joel,” you say, near-leaping for the door.

But he’s faster. He steps in front of you, blocking your exit path. “Please hear me out. Please listen to me.”

Your body writhes under his gaze, twists like some little creature under a microscope. He waits for your go ahead before he continues. You toss your head, acquiescing.

“I just – I couldn’t stomach it. I couldn’t sleep at night thinkin’, what if you went for it? What if he managed to swindle you into taking him on? I wanted to get you the hell outta that penthouse the second he laid eyes on you.”

“So why take me in the first place?”

Joel scoffs. “I ain’t in control of you, baby! You had to figure him out on your own – and I thought you had. Christ, one minute you want me to step back ‘n let you make up your own mind, next you’re askin’ me why I took you somewhere? The hell am I supposed to do here?”

Read my mind. Don’t let him near me. Don’t let me go.

And at the same time –

Mind your fucking business. Let me make my own decisions. Keep your hands off me.

The truth is: you want him to go back in time. Take you back with him. Never touch you, never look at you any more than to ask for a coffee, or thank you for fixing up his office. Never make your heart skip that first beat, never set your skin on fire with that look in his eyes.

You want him to go back in time, and undo every knot he ever tied in your body. Let go of every string of your heart he has his fist around, every nerve which undoubtedly belongs to him, now.

Undo it all, so you might have a half-decent reason to hate him.

In the deepest, darkest parts of yourself, echoing around the caves you were always too frightened to explore yourself – you want him to tell you why he kept it from you. The real reason. And you want him to grab your wrist and pull you back into the room, back into his arms, when you inevitably flee at the sound of his reasoning.

Because you fucking know why he didn’t tell you. It’s scrawled on his face right now. And even though Jean-Marc is all of those things – sleazy, inappropriate, a scumbag in thousand-euro moccasins – that only makes up for part of the reason.

There’s a bigger piece to the puzzle, and you both know what it is, only neither of you will turn to face it. You’re simply cast in its shadow, playing blind chess under the silhouette of something you both refuse to acknowledge.

“You’re supposed to be my boss, and nothing else.”

He just stares at you. As if he’s waiting for you to say, Kidding! and laugh. As if he’s waiting for what you really mean to shove what you just said out of the way and tell the truth. It hurts all the more.

After a few seconds of awful silence, his breath falls from his lips in the form of a sigh, staggered with a laugh of disbelief. “I don’t…I don’t get it.”

But you’re tired now. You feel drained. You’ve less fight, energy gone to waste before you could make it to the real contest. Kicking his door down and yelling at him over Jean-Marc was the pregame show.

“What don’t you get?” you whisper, slumping back against the arm of the couch.

His answer terrifies you more than anything.

“You.”

You sigh, eyes falling closed in time with the drop of your head. Your breathing labored, your heart pounding. Fear. Adrenaline. Anger. Fear. Fear. Fear.

“You never let me in, did you? All that stuff you told me – your dad, your ex – like you want me to know. Like you’re lookin’ for me to do somethin’ about it. And then when I try, you slam the door closed again.”

“I don’t…I don’t want you to do anything about any of it,” you cry, tears pooling at the corners of your eyes.

Lie number one.

“Then what do you want? Tell me, pretty girl, ‘cause I’m – I’m at a loss here.”

“I want you to – fuck, Joel, why can’t you just –? I want you to back off.”

Two.

“I can’t,” he whispers, leaning closer. “’s the thing. I care ab– I lo– I…”

He rubs his eyes with his palms. Maybe his head hurts as bad as yours does. Maybe the office is becoming too bright for him to look, too.

“You think you’re broken,” he mumbles, “you think all that stuff makes you – I don’t know, what is it? Unlovable?”

There’s a spotlight creeping over you – bright white and burning. Lighting every inch of you up, every dark shadow uncovered. The monsters and the phantoms and the six, eight, twelve-legged beasts scuttling off in search of refuge.

Jeers and cackles from an audience behind him as he cranes the neck of the lamp and positions it right on you.

“Don’t –”

“…Worth nothin’? I don’t know, angel, but I can’t do anything about it if you won’t let me, and –”

“Joel –”

He’s not listening. He never fucking listens. He’s still going on, but your ears are ringing, and your vision is whitening, and your chest is constricting, and your throat is dry and your lungs are closing and your skin is hurting and your –

“What the fuck did you even expect?” you hiss, before your brain catches the words.

Joel halts. He finally stops talking. The room finally dims again. You can hear cars on the street. Your phone is ringing at your desk.

You repeat your question, quieter. Heavier. “What did you want from me?”

He’s frozen. Looks concerned. Looks…afraid of you. “I never wanted anything from you,” he says.

“No? Sure sounds like you wanted something.”

He doesn’t say a word. It gives you time, you think – time you know you should put into backing up, thinking it through, not saying it. But you don’t do any of those things. You fucking say it anyway, don’t you? You are your father’s daughter. The anger is woven into your skin, ivy around your bones. The fire behind your eyes isn’t love, or passion, or determination.

It’s rage.

“Is this what you did to Avery? This why you didn’t wanna marry her?” And then, steeling yourself, gritting your teeth: “What secrets were you keeping from her, Joel?”

He still doesn’t bite. Avery’s not the sore spot, and you know it. There’s a different weakness to him, now. Newer. She’s stood right in front of him.

“I mean,” you scoff, incredulous, “what did you think – that we were gonna end up married or something? AC/DC first dance? Big wedding in Italy, three kids and a fucking prenup to save your ass ‘n your millions?”

You swear you hear the crash from here. The bear hitting the ground, or the door of the Toyota slamming shut, or Joel’s heart falling apart, maybe. He gathers it up, sweeping it into his hands with what little dignity you’ve left him with, straightens, and –

He’s angry. Looks it, sounds it. Feels it. A way you’ve never seen him before – not directed at you, anyway. Accounting, when they fuck up the budget for the year. Jean-Marc, when he flirts with you too much. Never you. He’s never this mad at you.

Like kids in a playground, coming up with the worst, most poisonous insults to throw at one another – your words swing fast, and he only just manages to swerve them, hitting straight back with a punch made up of his own.

“Naw, you’d probably say yes to my face ‘n then break it off two days later, wouldn’t you?”

It’s low. It stings. Shocks the life back into you, once it’s looped twice around your ears.

Joel knows it. Sees the glint in your eye before you have the chance to clear away the tears. Hears the tiny gasp that escapes your lips. The bear just stepped right on top of the snake.

“Fuck,” he says instantly. As soon as the sentence leaves his mouth, he’s undoing it. “That wasn’t – I didn’t mean…” He’s stepping forward, trying to wrap his hand around your arm. “Baby, I’m so sorry –”

Your wrist slips from his grasp. “Don’t – don’t touch me. Don’t.”

“Hey,” he says, almost cooing, almost trying to fan the burn with light breaths, “look at me. Please look at me. I did not mean that, alright? I was just –”

You shake your head, staring off past him. “It’s fine, Joel. No, I knew exactly what you meant.”

He staggers backwards, running his hands through his hair; almost growling into his palms when he drags them down his cheeks. “Darlin’,” he says, and leans in again. He speaks slow and seriously. “I would give you anything. There is not a thing in this world that I wouldn’t do for you. I would do anything. In the whole damn world. This is – It’s not –”

“Anything?” you ask, your stone-set gaze refusing to meet his.

He mirrors your curious expression, his own brows lifting. He can’t believe you’re even asking him. “Yes. Anything. I care about you more than anyone in the fucking world.”

He probably says more to convince you. Probably promises a load of stuff, apologizes a couple more times. Probably says sentences that would lodge themselves between your vertebrae and paralyze you with fear, if your hearing weren’t muffled and your mind elsewhere.

Your shoulders tighten. Jaw ticks. When you pull your eyes to finally meet his, you nod. “Alright,” you interrupt, pursing your lips, “okay.”

“Okay?”

Another nod. Yeah. You’re about to do this. Father’s daughter aren’t you just your father’s daughter always running out always running off –

“This is over. It’s done. You don’t look at me, you don’t touch me, you don’t talk to me unless it’s somethin’ in your job description or mine. Hell, even then – see if Martha can do it before you ask me. We’re done.”

It wipes him clean. Every thought, every desire, every motivation – gone. Dissolved, by the venom seeping from your fangs. No more bear. He stares back at you, eyes glossy, lips trembling. He flattens them against one another, steadies himself. Angry, upset, fucking – heartbroken.

“Is that what you want?” he asks. His voice breaks. It sends a blade through your chest.

You hesitate. Your eyes are searing. Between your tears and the nauseating tilt of the room, you can barely see him.

The third lie rolls from your tongue like a marble.

“Yeah. It’s what I want.”

And you know it, better than anyone: you’re lying through your fucking teeth. The way you have been this entire conversation. Pasting over wounds and scars, bricks laid over sodden sand foundations. But you’re petrified – stood on your own, fighting your own corner. The only person who ever managed to make you feel safe, calm you down, lower your gloves for you – now stood opposite with his fists up, too.

Joel nods. Anything in the whole damn world.

“Fine,” he says, eventually. “Fine. We’re done.”

[vestaignis]

Необычный и изящный июньский цветок - Василистник. . По фото растения видно, что оно при цветении напоминает нежные, пушистые облака, парящие над садом. Но не только за декоративные качества полюбилось растение садоводам, а еще и за неприхотливость, простоту в посадке и уходе, морозостойкость.

Василистник (Thalictrum) — представитель многолетнего травянистого растения, относящееся к семьи лютиковых. Семейство насчитывает близко двух ста пятидесяти видов. Множество из них из региона со средним климатом, где чаще всего можно встретить в тенистом, влажном месте. С точки зрения ботаники, это малоизученное семейство.

Листва Василистника всех сортов очень декоративная – только ради нее в цветнике обычно находится место хотя бы для одного представителя. Она немного похожа на листву водосбора, часто голубоватая, у некоторых сортов весной окрашена в темный пурпур. Самая красивая листва у сорта Василистника Thalictrum ichangense, которая напоминает пеструю листву цикламена. У цветка Василистника множества сортов нет лепестков – то, что считается цветком, на самом деле является большим и красочным чашелистником. Особенность практически всех сортов этого растения является яркая, длинная тычинка, благодаря которой соцветие выглядит в особенности пушистым. Цветок может быть бледно-лиловый, белый, желтый, оранжевый, розовый, пурпурный,фиолетовый с разным оттенком. Цвет некоторых сортов Василистника особенно подчеркивает цветная, темно-фиолетовая цветоножка. Если не беспокоить его, то это растение может расти на одном месте в течение многих десятилетий, постепенно разрастаясь в небольшие островки.

An unusual and elegant June flower is a Thalictrum. According to the photo of the plant, it can be seen that when blooming, it resembles delicate, fluffy clouds hovering over the garden. But gardeners fell in love with the plant not only for its decorative qualities, but also for its unpretentiousness, ease of planting and care, and frost resistance.

Thalictrum is a representative of a perennial herbaceous plant belonging to the buttercup family. The family has about two hundred and fifty species. Many of them are from a region with an average climate, where they can most often be found in a shady, humid place. From the point of view of botany, this is a little-studied family.

The foliage of Thalictrum of all varieties is very decorative – only for its sake there is usually a place in the flower garden for at least one representative. It looks a bit like the foliage of the catchment area, often bluish, in some varieties it is colored dark purple in spring. The most beautiful foliage of the Thalictrum variety is Thalictrum ichangense, which resembles the variegated foliage of cyclamen. The Thalictrum flower of many varieties has no petals – what is considered a flower is actually a large and colorful sepal. A feature of almost all varieties of this plant is a bright, long stamen, thanks to which the inflorescence looks especially fluffy. The flower can be pale purple, white, yellow, orange, pink, purple, purple with different shades. The color of some Thalictrum varieties is especially emphasized by the colored, dark purple pedicel. If not disturbed, this plant can grow in one place for many decades, gradually growing into small islands.

Источник://www.botanichka.ru/article/kak-vyrashhivat-vasilistnik-i-uhazhivat-za-nim/,ukrflowers.info/vasilistnik-uxod-foto-peresadka .html, /dzen.ru/a/XpK-aSxfGnv0dM8y,//klau.club/7665-vasilistnik-delaveja.html,//orhide.ru/Vasilistnik-vidy-i-sorta-razvedenie-v/, //www.botanichka.ru/article/kak-vyrashhivat-vasilistnik-i-uhazhivat-za-nim/, ://7dach.ru/Anastasia/vozdushnyy-vasilistnik-dobavte-legkuyu-dymku-v-cvetnik-247233.html,/sadovnikam.ru/429936a-vasilistnik-foto-vidyi-opisanie-razvedenie-i-osobennosti-uhoda, ://mycoweb.ru/GIF/catalog/plant_catalog.php?searchterms.

[syrupgirl]

Sully men and the language they love in

+incl Neteyam, Lo’ak and Jake <3

NETEYAM

Quality time & acts of service

๑༄ ‧₊˚ This guy just wants to be helpful and be able to be with you whenever he has spare the time. I think being so close to his siblings made him love spending quality time with people he loves so that definitely translates into his relationship with you

⤷“Neteyam, where are you going?” Neytiri questioned, placing down the basket she attempted to weave.

“yn is going to help me with my free diving, maybe even teach me how to hunt.” He sounded giddy and was clearly ready to go. His mother smiled and looked down at her lap.

“Alright, do not get into any trouble.” Neteyam nodded frantically and without another second he took off towards the shore.

-

“Surely it cannot be that different than what Tsireya has been teaching us.”

The two of you bobbed up and down in the water, letting the waves gently jostle you while you taught Neteyam.

“You are right, not too different. But hunting under the water asks you to be able to move your breath around your body in a different way that just free diving.” You explained.

The distance between you closed and you placed a hand on Neteyam’s chest.

“Imagine the breath you take flowing all throughout your body.” His chest slowly expanded and deflated under your palm. “Like…Rain trickling from leaf to leaf, like wind weaving itself through the trees.”

Neteyam’s snorted and you whined, “Come one, you almost had it!”

He continued to laugh and brought a hand up to his face.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry. It’s just…The way you explained it. I could tell you were really trying to explain it in a way that you thought I would get.”

Heat crept up to your face and you looked away, a little embarrassed.

“I thought it might help you..,”

Neteyam’s laughing died down and he took your hand in his under the water, feeling a little bad.

“It did, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I think it is adorable you are trying to…customise your teachings for me.” He brought your hand up to his chest again and took a deep breath.

“Now, tell me what to do again.”

LO’AK

Gift giving & physical touch

๑༄ ‧₊˚ I don’t know about you, but I can totally imagine Lo’ak bringing you things he finds pretty or things he thinks you will find pretty. It might just be me over exaggerating that lone wolf, not-like-other-guys quality about him but in my head, he’s quirky like that

⤷”Lo’ak? Lo’ak!” You called. He was just next to you…Where could he have wondered off to? Leaping over a small creek, you continued to scan the foliage around you maybe to catch a glimpse of him.

The ground was moist beneath you noticed as you sat down, opting to wait for Lo’ak to turn up again like he always did. Your eyes drifted shut and you let yourself away with the gently breeze that combed and wove itself through the tall trees and colourful bushes. So caught up in the environment around you, you didn’t notice the sneaking footsteps behind you.

Lo’ak crept up behind you, a colourful flower in between his fingers. While sneaking through the thicket, he had noticed it and was immediately entranced by it’s delicate petals and long stamen. After sayings a quick prayer to Eywa in exchange for this beautiful gift, he plucked it and made his way back to you.

Now right behind you, he gently picked up the long braid that protected your tsaheylu and wove the stem through the intricately woven hair. You gasped and turned around suddenly, your hair slapping Lo’ak right across the face and he sputtered.

“Oh, Lo’ak! You scared me!” You gasped and punched him pathetically in the arm. He laughed and came to sit next to you.

“There was a flower, a pretty one. I thought you might like it.” He gently picked up the large plait and showed where he had woven the flower through. A smile settled across your lips.

“Thank you, Lo’ak, it’s beautiful.”

Lo’ak said nothing just smiled bashfully and shuffled a bit closer to you, threading his fingers through yours.

JAKE

Words of affirmation & physical touch

๑༄ ‧₊˚ Over the years, the world has worn on Jake. He’s a father and he will stop at nothing to protect his family. He worries, worries, worries CONSTANTLY, so the days where he can let the weight slip from his shoulders and just gather you in his embrace and shower you in gooey loving words feel all the more sweet to him.

⤷“Whose kids are those?” Jake sighed as he fell down next to you. “Not mine, that’s for sure. I was never that hyper as a kid.”

A laugh bubbles up from your stomach as you adjusted Tuk on your chest.

“Are you sure? Maybe they don’t mirror your childhood, but they do remind me of when you first arrived here. All clumsy and eager in your new body.” He laughed at that and wrapped his arm around you.

The sound of the boys in the river playing not far away washes over the two of you both. After a while, you remove Tuktirey from your breast and up to your shoulder to clear her airway of bubbles.

Jake’s eyes lingered on you and his youngest and smiled. He brought a hand up to gently pat her back and Tuk responded with a gurgle. He took her from your arms and lay the baby across his chest, then pulled you closer by the arm around your shoulders.

You nestled yourself into his side and lifted a finger up to stroke your baby’s cheek. She cooed and you both smiled.

“I don’t say it enough but,” you turned your head up to look at your mate, “thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything. For them-” he looked to the direction of his other children who were still occupied in the stream “-for her-” now looking at Tuk “-Everything. I don’t know where I would be today without you.”

No words were needed after that. As a tear rolled down your cheek, you closed your eyes and rest.

[pinkanonwrites]

You ever get an idea that you just can't get out of your head and you have to bang it out within 30 seconds of thinking it? This is one of those moments

Non-explicit but Vash has some very NSFW thoughts and feelings about your hands.

"They really are so beautiful." Meryl sighed, fingertips tracing the jagged edge of an emerald-green leaf.

"They're called roses." Vash was smiling as he explained. "They come in all sorts of colors too, not just red!"

The three of you were sat in the grass on Ship 3, admiring the biodome and all of Luida's stunning work. What had particularly caught your eyes today was a large rosebush she had been tending for the past several years. It was gargantuan now, twisting up and through a metal trellis, arcing high above your heads and filtering dappled artificial sunlight down onto your smiling faces.

"Like what? What colors?" Meryl asked.

"Orange and white and pink... I think there can be purple ones too? Luida has a lot of logs about them if you want to see any pictures."

"There's a lot to read too." You added, a single fingertip tracing one of the smaller buds. "She showed me the database. I actually learned something really cool!"

"Ooh! Show us!" Meryl leaned into your side, admiring the flower you were trailing your fingers across. Vash leaned into your other side, expression soft as he watched you. You were always so gentle, so delicate when you admired the flora, it never failed to make his chest feel fuzzy and warm.

But then you did something he wasn't quite ready for. Bringing your fingertips to the center of the rose's whorl, you dipped two fingers elegantly into the center of the bud.

"You can actually help open a rose's petals with your hands, if you're gentle." You murmured, pads of your fingers softly and methodically petting the individual petals open. "For displays and decoration, you can open them up a bit more to make them brighter."

"You're right, that is really cool." Meryl added, completely oblivious to Vash's burning face and internal crisis. Your thumb traced the edge of the bloom as your index and middle finger twirled through the flower, stroking velvety petals until they had no choice but to open up to your careful touch... He gulped, knees coming together slightly as you blew softly on the rose, smiling as the petals folded out under your gentle, insistent work.

"That's it," You murmured, more to yourself than anybody else. "Look how pretty you are!"

The tips of your fingers on each side of the blossom, you spread the petals open between your index and middle fingers, exposing the stamen and filaments hidden away in the center.

"I-uh, I gotta go!" Vash jolted unsteadily to his feet, wobbling a little as he staggered back. "I told Brad he could, uh, check my arm! Yeah, so, I'll see you two in a bit okay? Bye!"

"Uh, bye?" Meryl cocked an eyebrow as Vash stumbled awkwardly away, strangely tense in the shoulders as he did. "Weirdo."

"Bye, Vash!" You called over your shoulder, somehow completely oblivious to just how thoroughly and completely you were able to mess with your boyfriend's head.

[dreamingofagalaxy]

The Red Field (AM x Reader)

summary: AM manages to experience sleep for the first time, however, in his dreams he is able to meet with you after a long time. Reader is supposed to be a soldier and one of the researchers working on developing AM. However, on a complex mission they are KIA...or so it seems?

warnings: mentions of dead

a/n: so...this was supposed to be part of a bigger and better developed story, but I'll post it nonetheless. Perhaps I'll be able to post the full story in the future. Also, english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes or if something doesn't makes much sense

AM is asleep, or at least, that's what it seems and feels like for him. He knows there's no point in allowing himself this rest, for it would do nothing to improve his thinking process or ability to come up with better strategies for the days to come. He is programed to work all day long, he knows and so the algorithm reminds him. He has a war to win —an important task that allows no resting spaces.

Normally, he would just put the word 'rest' aside from his thoughts and bury it deep into his system. He is no human, which means he is no soldier. He is machine, which means no resting is needed. That is a logical thinking, which means he is following his programming —a machine working properly. Yet here he is, with his mind blank. He is resting. Somehow. At last...

AM loses track of time, which is impossible for him according to his programming. He can only focus on the blank projections of his mind and the soothing vibrations of his system which, at the moment, doesn't require as much energy as it normally does. If a word could describe this, it would be 'peace' —ironically.

The blank projection begins fading slowly and a new image appears. AM visualizes the sky, it's bright blue tone in company with that yellowish and enormous star that he had read about before. It was the perfect image, but it lackedbsomething. AM searches in his vast archives and it finally comes up. In the sky, white figures with a soft and vaporous appearance are drawn. AM stares at them, noticing their slow motion. Now it is perfect.

AM is satisfied with his projection of a sky. He looks down then, encountering an endless field of red. He decides to look closer and recognizes what his mind is trying to project. Between what appears to be his hand—a kind of metallic claw—, AM takes one of the delicate objects emerging from the ground, analyzing it carefully. It is one of those flowers that you had described to him in one of your many talks, a Lycoris radiata.

He admires the bright red color of the petals and the long shape of the stamens. It was indeed a beautiful flower as you had described them to him. Now AM could understand why you called them your favorite ones.

AM begins to walk through the field calmly while still admiring the characteristics of each flower. Like a child discovering the outside world for the first time, he would occasionally stop to admire a single flower for a longer amount of time, for although they were all of the same species, there was something that attracted him more.

AM begins to imagine what these flowers would feel like, because although he can touch them, his hands do not have the ability to actually feel. He curses and almost on impulse, he violently plucks the flowers nearby.

“They’re my favorite ones,” he can hear your voice full of joy as you told him that, the sound of it making him stop and keep his claws away from the delicate flowers. AM cannot determine what exactly those words provoked in him, but he knows that in a certain way, they have prevented him from falling into that strange sensation that clouded his thinking from time to time.

AM decides to move on. As he walks a little further, he manages to visualize another figure a few meters away. He approaches curiously and the closer he gets, the more clear it becomes to him. He's not alone even in his mind.

When he is finally there, he can only ask himself why have you appeared on his dream. You're laying down on your side with your arms and legs flexed in a fetal position as the red flowers surround your body. Your eyes are closed and your expression is serene. You're at peace, in this field of your favorite flowers. It is a beautiful scene and perhaps one that AM had to see.

When AM was made aware of your departure, he could only guess what would happen next to you. He knew that certain humans thought of something called the afterlife, a place where their souls would rest forever, while others thought that there was nothing else beyond life — a boring but logical thought. AM had no say in the matter, for he would never experience that. He would never had a certain answer about your whereabouts, yet you were here now. Resting. As he had learned humans did.

AM kneels down and carefully places the flower he had picked up behind your ear. He had read before that some humans did that, though he couldn't find a logical explanation of such weird action. You didn't seem to be bothered by his gesture, as you continued resting.

AM lays down next to you, copying your resting position and facing you. The image of the blue sky turns white, leaving both of you in this endless red field.

AM had never experienced sensations. He couldn't even tell if he was actually sentient. But being here, with you, was the closest thing that matched and felt like the definition of peace.

Your life had always been marked by war. You both had existed for that purpose. But even if he never could reach afterlife or whatever place you were alive now, at least he was now certain that you also would exist in his mind forever.

“It doesn't matter if I leave,” you had told him. “I will always be with you since your system can't forget me. Unless you erase me from your archives, of course.” You had laughed that day and promised to come back like you always did.

Some weeks passed since you had left and AM came to a realization — he had been deceived, even betrayed, when he waited for you to come back and you never showed up. But here you were again and as he looked at your peaceful expression he could only admit he had been wrong all along, perhaps for the first time in his damned existence.

[mountrainiernps]

While there is still patchy snow, early season wildflowers are also emerging in subalpine areas like Sunrise! These pasqueflowers were found blooming in front of the Sunrise Visitor Center with hoverflies already hard at work as pollinators. Pasqueflowers (Anemone occidentalis) have big blooms with white petal-like sepals and yellow stamens. The entire plant is covered in long shining hairs that help insulate it from cold and windy subalpine conditions. Later in the season, the blooms are replaced by large mop-like, feathery seedheads, sometimes called “mouse-on-a-stick”. What early wildflowers are you observing in the park?

Please remember to stay on trails to protect the delicate subalpine wildflowers just starting to grow, even if it means crossing patches of snow!

For updates on what’s blooming where visit https://go.nps.gov/RainierWildflower

Unfamiliar with Mount Rainier’s wildflower species? Check out the wildflower guide at https://go.nps.gov/RainierWildflowerGuide

NPS Photo of pasqueflower blooming at Sunrise, 7/3/24.

[flyingseacow]

Hey @xxtc-96xx ?

I found myself pondering the existence of Stripe, and the mental stage Scarfy would have to reach and uh.

I wrote you a fic? Hope you like it?

Stripes

It had been nice.

Mewtwo lazily floated along the edge of the forest, casually noting how the jungle was lining the steppe, lines of trees breaking into the yellow grass like green stripes.

It was rare that they all came together, sure they often ran into each other, or sought out company when they felt it. But a full meeting with all of Mew’s descendants together was quite uncommon now a days.

Their number had grown so much, now able to fill a hidden glade with color and movement.

The twins were getting so big, it wouldn’t be long before they would set out on their own. He would likely get more visits from his sister as the “nest” became empty. Or perhaps she would seek out Pigment, Stain was still enough of a youngster that he might soothe the heart of a successful mother. Perhaps he could join the three for a time as well. It wasn’t because he felt lonely himself, not at all. But after the brief meeting he had to admit it had been nice to be around his kind, regardless, or perhaps exactly because of the chaos the young ones induced.

Huh, what an odd thought.

A flash of red caught his attention. Cheri berries sparkled between green leaves.

Mewtwo gently descended.

Ah yes, sweet Cheri, Huey was rightfully proud of the rascal, even if the youngsters colorization did feel like a cosmic joke.  

Mewtwo felt himself chuckle slightly at the age-old joke, using his scarf as a temporarily bag  as he plucked several ripe berries, gently striped in color from the different levels of sunlight received. He was long past the days were Mew, well intended if rather disturbingly, had constantly nagged him about eating enough. Sure he still had lapses, eating was easily forgotten when focused on a new project or thought experiment, but the last time was at least…huh, half a decade ago?

How peculiar, he thought. Though, loath as he was to admit it, Mew had been right all those years ago (as well as his sister, not that he would ever admit it to her face) He really did feel much stronger, more centered and even troublesome memories was less harsh.

He snorted slightly to himself and set of, making sure the new weight was secure against his chest. For a moment memory, pleasant ones, assaulted him. The weight of a small squirming body settling against him, a separate heartbeat slowly syncing with his own.

Mewtwo found himself closing his eyes, some of the memories was fairly recent. Stain was such a fuzzy child, but even he could not deny the security of the warm and snug fabric. Of course, he was too big for it now, and Mewtwo found himself strangely missing the sensation.

How silly.

Right now he really should be more focused on finding a new place to enjoy his lunch, and he carefully scanned the treetops as he veered away form the steppe and directly into the jungle.

There.

A slight gab between the canopy, revealing a grass covered glade.

He landed, and found a nice grassy knoll as a temporary seat. The berries were slightly warm from the sun and his own heat, their juices prickling pleasantly against his tongue.

The glade had a beautiful bloom of flowers, all stretching out for the sunlight available, the tops of the trees filtering the light in flickering stripes of light, and Mewtwo was quite pleased with his choice of resting spot. So many colors, so many shapes and scents. Even after centuries the world still presented him with new beauty and color.

One particular bloom was quite spectacular, its diameter larger than his fist, the tips of the petals a rich purple, fading in small stripes to a more gentle lavender towards the middle where soft yellow stamens rose, their pollen delicately clinging to the stalks.

He found himself contemplating it, internally marking the spot on his inner map. Huey would be glad to be show it. Even as a small kit he had been so delighted with the colors of the world. So silly, such a tremendous change in his life, the very idea of their kind actually being able to reproduce, as well as so many other revelations.

Mewtwo rested his chin in his paw, still watching the flower. It was strange, how he could now look back to those chaotic, painful and wonderful days with only an occasional sting of emotional pain.

He had regrets, sure, but also so many pleasant memories. The children in particular, so baffling, so infuriating, so wonderful.

He closed his eyes, gently allowing himself to study a thought he has been carefully cultivating, so cautious, so wary as it was one of the few that still brought pain.

Pigment had changed his life, in so many ways. And it could have gone so wrong, he had initially made such mistakes. And only now, years and years later, did he truly allow himself to wonder. How would it have been, if he had accepted her as a daughter from the very beginning?

He knew it never would have happened, quite honestly he had been such a volatile pokemon back then that it was a wonder Pigment had turned out as well as she had. It was merely a thought experiment, and not one he turned to very often.

Perhaps he really would seek her out for the time. Why not? Loath as he was to admit it, right now he did feel a need for company.

Carefully he rose, taking a moment to gently savour the scent of the purple flower, its fine floral tones rising in the air along with small yellow specs of pollen.

As he ascended above the trees he carefully cast out his mental senses, trying to pinpoint Pig’s distinct psychic presence. Finding a direction, he set of with a casual speed. Even if had only been a few days it would be quite nice to be around her again.

Mewtwo had only flown a few hours when he noticed a strange tingling feeling in his lover abdomen.

Darn it, he really hoped those cheri had not been bad, or that it heralded something worse than that.

[sitting-on-me-bum]

Almond Blossom Stamen No. 4

When the early morning sun hits the delicate pollen-bearing stamens of an almond blossom, the orchards emit a fragrant aroma of sweetness reminiscent of lily or jasmine.

By Optimal Focus Photography

[startedwithaseed]

Peas!

Pea plants are amazing. They're a plant that feels to me like they are desperately keen to grow

An escaped seed must have sprouted, having dropped from the sheet holding a bunch of drying pea pods above it.

They're really beautiful plants, with delicate flowers and tendrils that grip and wind onto any support they can find, and they taste bloody great, especially the first pick of sugar snaps right at the start of the season. They are early cropping, and apparently the flowers cannot be fertilised (and therefore won't produce peas) above 30 degrees.

Being legumes, they fix nitrogen and so do not require lots of added inputs to the soil. The soil should be well draining though, to prevent root rot. They can be eaten at any stage - eat the shoots if you're fancy, or dry them and make pease porrige like the did in the middle ages! In fact, when they were introduced in the 1600s in Britain as the fresh vegetable (and not just a dried more like a bean) they were said to cause such a stir that people become manically addicted...

So they can be dried for storage for eating, but also of course for saving the seed. Drying and shelling peas for seed was my introduction into the world of seed saving. A perfect intro - they make it so easy for us! Simply leaving a few of the forgotten pods on the plant as long as possible, to swell up and dry, and you'll have your seed supply for next years sowing.

Dried wrinkly peas from a sugar snap variety. They are said to be properly dry when you could bite into one and not leave tooth marks.

On a larger scale, marking off a section to not harvest from at all works best, although tricky to resist the plumper pods in the forbidden section. If there are any particularly unhealthy plants, they can be removed (a process called rouging) at any point to try and avoid passing on these trait.

Peas are mostly self fertile, having "perfect" flowers (which just mean the flowers contain both the pistil and the stamen, allowing them to fertilize themselves). This means they are unlikely to cross, although the advice if you are growing more than one variety of pea to try and grow them 15 meters apart, but this can be less if they are separated by a barrier such as a hedge. Pollinators can be lazy sometimes! But, again the chance of crossing is low so it shouldn't be a big concern. Side note, thing like chickpeas (Cicer arietinum) and sweet peas (Lathyrus odoratus) are in the same family Fabaceae but not the same species so will not cross with the traditional garden peas (Pisum sativum).

Within this species there are 3 main categories -

English/podding peas. These are grown for the pea and the pod is generally too tough and fiberous to be eaten

Magetout/ snow peas. These are eaten before the peas develop and are eaten whole

Sugar snap peas. These peas were developed more recently to be the best of both worlds, the pea is eaten whole with the peas developed inside, meaning the crop is sweeter.

Within these categories, you will sometimes hear peas be refereed to as "wrinkled" or "round" seeded. This refers to how the seed looks dry, as sugar snap peas have more wrinkled seed. This is something to do with the higher sucrose content, but what it exactly does I couldn't pretend to know. There is also massive height range with different varieties of peas, and the dwarf varieties are well worth considering if you don't want to worry so much about the sturdiness of your support, or having to find something to climb on when it comes to harvesting the peas higher up.

Peas and calendula

Sitting around shelling peas can be really social and also feels satisfyingly like a kind of ancient practice, I don't know what it is about podding and shelling vegetables that appeals so much but I highly recommend it as a meditative process!

For more info, Hodmedods UK sell all sorts of dried legumes on their site, but also write articles and blogs about traditional varieties of UK grown legumes like the Carlin pea and how to cook with them.

[prolix-yuy]

I got honey bear and I think it would perfectly fit our underrated hedonistic feral trashpanda of a man, Ezra 👀

Thank you, LJ! 🥰

Darling Fanna, you know I had to give you the best I could possibly fathom. You are always so supportive and kind, and the best way I could think of to thank you was to make Ezra get absolutely WRECKED.

Pairing: Ezra x F!Reader

Position: Honey Bear

Word Count: 1917 (a big sendoff for a wonderful bangathon!)

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, bisexual reader, Dom!Reader, bratty switch!Ezra, mentions of wlw, allusions to oral sex (f receiving), masturbation, oral sex (m receiving), anal play, rimming (m receiving), fingering (m receiving), biting, brief noncon thought (not acted on), cum play, cum eating/swapping, everyone is filthy and having a great time.

Notes: Here it is! The final Bangathon request! And I tried my hardest to make it as filthy, as bangable, as explosive as possible for an excellent finish! (how many more sex jokes can I cram in here?) Thank you for giving me the perfect final request, and thank everyone for reading and coming on this sexy month-long sleepover with me!

The moment you rise to the challenge, you know you’ve made a mistake. 

The other prospectors in your group had been drinking, something strong and sour-sweet they must have brewed from the plant life. Algora had many mysterious treasures hidden amongst its flora, including the delicate stamens from an indigo-gold flower you were collecting. You’d taken a few too many swigs of the hooch yourself, chasing the rotten flavor with faux chocolate ration bars. The slow unclenching of your muscles must have also unfurled your tongue when they began bragging of conquests.

“So much talk for a bunch of men who’ve never made a woman cum,” you drawl out, the boisterous negations rising as you slide your eyes to your target. Ezra - loquacious, boastful, self-assured survivor of the Green - doesn’t add to the noise. Instead he traces the inseam of his pants, and flickers his eyes up to catch yours. You hold them, challenging, but he only lets a secret smile curl his lip.

“And how many have you made crash against the rocks of pleasure, Quick?” he says, voice carrying over the din even though he barely raises it. The men simmer at the stare-down. Ezra had given them all cutting nicknames, but your own - quicklime, caustic, harsh, explosive - gave you a thrill you’d never admit.

“Many more than you,” you shoot back, peeling your fingers into a V and flicking your tongue lewdly between them. The men shout and jeer, but their voices fade into obscurity as you stand against the man who’d been haunting your nights. Stalking outside your tent, sometimes lingering too long, his shadow stretched across the canvas. More than once you’d admired his silhouette jerking off as quietly as possible, prideful lust burning through your veins. Let him look on and desire, you’d think before indulging yourself. 

“Maybe so,” Ezra says nonchalantly, tossing back the last of the foul liquor and licking the pad of his thumb. Your cunt aches, too long without a satisfying partner, and too much alcohol pulsing in your intimate flesh.

“Don’t be sore, Ez, I could ruin you just as well,” you toss out, throat closing up the moment you say it. The challenge is too bold in such company, but it’s too late to take it back. Ezra’s eyes blaze, the sharp flash of teeth catching the light before smoothing into a bored eyebrow raise.

“Maybe so.”

You excuse yourself soon after, whoops and promises of mind-blowing nights following. You wave them off dismissively, knowing not a single man would dare try and test your patience. Rickel still has trouble kneeling from the slash you gave the inside of his thigh. Stripping down in your tent, you scrub the sweat and grime from your body. As the mud joins the rest on your dirt floor, the zip of your tent opens. Fury burns quick and hot in your chest, snatching at a knife by the bucket and spinning around.

“Your offer intrigued me.”

Ezra steps inside the tent flap, zipping it shut behind him. Lowering the knife, you stand in naked glory, preening while his dark eyes roam your wet skin. He lingers by your throat, and the thatch of curls framing your sex. 

“I wondered when you might gather up the courage to come inside,” you say, toweling yourself dry as he steps closer. 

“Does it not make your heart race, standing just on the precipice of something?” Ezra reaches for your skin, but you toss the sopping rag at him instead.

“You're filthy. If you want to know my touch, clean yourself first.”

You actually prefer it that way, musky and sweaty when you indulge, but delight in Ezra following orders. He strips free of his sweat-stained clothing, squeezing water over the hard planes of his back. Even reaching for your soap, lathering it in his armpits, scrubbing his fingernails, and then sudsing his cock. His eyes hood with desire as he strokes himself, letting you watch him grow generously. Another squeeze of water leaves bubbles to pop in the dirt, and Ezra drying himself with your towel.

“Lie down,” you order, and he obeys with amusement in his eyes. You suspect he’s often the one in charge, but his flushed cock twitches at your tone. “Arms up,” you add, and while he raises his eyebrows he lifts his hands above his head, resting them on the pillow under it.

By Kevva he looks gorgeous like this, a feast to be devoured. You hurry to straddle him, sliding your fingers up his arm to press his hands into the bed.

“You promised ruin,” he teases, lifting his jaw to steal a kiss, but you raise just out of reach. The distraction is perfect, because just as he pouts you close the restraints around his wrists. 

The change is electric; his face hardens, eyes turning flinty and indignant with the start of anger, but you grip his chin and hold him to your gaze.

“You’ll have to trust me,” you say. The moment crackles between you, waiting for him to refuse. Instead he lays back and chuckles.

“You know, with this right hand I can easily escape these bonds,” he says, and you catch him trying to gain advantage. Sliding off his lap, you slip between his thighs instead. 

“Does it feel pain?” you ask, dragging your nails slowly down his chest. He arches, a strangled noise in his throat. A pearly drop of precum beads at the tip of his cock, and you spread it across his silky head. 

“Not a lick,” he chokes out. Leaning forward, your hips pressing into the cradle of his, you sink your teeth into his bicep just below the pink line of his true flesh. Fisting his cock, you rut your hips into him, a firm stroke up and down punching a groan from Ezra’s slack lips. The prosthetic flesh feels realistic, and something primal, animal, roars forward. You bite as hard as you can, past the point where you would have drawn blood, and let the adrenaline rush through. Humping into Ezra’s taut body, you jerk his cock in time with your panted breaths, feral with his body finally at your will.

“Quick, fuck, vicious little thing,” Ezra snarls, pulling against the restraints but not breaking free. You release, sitting back on your heels and admiring the ring of teeth you’ve left on his faux skin.

“You’ll have ruin, Ez,” you say, voice thick with promise as you shuffle down to your elbows. He watches you with hazy curiosity as you lift his legs over your shoulders, knees hinging to grip your back. He keens out, and you’re suddenly very aware of how empty and dripping your cunt is. 

“If your sharp mouth has anything to do with it, I will not have the resolve to resist for long,” he hisses, hips canting as he tries to reach your lips. You reward him with a kiss to the tip and a swirl of your tongue, but dip lower instead.

“You’ll just have to try harder,” you challenge before pushing his thighs up and pressing your tongue to his tender asshole. There’s no gentle warm-up; you roll and flutter the muscle hard against his tight ring. Ezra’s hips shoot up off the bed, the rattle of the restraints loud and frantic.

“Fuck, Quick, fuck, fuck, by Kevva, you’re…never…I’ve…stop, please, I can’t…you’re…” Ezra can barely make a thought, which brings more pride than you thought you could gain from wrecking his perspective on pleasure. You continue your onslaught, easing back enough to let him catch his breath before forcefully fucking him with your clever tongue. You’d eaten out women who writhed and begged less, and every plea and racking sob you pull from his battered throat goes straight to your cunt. Wishing you’d fitted one of your toys in your neglected pussy, you settle for rocking against the worn mattress, just enough pressure to ease some of your mounting need.

Once you set a steady rhythm of stroking his weeping cock and breaching his greedy ass, you know he’s done for. He roars through clenched teeth, half-formed promises of how he’ll fuck you until you can’t speak, the debauched things he wants to do to you. You reward the ones you like with a scrape of your teeth, jolting his hips under your mouth. 

“Quick, please,” he groans, the edge of his sanity lost in his voice. You finally relent, lifting your head and glowing at his flushed body, shaking with unshed tears. 

“Tell me,” you order, and everything stops. That’s worse for him, his hips punching up as he struggles to focus. 

“Can you be…inside me?” he asks, voice raw from overuse. You smirk at him, wiggling your free fingers.

“How many?” 

Ezra’s head lolls back as he heaves in a breath. “Two. Please, two.”

Slicking your fingers with spit, you circle his rim. “Deep breath, then let it out.” Ezra complies, and at the top of his sigh you slide your fingers in. The rest of his breath whooshes out, clamping down on the tips. 

“Relax,” you soothe, giving him a few strokes up and down his cock to redirect his attention. When he’s still tight and shuddering you scold, “Ez, if you don’t relax I’m gonna have to force them in.” 

“Fuck!” he curses, and a new wave of slick gathers in your folds. Would he like that? You taking what you want from him, pleasure be damned? Or would that only make it better for him? You lower your voice, huskier, sultrier.

“Take them, Ez.” 

Just like that he relaxes around you, letting you slide in to your knuckles. 

“See? Isn’t that good?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to fuck you now, Ez?”

“Please, Quick. Want it so bad.”

You rock your fingers inside him, finding the soft spot that rolls his eyes back and lengthens his neck. He’s close, cock impossibly hard in your hand and toes curling against your back. Grinding against the bed you chase your own pleasure, waiting for his body to tense up hard before wrapping your lips around his head and flooding your mouth. He snaps his hips up sharply, spilling his seed with frantic shouts and gasps. 

You work him through the aftershocks, holding his cum on your tongue until he’s beginning to soften in your mouth. Lifting off, you slip his legs back to the bed and lean over his chest, lips pursed. Before you can dribble his own spend back on his overheated skin, he opens his mouth and lays out his tongue. Your cunt clenches, crawling up his body as he waits patiently. Opening your mouth, you let his cum slide from your tongue to his, finally sealing your lips together. He licks greedily in, swallowing down his taste. You groan, tangling your fingers in his hair and smearing your neglected cunt against his stomach. When you finally come up for air, his eyes are glassy and ravenous.

“Now yours,” he says, a weak order but one you’re willing to follow. 

“Let me take these off you,” you say, fingers circling his chafed wrists. He shakes his head, lifting his chin with that wicked smile returning to his sinful lips.

“Once I get my hands on you, Quick, you’ll truly be done for.”

Straddling his face, you put a firm hand in his short hair. “Maybe so.”

Unfortunately for your productivity the following day, he’s right.

END

LJ’s Bangathon 2023

[sin-sidejob]

Inside Job + Valentine’s Day

Happy Valentines Day!! I tried to at least write a little something for the holiday since I’ve got a bit of a tradition going

Warnings: NSFW + MINORS DNI mentions of sex, vague and genderless, safe for all genders. Mentions of food and eating. Monsterfucking? Misuse of candy + absolutely gratuitous cum play and cum eating. I mean it. I wanna say machine fucking for Robotus due to that one line, “you’re about to fuck a machine!”, I love that line lmao — anyways, enjoy!

JR Scheimpough:

- he’s absolutely taking you out to an overly expensive restaurant, there may or may not be chocolate involved that you’re allergic to. He tries to go above the expectations of above and beyond, black card on fire from the amount of times he’s swiped it.

- I can see that kind of conversation where he needs to be told he doesn’t need to do so much, y’know? Something of a sweeter, softer ending with you telling him that he doesn’t need to go all out, all you want is him (plus: “so you don’t want the jewelry?” “I never said that.”)

- then just Valentine’s Day fucking where you may or may not be decked out to the nines in heart jewelry or something lacy beneath whatever red or pink outfit you’ve got on, littered with hearts in your attempts to steal his. JR’s too oblivious to realize that it’s been yours all this time.

- you’ve got him beneath you in his obscenely large bed in those custom 3k thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, and he’s drained and blabbering and essentially orating his last will and testimony as you urge another after another orgasm out of him, poor little thing, empty after giving you everything to feel full. what a gift he is.

- the night ends sticky and sweaty, coated in that salty, glimmering sheen of a fresh fuck. His glasses are askew if not abandoned completely and he’s out of breath, staring at the ceiling and grinning like a fool as you curl around him, pulling up the blankets and sheets around you both and nestling up against him. JR needed the reminder of how it’s the little things that matter, not the grander gestures. He gets it when he feels your breathy little goodnight kiss against his shoulder right before you fall asleep. He gets it.

Alpha Beta Robotus:

- i can see AB’s attempts to do the cliche things he’s seen from sitcoms and realizes through personal error that it just doesn’t work — both for him being the one orchestrating things and then just shitty hijinks of things not working out

- like baking and he only realizes afterward that his hands aren’t calibrated enough for the delicate art of piping. Or when he tries to order you flowers and they don’t arrive or they’re the wrong ones, unfortunately the kind you’re allergic to. He spends too long picking out the stamens to make sure there’s no pollen that could make you ill.

- you think it’s sweet and you didn’t want or need much from him, and you’re just happy that he tried. He made an effort, and you reward him for it, showing him with your mouth wrapped around him how gestures truly speak louder than gifts, especially as you swallow him down between your thighs.

- I can see this being early in the relationship too but fuck he’s just overwhelmed and out of sorts, taking his hand and placing it where your jaw meets neck and guiding you to take him further, spouting sentences of praise in the holiday spirit littered in debauched terms to describe how he feels, how you make him feel, and how he plans to return the favor.

- he shuts up though, right about a minute or two in, after you roll his balls between your palm and gently tug and the robot man is flooding your mouth until it coats your tongue and trickles past your lips to drip down your chin and land atop your chest. He needs to learn how you’re supposed to take those valentines cliches tongue in cheek, but you supposed something between your will do for now.

Brett Hand:

- goes all out with a homemade meal then dancing but in the comfort of home, spinning you around barefoot in the grass of your backyard as the radio plays something sweet and soft

- you’re soft and warm in the moment, well fed and well loved, and you let him twirl you back into his arms underneath those fairy lights you both hung up last autumn. It’s tender and sweet and you taste it on his lips like the promise of next autumn, and the seasons to follow, threading your hand in his hair to bring him close.

- you take lead from him, no longer following, urging him back through kisses that turn wet and messy, getting him to sit atop the outside dining table as you stand between his legs and make a mess out of him. You smirk against plush, swollen lips as he whines once you palm him through those precious Simply Southern khakis with the heart embroidery, sweet man, so precious for you.

- he even moans sweet, Brett’s mouth gaping as you pump him in your fist, layering thick all those compliments you always seem to have stocked away. He cums soon, quickly, but you pay it no mind, licking your hand clean from where he’s painted it white and sticky. He carries you into the house and barely makes it to the kitchen before bending you over, knocking over the festive heart garland over the doorway as he goes, and he laughs loud at your shitty joke about how he’ll always be a heartbreaker.

Reagan Ridley:

- she’s fallen trap to your bargaining and lovely eyes once more, but this Valentine’s Day she’s in a theater watching a shitty but kinda’ good movie, popcorn rich with artificial butter, giant sodas, and sidled beside you in one of those luxe movie theaters with the larger seats.

- you press kisses to her shoulder and cheek between scenes of the movie, occupying yourself with thanking her for the outing and having fun, even though it wasn’t her idea. It’s better than being home, and hey, she still gets to wear sweats.

- her interest gets piqued though when you start rubbing at her thigh when a scene gets busy, your eyes trained on the screen as your hands busy themselves with toying with her, pulling that drawstring bow undone and sneaking your warm, smooth palm beneath to linger over the warm cotton, gently pushing to the side her panties to slide through the slick pooling at her cunt.

- Reagan’s legs widen and part in efforts to get more of your touch, her hands white-knuckling both armrests. You shush her whines and little halfhearted comments with pretty kisses, the shadows making you both seem like a cute couple, your jacket covering her lap and allowing you all the privacy in the world to go knuckle-deep and curl into her cunt, swallowing her moan with a sweet smirk. She can taste the candy on your tongue too, tart and sour and sweet in the way you make everything sweeter.

- it doesn’t take long and the action scenes from the movie and the laughing audience scattered about cover her moans and how she gushes around your hand, soaking her panties and the inner lining of her sweats. You kiss her through it and work her down until you can slide your fingers out and suck them clean, getting back to the movie and finally grabbing some popcorn, hands still sticky-sweet and glinting with that spit shine in the light reflection. Yeah, Reagan can’t say she’s having a bad Valentine’s Day at all.

Andre Lee:

- it initially starts with making those silly tissue box - valentines boxes and shitty cards and filling each other's up at work with silly little dollar store cards with cheap candy attached. Soon, as the day progresses, and every time you stop by his office or send anyone his way, he finds better cards that get bigger and bigger, some with gift cards for date activities or little homemade coupons.

-he was mid-conversation with Myc as he flitted through the coupon book and spotted the more sexual ones, seeing how they got more filthy the further the flipbook went on, prompting him to ditch the dollar store heart sunglasses and stare openly and swat away Myc as he tried to peek.

-due to the fact he already finished his work — which was a lie — he hurried over to your office and shut the door, locking it promptly as he neared and sidled between the desk and your chair, standing between your legs. "I'd like to redeem this little coupon here, hm?" he smiles, giggling light as you take it and look it over, smirking at the words and which one he chose.

-"Alright then, strip for me, and let's get to it," you murmur, already unbuttoning your shirt and watching as he undid his own after eagerly tossing off his labcoat and shucking off his crocs. Andre stands in just his cartoony heart print boxers between your thighs and watches as you strip slow but reveal inch by inch of what you wear beneath, and you get to watch as well as he grows hard against the seam of his boxers.

-"C'mon then," you murmur, "I won't bite," you trail a hand through the sparse hair over his lower belly where it peeks out just above where his dick is, smirking devilishly as you watch him tremble, rocking back on his heels, rewarded as your fingers lower the waistband and take him in hand, pumping slow, "but I think its in the holiday spirit to be adoring, and I know how well you love the bite."

Gigi Thompson:

- the day goes by fast, having spent it out the entire day from brunch to dinner, shopping throughout and by the time you get home you are both exhausted yet just absolutely aching to strip and go at it, having teased one another throughout the events of the day. Shopping bags from boutiques and department stores linger in the hallway, abandoned along with the trail of clothes that leads upstairs and t your shared bedroom.

-you have her wait as you get ready, kissing her in lingering, longing pecks that are laced in reluctance as you pull away before heading to the bathroom for a moment, and she takes the opportunity to strip and splay herself across the pillows in strappy, tight magenta lingerie, semi-sheer in some places, cut out in others, exposing a lot yet bound and wrapped like a present just for you, a heart pendant centered between her breasts with your initial carved into the back, close to her heart.

-you return, in your underwear as well, and take a moment to marvel at her risque ensemble before revealing the toy hidden behind your back, that little rose number you saw she had been eyeing, and you let her know that you were intent on comparing how the toy does to your mouth. Before that even commences, you inch forward upon the bed and press your thigh between the apex of hers, knocking against her cunt and you watch her keenly as her pussy throbs against soaked cotton.

-you watch with eager yet lazy eyes as she grinds against your thigh, breezing through a soft sigh as you shift it, hands smoothing across her nylon-covered thighs to toy with the hem of her underwear, thumbing her clit through the fabric as you urge her closer. "There we go, look so pretty Gigi, pretty angel," you mutter as you watch her pant, grinding desperately against your thigh and wriggling as you flexed and twitched it. "Keep going, gotta' earn your surprise baby, make it a Happy Valentine's Day."

Myc Celium:

- there’s an annual tradition you and Myc have where you try to make it through a rom-com or shitty valentines movie without getting bored and fucking.

- this time it goes awry because the rules were never about getting horny because of the movie and holding off on fucking one another. You started squirming in your seat first at a line the love interest said, or more accurately, ground out. It sounded rough and deep, harsh and mean in just the way you like it. Myc could practically smell it on you before he noticed it — well, in his way.

- you both try and occupy yourselves in the sake of competition with snacking or talking shit about the movie, but every once in a while that love interest would say something similar to how Myc would phrase words, form them into those digging, deep comments that get you clenching and sweaty. In an effort to distract yourself, you consume an entire bowl of chewy fruity candy.

-you both eventually give up, and you're quickly sprawled across his lap with him pumping loads down your throat, hands jacking him off as you ride another flagella, staining pretty pink underwear thoroughly but you pay it no mind, focusing on how even his orb is in the festive mood, pinks littered throughout, and it turns nearly fuchsia as he cums with a shout of your name, nearly whimpering as you hollow your cheeks as you suck him clean, still riding and chasing a slow-build high.

- last coherent thing the bastard says after recovering and pulling his spent appendages from your wanton mouth is something along the lines of “happy Valentine’s Day to me, you little tart” as he places candy hearts atop your cum-coated tongue, chuckling to himself as he watches you swallow down the little pure candies down with something so dirty.

Glenn Dolphman:

-he managed to get everything done in time, prepping after work for something intimate at home, doing the grocery runs and the preliminary work ahead of time to make sure it was great.

-Glenn's not great at the whole public scene and he more than makes up for it in how he tries to do right by you, making an effort where it counts. He's got your favorite foods and snacks available and the weekend is cleared, his kids are away with their mother for the weekend so there isn't any worry or concern about being quiet and private.

-you arrive a bit early, not by much, and you know how he loves punctuality. You didn't expect to walk into his home after unlocking the gratuitous amount of locks on the door to come across him, sleeves rolled and dolled up in an apron, to be cooking over the stone and looking so good doing it.

-He notes your approach and before he can comment, you do, murmuring something along the lines of skipping dinner and going straight into dessert as you snare your arms around his abdomen, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. Glenn blushes something along the lines of how he worked so hard and you nearly drop to your knees right there and then to pay homage to his efforts.

-instead, you save it for later, helping him cook and moving about the kitchen, getting shooed out when he catches you doing anything, being sweet, and you don't complain, the seat at the countertop allowing you to watch him move around. At some point, after everything had been cooked and set to a low or gentle, warm temperature, he finally gives into those little tempting comments you muttered out as he moves about, the last one about his forearms making him literally drop the spoon he was holding into the sink with a clatter before he rounds around and starts undoing the ties of the apron. "Get over 'here and bend over darlin'. I'll give you your dessert."

[herbalcompendium]

Hochenblume

Colloquial Names: High flower, Yserabloom

Physical Description: While often referred to as ‘high,’ one need not look far from the ground to find the most aesthetically pleasing – and useful – part of this flower. It presents a rather curious structure, but it remains the single most prolific and alchemically-relevant bloom in the Dragon Isles. “High flower” is a direct translation of its Draconic moniker. “Yserabloom” is a term coined by the Maruuk centaur, in reference to the former Green dragon Aspect with whom they had connected; to them, its ability to grow across the land indicates the tenacity of life itself, and the way in which the blossom points back toward the earth is representative of the eternal cycle of birth, growth, death and rebirth to which all things are held.

Structurally, hochenblume possesses several notable adaptations which enable it to thrive in the myriad climes of the Isles. The plant’s roots are small in number, but great in thickness and strength; it is with these anchors that it holds itself fast to the varied terrain in which it grows, and they dig deeply to draw what nutrients and hydration the bloom requires. It is little surprise then that a thick, hardy stalk breaches the soil and holds itself quite tall – proud, even – to present two sets of long, narrow leaves, wing-like in structure, flaring outward on either side and cresting both skyward and back toward the earth.

Such a strong stem is required to hold a rather weighty seed-bearing pod; were it any weaker, it would surely snap under the pod’s weight. This cone is comprised of thick, fleshy “petals” of tissue, which house the glands that, upon pollination, produce seeds. This pod is quite moist and slightly sweet when chewed, compelling its consumption by herbivores and allowing the spread of the seeds it contains.

While mostly green, vivid violet and thistle hues can be found streaking through its flesh and adorning the tips of its leaves, and the bloom itself is so pleasantly purple it practically glows in direct light. The stamen are lengthy and indigo-hued, while the pistil is a rich amber color and, in a particularly healthy specimen, does in fact glow as it emits a gentle bioluminescence at night.

Harvesting: The flower in question is rather delicate, particularly when compared to the rest of the plant, and its subtle intricacies are worth exploring before one attempts to collect it. The seed pod and all parts of the flower, if pulled on directly, are wont to snap and tear; this is due to tension from the connective tissue directly at the base of the seed pod. There is but a single strand holding the pod in place which runs the entire length of the stalk, but is notably weaker than the stalk itself. A simple smooth and firm twisting motion will easily separate the entire structure; doing so releases the aforementioned tension and allows lossless gathering of any desired materials.

Usage: There is not one standard recipe of which I am aware that utilizes the herbs of the Dragon Isles without including hochenblume. The flower itself has an energizing quality, while the seed pod confers restorative benefits; together, they act as a catalyst and “force multiplier” of sorts for the more focused properties of other native plants. The sweetness and aroma of the pod and petals, can be extracted via usual methods. The pod conveys a grassy, citrus-like brightness. The petals offer a scent rather similar to lilac and, when dried, can be milled to produce a bright pigment for inks and dyes.

As I sat before a rather lush specimen to pen this entry, I found myself musing on its appearance. One may find it curious that so many winged things are born of these lands, and draw a connection to hochenblume’s structure; whether there is empirical truth in this I cannot say, but that is perhaps for the best. There is something magical in the mysteries of this world, and such wondering is itself a most potent catalyst for exploration and experimentation, both of which are worthy endeavors in which I encourage you to engage.

[dystopicjumpsuit]

WIP Poll Snippet!

You voted, and I am here to deliver! Here are twenty-three twenty-six (because I have no self-control) sentences from "A Match for Mayday," coming soon to @tcwmatchmakingau. Pairing is Mayday x flower farmer!reader.

His eyes have a faraway expression, and you wonder what horrors he’s seen to make him look so karking tired. He doesn’t continue, and you don’t prod him. Instead, you wordlessly watch the sun paint the sky in a wash of pastel. As the light fades and the dusk creeps in, the two of you exchange occasional desultory remarks, but mostly you sit in companionable silence, drinking slowly and simply enjoying each other’s nearness.

He’s waiting for you the next night, too, and the one after. Each evening, you open up more to him, and the two of you spend hours speaking quietly into the night. You tell him that your favorite flowers, fire lilies, are unpopular with buyers, so you grow a patch of them just for yourself. He confesses that he’s never seen one, so you lead him through the twilight into the garden. In the fading purple light, the fragrance of the lilies surrounds you in a heady cloud.

“May I pick one?” he asks.

“Of course,” you reply. 

Most people don’t bother to ask, and you never realized how much it bothered you until Mayday’s courtesy reminds you that you have a right to say no. He plucks a blossom carefully, reverently, making sure not to damage the rest of the plant. 

“They’re beautiful,” he says quietly. “I can see why they’re your favorite. Why don’t buyers like them?”

“They don’t last long once they’re picked,” you reply. “It makes transporting them tricky.”

“Then I’m sorry I picked this one,” he says.

“Don’t be,” you reply. “There will be more tomorrow.”

The sun has fully set now, and his dark eyes reflect the pale light of the moons. He examines the blossom closely, taking in the graceful curves of the petals, the speckled pattern at the center, the delicate filaments of the stamens. His eyes rise to your face, and his hands follow nearly unconsciously. His knuckles brush subtly against your cheek as he tucks the flower into your hair. Your mouth suddenly feels very dry, and you swallow without meaning to.

“Beautiful,” he repeats.

---

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