#does it have issues and frustrating moments here and there?
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galedekarios · 2 years ago
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I'm nearly the end of Baldur's Gate 3 and I'm so so in love with this game already. My cleric can talk to animals and I thought I'd talk to like, the occasional bear but I ended up chatting with pretty much EVERY critter I saw?? How cool is that? Also, even if I choose to romance Lae'zel (god, she's everything) I love the weird polyamorous vibe we got from all the companions lol in my head they're just all in love with each other, it's basically canon to me lol did you have fun as well?
i had a lot of fun, too!
what really made me emotional while playing was how well the story and interaction really fit with the character i had created a long, long time ago even before the early access version of the game came out:
my eilistraee cleric altonaufein.
it's so rare that an original character fits so well within a story: from the themes of his arc, to the romance option (gale, in his case), to the dream guardian that i could headcanon feasibly as a very important person to altonaufein and have it just mesh so well with the backstory i had already created for him. the companions -- particularly karlach and halsin as well as lae'zel and wyll -- that became such great and trusted friends to him.
but not only that, just the general attention to detail in the game: the beautifully crafted environments, the gorgeous soundtrack that i'm listening to even when i don't find myself playing the game, just the atmosphere of it all and the intriguing overarching narrative.
i think it's as close as perfect to me, personally, as it can get as a game.
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aroaessidhe · 5 months ago
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2024 reads / storygraph
The Loudest Silence
YA contemporary
a newly Deaf-Hard of hearing girl moves across the country and starts a new school, struggling with navigating her disability and love for singing and lost friendships - determined to not make any new friends for the year she’s in Florida
and a boy struggling with family expectations and anxiety, after being made the fĂștbal captain even though he secretly ways to be on broadway, who quickly befriends her
bi & aroace-coded MCs
#The Loudest Silence#aroaessidhe 2024 reads#hm this was okay! it’s a sweet and light YA contemporary focusing on friendship and disability.#It’s a little cheesy; and I liked the immediate easy friendship (well; after a few false starts) and how welcoming Hayden's#friend group/family were. I like how they all jumped to learning/practicing ASL.#I liked how Casey was dealing with her newfound Deafness with a lot of positivity - the main frustrations being how other people treat her#but there’s also the underlying isolation and grief. At the same time it didn't go as deep as it could have with that?#The friendship is central to the story - but honestly I feel like Casey and Hayden’s relationship doesn’t develop past ‘they’re friends now#[continues other subplots] - it ends up being a bit telling not showing their friendship. And then she gets a love interest.#I feel like if you’re centering your book on being a platonic love story - rare in YA! - giving one a love interest kinda goes against#what’s supposed to be unique about it? Like it wasn’t overwhelming and I thought it was sweet actually; I just didn’t come here for that.#I always find it a little odd when YA contemporary books don’t explicitly name their aroace characters as aroace -#obviously I prefer an exploration of experiences to just using the word and nothing else; but in this genre; why not both?#considering various other identity labels are used and discussed there were various points where it felt like it was walking circles#around where it would be obvious to say “no I’m aroace” lmao?#And there’s a point where Casey mentions seeing an ace sticker on his guitar - the only reason it wasn’t an aroace sticker is bc#that would have ruined the minor subplot of her assuming he’s gay/dating his other friend. It felt like a slightly odd way to mention it?#but also I guess I appreciate it being evident throughout but also being a non-issue plot wise - while there’s a couple of moments#of people making romantic assumptions about them;for the most part it’s just treated normally for a boy & girl to be friends (as it should!#It does get points for mentioning people watching by conan grey LMAO (not that it really explores him feeling that way specifically;#but I mean same lol)#Overall plot-wise - there were kind of a lot of things going on and it petered out a bit? I wanted some more depth in some areas.#Also I feel like some of the references seemed out of date for current teens haha.#i do love the love for unusual pets (hairless cat and iguana)#aroace books#bisexual books
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opens-up-4-nobody · 1 year ago
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#just turning over the idea of executive functioning issues in my head part by part. impulse control. im extremely tightly controlled. im the#best at control. the only times im impulsive is when someone asks me something and my brain doesn't work well in the moment so i tend to b#like fuck it: says something that might fuck me over later bc im like whatever itll prob b fine lol. but mostly not an issue. emotional#control. i dont lash out at ppl except myself i guess. ill sometimes have freak out meltdowns bc i get so frustrated with myself plus mood#weirdness. so not great. flexible thinking. im pretty rigid. if plans randomly change theres like a 1 in 3 chance ill freak out and start#crying and it takes me a long time to adjust to the idea that i have to chsnge something. and things tend to have to b a certain way#not for any reason in particular. thats just how it has to b. i have to eat the same foods. operate at the same times. do thr same things.#thats just how it is. and i find it difficult in social situations to adapt to the flow of convention bc its like but we're talking abt thi#now but something just interrupted and we aren't going abck to that thing. i dont make it other ppls problem but its uncomfortable for me.#working memory. my memory is pretty fucked. self monitoring. im good at that. too good. im pathologically self reflective. planning &#prioritizing. i can plan but i cant prioritize for shit. i will spiral for hours doing nothing bc i can't decide what comes 1st.#task initation. im good at torturing myself into getting things done but i anxiously avoid a lot of things but once i start its like: im in#this mode now. no i cant fucking stop i need this to b done. i need to sit here and finish it otherwise i wont come back to it. i cant do#moderation its all or nothing. all school and nothing outside of that. cant send mail. cant clean sink. i see it and kno i need to do it an#then i just walk away from the disaster area. organization. is ok. it looks a disaster but i only exist in like 3 places so i dont lose#things often but i dont remember where i put things once i put them down i have to deduce where i would have put it. does that paint the#picture of executive functioning issues or rigid and restrictive compulsive behavior paired with self destructive impulses leading to#absolute mental exhaustion which is y things arent getting done? could b either or both. idk my ability to do things 95% of the way and wal#away leaving a mess that ill never come back to strikes me more as the former but what do i#still its worth considering bc i do have an amazing to control myself in a way that's completely out of my control. maybr my start/stop#switch is just fucked idk. slow down and reorient says my counselor u never stop to rest. shes right but also im a grad student stopping#would mean death u gotta keep swimming and doing more than u should. thats how it is#but im so tired and i only get more and more tired. so somethings gotta give eventually#unrelated#i forgot focus. my focus is good sometimes and sometimes my brain is moving too fast and i cant focus at all. its static#but focus is not a thing i cna control
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dalishious · 3 months ago
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The Sanitized Lore of Dragon Age: The Veilguard
Tevinter is the heart of slavery in Thedas. This lore has been established in every game, novel, comic, and other extended material in the Dragon Age franchise to date that so much as mentions the nation. But in Dragon Age: The Veilguard, when we are finally able to actually visit this location for the first time
 this rampant slavery we’ve heard so much about is nowhere to be found. It’s talked about here and there; Neve mentions The Viper has a history of freeing slaves, as does Rook themselves if they choose the Shadow Dragon faction as their origin, for example. But walking down the streets of Minrathous, you’d never know. Because Dragon Age: The Veilguard, for all its enjoyment otherwise, has one glaring issue: It’s too clean.
The world of Thedas is full of injustices. Humans persecute elves, fear qunari, and belittle dwarves. Mages of any race are treated like caged animals in most places. The nobility is corrupt. Although, Dragon Age has not always handled these injustices well, mind you. Many, many times I’ve found myself frustrated with moments that just feel like a Racism Simulator. But what makes it worth it, is when you can actually do something about it. These injustices are things that a good-aligned character strives to fight back against, maybe even for very personal reasons. Part of the power-fantasy for many minorities is that this fight feels tangible. I cannot arrange the assassination of a corrupt politician in real life, but I sure can get Celene Valmont stabbed to death in Dragon Age: Inquisition, for example. Additionally, these fictional injustices can be used to make statements on real life parallels, like any source of media. For example, no, the Chant of Light is not real, but acting as a stand-in for Catholicism, through a media analysis lens we can explore what the Chant of Light communicates on a figurative level.
When starting Dragon Age: The Veilguard and selecting to play as an elf – this should be unsurprising to anyone who is familiar with my bias towards them – I was fully prepared to enter the streets of Minrathous and immediately get called “knife-ear” or “rabbit”. But this did not happen. I thought perhaps it was just a prologue thing, but returning to Minrathous once again, there was not a single shred of disapproval from any NPC I encountered that wasn’t a generic enemy to fight. And even the generic enemies, the Tevinter Nationalist cult of the Venatori, didn’t seem to care at all that I was a lineage they deemed inferior before now. This is a stark difference from entering the Winter Palace in Dragon Age: Inquisition and immediately getting hit with court disapproval and insults. Are we now to believe that Tevinter has somehow solved its astronomical racism and classism problems in the ten years since the past game? Or perhaps are we to believe all the characters who have demonstrated Tevinter’s systemic discriminatory views were just lying or outliers? Because it makes absolutely no sense at all for this horribly corrupt nation to not have a shred of reactivity to an elven or qunari Rook prancing around. But here were are, and not a single NPC even recognizes my character’s lineage. And because this is so different from every single past game, it feels weird.
As an elf, you have the option to make a comment about how “too many humans look down on us” in one scene early in the game. You can also talk to Bellara and Davrin, the elven companions, about concerns that people won’t trust elves after finding out about the big bad Ancient Evanuris
 but this is presented as if elves don’t already face persecution. It’s all so limited in scope that it could be all too easily missed if you are not paying very close attention, and coming into the game with pre-existing lore knowledge.
All this made it easy to first assume that the developers simply over-corrected an attempt to address the Racism Simulator moments. And if that was the case, than I would at least give credit to effort; they did not find the right balance, but they at least tried. However, the sudden lack of discrimination against different lineages in Dragon Age: The Veilguard is not the only sanitized example of lore present.
In Dragon Age: Origins, Zevran Arainai is a companion who is from the Antivan Crows; a group of assassins. He discusses in detail how the Crows buy children and raise them into murder machines through all kinds of torture. The World of Thedas books also describe how the Antivan Crows work, echoing what Zevran says and expanding that of the recruitment, only a select handful of those taken by the Crows even survive. When you start Dragon Age: The Veilguard as an Antivan Crow, you immediately unlock a re-used codex entry from the past, “The Crows and Queen Madrigal”, that says the following:
“His guild has a reputation to uphold. They are ruthless, efficient, and discreet. How would they maintain such notoriety if agents routinely revealed the names of employers with something as "banal" as torture.”
Ruthless, efficient, and discreet. Torture is banal. This is what the Crows were before Dragon Age: The Veilguard decided to take them in a very different direction. The Antivan Crows in this latest game are painted as freedom fighters against the Antaam occupation of Treviso. Teia calls the Crows “patriots”. And while I can certainly believe that the Crows would have enough motivation to fight back against the Antaam, given that it is in direct opposition to their own goals, I cannot understand why they are suddenly suggested to be morally good. They are assassins. They treat their people like tools and murder for money. Even as recent as the Tevinter Nights story Eight Little Talons, it is addressed that the Antivan Crows are in it for the coin and power, with characters like Teia being outliers for wanting to change that. It makes the use of the older codex all the more confusing, as it sets the Antivan Crows up as something they are no longer portrayed as.
I personally think it would have been really interesting to explore a morally corrupt faction in comparison to say, the Shadow Dragons. Perhaps even as a protagonist, address things like the enslavement of “recruits” to make the faction at least somewhat better. (They are still assassins, after all.) Instead, we’re just supposed to ignore everything unsavory about them, I suppose

We could discuss even further examples. Like how the Lords of Fortune pillage ruins but it’s okay, because they never sell artifacts of cultural importance, supposedly. Or how the only problem with the Templar Order in Tevinter is just the “bad apples” that work with Venatori. I could go on, but I don’t think I have to.
It is because of all this sanitization, that I cannot believe this was simply over-correction on a developmental part. Especially when there is still racism in the game, in other forms. The impression I’m left with feels far deeper than that; it feels corporate. As if a computer ran through the game’s script and got rid of anything with “too much” political substance. The strongest statements are hidden in codex entries, and I almost suspect they had to be snuck in.
Between a Racism Simulator and just ignoring anything bad whatsoever, I believe a balance is achievable; that sweet spot that actually has something to say about what it is presenting. I know it is achievable, because there are a few bright spots of this that I’ve encountered in Dragon Age: The Veilguard too. For example, some of the codex entries like I mentioned, and almost all the content with the Grey Wardens thus far. It is a shame there is not more content on this level.
Dragon Age: The Veilguard is overall still a fun game, in my opinion. But it’s hard to argue that it isn’t missing the grit of its predecessors. The sharp edges have been smoothed. The claws have been removed. The house has been baby-proofed. And for what purpose?
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daydreamerdrew · 1 year ago
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The Incredible Hulk (1968) #269
#so Rick’s defense of the Hulk here is immediately undercut by his envisioning of a good outcome being Bruce’s mind in the Hulk’s body#but that itself is interesting because is framed as not coming from a place of concern about the Hulk directly#but anxiety about Rick’s own identity and place in the world when he’s defined himself as the Hulk’s sidekick#his daydream values the Hulk only for his strength and wants to combine that with Bruce’s intelligence#there’s nothing about the Hulk’s personality that’s brought up when thinking about the Hulk’s right to live#and then at the end of the issue he tries to turn himself into a Hulk and says then that it's fine for Bruce to be cured#really making it clear that he was not actually concerned about the Hulk#I really do think that the fact that the Hulk isn’t intelligent makes the idea of eradicating him a lot more palatable#not just from the problems that causes but that it devalues him in people's eyes both in and out of universe#no he does not have a right to live because other people are clearly worth more#and I like that Rick is falling into that because I really don’t see any reason why he wouldn’t#like Jim Wilson is the one that I think actually understands and likes the Hulk and supports him for that reason#whereas Rick is motivated by his debt to Bruce#and I like that Betty is coming out and saying that she’s against Bruce identifying with the Hulk#I honestly prefer her disliking the Hulk over her liking him#because again it doesn't really make sense for her to feel positively about him#I like that the narration describes Bruce as ‘thoroughly obsessed with himself’#and that Bruce couldn’t even give Betty a nice moment out in the desert without freaking out#it’s been a while since Bruce and Betty have been in a relationship so it’s good to see that drama again#to think that I was frustrated with Rick and Betty’s return to the book#because I thought the approach to their feelings about the Hulk and this arc about trying to cure Bruce was simplistic#I've been in a bit of a slump with my Hulk readings but I genuinely think the Hulk's 'friends' treating him poorly is turning that around#because I really like this#marvel#bruce banner#betty ross#rick jones#my posts#comic panels
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atlabeth · 7 months ago
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heat lightning
pt 1 / pt 3
pairing: spencer reid x fem gideon!reader
summary: you end up at the heart of the bau's latest case.
a/n: took way too long but here's more gideon reader! just as irritable as ever with some actual human emotions this time around. send help and prayers bc she's gonna need it. and before you ask there will in fact be some more parts to close up this case, i just have to write them first and it may take approximately 10 years. thank you for your consideration
wc: 4.1k
warning(s): reader still has daddy issues, still hates spence, and still argues w gideon the whole time. more angst! typical cm case stuff (a stalker that has taken vulnerable pics of reader) read w/ discretion if you are sensitive to those things. more drama and more tension and more not being a good time for anyone but me
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“On your right, pretty boy.” 
Spencer stops as Morgan rushes past him back to his desk, eyes trained on the hallway. 
“Why are you in such a hurry?” he complains. “I nearly spilled my coffee.”
“Gideon’s daughter is here again,” he says. “Did you not feel the temperature drop five degrees?”
Spencer frowns. He opens his mouth to say something when he hears the telltale signs of your arrival: arguing. 
“—so typical of you! I have to drop everything the moment you need me, but it’s like pulling teeth to get you to listen to me.”
Gideon turns the corner with you in tow. He has a duffle bag in one hand and a file in his other, his brow furrowed in frustration. 
“That’s because this is important,” he says. 
“Oh, and everything else I try to get you to be around for isn’t?” 
“You know that isn’t what I meant,” Gideon says, keeping his voice level. 
“This is ridiculous,” you spit. 
“It’s necessary,” he corrects. “I’m not going to play games with your safety.” 
“Oh, yeah,” you mock. “Because you’ve always cared about that.” 
He just shakes his head. “I’m not debating this with you.”
“Why? Because you’ll realize that it’s ridiculous?”
You follow Gideon into his office and Spencer watches him close the blinds. The door slams shut, and though he can still hear the muffled argument he can’t make anything out.
“Oh, great,” Morgan says. “Now we can’t even get Reid to read their lips.”
“I don’t think we need it to know what they’re talking about,” Elle says. “They’ve been arguing since she was brought in.”
“Of course they have,” JJ says. “Gideon sent Hotch to pick her up instead of doing it himself. She sees it as another slight.”
“She sees everything as a slight,” Spencer says. “She hates him.” 
“I don’t blame her,” Morgan mutters. “Not when we only found out about her last month.” 
“Surely this isn’t helping with anything,” JJ says wryly. 
Elle shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Sometimes pointless arguing makes you feel better, even when you’re in the wrong.” 
“That’s enough, agents.” Spencer’s attention—along with everyone else’s—snaps to the top of the bullpen to see Hotch holding a file with the same expression as always. “I need you all in the conference room.” 
“Does it have anything to do with that?” Morgan asks, tilting his head towards Gideon’s office. 
“You’ll find out,” he says. Hotch starts walking to the conference room, the conversation clearly over. 
JJ sighs as she stands up and grabs the files on her desk. “I’ll get Penelope. The rest of you try not to gossip too much.” 
She goes off, and the others disperse back to their desk to finish up some last-minute things before the case takes them away. Spencer can’t tear his eyes away from Gideon’s office, even though he’s not getting anything. 
All he can think about is the last time you were here, when he got caught in the middle of your argument with Gideon—your dad, which was still a little weird—and he can’t help but feel guilty. 
Gideon is a father figure to him, sure, but it isn’t that difficult to end up with that dynamic when Spencer’s the youngest on the team. And he can go into everything about his father leaving and the psychology of that, but it doesn’t matter. Gideon treated him like a son when he had a daughter all along that he’d been neglecting. 
For all Spencer knows, it is his fault. 
“Reid,” Elle says, snapping him out of his thoughts, “you coming?”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding far too many times as he catches up to her in a few quick strides. “Sorry.”
“No need,” she remarks. “Gideon’s kid was all anyone could talk about when she first showed up here. This is only gonna make things worse.”
“He can’t really be that bad of a dad,” Spencer says, “right?”
“All I know is that having a parent in the force rarely ends well,” Elle murmurs. She opens the door to the conference room and looks at him. “We can’t be too hard on her when we probably see Gideon more than she does.”
Spencer recalls his meeting with you, how he barely got a word in edgewise while you spent the whole time arguing with someone half the office viewed as immovable. 
“Yeah,” he says distantly. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”
-
“Why? Because you’ll realize that it’s ridiculous?” 
Your dad shuts the blinds on all the windows in his office, then closes the door behind you. He sets your duffle down on the floor then looks at you, that infuriatingly even expression still unchanged.
“It’s not ridiculous,” he says. “Sit down and lower your voice, please. We have some things to talk about.” 
“I gathered that when you sent your guy to pick me up,” you say, crossing your arms as he walks over to his desk. “Couldn’t even do it yourself?” 
“Aaron Hotchner is the chief of this unit and one of the most accomplished agents here,” he says. “He lives closer to you than I do, and I asked him to pick you up on his way in because I knew you would be safe with him. Sit down, please.” 
“There it is again. My safety.” You remain standing. “Tell me what this is about. I’m missing work right now— I know you can understand that, at least.” 
He lets out a sigh as he says your name and looks at you. “Can we get through this without any arguments for once?” 
“That depends. Are you going to treat me like your daughter or an inconvenience?” 
“You’re my daughter, I love you, and your life is in danger,” he says evenly. 
You open your mouth to retort, but your dad opens the file in his hands and sets it down on the other side of the desk. You can see from your position that they’re photos, but your curiosity ultimately wins out. You walk over to get a closer look, and any words die in your throat as you pick up the first photo. 
A photo of you. 
You pick up the next one, only to see it’s another picture of you. At least ten photos are tucked away in the file, and they’re all of you. Taken outside your work, at your apartment, on your morning run— god, there’s even one taken through the window of your bedroom, half-naked in a towel after a shower. 
You fall silently into the chair, your heart hammering inside your chest as your eyes dart between all of the photos. You want to crawl out of your skin. 
“What the fuck is this?” you breathe. 
“The heart of our newest case,” your dad says. “It appears that you have a stalker.” 
“Yeah,” you whisper, eyes still glued to your oblivious self, “I would fucking think so.”
“These photos were dropped off at my door this morning,” he says, and he flips to the next section of the file, “with that note.”
The erratic handwriting instantly stands out to you as you pick the photocopy up, the lump in your throat growing with every word you read. 
such a pretty little thing. I wonder if she knows it.
you don’t care about her, but I do. she’s just like all the rest of us, everyone that you’ve ruined.
think about your priorities, agent gideon. I’ll be watching.  
“What the fuck is this?” you repeat. Blood pounds in your skull as a distant chill creeps down your spine. “I— I’m one of your cases now?” 
“We’re not sure yet,” he admits. “These only appeared yesterday, but from the looks of it, the unsub has been watching you for a while. Can you pinpoint when any of these photos were taken? 
You stare at him. “Some psycho has been stalking me for a while?” 
Your dad says your name again, slightly strained. “Please. I know this is difficult to think about, but figuring out a time frame would help us.” 
“Difficult,” you scoff. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.” 
But it doesn’t have the bite your words usually hold. For once, you don’t think you’re mad at your dad. You think you’re terrified. 
“...Yeah,” you finally murmur, and you pick up one of the photos. “I thrifted a mirror a month ago, and this one doesn’t have it.”
Your dad nods, and he picks up two others. “Neither do these.” 
“So this has been going on for at least a month,” you say bitterly. “Great.”
Your dad says your name, quieter this time, and when you finally look at him his eyes have softened. 
“We’re going to figure this out,” he says. “This is a threat against an FBI agent’s family, and it will be treated accordingly. Forensics is doing tests on all the original copies to try and find a lead. The whole BAU will be on your case—I will be on it, and we won’t rest until we find whoever’s doing this.” 
“Yeah,” you say numbly. “You sure that’ll help? Because it looks like all this is happening because I’m your daughter.” 
“I know this is scary,” he says. “This
 this is nothing like you’ve ever dealt with before. You shouldn’t have to deal with it. But you have to trust my team. We know what we’re doing.” 
“Of course you know what you’re doing,” you say. “You’re always here.” 
Your words have no bite behind them, more of an instinct as you grab your purse from the ground. You can feel the pinpricks of incoming tears, and you refuse to cry in front of your dad. 
“I— I need a minute,” you say. “This is all just—” 
“I understand,” he says. “Just don’t go far. Stay on this floor.”
You nod and start towards the door, but you pause right before you reach it. Your mouth opens as you try to think of something to say, but it falls shut just as quickly. You shake your head as you reach for the door handle, but before you get the chance, it swings open and you’re met with a familiar face. 
Spencer Reid, the kid your dad likes more than you. He’s nothing less than surprised to see you, from his stumbled step back, the slightly wide eyes, his hand poised to knock on the door. 
A mumbled apology falls from your lips as you move around him, and you can still feel his eyes on you as you speed off. You wonder what ideas he and the rest of the BAU have drawn up about you since your last visit to the office. 
You don’t really care. 
True to your word, you don’t go far—just to the bathroom. Thankfully it’s close, because the moment you make it to one of the stalls, knees stinging as you fall to the tiled floor, you vomit. 
By the time you’ve expelled the contents of your stomach, it feels just as empty as the rest of you. You stare at the wall, breathing slightly harried and skin warm to the touch, and you resist the urge to punch it. 
You have a stalker. Someone has been watching you for a month—at least a month, maybe longer—and you had no fucking clue, and now your only decent hope lies with your dad and his team. 
Normally, you wrote off anything depending on your dad as fruitless, but this involved the thing he loved more than anything in the world: his job. 
You huff a wry laugh at the thought. This wouldn’t get solved because it concerned you, it would get solved because it concerned his job. 
You stand up and walk over to the sink. You rinse your mouth, then just stare at yourself in the mirror. 
It— it feels strange. Looking at yourself like this, knowing someone has been—still is—watching you. 
You recall their words. 
Pretty little thing. 
You don’t care about her, but I do. 
A chill crawls up your spine. You can’t shake the dread settling all over you. 
What the fuck are you going to do?
You have to trust your dad, but you’ve never trusted your dad. God, he’s not even really your dad. He’s Senior Supervisory Special Agent Jason Gideon, nothing more—the estranged kid is an unfortunate side effect of the estranged wife.
You let out another breathy laugh. Would he even care if this psycho actually ends up killing you? 
You stand there for another couple minutes, time idling in the background as you continue to stare at the mirror. 
You haven’t cried, at least. That’s certainly something.
The door opens ever so slightly and someone says your name. Your eyes flick to the mirror almost immediately as your body tenses, and you recognize her as one of the BAU’s agents. She’s pretty and blonde with sympathetic eyes, and you know they’ve been briefed on your situation. 
If you have to deal with an office of pitying looks, you think you might lose your mind. 
“Are you alright?” she asks softly. 
“Just peachy,” you mumble. “My dad ask you to check up on me?” 
She nods. “You can imagine why Gideon is a bit high strung at the moment.” 
“I’m fine,” you repeat. “I just
 needed a second.” 
“I understand,” she murmurs. “Do you still need some time?” 
“What do you need?” 
“Gideon wants to talk to you. It’s best if he explains it.” 
You huff a laugh and shake your head. “Fine. Lead the way, Agent
” 
“Jareau,” she supplies. “But call me JJ, please.” 
In lieu of a response, you walk over to her. She offers a thin smile and holds the door for you, then falls into step with you. A moment of silence passes before she speaks up. 
“We’re going to figure this out,” JJ says. “Your dad is one of the best to walk through these doors. If anyone can solve this, he can.” 
“So I keep hearing,” you murmur. 
-
Spencer watches you hurry off with wide eyes, and it takes a few seconds for him to snap out of it. He’s less surprised by your pace, and more surprised that you actually apologized for bumping into him. 
“Reid,” Gideon speaks up, and his attention snaps back over to his superior. “What do you need?” 
“Is she okay?” he asks instead. He can’t help it—after what Hotch just told all of them, he’s worried about you. 
Gideon gathers the photos back into the file then stands up. “Our job is to make sure she will be.”
“Hotch briefed us,” he says, and his eyes darted back to the doorway almost on instinct. “This— this is crazy. We just found out about her last month, and some guy’s been after her for longer?” 
“What this is is one of my enemies targeting my daughter because they’re too much of a coward to go after me,” Gideon says evenly. “We just have to figure out which one before they escalate.”
“How do you know?” he asks. 
“What you said is true,” he admits. “Hardly anyone knows I have a daughter. Even fewer would know where she lives. Someone who wants to hurt me would have incentive to discover both.” 
“So we look into unsubs you’ve put away that have been released,” Spencer says. “Or ones that are still in, but have family that might be bitter.”
“Exactly,” Gideon nods. “But I have to ask something of you, Reid.”
He frowns. “Anything.”
“We’re working on getting a safe house for my daughter,” Gideon says. “I need you to stay there with her.” 
Somehow, his frown deepens. “What?”
“I need to know she’s with someone I can trust,” he says. “There’s someone after her, and we don’t know who—that means we need to keep this circle tight.”
“So you want me to be her bodyguard?” Spencer marvels. “Do you remember that you had to waive all my physical tests?”
“Less of a bodyguard,” he says. “More just
 keeping her company. Making sure she’s alright—mentally as much as physically.”
“Why am I the one that has to keep an eye on her?” Spencer asks. “She hates me!” 
“Don’t take it personally,” Gideon says. “She hates a lot of things.” 
“But it is personal,” Spencer insists. “She hates me because she thinks you like me more than her.” 
Gideon doesn’t seem phased at the comment. “She’s opinionated, but she’s harmless. And right now, I need to know that she’s with someone I can trust.”
“I— I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Please, Reid.” Gideon leans forward, and there’s an uncharacteristic vulnerability in his eyes. "If I'm going to be on this case, I need to know that she's safe. I won't be able to focus otherwise."
Spencer wasn’t going to lie—he genuinely thought it was a bad idea. But
 Gideon said he trusted him. And this was his daughter—they might’ve argued, but they still cared about each other. if he could keep Lila Archer safe, he could keep you safe. 
“
Okay,” he finally concedes. “Okay.”
Gideon nods, and he watches the change in his eyes, the slightest bit of tension leaving his shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Just
 make sure there are two bedrooms,” Spencer says. “I don’t need her to kill me one day in.”
At that, he cracks a rare smile. Spencer is thankful for it, that he can bring even the smallest amount of levity to Gideon’s life right now. 
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
-
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Your dad says your name, but you hardly let him finish. 
“No! First I find out I have a stalker, then my whole life’s going to be uprooted until you find them, and now I have to be stuck with boy genius?”
“You know, we’re about the same age—”
“Do you ever stop talking?” you cry, whirling on Spencer.
“I actually don’t talk that much when I’m around you,” Spencer says, his brows creasing. “This is the third time I’ve met you, and I’ve only said nine sentences across those meetings. Thirteen, if you count all of these too.”
You let out a strained laugh as you shake your head, trying to blink back tears. “This is fucking unbelievable. I know he’s practically your son, but this is just—”
“A safety precaution,” your dad interrupts. “Doctor Spencer Reid is another one of the BAU’s finest agents, and he is fully qualified to keep you safe.”
“He looks like a strong breeze could snap him in half.”
“This is not a joke,” your dad says sternly. “None of this is a joke. Your life is in danger—you have a stalker that has been watching your every move for at least a month, and we have no idea what their next move will be. Doctor Reid is more experienced than you in every facet of this, and I am entrusting him to your care. I respect him immensely, and you will do so as well.”
You don’t even look at Spencer, quiet rage simmering beneath the surface as you stare at your father.
“You really don’t get it,” you murmur. “Do you?”
“The only thing to get is that your life is in increasing danger with every moment you spend pushing against me,” your dad says, and he stands up. “Get your purse. Reid, get her duffle. We’re leaving.”
He leaves before you get the chance to do anything—you assume he’s finally tired of you. 
You just shake your head and pick up your purse, and Spencer clears his throat as he reaches for your duffle bag. You wonder if it even has anything useful—Aaron Hotchner was the one who packed it. 
“
So,” Spencer says. “I guess we’re gonna be roommates for a while.”
You huff in fully unveiled annoyance, and you push past him on your way out. 
“Great,” he mutters to himself as he follows you. “So this is what Gideon’s trust earns me.” 
It doesn’t take him too long to catch up to you, despite the unnecessary quick pace you’re taking. You bypass the elevator and head towards the stairwell, and Spencer catches the door before it’s able to slam on him. 
He says your name, but you just shake your head. 
“If we’re gonna be stuck together until this is over, I’d prefer silence.” 
“I don’t really do silence,” Spencer says. 
“I’m sure there’ll be plenty of books for you to read in whatever jail cell they throw me in.” 
“It’s actually going to be a pretty nice safe house,” he starts, throwing his hand up against the wall to catch himself from running into it as he turns, because god you are moving fast, “Gideon picked it out himself.” 
“Oh, then it’ll definitely be a jail cell,” you mock. “It’s not like he knows anything about me, so he’ll probably think that it’s perfect.” 
Spencer frowns. “Cut him some slack. This is all just as hard on him as it is on you.” 
You come to a sudden stop, whirling around to face him, and Spencer has to reel to the side to prevent himself from running into you. Had he not already been pressed up against the wall, he would have moved back further, what with the fire blazing in your eyes. 
“I’m not going to cut him any slack,” you spit. “This is the most time I’ve gotten to spend with my dad in months, and it’s only because some creep is stalking me to get back at him. The only reason I’m in this at all is because of his job that he cares about more than me, and now he’s sticking me with the guy that he wishes was his kid. So no, Doctor Reid—I’m not going to cut him any slack.” 
You’re already off on your way again before Spencer even has time to blink, and you’ve made it down the whole last flight by the time he pushes himself back up. 
He takes the steps three at a time to catch up to you, and he once again barely manages to catch the door before it slams on him. He calls your name, finally managing to fall into step with you right before you reach Gideon. He, like a normal person, deigned to take the elevator. 
“You haven’t started arguing already,” he says, passing a glance at Spencer, “have you?” 
“What do you think?” you ask, your arms crossed. 
“I think you’re giving him a hard time that you usually reserve for me,” he says. “Cut him some slack.” 
Your jaw clenches. “I’ve been getting a lot of that lately. Save the profiling for my stalker, will you?”  
“There’s plenty of profiling to go around,” Gideon says. “You two wait here—I need to confirm the safe house location before we head out.” 
“Can we stop by my place before we go?” Spencer asks. “I need to pick up some things.” 
“You have a go bag, don’t you?” 
“Yeah, but I— I wasn’t exactly prepared for this sort of thing when I came in today.” 
“You’ll be fine,” Gideon says. He walks off before Spencer can protest, and he sighs. 
You lean against the wall, your arms crossed with your purse hanging off your shoulder, and for once you don’t pass judgment on his—admittedly small—plight. 
“I changed my mind,” Spencer speaks up, deciding to try and break the remarkably high amount of tension that had built up in such a short time, and your eyebrows rise as you glance at him. 
“About what?” 
“I— I think I can do silence,” he says. “Temporarily.” 
You huff a laugh. “Really?” 
“I don’t really want to annoy you while we’re stuck together in an undisclosed location,” he says. “I don’t know what you’re capable of.” 
And for the first time since Spencer has met you, you actually smile. It’s the smallest thing, just a slight tilt of your lips that’s more akin to Hotch’s moments of levity than anything, but it’s a smile. 
“...Good choice,” you say. It feels like a joke, but Spencer isn’t sure. 
He smiles anyway. You meet his eyes, and for a moment, you’re just another girl. Someone that Spencer could imagine himself stealing glances at in a lecture hall, a regular at his favorite coffee shop that he falls for over the course of an especially cold winter, someone he meets on a night out with the team that he ends up talking to all night. 
You really do have pretty eyes. 
And then your gaze hardens, darts away from him, and Spencer sees Gideon coming back in his peripherals. The moment fractures. 
You’re not just a girl. You’re Gideon’s daughter, you’re in a remarkable amount of danger, and lest he forget, you do in fact hate him. 
Spencer lets out another short sigh. 
At least this safe house won’t have a pool.
2K notes · View notes
logaenhowlett · 3 months ago
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TEACH YOU HOW TO GET TO PUREST HELL - L.H.
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Summary: On the way to one of his cage fights, Logan's truck begins to break down and that's how he meets you, the owner of a repair shop in Northern Alberta. He promises to pay you with his winnings - but what he ultimately offers is far more interesting.
Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader
Warnings: Smut 18+ only, Fluff, Flirting, Dirty talk, Praise kink, Fingering, Unprotected sex (against the cage), Aftercare, Logan's a snarky motherfucker (but secretly a softie)
A/N: The filthiest 4k I've ever written. I just know he was a menace during his cage fighter era. It's okay though, I'll still be clawing at the enclosure. Title creds to Radiohead. Hope you enjoy!
MASTERLIST
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Smoke curls around him, bearing a semblance of warmth against the biting wind. Logan's grip on the steering wheel is loose, the other arm draped lazily across the window. He flicks his fingertips ever so often, the ashes of his cigar disappearing into the falling snow. Mile after mile, the same barren landscape stretches before him.
He's lost amidst the silence, having turned the radio all the way down in frustration at the nonsense plaguing the stations earlier. As sunshine glares through the windshield, he scrunches his eyebrows, vaguely entertaining some ideas swirling in his mind.
Hours pass by painfully slow. He tries to ignore the low rumbling that interrupts his flow of thoughts, body firmly protesting against this all-alcohol diet he'd unintentionally adopted. Logan skims a hand into the glove compartment, clicking his tongue when he discovers only a few wrappers lying inside. Slumping back into the seat, he takes another drag, disappointment etching onto his features.
An orange, flashing icon on the dashboard snaps his attention. His eyes dart to the blinking light, a sense of irritation washing over him when he recognises the ‘check engine’ symbol. In a haste, he pulls the truck over, slamming the door shut behind him as he ventures into the cold to inspect the issue. Though he has an extensive knowledge of motorcycles, by no means does that expertise carry over to whatever mess he finds beneath the hood. Logan returns with a sigh, recalling a faded road sign he'd passed ages ago - at least he isn't awfully far from his destination.
In the distance, the town welcome monument brings him some sort of peace. After driving by plenty of dimly lit diners and pubs, he reluctantly asks a stranger for directions to the nearest repair shop. Logan arrives shortly thereafter, parking at the entrance of this seemingly empty building. Curious, he scans the place, sliding out of his seat in search of anyone.
The distinct ring of metal hitting the floor has him spinning around. He fights back the amused huff at the sight of you, bottom lip slightly caught between his teeth in an attempt to stop the smirk threatening to break free. His eyes rake over your figure as you come closer - appreciating the way your overalls perfectly capture the slopes and curves of your body - before finally, rising to meet your unimpressed expression.
"What're you here for?"
There's a smidge of annoyance in your words, a reaction he very much enjoys being the reason for. He nods towards the truck parked out front, "Problem with the engine."
When you brush past him, Logan spots a name neatly embroidered onto your otherwise soiled clothes. Smiling, he follows after you, shamelessly dropping his gaze to your ass for a moment.
Waiting patiently while you poke around the hood, he steals glances at your profile, filled with the sudden urge to wipe away the grease stain remnants off your cheeks, "Yeah... looks like the head gasket needs replacing."
Logan groans to himself before agreeing with your judgment. He runs a hand across his face, stilling in brief confusion when you chuckle quietly.
"Somethin' funny?" He asks, noting how you browse the insides of his camper with a flair of barely-masked mockery.
"Just admiring the interior design."
That one almost draws a scoff out of him. Logan knows his living quarters are rather bare-bones in nature, at best, providing decent shelter for when he's on the go. Inside, a makeshift bed large enough for a man of his size and basic kitchen appliances - though he rarely uses those. It's all he cares for anyway, yet there's a tinge of self-consciousness he shakes before gruffly responding, "You can do it by tonight?"
"Tonight?" Your eyebrows raise in surprise, "Fine... but it's gonna set you back about three grand."
"I got half for now."
A sharp laugh pierces his ears. And even though it's undoubtedly fake, he thinks you look pretty like this - shooting what can't be anything less than a deadly glare just for him. The corners of his lips tilt up when your tone suddenly becomes stern, "That's not how it works, buddy."
"Listen, I got a fight later, I'll be good for it."
"What? You that sure you're gonna win?"
You're teasing him. You know it, and so does he. Logan studies the way your hand rests against your hip, a challenging glint behind your eyes while you consider this ridiculous suggestion. He moves one step closer and proudly welcomes the surge of satisfaction at the slight crack of your demeanour.
"Darlin', I always win." It's a whisper that leaves him, hushed and dangerously low. Giving your shoulder a playful nudge as he walks by, he circles to the trailer behind the truck, retrieving his motorcycle. He smirks, pleased to witness such a glimpse of weakness, "Eleven-thirty. O'Malley's. I'll see you there."
The engine revs with each twist of his wrist, the movement so precise and natural. As he sinks onto the bike, the suspension adjusting to his weight, he sends you a wink.
"And if you lose?" You shout over the blaring sounds.
With one final grin, "Just fix my truck, alright."
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Even from outside, O'Malley's is deafeningly loud. The wooden door creaks lightly with the gentlest push, and a mixture of overly enthusiastic yells paired with the clashing of glass greet your presence. You're no regular here whatsoever, but the fights that occur in this bar are usually the talk of the town. And despite its reputation, you've never had much interest in being surrounded by a crowd of angry, intoxicated men - all drowning beneath the crude insults and empty threats tossed into the air.
Some of the patrons, customers you recognise from work, acknowledge you with a polite smile while you settle into a booth near the cage. As you observe the utter chaos around the room, it only cements your distaste for this so-called form of entertainment. The current match's loser staggers past your table, barely walking on two feet even with the support of his friends.
All you can think about is returning home with your hard-earned cash. It was a rather tiring day, running around salvage yards scouring for spare parts to tend to the old piece of junk he'd called a truck. Not to mention the unforgiving weather, which seemed determined to make your day more miserable. And to top it all off, the jerk wanted it done by nightfall - the audacity! Just the simple reminder of today's events has your body tensing from restlessness.
Behind you, a group of men sneer amongst themselves and between their slurring, the words "pretty boy" and "his ass kicked" grasp your attention. Turning around, you watch as they hand over money to some younger fella, taunting others to join the bet. Oh, that makes your blood boil. This Logan had strolled into your shop with nothing but a superficial promise for your services, and now, he's presumed to lose?
You stand up abruptly, peering across the space in search of him. A rush of fury courses through you at the same time you spot him casually lounging in the corner. As you approach, the faint glow of the bulb illuminates his face, a cloud of smoke momentarily hiding the smirk playing on his lips. His chuckle cuts through the hum of the jukebox he's leaning on, eyes crinkling with a kind of smugness at your arrival.
"You're joking." The bottle of whiskey between his fingers shocks you the most, "Are you seriously getting drunk before your fight?"
Logan grins at your concerned expression, eyes tracing you up and down, "You fix it?"
"Yes, I fucking fixed it. Took me all day!" Fists clenching, you stare at him intently, "Look, I did my job - you better do yours."
"Don't worry 'bout it, darlin'. I'm a man of my word." He dismisses you completely, taking a prolonged swig of his drink. A beat passes before he lazily holds up two fingers right to your face, "Scout's honour."
He laughs again when you roughly shove his hand aside, not sparing another second for this cocksure attitude. You grumble under your breath, making your way back to the booth, "It's three fingers, asshole."
A few matches take place over the next hour, and you're only getting more antsy as each of the competitors exits the cage with nothing short of bloody faces and broken bones. The audience roars all of a sudden, some even rattling the fence as this new person strides into the threshold.
Of course, he'd stripped his shirt off and the sight of his muscle-toned chest only serves to further fuel your irritation. Logan's eyes find yours immediately, looking past the crowd of hecklers now whistling at him. With a nod, he throws you a confident smirk and turns to his rival.
The man he's up against is much more burly and has a couple of inches on him. Though that doesn't seem to faze Logan in the slightest, instead he's flexing his arms almost playfully before adopting a fighting stance. Every punch and kick has you twitching in your seat, your feet firmly stuck to the ground in anticipation.
Remembering how he'd chugged an entire bottle of liquor earlier, you're astonished by the ferocity with which he attacks his opponent, dodging most moves with deadly precision. As he lands more jabs, the spectators begin to jeer and boo, swarming the enclosure of the cage in a tantrum. You peek over their shoulders, ducking away from the things they're flinging around. There's a collective gasp when he knocks out the other man, and you sigh in relief.
Leaning towards the cage, a cigar lightly pressed against his mouth, Logan's focus shifts to you. His chest is heaving from all the physical exertion, skin damp from the sweat. As he exhales the smoke, blowing a kiss in your direction, a satisfied expression returns to his face. He runs a hand through his wet hair, leaving the arena with no regard for the protesting crowd.
You follow after him, squeezing through the tightly packed space. He's settling a score with the owner, a wad of rolled cash passing between them as a reward. After a nod of mutual agreement, Logan faces you, tossing his leather jacket on. And while you're ultimately happy he won, there's also this urge to smack the cheeky look that seems to be glowing as you come closer.
What's more upsetting is the fact that he is undeniably gorgeous - especially like this, all sweaty and wound up from the adrenaline rushing inside. And of course, he doesn't miss how your gaze wanders to the sliver of skin peeking through his jacket, every slight movement only revealing more.
Logan grabs a few bills from the roll of money and stuffs them into his back pocket, holding the rest out towards you. As you reach for the cash, he swiftly draws his hand back with a teasing smile, "Have a drink with me."
"No."
"C'mon." He drags out, repeating the same thing when you try again, "No one needs their cute, little mechanic right now."
Watching you sigh triggers a thrill of excitement, an unspoken victory he claims with no shame. With a simple gesture, he leads you towards a secluded booth, determined to make this a worthwhile exchange. Despite your hesitation, he maintains a sort of relaxed energy, draping his arm along the seat - his eyes not straying from yours.
Two shots of vodka are placed on the table and Logan mirrors your action, slowly raising the glass to his lips. In no time, the air of unease dissipates, replaced by a comfortable silence while the drinks keep coming. As the night wears on, casual conversation flows between you and he asks a few things like how long you've lived here, why you became a mechanic and eventually, when he slides you the money, "What now, darlin'? You gonna leave?"
His voice, dripping with honeyed sweetness, sends a shiver down your spine. You can't exactly place the feeling, but it's a tangle of exasperation and something else - something you're not quite ready to define. Instead, you blame it on the drinks, the late hour, and the fact that there's an incredibly attractive man just inches away.
As frustration envelops your thoughts, you suddenly excuse yourself and head towards the bathroom. The alcohol, previously a gentle companion, now seems to be taking its toll. Looking at your reflection in the mirror, you try to fight against the sensations running through your body. The splash of cold water does little to your state of mind, yet you're back outside in what feels like a tilted world, using all your strength to walk straight.
As you brush past the cage, someone collides into you. Desperate for balance, you reach out to grip the fence, but a strong hand lays steady on your lower back. With a gasp and a tilt of your head, you're caught off-guard when Logan comes into your view. His arm snakes around to gently hold your waist, his body now pressing into yours.
Overwhelmed by the sudden proximity, you tear your attention away from him and glance at the wire pricking your fingers, "This is fucking sharp."
He doesn't break the eye contact. A low hum vibrates through his chest as he leans in, the warmth of his breath dancing with yours. The space between you slowly shrinks, whatever lighthearted facade he'd worn earlier vanishes only to be replaced by something raw and inexplicable.
"How're you not bruised?" You whisper, remembering the way he'd been thrown against the cage earlier.
"Call it a special talent."
Despite your better judgment, you find yourself captivated by him, the intensity of his gaze reeling you in. And so, you decide to play his game, "Can you teach me?"
Logan pauses, "You wanna learn... how to fight?"
"Just a little punch or something."
A faint smile spreads across his face, you're absolutely sure he can feel the way your heart is pounding. When his lips lightly brush against your ear, a quiet rumble escapes and something flickers in your gut - a twist of exhilaration laced with a hint of caution.
There's barely anyone left in the bar at this point besides the one or two stragglers hanging around. Logan and you stand alone in the cage, seemingly tucked away in a little pocket of your own. He doesn't wander too far, remaining within an arm's distance while demonstrating the proper technique for a jab - the motion so fluid and effortless.
Your initial attempts to mimic his movements are clumsy and awkward, his amusement only growing more evident with each try. Slipping behind you, he sheds the jacket, once again exposing his glorious muscles and the thought of tracing his vein-riddled biceps with your tongue leaves you dazed for a moment. This time, he circles his arms around you and guides your hands into the correct position.
As you practice, your bodies nudge against each other, his breath fans across your neck and ignites a fire within you. The tension is palpable, the air thick with implicit desire. You can almost feel his gaze burning into you, every second posing a challenge to cross this imaginary line.
The rest of the patrons are ushered out the door, the owner nodding at Logan before disappearing into the back room. And the silence settles in, a stark contrast to all the commotion that lingered for hours prior. You notice the difference, inching towards the exit, "Looks like they're closing up."
Before you can move away, Logan's hand shoots out to catch your wrist, "And we got it all to ourselves."
"What?"
"Might've slipped the owner a little somethin’."
His fingers trail up your arm, thumb gently pushing your soft skin. Slowly, he brings you closer, his words just a whisper of heat on your cheek. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, a rhythm echoing your own racing heart. Your voice, hoarse and strained, barely manages a response, "Is this how you budget? No wonder you're broke."
It's his laughter that breaks you at first, followed by, "You got a smart mouth, darlin'. Tell me, what else can it do?"
His lips hover mere inches above yours, there's a moment of hesitation hanging in the air - an out, if you don't want this. But, temptation is a dangerous siren and you're already ensnared by her song.
Fuck it.
Logan's dog tags hang pretty between the slopes of your breasts, his mouth moving against yours in a rough, demanding fashion. It's sloppy. It's wet. And it's goddamn heavenly when his fingers thread through your hair, the gap between you now completely erased. You cling to him as if he's an anchor, nails digging into his shoulders while he pins you to the cool metal of the cage.
He wants to touch you. To feel the warmth radiating straight off your body. The straps of your overalls fall from his force, he takes the opportunity to slide one hand through the side, kneading your waist with a kind of tenderness that surprises him too. When you take a second to breathe, Logan peppers kisses along your jawline, then some beneath your ear before grazing his lips on your neck.
The pulsing vein he finds nearly has him growling in pleasure, "Fuck, darlin'... feel so good already... can't wait to taste you when I'm done..."
He stills when you gasp, glancing up through his lashes and then quietly chuckling at your flustered expression. Yet, he can't revel in his victory for any longer than a blink, your palm tilts his head back before you fiercely capture his mouth once more.
His name rolls out your lips, drawn out and glazed with an obvious need. Taking a deep inhale, Logan feels the bulge in his jeans growing with each passing moment. You're only getting restless as his hands roam over your body, becoming nothing more than a whimpering mess all from his doing.
"Lemme hear you for real, baby... don't be shy." His fingers latch onto the cage, using it to thrust forward and deepen the kiss. Your clothes end up pooling at your feet, the barriers between you peeling away with every layer gone. Now, skin to skin, sweat glistening on your brow, you're left bare and vulnerable to his touch.
Logan reaches down, spreading your thighs wide enough till he can push your panties aside, stroking the outside of your entrance. Clenching his jaw when he's met with a distinct wetness, "Hidin' all this for me?" He almost laughs at how you curl forward and then whine his name, craving for any part of him to be inside you, "Hm... what'd you say to me before? Three fingers?
With no warning, he slides exactly three inside your cunt, pumping in and out as best as he can, "So fuckin' tight, darlin'... c'mon... show me you're ready for the real thing." He knows he's doing something right when you squirm at his actions, jumping at the invitation to delicately flick your clit before sinking his fingers back into you.
"Logan-"
Pain consumes you as he continues, tears springing to your eyes. You've never felt pleasure like this, so intense and so profound, words lost amongst the moans trembling out your lips. Your knees begin to shake under the pressure, and his free hand immediately cups your thigh, securing your body to his. As you call out for him, urging him to fuck you senseless, he tugs his fingers away.
The belt flies, jeans tossed behind in an instant and he grunts, freeing his hard length from his boxers. The tip of his cock teases your folds, the precum slicking down from the head. His nose presses against your cheek when your hand runs up and down - getting him all nice and ready. Breath hitching at the sensation, Logan involuntarily bucks his hips, your eagerness carrying him over the edge.
He's careless about lining himself up, giving it no more than a fleeting thought before thrusting into you. Whatever floods your brain at that moment is much more potent than anything you've ever experienced. It's vigorous, almost animalistic in nature, how hard he fucks you. The veins on his arms become more apparent as he hoists you up, pushing you against the cage. He can hear the little fibers of your skin tearing because of the friction, yet he does little to ease that pain, knowing you're enjoying the hurricane of emotions whisking you away.
Logan pants into your tits, nipping at the soft flesh, "Wanted to ruin that pussy since I saw you this mornin'... all dirty and pissed off at me - god. Thought 'bout somethin' else on your face too."
"Logan - don't... fucking stop. Feels amazing... wanna feel all of you." The words escape you - laboured and breathless - your eyes soften in delight, watching this sort of enraptured expression wash across his face, "So good for me, Logan."
So good.
For me.
And boy, if that doesn't spur him on.
Picking up speed, his movements turn greedy, grinding into you with a degree of passion he's never felt before. As you tug his hair, fingers raking through the dark tresses in a frenzy, Logan taps into the primal energy swelling within. His hands squeeze you further, your thighs constricting his waist as he drives up into you, "That's it baby... fuckin' perfect. Takin' all of me like a good girl... mhmm."
The way your body helplessly arches has him grinning, but that quickly gets swept away when his cock twitches inside you, aching to burst at any given moment. He tries his hardest to control himself, longing for your cries of pleasure as you finish. Thrusts weakening to a leisurely pace, Logan grunts into your neck, mumbling a string of curses while he rides out this wave. Thankfully, you're on the precipice as well, your body reaching its peak with a shiver.
His cum trickles out of you, thighs getting sticky as it seeps lower and lower. Lost in a daze, Logan thinks he can see the damn sun in your eyes. With a gentle swipe of your cunt, he sheepishly licks his own fingertips, a smile brightening his face.
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The mattress, once a source of great discomfort, now feels like paradise as you cuddle into the crook of his neck, the soft rhythm of your breath soothing him to a state of peace. He'd carried you to his truck earlier, threatening you with a barrage of kisses when you dangled his keys in front of him. There was a rather short game of tag before you relented and collapsed into his embrace, tiredly blinking up at him. He'd tucked the loose strands of your hair back then tenderly caressed your cheek. It took all but one affectionate grin to convince you to spend the night in his camper.
Not a single inch of your body is free from his touch. He pulls you even closer, tracing patterns around the tiny scratches spreading across your shoulders. If you'd asked him yesterday, he would tell you he has no plans of sticking around this town, grown used to a life of impermanence. Yet, as he rests, tangled in your arms, Logan finds a reason to stay.
1K notes · View notes
starlitscars · 5 months ago
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Made of ice
Jackson era! Joel Miller x F! Reader
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Summary: One stormy night in the safety of Wyoming, it occurs to Joel that even though life has turned his heart into a slab of ice, there's a soft, melting spot buried deep inside... Only reserved for you.
Word count: 5.2k
Masterlist
Tags/warnings: MDNI, NSFW, implied age gap, canon-typical violence, Joel Miller needs his own warning, protective! Joel, soft! Joel, angst, fluff, smut, finger sucking, fingering, pet names, praise kink, language, no use of y/n, soft dom! Joel, negative thoughts, dea*h wish, self-doubt, self-confidence issues, Joel is a sweetheart here (but he doesn't think he's worthy of peace), rain, lots of rain, lightning, stormy weather, kinda established relationship, let me know if a tag has gone unnoticed.
Author's note: This is my very first attempt at writing for Joel Miller. I've had the idea in my mind for a few weeks now and it's hard to resist when it comes to him (did I say Pedro Pascal?) So I hope the details are accurate and if you decide to read this one shot, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did while writing it. If you want to be mutuals, I'll be more than glad <3
Divider by: saradika-graphics
Made of ice
You should've seen what you made of him.
The calm, slow beats in his chest are strikingly different from how he remembers them. In fact, he vaguely recalls the way those racing, dreadful patterns had carved themselves into his memory. With a rigid heart made of ice, it was nearly impossible to find the pulse in him, even at his most frightened, disappointed state. 
Joel used to walk into the face of danger with a rifle clutched in his dying grip, a life to save and thousands to destroy, and in all those moments any sign of life was nonexistent in him. There used to be rage, hatred, regret, and frustration... Oh lots of frustration, running through the veins in his body. He used to walk, talk, and breathe. But he wasn't alive.
Now he doesn't find it in himself to call it miracle. But somewhere between the lines, you happened. You happened and fuelled the dying fire in the far corner of his heart. He used to keep it empty and dark, like a deserted house with no furniture, a perfect place for the noises in his head to become loud and maybe help him stand the never-ending days of what everyone called life. 
You entered his life and now most of what he feels in these old veins is warmth, safety and attachment. Yes, he doesn't call it miracle, because his past doings are too  stained and unforgivable to deserve a miracle. To deserve you. The real miracle. The fathomable idea of what it feels to be alive.
Joel feels alive.
Some days, it feels like his wretched past is clawing its way back into his mind, calling those demons to end his days of peace with you. Some nights, he's restless... So terribly restless. What if you get injured on your next patrol? What if the Raiders attack you when you're out of the gates of Jackson? What if something bad happens to you the moment his eyes close? What if these damn what ifs come to life? This old mind tricks him into seeing pictures of what has never happened and probably never will. You always assure him that you'll be careful. He trusts you and your abilities, but he does not trust his fears. Because if life is too good, it scares him. 
It scares Joel Miller, way more than it would if he was trapped in a dark room with all of his fears and demons creeping on the cold hard floor towards him. He'd rather spend every day fighting off the Clickers and Raiders and every nasty threat out there, instead of pacing around the room and waiting to see if your patrols end well or not.
So he has no choice but to either convince Tommy to pick him as your patrol partner every damn time you have to do it – which he makes sure is as limited as possible – or occasionally keep an eye on you from a distance and let his thoughts consume him at the same time. Just like what he's doing now. 
His persistence in being close to you tends to earn him annoyed eye rolls and "She's more capable than that, Joel." comments from his brother... almost all the time. But he simply can't help it, and he thinks that you know it. Because you never complain nor haul him over the coals for his instincts and worries and the immense amount of care his rigid heart feels for you. He's silently thankful for that understanding.
You are safe here, he thinks. Even though he feels restless, his heartbeat has never been this calm. He sits and watches you on nights like this and there's only one thought ringing in his head. All the scolding is worth it. You're sprawled out peacefully on the bed. His bed. It must be straight out of a fucking impossible dream. You're here, in his atmosphere, in his menacing, guilty, dark presence... And you have chosen it knowingly. It's all he can ever ask for. 
The dim moonlight is swimming in through the curtains, casting a soft, silvery shadow over your face. Your hair is falling all around you like you're knowingly doing it... Posing for an artist just to paint this delicate beauty on a canva. 
Despite his bitter mood, a content smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Tearing his gaze from you, he downs the remaining whiskey and silently places the empty glass on the table, deciding that he needs a short walk to free his troubled mind. One morning, Maria woke up and decided that Joel needs to stay behind and help Tommy in fixing the issues in the town's only library. So you should have another partner for your patrol days for god knows how long. He fucking hates being told what to do. He fought tooth and nail to prevent that, and if you weren't there to stop him, he would as well turn the mess hall into another ruin that needed to be fixed – which only meant more time away from you. 
So it's going to take only two weeks, at worst. Only a terrible fortnight before things go back to normal. It's almost unbelievable how you have managed to awaken a sense of normalcy in him that he hasn't known in decades. Your absence is an instant threat to this normal life.
Maybe it's about time he gets used to it. He's not that weak. He shouldn't let his angers and worries run him. More importantly, he shouldn't ruin your much needed sleep with his usual problems right now. You've still got the weekend. He'll take a walk and be back here before you as much as stir in your deep slumber.
Oh. The damn library.
...
Jackson is eerily quiet in the middle of the night, enveloped by darkness and as isolated as it can be in this corner of the world. It's a stark contrast to how busy the whole community is during the daylight – bustling with happy greetings, careless jokes, movie days, small parties, and lots of work to do. It all asks for social interaction and he deeply hates it.
He hates when every passer-by's attention turns to you every time you step out in the open. He hates how prying eyes rove up and down your frame every time you walk into the bar. He hates how... He shakes his head, almost rolling his eyes at the loudness of these thoughts. Joel has to remind himself that he is the one you hold onto and introduce to everyone in every social gathering. The proud gleam in your eyes always placates him. There's no need to break a jaw in this town... Perhaps.
Lights flicker by the porches and the sound of his boots on the ground is the only sound that disturbs the silence. The sky is clouding over, distantly promising another stormy night in its gloomy wake. Occasional flashes of lightning light up the road and before Joel knows it, he's passing by the Tipsy Bison. It's 3 past midnight, no wonder why its doors are locked and closed. Either way he comes to a halt, letting the gears turn in his head as he opts for a very familiar path.
Your house. It's a short walk away from the bar.
Joel still recalls that day. How long has it been? Five, six, seven months? It feels like yesterday to him.
He'd had a terrible conversation with Tommy, not at all the way he'd planned it on his first day in Jackson. Things got heated up pretty quickly, leaving a bitter taste of rejection lingering on his tongue, the burn of the whiskey only worsening his mood.
"Just because life stopped for you, doesn't mean it has to stop for me..."
The words were ringing in his head as he stormed out of the bar. Shrugging his jacket on, all he wanted was to walk as far away from that area as possible. This affronted, begrudging, irrational sting was boiling in him and in that moment he was more than ready to leave the gates of Jackson even if it called for more danger. Life had really ended for him years ago, but to hear it from Tommy right after the hell he'd went through to find him... It really hurt. 
The pain was resurfacing in rapid tides.
If his boots could dig deeper, get stuck in the snow and propel him into the cold biting blanket of the earth, he'd welcome it. If life had really ended for him, he had to make it make sense by ending himself as well. This... There was this distant melody echoing in the air and cutting through his troubled thoughts. The wind was harsh against his ears, and each step brought the melody closer. 
It really could be the last song that played before his funeral.  
Joel was surrounded by all the colors, and all he could see was white, eyes fixed on the ground. He didn't pay much attention as he bumped into someone. He barely lifted his head to apologize, and then his gaze settled on the crackling fire on the left side of the road. 
Red and orange and yellow hues. It was a fresh contrast. His eyes were hurting from all the white snow.
He came to a halt, mindlessly waving at the person he'd bumped into. A dozen of kids had gathered around the burning logs in a barrel on the porch, rubbing their hands together and listening to the same melody he was entranced by. The same melody that he thought would be his burial hymn.
Joel's eyes followed their excited faces, wondering who they were looking at. He saw you mirroring their hopeful gleams first, and then he registered the guitar on your lap. 
To make the matters worse, you had tilted your head, shooting him a funnily quizzical look. He might've looked weird back then. The town's newcomer, with a permanent scowl on his face, maybe plotting murder as well (considering that it was the main topic in all the words that already flew around about him).
He didn't answer, still dead in his tracks as if he was immobilized by some invisible force. So you shifted in your seat, silently offering him a spot among the children as if to say "You can come over and join us."
He had two choices in that moment, either a polite decline was on the table or a dismissive frown. He looked over his shoulder at the bar and finally opted for the third choice – or so his mind created another choice for him – and he nodded, joining in on your little gathering without as much as saying a word. He really wanted to hear that song.
He never asked whether you knew the words to that song, but that night when he lay in bed and his thoughts were far from the idea that he wanted to bury himself in the snow, he vaguely remembered the lyrics. And it hit him hard, like a punch to the gut.
Yeah, I don't want to hurt
There's so much in this world 
To make me bleed
Stay with me
Let's just breathe
Stay with me
You're all I see
He wanted to ignore how the words affected him in the middle of the night. It was the first night he could feel some semblance of peace, not sleeping with an eye open in case someone attacked them. Ellie was safe in another room. So he really considered that. He considered the possibility of staying. He was relatively new to the community... And so damn unaccustomed to the whole arrangement. He almost woke up the next morning and started packing before he remembered where he was.
Stay with me
Let's just breathe
Those words stuck with him.
And his first encounter with you was a harbinger of different things to come.
One day of patrolling with you led to another, one night of inviting you for a drink led to another. One peaceful afternoon in the stable led to another. One gloomy evening in the clinic did not lead to another. He was way too protective of you to let that happen again.
He truly feels lucky. You could be anywhere else, better off if you picked anyone other than this grumpy, old man. And yet you still want him. You silly girl. You've melted his heart with your warmth. 
But he's like a lake, deserted in the middle of a haunted forest and engulfed in coldness. Even though the center is warm and gooey, he keeps the surface frozen and rigid and menacing. Hard enough to keep his instincts sane and alarmed. Cold enough to let everyone know that you're his and he will not fucking share. 
Lightning strikes again in the sky.
He lifts himself up and off your front stairs with a heavy grunt. An hour has passed since he left for a walk. The clouds have fully gathered in the sky and he thinks that he should be by your side now.
Joel really cares little for the details, always asking Tommy and Ellie to spare him the explanation and get straight to the point. But with you, it's hard to forget a couple of things. One night, a few weeks ago, you were pulling him past the threshold of your house. So adorably drunk and inviting. He was still a little pissed by how the rainstorm had ruined your nightly walk. Despite your complaints about sharing a kiss in the rain, he'd dragged you back to the nearest shelter possible, because he just didn't want to get fucking soaked. Joel didn't find it romantic at all. He was frowning, still pinning you against the wall for a begrudgingly needy kiss. You giggled into his mouth, playful fingers pocking at his chest. "Come on Joel. Let yourself enjoy it... All these neverending drops on the roof, the fresh earthy scent that comes after it... It's just really beautiful. One of the few things that kept me sane before I came here..." 
He's not really against the idea. But the changing weather doesn't bode well with him. One day is sunny, and the next is rainy and it just goes to show how he has no power over the situation.
Hell. A part of Joel is really terrified of the changing weather. One day it was scorching hot, and the next his boots crunched against the white blankets of neverending snow, reprimanding him for his carelessness. Time would pass whether he wanted to or not. He is still terrified, wishing he could stretch the time he could spend with you. God knows he wants an eternity with you. 
He has seen enough rain for a lifetime. He hasn't seen you enough. How could he enjoy getting soaked in tiny drops of water when all he wanted was to bury his face in the crook of your neck and stay there for a while – maybe forever and a little more?
But he has considered it since then. If there are a few things that keep you happy and rainy days have to be one of them, he'll give you that. He'll get used to that. There's no pattern with the rainfall in here, and the weather forecast is pretty much nonexistent. He has promised himself to tell you whenever it rains, even though he despises the idea of you catching a cold after minutes or hours of dancing in the cold, letting droplets of water wash over you without a care in this wretched world. 
He also despises the idea of waking you up.
But he knows you'll like it. You careless, adorable girl. He lives to see that excited gleam in your eyes. Everytime you show it, this old heart pounds impatiently in his chest and it all feels like the first time it has happened.
He's back home in no time. 
So, kicking his boots off as silently as possible, he trudges over and settles down by the edge of the bed, suppressing a low groan. His knees still ache from all the never-ending effort he's put in repairing the library over the past few days. Jesus, he just wants it to be done as soon as possible. It feels like he's losing so much time when he's away from you. Now that you're still pretty much asleep in the same position he last saw you, all Joel wants is to lie down by your side and melt in your warm embrace instead of having to fight with his thoughts and the world to not take away yet another precious piece of him. He can't afford to even think about losing you.
Each flash of lightning illuminates the contours of your beautiful face and he can't help himself when he lifts a hand and lets his knuckles gently stroke your cheek. Your lips are parted ever so slightly and you look so innocent in your unconscious dream. He almost backs down, part of him hoping that it rains throughout the day, just so he doesn't guilt trip himself for the pout on your face if you miss it. You need to rest.
As if you sense his hesitation, you stir in bed and lean into his touch. A low hum escapes you, and Joel is too weak to deny himself the softness it brings. His wounded knuckles are soon replaced with a calloused thumb and he wonders what's so interesting about these hands that never ceases to catch your attention.
One night at the bar, Joel had caught you actually staring at them and when he teased you a little about it, you just shrugged and grinned mischievously. "I mean... I just like them so much. Your hands are always warm, and... and that's all."
He shrugged it off that night. Ellie had also considered it a flex for him to have warm hands even in the coldest days of winter, but with you and the way you looked at him... It was different. He knew it was more than that. 
And when the nights he shared with you went further than his sinful thoughts had planned, you showed him that it was more than that. It was more than the warmth you found there. If anything, your helpless whimpers were an indication of how capable and strong these hands were.
Heat blooms in his chest. It simply is endearing. The way you always seem to recognize his touch and send his head spiraling with the idea that you want him to do more. You've never been afraid of him. You've never pushed him away. You've never judged him for the horrible things he's done. Jesus, it should terrify him. Joel should've pushed you away at some point, because he knows you'd be better off without him, but how could he muster the strength to do so? Since that fateful moment on your porch, your presence keeps on inviting him for more. More than simply existing. And God, if you knew how he wants to do more than that every second of the day... Only if the world lets him breathe a little.
There's another bolt of lightning and raindrops finally begin to drum against the window pane.
Joel shakes his head to get rid of those worrisome ideas. Propping himself on one elbow, he leans over ever so slightly and lets his thumb trace its way to your chin, up to your jawline, and then back to the soft skin on your cheek. He draws circles over the blooming flush and then his thumb is traveling down to your lower lip. Your mouth parts just a little more, breathing even and content and if he gets a grip on himself, he may notice that there's a ghost of a smile in there as well.
"Baby..." He whispers softly, his gaze drifting all over your adorable face. You really are a piece of art, tangled in the sheets, in the safety of his house, and your innocent hums are doing something to him. Some obscene voice that silently pleads for more. More and more... Just to give you more. 
You stir a little more.
He leans over and places a gentle kiss on your forehead, the sweet, fruity scent he's come to like a lot about you engulfing his senses. He watches every little movement with amusement. "My sweet baby... You want to see what's waitin' for you outside."
"Joel," you mumble sleepily, voice drowsy and laced with a hint of confusion as you rub your eyes and stretch your arms before looking around the dark room with a quizzical expression on your face. It doesn't take long for the realization to hit you and the familiar gleam in your gaze makes him smile. You stare a him, wide-eyed. "Is it- again?"
He chuckles and gestures at the window. "Yes, a heavy one at that."
Again, there's that hum of delight as you follow his gaze. The pitter-patter of the rain cheers you up like a lollipop would do to a child. It's maddeningly adorable.
You should be running to the backyard by now, but instead you stare at him for a while. It's his turn to be confused. Your smile gets broader by each passing second as your delicate hands trace his face and run over the salt and pepper patches of his beard. When you playfully ruffle his hair, your eyes are still droopy and dreamy and so damn kissable that he just can't help himself.
His other hand fondles with a loose strand of hair beside you on the pillow before twirling it between his fingers. You bite your lower lip and lift your head just enough for a brief peck on the tip of his nose. He chuckles, letting his fingers draw a line over the column of your neck, down to your chest, and at last they disappear beneath the sheets, settling comfortably on the warm expanse of your belly. 
Joel assumes that his presence is not too close to lock you in place, and yet not too loose to let you drift back into unconsciousness. You just have the perfect moment to escape. For goodness sake, rain is the one thing you choose over anything else. The thing you like a lot.
But you're still here, dazed eyes flickering all over his face and it just gives him a second thought. A new idea to test your patience. Seeing you still pinned under him and unmoving, was not really in his list when he decided to walk back home and wake you up. He chortles with amusement. If you want what he thinks you do, he could give you that... "Come on sweetheart, what's stoppin' you?"
His fingers drift lower, exploring the bare flesh of your thigh, right where his mouth was hours ago. Still as warm as he remembers, maybe a little bruised too. "It's all rainy outside. Ain't that what you wanted?"
"I know..." You mumble, an undertone of need sewn in your voice as you look down over the sheets that cover every movement of his hand. It's too dark for you to see anything anyway. He could easily toss the covers aside, but it's wickedly satisfying this way. "I'm- um, just feeling a little under the influence...and it's- uh, it's distracting."
His hand caresses its way to where he knows you need it the most, and you barely repress a shudder when his fingertips glide over your folds. But he barely feels you, a ghost of a touch hovering there as a smirk threatens to flicker at the corner of his mouth.
"Wonder if my hand's makin' a good influence or a bad one. What d'you say, baby?"
It pelts down steadily outside, but you don't seem to care the slightest about it. Neither does Joel. A low gasp emanates from you when his touch becomes proper, rubbing circles and spreading the slick over your clit as slow and unrushed as he physically can manage. You're still indecently wet after he'd brought you over the edge again and again before you dozed off... and the fact that some of his cum might be gathering in his hand is fueling his lewd thoughts.
You naughty girl.
"A very bad one, I see." He tuts, feeling your chest heaving up and down beneath him. It's easy to rile you up this way. Desperation is written in your expression... and he hasn't even started yet.
"She needs fixin', doesn't she?" Joel asks, bringing his movement to a sudden halt. You're too distracted by everything he does to form a coherent thought. He lifts an expectant brow, now actually waiting for an answer.
"Yes- yes Joel... need it so bad... so bad it hurts." You breathe, a helpless pout forming on your lips.
"I know baby. I know... Jus' lay down and let me take care of it, hm? How's that sound?" He demands again, but this time he doesn't give you a chance to respond as he pushes two fingers past your weeping hole, burying them knuckles deep within your warmth. You gasp at the sudden intrusion, eyelids heavy as you grasp his arm, squirming like a helpless, needy girl.
What a cruel man he is.
"Not off to a good start, angel. I know you can be more patient."
You nod quickly, biting your lip in an attempt to stop yourself from wriggling and twisting on the bed. For a split second, Joel considers pulling out to nuzzle his face between your legs and let the heat consume him. A perfect place to brave the cold, restless seasons. 
But his fingers aren't shy either. He starts with slow thrusts, effortlessly sliding in and out before picking up the pace. He makes you adjust to his rhythm, and when you let go and open up, the obscene moans and chocked out cries are all that fill the silence of the house. Jesus, he lives to hear them every day. He rewards you by curling his fingertips to hit that spot that makes you see stars.
You shudder particularly hard at that, more arousal pooling inside you and soaking his fingers. You're losing your grip with reality, and he can sense it as your legs begin to shake and your knee brushes over the denim of his jeans, but you still remember to abide by his "No squirming" rule.
You're so pliant and obedient in his hands that it does nothing but to spur Joel to give you more. And so he does.
"I like these sounds," He adds a third finger, tilting his head to whisper in your ear. "I dream about them all the time."
You whimper and tighten your hold around Joel's arm. When he feels that your orgasm is creeping impossibly close, his thumb joins and rubs rapid circles over your bundle of nerves and that's your undoing. You clench around him, walls tightening and squeezing his fingers deeper – if that's even possible – as waves of white-hot euphoria crash over your worn-out body and take over your senses. Your back arches involuntarily into him. A sound between a groan and a curse escapes his throat.
"That's it. Atta girl... that's it, so fuckin' beautiful."
His touch is unrelenting as he talks you through it with a string of sweet nothings. 
Only when you come down and rest back on the bed he slowly pulls out. You're panting heavily, face flushed and heated and so effortlessly seductive that Joel is sure no fucking artist could ever capture it in words of a poem or colors of a painting. Joel is the only one to witness this moment and it swells his chest with pride. He wants to drink it in, let it run through his veins like never-ending liquor.
He lifts his hand, smirking as you gape at the way it's glistening under the dim light. You're in awe. He softly places the tips between your swollen lips and you waste no time in swirling your tongue around them, licking the slick off as if it's a delightful lollipop. And the hazy look on your face says that it's more than just a sweet treat.
His own breathing hitches when you open your mouth a little wider and take him fully in, sucking and humming and driving him absolutely crazy. He shakes his head slightly, catching the playful gleam in your gaze.
"Hm. Still a very bad influence."
When you're fully recovered and satisfied, Joel lifts you up in his arms and walks towards the backyard, chuckling at your confused expression. You give a squeal and wrap your hands around his neck to keep yourself steady, at the same time trying to gauge what his next plan would be. You really have forgotten about the rain, haven't you?
He comes to a halt, making sure the blanket he'd just picked off the bed is not leaving any part of your body uncovered. The rainstorm has eased off considerably over the past hour, but he doesn't want to risk it. Keeping you warm and safe in the cold is and will always be his top priority, no matter if his back or knees protest from how much they ache. Hell, he aches for you and that content smile on your face. Nothing beats it.
"My girl still wants to go out, hm?"
Your eyes flicker between him and the half-open door, filled with excitement and delight and a tiny flicker of doubt. "Yes Joel... but...you sure you want to join in?"
"I don't know," He feigns innocence, pretending to think for a short while before his face lights up with an idea. "Do I get a kiss for it?"
You laugh and lean up to press your lips into his in a soft, lingering kiss. It's so tender and reassuring that he has to pull back before changing his mind and taking you back to the bed.
"Then it's settled."
It has been settled for a long time.
Maybe he can get used to it. Maybe you get a better idea of what you've made of him with your presence at times when he easily complies with things that make you happy. A heart made of ice, molten enough to experience the world with you all over again. Even if he gets soaked in the rain, he's alright with it. You kiss him and all the discomfort is forgotten.
He should give it time and learn to breathe again. Learn to stay, to settle. To let you know that you're all he sees.
Yeah, I don't want to hurt
There's so much in this world 
To make me bleed
Stay with me
Let's just breathe
Stay with me
You're all I see
The words are carved in his head. He chances a glance at the living room before walking past the door. Your guitar is placed on the couch. Maybe one day he'll bring himself to play his melodies for you too. He thinks that he's got a lot of time for it now. He wants an eternity with you, and in this wretched world, eternity lasts as long as you'll have him.
One, two... Ten droplets fall over him. He kisses you again, harder and longer. His ice-cold heart melts just a little more at your careless laughter. Just stay with me.
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pucksandpower · 7 months ago
Text
Clickbait
Toto Wolff x Ferrari team principal!Reader
Summary: in which a reporter learns not to mess with the power couple of Formula 1 
 the hard way
Based on this request
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The bustling newsroom of BusinessF1 magazine hums with activity as Graham Lowell, a junior reporter with more ambition than scruples, hunches over his laptop. His fingers fly across the keyboard, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he types out what he believes to be the scoop of the century.
Conflict of Interest in the Pit Lane: Ferrari and Mercedes’ Love Affair
Graham leans back, admiring his handiwork. He’s certain this article will catapult him to journalism stardom. Little does he know, he’s about to learn a harsh lesson in the dangers of sensationalism.
As the article goes live, the Formula 1 world erupts into chaos. Social media platforms light up with speculation and outrage. Within hours, the story spreads like wildfire, reaching the very subjects of its scandalous claims.
In the Ferrari motorhome, you stand before a group of wide-eyed team members, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you. “I assure you, these allegations are completely false. Our team’s integrity is not, and will never be, compromised.”
Your phone buzzes incessantly in your pocket, but you ignore it. You know who it is, and you know you’ll need to face him soon enough.
Across the paddock, in the sleek confines of the Mercedes garage, Toto Wolff paces like a caged lion. His usually calm demeanor is nowhere to be seen as he barks orders into his phone.
“I want our legal team on this immediately,” he growls. “This is slander, pure and simple. They’ve gone too far this time.”
As the day wears on, the pressure mounts. You find yourself fielding increasingly hostile questions from reporters, their microphones thrust aggressively in your face.
“Is it true that you’ve been passing Ferrari’s secrets to Mercedes?” One shouts.
“How long have you been manipulating race results?” Another demands.
You maintain your composure, but inside, you’re seething. The blatant sexism in their questions is not lost on you. They seem all too eager to believe that a woman in your position must have achieved it through nefarious means.
As you push through the crowd, a familiar voice cuts through the chaos. “That’s enough!” Toto’s commanding tone silences the mob instantly. He strides forward, placing a protective arm around your shoulders.
“My wife and I will be making a statement shortly,” he announces, his steely gaze daring anyone to object. “Until then, I suggest you all refrain from spreading baseless rumors.”
The crowd parts reluctantly, allowing you both to escape to the relative quiet of a nearby hospitality suite. As soon as the door closes behind you, Toto’s fierce expression melts into one of concern.
“Are you alright, liebling?” He asks softly, cupping your face in his hands.
You lean into his touch, allowing yourself a moment of vulnerability. “I’m fine, Toto. Just ... frustrated. They’re so quick to believe the worst of me.”
Toto’s jaw clenches. “It’s disgraceful. But we’ll fight this, together. I promise you, they won’t get away with it.”
A knock at the door interrupts your moment. Toto’s assistant pokes her head in. “Sir, the lawyers are here.”
What follows is a whirlwind of legal jargon and strategy discussions. You listen intently as your shared legal team outlines the plan of attack.
“We’ll issue cease and desist orders to every outlet that’s republished the story,” the head lawyer explains. “And we’ll be filing a defamation lawsuit against BusinessF1 magazine and the reporter responsible.”
Toto nods approvingly. “Good. I want them to feel the full force of our response. This ends now.”
As the lawyers file out, you turn to Toto, a hint of worry in your eyes. “Do you think this will be enough? The damage to my reputation ...”
Toto takes your hands in his, his gaze intense. “We will rebuild it, stronger than ever. I won’t let them tarnish everything you’ve worked for.”
Meanwhile, back at the BusinessF1 office, Graham Lowell is beginning to realize the gravity of his mistake. His editor storms into the bullpen, face red with fury.
“Lowell!” He bellows. “My office, now!”
Graham follows meekly, his earlier bravado evaporating with each step. As he enters the office, he sees his editor isn’t alone. A grim-faced man in an expensive suit stands by the window.
“Sit down,” the editor growls. Graham complies, his legs feeling like jelly.
The man by the window turns, fixing Graham with a steely glare. “Mr. Lowell, I’m representing Mr. and Mrs. Wolff in this matter. I’m here to inform you that you and this publication are being sued for defamation.”
Graham’s mouth goes dry. “But ... but I had a source! They told me-”
“A source you failed to verify,” his editor cuts in. “Did you even attempt to get a comment from either party before publishing?”
Graham’s silence is damning. The lawyer continues, his voice cold and precise. “The damages we’re seeking are substantial. Your reckless journalism has caused significant harm to my clients’ reputations.”
As the full implications of his actions sink in, Graham slumps in his chair. His dreams of journalistic glory crumble before his eyes, replaced by the stark reality of legal consequences.
Outside, the F1 paddock buzzes with new excitement. Word of the impending lawsuit spreads quickly, and suddenly, those who were so quick to believe the scandal are backpedaling furiously.
You and Toto stand united before a sea of cameras, your hands clasped tightly together. Toto speaks first, his voice resonating with controlled anger.
“The allegations made against my wife and me are not only false but malicious,” he states. “We have always maintained the highest standards of professionalism and integrity in our respective roles.”
You step forward, your head held high. “I’ve worked tirelessly to earn my position as Team Principal at Scuderia Ferrari. To suggest that my success is due to anything other than my own merit is not only insulting to me but to every woman fighting to make her mark in this sport.”
The press conference continues, with you and Toto presenting a united front against the baseless accusations. As you field questions, you can see the tide of public opinion beginning to turn.
Later that evening, in the privacy of your hotel suite, you finally allow yourself to relax. Toto wraps you in a warm embrace, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.
“You were magnificent today,” he murmurs. “I’m so proud of you.”
You smile up at him, feeling the tension of the day start to melt away. “We make a good team, don’t we?”
Toto chuckles, a mischievous glint in his eye. “The best. Although, I must say, I’m almost disappointed we don’t actually have any juicy secrets to share. It might make things more exciting.”
You playfully swat his arm, laughing despite yourself. “I think we have enough excitement in our lives, thank you very much.”
As you settle into each other’s arms, you know that whatever challenges come your way, you’ll face them together. The storm may rage outside, but in here, in this moment, all is calm.
And somewhere across the continent, in a small, cluttered apartment, Graham Lowell stares at his laptop screen, watching his career and reputation crumble in real-time.
Social media is ablaze with backlash against him and support for you and Toto. As he scrolls through the endless comments condemning his shoddy journalism, one thought echoes in his mind.
“I am so, so screwed.”
2K notes · View notes
softspiderling · 6 months ago
Text
est-ce que tu m’aimes? | j.v
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summary:
“I am sorry, I-“ you pulled the door open, but to your surprise, you came face to face with the source of your sorrows.
“Jace,” you spoke, voice even, crossing your arms over your chest. “Have you come to throw some more insults? Maybe some at me this time?”
Jace clenched his jaw, his hand on the goddamned sword again. Was he itching to take your head off so badly?
OR; Jace’s reaction truly confuses you, you settle in at Dragonstone and a surprising addition to the team makes themselves known.
pairing: jacaerys velaryon x reader, platonic!daeron targaryen x reader
warnings: Jace being a little mean (we all know he’s capable of it)
word count: 5,6k
author’s note: yoooo pt. 2 is finally here!! i hope you love it sm!!! pls don’t forget to reblog/leave comments etc if you liked it!!!
✩ .  âș   . ✩ .  âș   . ✩
“I cannot believe you would let her waltz into our home like that! She’s putting all of us in danger!”
In less than two days, you were sat outside a study as a heated argument about you took place behind closed doors. It was merely a coincidence that it was within the same family.
After Jace had stormed into the council room, meeting you with open hostility, Rhaenerya had asked you to give them some privacy. You had barely left the room before Jace had started spitting ill words about you.
“She saved me, Jace!”
“What if this is some plot for her to put herself in our midst and feed information back to King’s Landing?”
“Was she not residing in Oldtown with Daeron ever since we left for Dragonstone? It is doubtful she has been let in on the plans to usurp the throne.”
Jace let out a frustrated groan and it was silent for a few moments before Rhaenyra spoke again.
“It seems to me you have a different issue with her
 Is it because you have feelings for her?”
Your breath stocked in your throat, your hand stilling against the door. Jace’s behavior towards you confused you deeply. It seemed like he harbored resentment, but you weren’t sure when it had started, when you had suddenly become a traitor in his eyes, instead of a friend.
“Don’t be ridiculous, mother.”
The way Jace scoffed hurt you more than ten daggers in your back, and you pressed your lips together, refusing to let the words of a man affect you.
“I only wish to protect you.”
Swallowing thickly, your hands balled into fists and you jumped back when the door suddenly opened, a knight gesturing for you to step in.
Hesitantly, you entered the room, the tensions still high and you looked at Jace, but he refused to meet your eyes, turning his head away.
Rhaenyra on the other hand stepped up you, taking your hand in hers, cradling it gently.
“I will never be able to repay the debt,” she said in a soft voice, her eyes warm. “You saved my son, even though you weren’t obligated to do it. For that, I will offer you a place here, at Dragonstone, and a place in my council, if you wish to take it.”
“Mother!-“
Rhaenyra ignored Jace’s protest, her voice unwavering. “I believe your insight into our enemies will give us an advantage to win this war.”
“I do not wish to cause a drift between you,” you said honestly. “If Jace does not wish for me to stay-“
“It is not his place,” Rhaenyra said and Jace only scoffed. You fought the urge to glare at him, you didn’t want to antagonize him even further.
“Thank you, your Grace,” you said, lowering your head. “I would very much like to stay.”
Frankly, you wouldn’t know where to go, had Rhaenyra not offered for you to stay, you weren’t sure what expected you, would you return to King’s Landing; it surely wouldn’t go over well.
“And the seat on the council?”
You pressed your lips together. It was an honor, an offer like that, but you could tell Jace wanted you to say no with the way he was looking at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice.
“May I think about it?”
“Of course,” Rhaenyra said, squeezing your hand. “Ser Lorent, escort the Lady to her chambers. I think the ones in the West Wing will be fitting.”
Ser Lorent bowed, before gesturing his arm out to you. “My Lady, if you please follow me.”
You bowed your head to Rhaenyra, turning to leave, but just before you stepped over the threshold of the room, you glanced back. Luke gave you a small smile, but Jace had turned his back to you again. You tried not to let it go to your head, but your mind was racing with questions after Ser Lorent had dropped you off in your chambers.
The sun was shining through the windows when you awoke the next day. You had chosen to take supper in your chambers the night before, trying to give Jace some space. There had been no maid to wake you, so it must still be early. A loud clang of swords floated up from outside and you wrapped a robe around your shoulders as you got out of the bed, glancing out the window.
It turned out that your chambers laid directly above the training grounds, where Jace and Luke were currently in the middle of training. It was nice to see Jace without a scowl on his face for a change, and you took the opportunity to look at him.
He had grown into a very fine Prince, his hair long, curling around his face, his cheekbones high. You had always known he’d grow up to be very handsome. It was hard to imagine he’s the same boy who had told you to write to him every day.
Now, he hadn’t spoken to you a single word after his agitated discussion with his mother.
“Lift your sword up higher when you are in offense, but when someone is advancing on you, make sure to defend the lower part of yourself as well.”
Luke sighed, dropping the point of his sword on the ground, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his tunic. “We have been training since the sun has risen, can we go break fast now?”
“No, you need this.”
“What am I to do with a sword when Aemond descends upon me with Vhagar? Slash at her wings?” Luke scoffed. “I’m not lacking in swordsmanship.”
You pressed yourself against the window as Jace laid a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder, lending him comfort similar in a way you have done with Daeron.
“It will not happen again, Luke. I will make sure Aemond will not get the chance to get near you again.”
Jace let out a breath, his face pained, you could even see it from a distance.
“It was foolish of me to suggest we go deliver the messages,” Jace sighed. “I should’ve gone with you, you had no protection. I never would have forgiven myself if something had happened to you.”
“Jace
” Luke looked at his brother, his forehead creased. “It wasn’t your fault. Our uncle behaved himself with no honor.”
“I should have expected that.” Jace smiled at him wryly. “You were lucky to escape Vhagar when you did.”
“I wasn’t lucky, I had help.”
Jace let out a loud sigh, giving Luke a squeeze on the shoulder.
“Let us go break fast, then.”
“Oh so now you want to end training,” Luke nagged, resheating his sword. “Because I mentioned Lady-“
“Do not speak her name to me,” Jace snapped, stopping Luke in the middle of his sentence.
Luke only sighed at his older brother.
“Jace
 None of this is her doing. You cannot-“
A knock on your door quickly made you push away from the window, your cheeks red, almost having been caught eavesdropping.
The two young women standing in front of your chambers gave you a friendly smile, their hair - already twisted in intricate fashion despite the early hour - immediately told you of their parentage.
“You must be Baela and Rhaena.”
One of them, you assumed Baela, as she was wearing riding gear and last you had heard, Rhaena had yet to claim a dragon, inclined her head in yes. You gave them a smile.
“It is a pleasure to meet you. I’m-“
“Oh we have heard all about you.”
Rhaena gave Baela a jab in the side, glaring at her sister and even though Baela had fallen into your word, it did not seem like she had done it in chargrin, as she had a friendly look on her face.
“We were about to break fast. Her Grace asked us to extend the invitation to you,” Rhaena said and you nodded.
“Thank you. Let me get dressed and I will meet you in the dining hall.”
After getting dressed and making yourself presentable, you made your way to the dining hall. Well, you tried, at least. The keep was much bigger than you had anticipated. Finally you rounded the corner, thinking you had reached the dining hall, but instead you were standing in a hallway that split into three more hallways.
“I could have sworn this was the way to the dining hall,” you muttered to yourself, looking around in confusion, when someone called your name.
“
 Are you lost?”
Luke stepped out of his chambers, lingering in the doorway. He must have gotten changed after training in the pit, his doublet a little askew as he walked towards you.
“I was exploring the keep.”
Luke gave you a suspicious look, a grin growing on his face.
“How long have you been wandering around?”
“Why do you assume I wasn’t waiting for you to walk me to the dining hall?”
Luke laughed, offering you his arm, which you accepted gratefully as the two of you walked together. You found it was easy to converse with Luke, he was telling you about Arrax and how he has been faring ever since you got back, and that he wished for some more meat instead of fish. His cheeky grin reminded you a lot of Daeron when he was pulling one of his jests on his uncle. It was nice, to have something to remind you of home in a place that felt so unfamiliar.
“And here we are, at the dining hall,” Luke announced as you stepped into a completely different hallway, the large doors to the dining hall open.
“I never would have found my own way here,” you admitted and Luke laughed.
“I know.”
Judging by the sound of easy conversation coming out of the hall, you were the last to arrive. You were hesitant, unwilling to cause any tension but Luke tugged on your arm, sensing your discomfort.
“Come. You shall sit with me.”
You relented, following the young boy inside. The conversation at the table ceased as you entered, everyone bidding you a good morrow. Well, almost everyone.
“Have you slept well?” Rhaenyra asked as you sat down next to Luke. You nodded, giving her a smile.
“Yes, thank you. I am very grateful that you have offered for me to stay. And for the clothes, of course.“
Next to Rhaenyra, her lord husband Daemon only gave you a subdued smirk.
“It appears we are the ones who have to offer our thanks,” he said, his fingers circling the brim of his cup. “You acted when it was easier to do nothing. You showed true courage.”
“Please,” you said, nearly melting into your seat out of embarrassment. “I did what was right.”
You ignored how Jace visibly rolled his eyes, turning his head as he took a sip from his cup. He seemed incredibly displeased by this all.
“You should have seen her,” Luke said, nodding fervently. “She leapt from Vhagar to Arrax just above the clouds like it was a small jump over a beck.”
“That sounds terrifying,” Rhaena said and you nodded.
“It was. I truly do not know what came over me in that instant.”
“Sometimes we don’t know how brave we are until the moment asks for it,” Rhaenyra said with an encouraging smile and you nodded, your cheeks red. Thankfully this scene of praising you was interrupted by the servants starting to serve food.
“You have been living most of your recent name days in Oldtown, is that right?” Baela asked curiously, leaning towards you.
“Yes, Alicent sent Daeron to Oldtown and asked me to accompany him to make the distance from home easier.”
You have always thought it cruel of Alicent to send Daeron away from his family, his siblings. But now you wondered if Daeron was better off for it.
“It was really different from King’s Landing. The grandmaesters were incredibly wise and I have learned a lot from the them,” you told her, a smile on your face. “Daeron of course always dragged his feet, but I knew he enjoyed it as well.”
“How old is Daeron now?” Luke asked, swallowing his food.
“Eight and ten,” you answered. “Not quite a man just yet, even if he believes otherwise.”
The family laughed, and even Jacaerys cracked a smile, though it seemed more unkind than the rest.
“That seems to be running on his side of the family, no?” he asked, taking a sip from his cup. His voice was so cutting, and the light mood seemed to dissipate at once. “Aegon, Aemond, none of them display characteristics of a what a real man is
 I wonder if Daeron turned out any better than his usurping and kinslaying brothers, though I-“
Before Jace could continue, you slammed both of your hands on the table as you stood, the tableware clattering. The table grew quiet, the tension thick as everyone laid their eyes on you, but you paid them no mind, your focus on Jace as you glared at him, and he seemed surprised at your outburst.
“Please excuse me,” you pressed out, eyes gleaming with anger. You barely waited for Rhaenyra to excuse you as you left the table, your food still untouched on your place.
As you hasten out of the dining room, you could hear Rhaenyra raising her voice.
“-unacceptable behavior!”
“Why are you all rushing to her defense? Or Daeron’s? She’s just being sensitive!”
“I have lived with you about as long as she has with Daeron,” Rhaena argued. “Would you not come to my defense if someone spoke ill about me?”
You didn’t wait to hear Jace’s answer rushing past the Queensguard that was standing by the door. By some miracle, you easily found your way back to your chambers, the heavy door falling shut as you threw yourself on the bed, letting out a scream of frustration.
You were at a loss.
Jace seemed to use every opportunity to antagonize you, treating you like an enemy instead of a friend he had grown up with. You were no damsel in distress who couldn’t handle tough words, but it was to hard to hear them from someone you harbored feelings for.
You wished you could talk to someone about this. You wished you could talk to Daeron about this. A part of you longed for the days when you were in Oldtown, before any of this occurred.
A knock brought you out of your thoughts and you lifted your head from the cushions, frowning.
“I wish to be alone for a little longer,” you called out. It was probably a handmaiden Rhaenyra had sent to check up on you. You hoped she would respect your wishes, but the knocking didn’t cease and with a small sigh, you pulled yourself up, heading to the door.
“I am sorry, I-“ you pulled the door open, but to your surprise, you came face to face with the source of your sorrows.
“Jace,” you spoke, voice even, crossing your arms over your chest. “Have you come to throw some more insults? Maybe some at me this time?”
Jace clenched his jaw, his hand on the goddamned sword again. Was he itching to take your head off so badly?
“I have been told that my behavior this morning was unbefitting for a Prince,” he ground out, the words like gravel in his mouth. “I’m here to extend an apology.”
You bit back a scoff, rolling your eyes. “Fine. Go ahead, then.”
He guffawed at your words.
“If you are going to be like this, I am not sure it makes much sense for me to apologize,” Jace said haughtily and you snorted.
“If I were to believe that a single word of your apology were genuine, I would readily accept it.”
Jace only scoffed, shaking his head but not denying your accusation. His nostrils were flared and you searched for his eyes, but he refused to meet your gaze. Exhaling softly, trying to let go of your anger, you uncrossed your arms, letting them fall to your sides.
“Why are you so angry?”
Suddenly, Jace’s eyes snapped up to yours, his lips parted in disbelief.
“My mother’s claim to the throne has been stolen by her usurper brother, my uncle! Whereas my other uncle tried to murder Luke, and you ask why I’m angry?”
You let out a small sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“Forgive me, I should have been more clear. Let me rephrase,” you said. “Why are you angry with me?”
Jace took a step back, surprised by your question.
“You treat me like I myself have usurped the throne, Jace.”
You looked at Jace expectantly; his mouth opening, like he wanted to say something, before he closed it again, his words unspoken. Before you could demand an answer, hurried steps came down the hallway, Ser Lorent appearing, stopping next to your chambers. Jace seemed relieved at the distraction as the knight inclined his head at him.
“My Prince, the Queen has requested your presence for the council meeting.”
Jace nodded, giving you one last glance before stepping towards Ser Lorent, expecting him to leave right away, but Ser Lorent turned his eyes on you.
“You as well, my Lady.”
Jace let out a scoff and turned on his heel without waiting.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath as he stalked away. You sighed, glancing at Ser Lorent but he only extended his hand in silent invitation, leaving you no choice but to go with him.
The painted table in the council room was already fully seated, save for one empty space, two seats down from Jace. Most of the council consisted of lords of various houses, who eyed you sceptically as you took your seat next to Baela.
“What is a girl like her doing at a council meeting?” The Lord sat across from you asked, clear disdain on his face. You only stared back at him, not knowing how to answer yourself, but disliking his tone towards you only for the fact that you were not a man.
“This girl,” Jace replied, and you already resigned to another slight at you, “Has saved my brother up thousand feet on the air with no training. What have you achieved for my mother, Lord Bartimos?”
Lord Bartimos only let out an aggrieved sigh as he leaned back in his seat, while you turned to Jace with a surprised look on your face. He didn’t meet your eyes. Luke on the other hand, was ducking his head to hide a grin, failing miserably.
“She can offer us insights into the plan of the usurpers,” Rhaenyra said, effectively stopping any more arguments. “I hope we can avoid any bloodshed.”
“Avoid?” Daemon asked, leaning forward with a crease in his forehead. “They blatantly attacked a messenger after you wished for some time to think about their offer.”
“Daemon is right.”
Jace’s voice was strong as he agreed with Daemon, his shoulders tight.
“This is not the time to sit back and watch their plans unfold. We have come too close to unimaginable tragedy.”
Jace’s eyes flickered to his younger brother, before he turned to look to his mother. “We need to fight back.”
Rhaenyra opened her mouth, seemingly to disagree with her eldest son, but a commotion outside caught everyone’s attention.
“Dragon!”
“It’s a dragon with a rider!”
Everyone at the table looked at each other, unsure of what was happening when a knight from the watch outside came storming into the room.
“Your Grace!” he called, bowing quickly. “There has been a dragon sighted with a rider, he’s headed straight for Dragonstone.”
Rhaenyra’s forehead creased in concern.
“Do we know who it is?”
“No, your Grace.”
Rhaenyra stood, her strides quick as she walked outside, the rest of you were not too far behind her. Outside, the folks were rushing in, trying to get to safety from an imminent attack from the dragon.
“I will mount Moondancer,” Baela said, already turning on her heel but Rhaenyra stopped her, shaking her head.
“No. We do not know his intention yet, another dragon might provoke him into attacking.”
You lifted your eyes to the sky, sight blinded by the sun for the first few moments. The dragon’s movements seemed familiar to you, and as your vision adjusted, you let out a laughter, relief coursing through you.
“That’s Tessarion!” you exlaimed, turning to Rhaenyra with a smile. “It’s Daeron!”
You broke out in a run, skirt of your dress lifted as you skidded down the stoney hill, ignoring how Jacaerys was yelling after you to wait.
Tessarion landed on the green grass, stretching her orange-blue wings, as Daeron slid off his saddle, feet on solid ground again. He oriented himself looking around, before relief took over his face when he saw you.
“Sister!”
“Daeron!”
You fell around his arms like countless times before and he held you so tightly, you were afraid he’d never let you go.
“You promised,” he whispered into your neck in a choked voice. “You promised you wouldn’t abandon me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry,” you mumbled, squeezing Daeron. You didn’t let go of him until his hold on you lessened, knowing he needed to realize that you were, and not gone. Pushing his hair out of his face, you gave him a watery smile.
“How did you know I was here?”
“Brother.”
Rhaenyra’s voice brought you back to reality, as the both of you stood straight, Rhaenyra’s face null of emotion. Jace was furious, his eyes flitting between you and Daeron continuously, while Daemon stood behind Rhaenyra.
“Are you here to deliver a message from the false King that is your brother?”
“I am not a messenger,” Daeron said, his voiced heated. “And as I recall he’s your brother as well.”
His tone is starting to border on disrespect so you glanced over to him, your eyebrows creased. Daeron let out a small sigh.
“I hold no loyalty to my brother,” he added, his voice softer. “Nor am I here to deliver any messages.”
“Then what is your purpose of being here?”
“I’m here because she is,” Daeron answered simply, squeezing your hand. “She has been more kin to me than either Aegon or Aemond. I want to stay on Dragonstone, if you allow it. Fight alongside you.”
“Are we offering shelter for anyone who comes here now?”
Jace’s voice was directed at Rhaenyra, but Daeron narrowed his eyes at him.
“What happened to him?” he muttered to you under his breath. “I do not recall him being this miserable.”
“Daeron!” you hissed, the corners of your mouth tugging up anyways. Jace scoffed, taking a step forward, only to be stopped by Rhaenyra.
“If you are willing to trust me, you have to trust Daeron,” you said, looking at Rhaenyra. You understood that she was wary, she and Daeron barely spent any time together, he was a stranger to her. But you hoped that her trust in you was only half as strong as your trust in Daeron. “If anything, it adds another dragon on your side.”
Rhaenyra regarded you with a impressed smile, giving a small nod.
“Very well. You might stay, Daeron,” she said; behind her, Jacaerys and Daemon exchanged a look, neither of them happy about her decision. “However, I wish to speak with you, alone.”
Daeron nodded, and you squeezed his hand as you followed Rhaenyra back inside the keep, trying not to let Jace’s piercing eyes on you bother you.
“I think it odd. Seeing Rhaenyra again after all this time. My sister.”
You were sitting out in the grass, Daeron’s head in your lap as he talked. He had spent the last two hours in the council room speaking to Rhaenyra. You weren’t sure what exactly they had talked about, but when they both came out, they seemed calm, almost peaceful. You didn’t pry, knowing that Daeron would share whatever he felt comfortable with.
“Does she feel like kin to you?” you asked, knowing how distant Rhaenyra was to Alicent’s children, even when they were younger.
Daeron shrugged, ripping up a blade of grass with his hand.
“She was polite enough. She knows what advantage she has having me on her side. I cannot see us become closer,” he said. “Like us.”
Daeron peered up at you with a grin and you rolled your eyes. Something was still nagging at you, and you knew it wouldn’t leave your head until you had answers
“What happened when Aemond got back? How did you know I was here?”
Daeron’s smile dimmed a little and he looked away, his eyes focusing on the blue sky above you.
“I was already searching for you by the time Aemond returned. I could tell by the look on his face that something had happened, so he told me that he had been out in Storm’s End to secure pledges for Aegon, and that you had come with. Luke had arrived just shortly after Aemond had negotiated with Lord Borros and he got angry, starting a fight, bringing up what had happened at Driftmark.”
Your brows furrowed. You had suspected that Aemond wouldn’t tell the truth, but blaming Lucerys for his bad temper? Anything to paint you as the villain.
“Aemond said you took Luke’s side, your feelings for Jace swaying you.”
Your cheeks reddened. You hadn’t realized that your affections for Jace were so apparent that Aemond would take notice. Daeron continued, unperturbed.
“- and that was when Aemond returned to King’s Landing.”
“That’s not-“
Before you could finish, Daeron interrupted you, his eyes finding yours again.
“I know, Rhaenyra told me what truly happened.”
“But did you really believe what Aemond had told you? That I would just go with Luke because of an argument, leave you?”
Daeron shrugged with his shoulders, his eyes downcast.
“I did not want to. But what was I supposed to do? Call Aemond a liar? I don’t think that would have gone well,” he argued. “I did not have choice but to accept his truth as mine.”
“Then why did you come here if you thought me a traitor?”
Stilling, Daeron pressed his lips together.
“Helaena
 She was behaving peculiar
 I was sitting with her in the day room, watching Jahaerys and Jahaera play, and all she kept saying was “To save her brother, you must trust your sister” while looking between me and Jahaera,” he told you and you frowned.
To save her brother, you must trust your sister?
“What does that mean?”
“I am not quite sure,” Daeron said, shaking his head. “But I knew it must mean that Aemond was not telling the truth, that you had left because of something else.”
You bit back a smile; it amused you how Daeron did not hesitate to think of you when someone mentioned his sister, but hummed in thought, unsatisfied with his words.
“What if she did not mean me? What if she was talking about Rhaenyra?”
The sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel leading up to the small cliff made the two of you paused. You both looked up just to see Jace arrive to the top, stopping at the edge of the field stiffly. Daeron propped himself up on his elbows, glancing to you, then back to Jace slowly before he got to his feet, dusting off his clothes.
“I should go to the dragon mount. See how Tessarion is faring.”
You knew exactly what he was trying to do and you shook your head quickly, pulling yourself up.
“Daeron
!” you almost shouted, but the young Prince already departed. As he passed Jace, the older gave him an almost imperceptible nod, before Daeron disappeared down the hill. You let out a small frustrated huff, your eyes flickering to Jace before you turned away again. His steps were careful as he came closer, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, not looking at him as he came to a stop next to you.
You were the first to speak.
“I am surprised you didn’t call Daeron a traitor as he passed you.”
In hindsight, you could have chosen less biting words. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Jace clench his jaw.
“I wouldn’t.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I am not!” Jace sighed. “I did not come to argue with you.”
“Then what have you come for?”
Jace fell silent again and you shook your head in exasperation. It was hard for you to read him; he seemingly had made it a habit to guard his emotions. When Jace finally spoke again, his words surprised you.
“I always envied him.”
“What?”
“Daeron,” he clarified. “When you wrote to me that you were to be sent to Oldtown with Daeron, I was furious. I begged mother to let you come with us, but she said it would be seen as disrespectful towards Alicent. She wanted to avoid a fight.” Jace scoffed, shaking his head. “The irony does not escape me.”
He paused, his gaze on the horizon. Two dragons had made their way out of the dragon mount, flying in the sky, stretching their wings. One, you were able to recognize as Vermax, with his orange green scales. He had grown exponentially since the last time you saw him. The other dragon was unfamiliar to you, but the dragons seemed to have a bond as they flew around each other playfully. You took your eyes off of the dragons to look at Jace. He was already looking at you, his cheeks pink.
“I looked forward to your letters every day,” Jace admitted, ducking his head. “
 It eased my longing, if only slightly.”
Your lips pursed into a pleased smile.
“You longed for me?” you teased.
“Did you not long for me?” he asked quite bluntly, his eyes searching yours. “Or was what you had enough for you?”
Letting out a small huff, you shook your head, knowing what he was insinuating; the same thing that Aemond had hinted at only a few days prior.
“Daeron and I are like brother and sister, I do not long for him in any way than you do for Luke.”
Jace nodded, his smile delighted. But you let out a sigh, wringing your hands.
“If you truly felt like this
 Why have you treated me so horribly ever since I’ve been here? Why have you stopped replying to my letters?”
“It’s not
” Jace trailed off, pulling his face into a frown. “After we received the news of my grandsire’s passing, mother has been on edge, preparing for war. We all have. And I felt guilty, I didn’t want to be distracted by anything, and whenever one of your letters arrived, I couldn’t get my mind on anything else than sitting down to write back to you. So I just
 Stopped answering. And I thought I could write to you when all of this is over, but then you were suddenly
 Here.”
Jace broke off, pressing his lips together. “You were supposed to stay in Oldtown, far away from the war that is brewing. Now you quite literally launched yourself right into the middle of it all. I thought it incredulous that you would just show up and save my brother
 Like in a dream.”
Your chest ached. You had not realized how worried Jace was for you.
“But you thought I was spying for information,” you reminded him.
“I didn’t really believe you would be capable of doing so
 But I couldn’t let my feelings cloud my judgement. Mother counts on me, and as her heir, I have to fulfill my duties.”
Biting your lip, you nodded, your chin low. While you understood why Jace had been behaving the way he was, it still hurt to be treated that way.
“I dislike causing you anguish,” he said quietly. “Can you find it in yourself to forgive me?”
“The way to forgiveness may not be easy,” you warned him, a small smile on your face. “I am not known for being very forgiving.”
“Then it will be so much more rewarding,” Jace quipped, smiling at you.
The both of you fell into a comfortable silence, staring out in the distance, the dragons dancing in the sky. You almost flinched when you felt Jace hesitantly reach for your hand; it was the first time he let go of the hilt of his sword since you got to Dragonstone. Swallowing nervously, you laced your fingers with his, feeling the tension bleed away from his limbs. For a while, you just stood there, hand in hand, lending each other comfort in the silence. A silence Jace soon broke.
“Do you want to go for a ride on Vermax?”
Your eyes lit up at the sudden invitation, but you held your excitement at bay, not wanting to seem too eager. Seeing Jace’s face however, it told you that you better work on masking your emotions. While the imminent war brewing in the near future scares you, you didn’t want to forego small moments of happiness, you were sure the war held plenty of misery and frustration. You would enjoy every single smile you could shed.
“I’d love to.”
✩ .  âș   . ✩ .  âș   . ✩
author’s note: before you ask, i’m not planning on writing another part! maybe a few drabbles in the future! đŸ«¶đŸŒ
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likesomeoneinlovee · 14 days ago
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𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐉𝐀𝐖
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Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader
Summary: A frustration fueled Joel comes back from scouting with a very prominent issue.
Warnings: PORN NO PLOT. Teasing, thigh riding, throat-fucking, oral m!receiving, Joel calls himself daddy (my bad đŸ˜”â€đŸ’«), pussy & dick pronouns. Wc: 2k, f!reader
AN: this was all written within the span of an hour so my bad, this is what ovulation does to a bitch.
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Home alone. For three whole hours.
Joel went out scouting.
Your eyes that whole time had been staring holes into the floral wallpaper of the flat, without much to do -or, more realistically without the man you’ve been thinking about doing all fuckin’ day. It was a draining experience. Your fingernails peeling up the flesh of your thighs as you sunk further, deeper into his living room couch. It smelled like him. The musky scent he wore all seeped into the upholster.
The sound of the front door’s lock clicking once he had inserted the key made your ears perk, hours of listening to your own heartbeat the time you weren’t desperately trying to stimulate your accumulating thoughts about him. The touch, the feeling of his body that you’ve only felt one whole time in which you had never gotten it off your brain. Thick fingers running along the puffy, sopped folds of your pussy, stretching you. Running his free, spit slicked palm over and all the way down his cock to get himself ready. The feeling of his girth forcing into your hole.
You’d never forget.
The door would creak open before you locked onto him. A thick hand wrapped around one of the straps of his supply bag before he dropped it onto the ground next to the door, a long exasperated sigh escaping past his parted lips. Running thick fingers through the greying curls on his head.
“Fuck.”
Cursing, Joel would walk past you and to the kitchen, opening the first cupboard which to his luck had some booze in it. A stale, half empty bottle of said booze. Popping the cap off, taking a swig.
Finding it difficult to look away while the man did something as simple as drink, the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his throat as the bready liquid moved down the pharynx.
Satisfied from the liquid quenching his thirst he walked back over to the couch, sitting down directly next to you, his thigh touching yours. Hadn’t been able to notice earlier whether it was the angle or how fast he walked through the house, his cock was writhing tightly against his jeans. Sunrays shone through the windows, curtains open. Yellow hued light outlining the bulge. Clearly he had been like this for a while. His worn palms running down his face.
Your lips parted, tongue tied by the sight. It was a test, surely.
With little-to-none resistance your hand reached out to place on his thigh, one of your fingers would stretch to touch the curve sticking out in his jeans, the pad of your index hardly applying any pressure before tracing his dick, watching it jump before you felt Joel’s hand grab your wrist.
“All day- All fuckin’ mornin’, baby.”
Fingers twisting over the skin on your arm, another twitch from his cock would draw in your attention. He’s been waiting.
“You didn’t have to come all the way back here. You have a hand.”
Stating as if there wasn’t a pool of your own slick in the middle of the lace underwear you had only dug through your drawer to find earlier in the day. On your mind all day was this very moment, you had been counting every tick from the clock as you waited for him to walk into the room and fuck your face.
“I swear to fuckin’—“
His legs spread open over the cushion, tapping his boot against the hardwood. Impatient.
To reiterate again, waiting all fucking day. Now with you here the thought of waiting another second had him struggling. Wearing loose boyshorts around your hips as you sat there he’d lean over you, hooking his finger to the hem before yanking them off those pretty legs. A palm he had placed on your low stomach now sliding til his hand was underneath the white, lace panties he oh-so-loved. His tall finger slipped past your clit, into your swollen slit. You’d mewl.
Soaked.
“Knew it.”
He yanked you onto his thigh, moving his hand down to your ass, squeezing, fat spilling between his fingers. Luckily his second hand had been lazily resting at his side now had a purpose, up your back and to the back of your head to hold onto your hair. His lips slamming into yours. No mercy behind the kiss.
Your hips began rolling at a quick pace, your cunt slowly coming un-covered with every thrust down into his jean clad thigh. His tall finger finding his way back to your hole beneath your underwear, tracing it with his thick digit. Pulling his lips back from yours with a wet smack.
“She’s fuckin’ droolin’.”
He’d drawl, to no avail you’d try to force that finger into you by a buck of your hips downward. Thus, he’d withdraw. A reward game, you’ll earn his fingers later.
One more long grind down into his thigh that’d surely serve you a friction burn later and you were off his leg. Dropping onto your knees in front of his lap. You’d swear you’ve only dreamt of being in a position like this. Your smaller hands started at his calves before resting on his thighs. His coffee eyes staring into yours.
He wouldn’t waste precious time now, unbuckling his belt to toss it away. Unzipping his jeans to shove them to his upper thighs, the last article of suffrage being his boxers, a dark wet spot painfully obvious on the grey cotton. He’d tug on the elastic that rimmed the top before tugging his briefs to his upper thighs, with the quick pull his cock sprung up slapping against his tummy.
His shaft was turning red. Tip pulsating. His thumb ran down to spread the bead of precum over him, laminating the dark pink bulb til’ it looked like glass. A flutter in your stomach at the sight.
“Stick your tongue out.” He’d just barely manage to groan.
Control now gained with his fingers wrapped around his base. Your knees now hitting the base of the couch, it was as close as you could get. Obeying the commands you opened your mouth, your pink, saliva slicken tongue sticking out.
His cock slapped against your tongue, driving it into your wet hole with his free hand as his other worked into your hair, his fingers forming an O around your thick locks as a makeshift hair tie. Though, you’d find this was better.
He was fuckin’ big. Even taking him into your pussy didn’t do him justice, only truly able to fit him halfway into your small mouth.
It wouldn’t be enough for him.
His hips would buck forward, his cockhead hitting the back of your throat. Involuntarily your throat would clench - teetering the lines of a gag and a spasm of your muscles. Though, your eyes began to gloss over.
The knot in your pelvis tightened while Joel craned his neck back against the back of the couch letting out a long, rough groan. Such a tough girl, he’d figure a few good thrusts wouldn’t be the thing that’d ruin you.
Another buck of his hips sent a wrack through his body, fucking his thick cock into your throat. Your drool dribbling down his shaft. Your eyes hadn’t unlocked with his own ‘less they were going to roll back into your skull with every hit to the very back of your tongue. A moan bubbled up from your tightened throat, vibrating up the thick length of his dick. You could taste how his vein would throb and pulsate against your cheek. No doubt he was close.
With your mouth managing to take every. Last. Inch. Of him so deeply. There was no way he could last.
Your own thighs would clench together as your eyes finally took a break from straining upwards to now clenching shut. Your juices collecting all in the middle of your panties. Your clit throbbing excruciatingly hard. You knew better than to touch yourself. Focusing and giving your body up to the task at hand.
Joel’s breaths turning into deep pants. His balls tightening, drawing up. Though he had a better idea than just cumming straight on the spot despite that just being the thing he’s been pining for all fucking day. Tugging on the hair falling between his fist he pulled your head back, his cock extruding from your mouth with an audible, wet ‘pop!’ sound. Glossy eyes gazed into his as his flickered down to his cock, jumping straight up once released from your mouth one big mess of his precum mixing with your salivation.
“Makin’ such a mess of him, huh?” He’d grunt. Completely gawked by the sight. “Such a fuckin’ mess of daddy’s cock.”
You could’ve sworn this man was giving your pussy a heartbeat.
Before you could give any sort of catty response his cock was shoved back into your mouth, giving you no time to readjust, to get used to the feeling of his burning tip knocking at the back of your throat. Managing by the grace of God to stowaway your gag reflex seemingly just for the evening. His pace slowing, beginning to get sloppy quicker. You’d have a lot to say if you didn’t have a mouthful. Though, deep down you knew that your unhealthily cock-drunk brain would be unable to formulate a coherent sentence. One with both sense and grace.
“Just. Like. That.” He punctuated.
Thrusting deeper til your nose was bobbing up and down against his pelvis. Nuzzling into the scent that came within the dense thicket of greying, wiry hairs. All curled around and crowing his base. You felt the thick vein that traveled all the way down the girth of his dick pulsate against your overstuffed cheek. A whine from you would only shake up his shaft. His tummy tightening up, hips spasming. Another violent thrust to the back of your tongue those built up tears to freely fall down your cheeks.
Again.
Sliding his cock from your lips to shove it back in again. Every time taking the split second to admire all that drool dripping down the line of his strained cock.
“Fuck! Baby—“ Absolutely strained.
He’d throw his head back, bumping it against the back of the couch as he let out a long, throaty moan. He pulled out of your mouth, the overused motion you’ve grown so very accustomed to, though this time your tongue stayed out, perfectly so as he was able to paint the pink muscle with hot, thick ropes of cum. Pumping his fist over his cock as ropes of semem shoot down your tongue and straight to the back of your throat. Painting his own perfect masterpiece on the fleshy canvas of your mouth.
Swallowing every last droplet as if it were liquid gold.
His stomach rose and fell heavily with each breath, his hand reached out to grab your chin, the pad of his thumb pressing down on your glossy bottom lip. Every. Last. Drop. Though, he just had to make sure.
“That’s what I like to see, babygirl.” He’d praise. Lazily tugging up his boxers so he could conceal his freshly mouth-fucked cock, concealing with another layer courtesy of his unzipped jeans. Sure, you finished him the fuck off but that didn’t mean he was gonna soften up anytime soon.
You’d just hardly make it back onto your trembling legs as you looked at him, panties slid to the side from unconsciously grinding against the cold, wooden floors. A droplet of that warm, glue-like slick trickling down your inner thigh once you stood up. Joel’s eyes followed the stray tear.
“Goddamn, baby. Lemme take care of that for you.”
That’s what you like to hear.
Standing up from the couch with a long grunt he’d lift you off of your feet, carrying you straight to his bed. Soon enough he’d be two knuckles deep into your aching pussy, giving you all that sweet pleasure you so deserved after earning it so fuckin’ well.
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corkinavoid · 3 days ago
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DPxDC The Witch and The Ghost
On the subject that came up in my recent post, in my head, Sam and Danny are constantly having beef with each other. But never seriously.
The thing is, Danny has a lot of issues with a lot of things. He is not dead and not alive and then somehow both at the same time. He lives with parents who literally hunt him for sport, even if they are shit at it. His godfather is another can of worms that he refuses to touch entirely. On top of that, there's school, and occasional bullying, and hormones acting up, and ghost problems to deal with.
Which is why Danny is frustrated most of the time. He does a good job at keeping it at bay and not snapping at people for the tiniest inconveniences - partially, it's because he knows that his mild snapping can possibly leave the recipient frozen in a block of ice and humans are prone to hypothermia.
So, Danny is putting a lot of effort into staying reasonable and calm. And he is doing a good job at it!
And then, there's Sam. Sam is used to arguing with her parents at any given moment over literally anything. Sam is an activist who can and will insist on coming out victorious out of any fight she picks at, be it the choice of a salad dressing or discussion of global warming. Sam has opinions and is not afraid to share - more like enforce, actually - them. What's more, Sam is liminal, and she can withstand a lot more blunt ghostly force than any other human being.
Sam and Danny are friends, there's no doubt there. They love each other, they support each other, they will quite literally tear the world apart for each other.
They also argue about every fucking thing on earth. They fight over whose turn it is to pay for burgers every time they get them - which is at least thrice a week - and over the best phrase to teach a pet parrot, and the difference between 'affect' and 'effect' used in context. They put some discussions on pause just in order to find and provide research, and then they slap each other with piles of said research across the faces and get into a fist fight over water pollution.
Sam treats it as a fun activity and maybe a test run for her other fights and discussions with other people. She doesn't mind Danny's frustration and his occasional violence in the slightest, knowing perfectly well that he is no danger to her, and if she asks, he would stop at once.
Danny, on the other hand, gets a great outlet to vent and release all his pent-up emotional baggage. Sure, sometimes their fights get gruesome, and sometimes they hold grudges for days, and sometimes they can barely tolerate seeing each other because of it. But he also knows that in the end, they are friends, they are fraid, and he is safe with Sam no matter what he says or how offensive something sounds to her. Because in the end, it doesn't really matter to her. Not more than him.
Tucker is just very chill with both of them. He doesn't bother sticking with any of the sides of the arguments, switching between them or not taking part at all. He knows they are fine. He knows they just like fighting, for some weird reason. To be fair, he also picks an occasional fight or two with Sam just for the fun of it.
Gotham in general, and Batfam specifically (or Justice League, if you want) are so not prepared for the three of them when they move out of Amity. Especially if there's also Dani and/or Jazz thrown in the mix to spice things up. None of them truly bother to keep from using their powers, albeit mildly: some little hex and jinx here and there from Sam, a frozen patch on the pavement to make someone slip from Danny, some minor hacking from Tucker, a prank or two using the intangibility from Dani.
It leads to a lot of very confusing situations.
Like Batman showing up to the recent Riddler scheme to find two random teens loudly arguing over the answer to the puzzle while Riddler himself looks completely given up on getting their attention back to the important thing. The important thing being a bomb with a ticking timer on it.
Or Robin finding two siblings brawling on the rooftop, growling and screaming, rolling around and kicking their feet. He is not quick enough to catch them from falling off the edge of the three-story building, but when he peeks down, the siblings are still fighting down on the street, seemingly not even noticing the fall.
Or Red Hood having his guns miraculously stolen midfight because three kids have decided to have a sharpshooter competition with the goons acting as target practice. He honestly can't bring himself to mind, though, they really are great at hitting all the kneecaps within range. He is rather grateful they haven't included his own kneecaps in the heat of it. At least their responsible adult - a very pretty redhead - had apologized and returned his guns back.
Spoiler absolutely loves it when, right as she is about to get caught in Poison Ivy's trap, two teens show up to simultaneously wrestle with the mad greenery with their bare hands and lecture Ivy on the imprint she is leaving on the ecosystem of Gotham.
However, Red Robin absolutely hates that someone keeps getting through all of his firewalls just to leave a few cheeky comments on his recent case files. It doesn't matter that they leave some valuable intel and provide a good conclusion as well, it's the principle of the thing.
All in all, Danny and Sam are the unstoppable force meeting the immovable object, but they trade and switch places constantly and they are most definitely enjoying themselves while at it.
Everyone else, though? That depends on the circumstances.
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jakesimfromstatefarm · 1 month ago
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no doubt ── s. jy (sneak peek!)
update: this fic's been posted! click here to read <3
↳ summary ── struggling to balance a world tour, endless responsibilities, and...well, the sting of getting dumped by his girlfriend, jake finds peace & comfort confiding in you—one of his closest friends. what begins as lighthearted late-night phone calls while he's away on tour deepens into something more, quickly pulling you both into uncharted emotional territory. as your connection with jake intensifies, so does your inner turmoil—torn between the comfort of your easy relationship with him and the terrifying possibility of falling for someone you're not even sure you can have in the first place. but jake? jake has absolutely no doubt of what he wants—and spoiler alert? it's you.
↳ pairing ── jake x f!reader, [ft. childhoodbestfriend!jungwon, bestfriends!enha]
↳ genre ── idol!jake, friends to lovers!au || fluff, angst, crack
↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── hai everyone, the freaking turmoil & HOLD this fic has on me,,,has me writing til 8AM in the freaking morning because CLEARLY ─ i have unspoken issues . anyways here's a teaser of my recent hyperfixation that i'm sharing with the world. at the rate i'm writing this every night (& morning), it should be out soon (hopefully) :3 also this snippet i decided to include is my attempt at angst...i hope yall enjoy !
also send me an ask/comment if you'd like to be tagged !!! <3
snippet under the cut!!
.ăƒ»ă€‚.ăƒ»ă‚œâœ­ăƒ».ăƒ»âœ«ăƒ»ă‚œăƒ»ă€‚..ăƒ»ă€‚.ăƒ»ă‚œâœ­ăƒ».・
“Y/N.” 
His voice is quiet, almost drowned out by the muffled hum of music and laughter seeping from the party you should've escaped from a long time ago. You stop in your tracks, swallowing hard before turning around.  
Jake stands a few feet away, his usual easy confidence replaced by something raw, almost broken. He looks disheveled, his hands clenching at his sides as though they're the only thing anchoring him.  
“Can we talk?” he asks, his voice low but unsteady. 
You stomach twists, but you steel yourself, "What do you want, Jake?"  
You shift your weight and instinctively cross your arms, a defensive barrier between you and the boy you spent too long letting into your heart. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the vulnerability in them makes your resolve falter. 
He takes a hesitant step towards you before exhaling shakily, running a hand through his hair.  
“I—I messed up tonight. I didn’t mean to...," he trails off, his words fumbling, his eyes searching yours in desperation.  
"...to completely ignore me all night? Make me feel like nothing?" You finish for him, your quiet voice breaking despite your attempt to stay composed.  
"No. God, no. You're not nothing," he says quickly, his voice faltering on the last word. "Y/N, you matter so much to me."  
“Well it definitely didn't feel that way,” your voice is barely audible, but you finally look up at him, the hurt bubbling to the surface. “After everything you said—promised, everything we talked about
” 
"I know, I just—" he hesitates, his voice barely above a whisper. He takes a tentative step closer, his movements slow and careful, like he's afraid you'll shatter if he gets too close. "I was nervous." 
"It’s been so long, and I didn’t know what to say, how to act. I wanted to get it right—to make it perfect—but instead, I just—" he stops, dragging another frustrated hand through his hair. His eyebrows knit together in that familiar way that once made your heart flutter, but now only adds to the ache in your chest. 
You let out a hollow laugh, the sound foreign even to your own ears, “Well, congratulations, Jake. You managed to mess it up anyway.” 
“Please,” he looks devastated, his hands trembling at his sides. “Y/N, please don’t think I don’t care about you. I do. More than you know. I just—I don't know how to do this. I panicked and I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear."  
You look at him, your eyes stinging with unshed tears as you take a shaky breath, “Then why was...why was she all over you tonight? Why didn’t you stop her?” 
He falters, his shoulders slumping under the weight of your question, “It wasn’t what it looked like. I didn’t—I couldn’t—” 
“You couldn’t,” you echo, the words spilling out in a rush now, each one cutting deeper. “I should've known. Let me guess, she wants to get back together, right?"  
Jake's silence is deafening, and it immediately answers your question. He opens this mouth, but nothing comes out. The way he looks at you—eyes wide and filled with regret, lips trembling as if searching for the right words—confirms everything you’re afraid of. 
You squeeze your eyes shut, a shaky breath escaping your lips—the sound caught somewhere between a sigh of realization and a choked sob. No matter how hard you try, the wall holding back your emotions cracks under the weight of it all. The doubts you've tried so hard to bury suddenly resurface, crashing over you suddenly, each one carrying the sting of every insecurity, every fear you’ve ever had about this moment, about him. Your chest feels tight, your heart splintering under the realization that everything you were afraid of might be true. 
"Jake, I can't do this," you whisper, shaking your head. "I can't be the person you lean on while you try to figure out what you want."  
"No, no—Y/N, I do know what I want," he pleads, his voice cracking as he tries to step closer. "And it’s you. Always been you, Y/N. Everything I said before—I meant it."  
His words hang heavy in the air, the faint echo of the party music filtering through the cracks in the door and into the quiet hallway. You look away, refusing to let him see your tears finally spilling over.  
"You promised," you let out softly. "You promised you wouldn't hurt me. You said you'd prove that I could trust you, that I didn't have to be scared. You knew I was worried, Jake. And you hurt me anyways."  
"And I swear I meant every word I said. I still do," Jake says, his voice desperate. He steps even closer, his hand reaching out and brushing yours, but you pull back before he can close the distance. "You have to believe me. Please, Y/N. You're the only one I care about."  
You shake your head again, the tears now freely slipping down your cheeks despite your best efforts, "I don't know if I can believe that anymore, Jake. I wanted to, I really, really did. But tonight..."  
Jake’s face falls, the weight of your pain crashing into him all at once. His lips tremble as he struggles to hold himself together, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. This was the first time seeing you in so long, and this sight of you—broken because of him—cuts deeper than he thought possible. His voice is barely above a whisper, raw and pleading, “Y/N, I’m so sorry. I—God, please. Please give me a chance.” 
You look at him—at the boy who's become your safe space —and all you feel is the ache in your heart.  
"I can't do this right now, Jake," you finally let out a deep breath and take a step back. "I think I just need space."  
The words hang in the air like a death sentence. His breath hitches as if your words physically hit him in face, "Y/N..." 
Your phone suddenly buzzes, a text from Jungwon letting you know he's outside. You glance down at it, then back at Jake. For a moment, you hesitate, your heart screaming at you to stay, to give him the chance he's begging for. But your head knows better. 
"I have to go," you murmur softly, turning away before the tears threaten to spill all over again. You force yourself to keep walking, fighting the overwhelming urge to look back—to let him pull you into his arms, where you wished so desperately you belonged.  
Frozen, Jake watches helplessly as you walk away, his chest tightening with every step you take. Everything feels like it's caving in, regret clawing at him the more he sees you walk further away. He opens his mouth to say something—anything—but the words fail him, silenced by the weight of his own mistakes.  
The hallway falls into a haunting silence, broken only by the faint echo of your retreating steps, a cruel reminder of what he's just let slip away.  
.ăƒ»ă€‚.ăƒ»ă‚œâœ­ăƒ».ăƒ»âœ«ăƒ»ă‚œăƒ»ă€‚..ăƒ»ă€‚.ăƒ»ă‚œâœ­ăƒ».・
not my usual style of light-hearted crack...but sum of the other parts are still very rom-commy bc im sucker for dat shtuff :3
let me know if you'd like to be tagged !
<3, addie
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maelancoli · 4 months ago
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Adding Tension After the Ship Happens
i feel a lot of slow burn ships lose steam after the characters finally get together, whether it's just from sleeping together or them actually engaging in a relationship, so here are some ideas for how to maintain steam.
their problems are not solved now that they've crossed the thresh hold
first things first, the plot itself i'm sure has other details than just their relationship. even the most fluffy of fluff has other things going on than kisses and giggles. don't abandon these details once the relationship truly begins. and if there was any kind of unresolved tension point or previously mentioned ex/trauma/insecurity/fear bring it back! bring things back around that might put a strain on a new, tender relationship. this can either make them have problems or be a way to develop their bonds and *show* it in action. any of these foreshadowing/resurrected points can be added in edits if you didn't start out with them or with retconning if you're writing rp/fanfic. all the writers do it. we see it in tv everyday it's ok if u gotta pull a rabbit from a hat.
their relationship will not be suddenly smooth and solid as if they have been married 20 years
okay they kissed/fucked/agreed to be together. now what? what circumstances kept them from getting there sooner? are those circumstances still present and how will they deal with it as a team? you also don't have to have characters officially together once they've done something physical. there is still discussion to be had and boundaries/expectations to establish. those conversations could be interesting to explore. and, even more-so, this is the perfect point for plot to happen and keep them from being able to have those conversations when they should. you can add angst, you can add miscommunication, you can add anything that tickles your fancy. especially a perfect time to have an ex return to cause some tension and uncertainty if they haven't made it official. they don't know what they are yet and that uncertainty is a delicious point to write it and really give the characters a hard time
utilize the main plot's tension
again, if you're writing more than just a contemporary fluffy romance, the romance should enrich the main plot. the romance as a subplot should be a component which merges with the main storyline and does not take away from it. if you don't want to milk the will-they-won't-they anymore than you already have it's time to build the relationship up in the midst of OUTSIDE conflict. let them disagree about how to resolve problems. let them butt heads. let them be scared and do and say stupid shit because they're scared. let them be worried or angry or frustrated and have to figure out how to balance their newfound vulnerability with who they are and were before that point. let them hurt each other a little so they can come back together stronger.
utilize the characters around them
if it is a plot which is mainly romance filled, then think about the tension from the lives around them. think about their loved ones and how their own issues could influence the plot points the characters have to face together. this could be a time for them to be introduced to loved ones. you could throw in a group trip with silly mishaps and shenanigans. you could even have loved ones try to break them up or doubt the love interest. navigating new relationships while also dealing with friends and family can be a source of plot and tension in and of itself. this can be a point to let love interests reassure each other and prove their salt. it can help them grow closer. it can be the heroic moment for one of them to stick up for the other or prove they're there for them no matter what.
overall if you're struggling with what to do after the slow burn feels like it's sizzling out it's time to zoom out. make sure you are not losing the whole picture of their environment or steamrolling past the real development of new relationships.
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issysh3ll · 2 months ago
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Phases ♡ Matt Sturniolo
Phase 4 - Luteal
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Summary: Matt tracks your cycle so he knows how to look after you each phase Warnings: angst, body image issues, crying, fluff, Wordcount: 895
This series is complete. To find the other parts click here
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A loud, frustrated groan breaks the silence of the room causing Matt to look up from his phone. He has been waiting for you to get ready for your date for close to an hour now but every outfit has been tossed to the ground again in frustration after only minutes of being on your body. 
You had finally given up and tried to put on your ‘default outfit’ consisting of your favorite jeans and a basic t-shirt. The outfit you trust the most and feel the most comfortable in, usually. However your last shred of hope seemed to die as you realized even your most reliable clothes just don’t feel right. 
It isn’t just the way it looks in the mirror; with your belly tightly bloated and clearly pulling the fabric tighter than its intended. It’s the way it feels on your skin; everything feels too close to you, too tight, itchier than normal, too hot, too sweaty, too much fabric, not enough fabric. 
“Baby
” Matt starts carefully as you begin to tug your current outfit off roughly, “...what’s wrong?”
“I hate it!” you cry out, throwing your pants angrily at the floor. “Those are my favorite! Why don’t they feel right?” Your voice comes out louder than you had intended but the overwhelming frustration you’re experiencing clouds your mind and makes it difficult for you to care about your tone. Your shirt follows your pants to the ground closely as you slam the fabric down, turning to glare at your reflection in the mirror.
“They looked good
” Matt starts but stops himself as he catches the clear anger displayed on your face. “...sweetheart, just come lie down for a minute”
You stand in place, staring angrily at the ground where your favorite jeans now lie crumpled in a pile. Bra and underwear sitting disheveled on your skin from the frantic way you had ripped the previous outfits off. Your mind hadn’t really registered Matt’s careful words. The thoughts screaming through your mind have replaced any real, outside sounds as your mind spirals angrily. 
Why does your body have to change so much each day? Why is it today, of all days, that your favorite jeans just don’t feel right? 
The thoughts continue spinning in your brain as you release a frustrated huff of air and collapse face down on the bed next to Matt. You lay there, with your face in the pillow, completely still as the frustration of the morning finally causes tears to well up in your eyes. Your lip begins to wobble against the sheets of Matt’s bed and your eyes ache as the well finally begins to overflow. Warm tears spill slowly, calmly down your cheeks and into the pillow case - a stark contrast from the emotion that had caused them. 
The frustrating mix of feelings you are experiencing have finally stormed together enough for you to just feel numb, unable to move or think. Every thought or decision is just too overwhelming. The calmness of your breakdown seems almost eerie as the tears continue to fall silently, soaking your cheeks and the sheets burying your face. Your breathing remains regular and not heaving with sobs like your boyfriend was expecting and he hesitates, unsure of how to approach this unfamiliar mix of emotions.
Matt’s hands slowly make their way onto your back, gently soothing over your skin. After a few moments you flop your body over to lie on your back and look over to Matt. He feels his chest tighten as he sees the wet remnants of your frustrated tears smeared across your cheeks, your eyes red and puffy.
“Sweetheart, d’you want to wear my sweats?..” He suggests hesitantly, his voice soft as his fingers come up to your cheeks to wipe them dry.
No words leave your mouth, responding with a simple nod and pulling yourself up to sit on the edge of the bed as Matt moves towards the dresser and retrieves your favorite pair of pink sweats from his drawer. 
“I’ll get your favorite hoodie for you too, hm?” He opens another draw, pulling out a second pile of comfortable fabric and passing the pair to you. 
Dejectedly, you begin to pull on the outfit. The material feels much softer on your sensitive body and you let out a small sigh, relaxing slightly.
Matt releases a small chuckle at his phone, a new notification had popped up on his screen. 
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“Thanks for the heads up” he mutters quietly to himself before glancing over to see you looking much more calm in his baggy sweats.
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“I know your distaste for steak but
 just eat it, please? You’re always so iron deficient on your period and if you eat this now you’ll have plenty of iron for when you start next week
”
It’s not that you don’t like the flavor of steak, it’s not even the texture. It’s just something about eating a massive slab of meat feels so off putting. But as you look up at your caring boyfriend standing next to you, looking so proud of the steak he prepared for you, you decide to push through.
Matt’s right, your period is due next week and often you find yourself light headed due to the loss of blood. Getting your iron levels up in preparation doesn’t seem like a bad idea.
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Masterlist
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kkanabel · 2 months ago
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co-pilot mischief ✫ both broken ✫ chapter tres ✫ finale
captain curly x teasing!reader
it’s been a month since your epiphany that Captain Curly has a sweet little crush on you, and you’ve been teasing him the entire time. what happens when you push him even closer to the edge? you asked that question, and here we are: Curly has officially broken.
directory/m.list ⇩ previous chapter
words: ~6.1k
t/w: sex, minors dni, overstimulation, fingering, REALLY OVERSTIMULATION, multiple orgasms, curly being a lil shit, so much yucky, gn!reader who wears a bra, no specific genitalia mentioned for reader (if i fucked up & did somewhere, pls lmk), any other things i should mention?
a/n: hi. been obsessed with this video game recently—well, especially with Curly (go figure. i like fictional men). i needed to make something self-indulgent bc i just like this man way too much. and because i just want to make a world where none of them have to suffer. enjoy~ 
~jeremy does not exist in this world~
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Planned Shipment Duration: 382 Days Elapsed Transit Time: 342 Days
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Since the incident, you’ve noticed Curly’s behavior shift from his usual awkward-but-adorable responses to something else entirely—avoidance. Every conversation with him feels clipped, every interaction rushed. This avoidance comes to a head when you have to discuss the ship's fuel readings.
“Captain, can you double-check the fuel calibration?” you ask, stepping into the cockpit with a tablet in hand.
Curly is already seated at the console, his back stiffening at the sound of your voice. “It’s fine,” he mutters without looking up, his fingers flying over the controls.
You narrow your eyes. “Fine? It’s been showing inconsistencies for two days now. Can we be sure it won’t cause an issue later?”
He exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening. “I’ll
 take care of it.” Still, he doesn’t glance at you, his gaze fixed on the screen as if the fuel levels are the most riveting thing he’s ever seen.
You step closer, placing the tablet on the console in front of him. “It’d be quicker if we checked it together,” you say, deliberately leaning over just slightly to try and catch his eyes.
But he shifts, pulling back as if your proximity physically burns. “I’ve got it,” he says tersely, still avoiding you.
The clipped tone stings more than you expect. You hesitate, studying him. His hands grip the edge of the console, the veins in his forearms standing out as though he’s using every ounce of willpower to keep his composure. He looks tired—no, exhausted—but there’s something else in his expression, something tight and defensive.
You pull back, watching him with a frown. There’s an ache in your chest you weren’t prepared for—a pang of guilt mixed with frustration. You liked teasing him, pushing his buttons just enough to see the cracks in his armor, but this? This feels different. It’s like he’s shut a door between the two of you, and you can’t help but wonder if you pushed too far.
You bite your lip, torn. Was it the water incident? The shirt? Or maybe it’s been everything—the touches, the flirtation, the unspoken tension you’ve been toying with for weeks. Whatever it is, the wall he’s built feels higher than before, and it leaves you restless, your stomach knotting with something that feels a lot like regret.
That night, sleep refuses to come. You lie in your bunk, staring at the dim ceiling of your cabin, your mind replaying every moment from the cockpit earlier. His stiffness, his avoidance, the way he couldn’t even look at you—it all swirls together, making your chest feel heavy.
Was he angry with you? Embarrassed? Or worse—had you made him so uncomfortable that he didn’t want to be around you anymore? The thought makes your throat tighten, and you sit up, running a hand through your hair in frustration.
The hum of the ship’s engines fills the silence of your cabin, steady and soothing, but it does little to calm the turmoil in your chest. You’ve been lying there for hours, staring at the ceiling, your blanket pushed to the side as your mind cycles endlessly.
You can’t stop thinking about him.
The look on Curly’s face earlier had been
 different. It wasn’t just the usual exasperation you’d grown fond of teasing out of him. It was heavier, like he was carrying something you couldn’t quite name, something you weren’t sure you should have pulled at.
You close your eyes and groan quietly into the darkness, guilt and frustration twisting in equal measure. Sure, it’s fun to watch him squirm, to push his buttons just enough to see the cracks in that carefully constructed exterior. But you may have gone too far—even if the water spilling on your shirt was a complete accident. His jaw had set so tightly, his words clipped in a way that left no room for your usual playful retorts.
The memory sits heavy in your chest now, pressing down like a weight.
You roll over for the hundredth time, but the ache of regret and the nagging spark of curiosity keep you pinned wide awake. It’s not just the teasing, is it? Not really. It’s the way his silence speaks louder than his words, the way he looks at you like he’s bracing himself to lose something he doesn’t even have yet
You sigh, sitting up and running a hand through your hair. You know you should leave it alone, let him come to you when he’s ready, but patience has never been your strong suit.
Sliding out of the bunk, you glance at the reflection of your sleepwear in the metal panel across the room. The skimpy fabric makes you hesitate, but only for a moment. If you’re honest with yourself, part of you still wants to provoke him. But another part—the part twisting in your gut—just wants to be able to speak to him normally again.
The ship feels colder at night, the air biting against your bare skin as you make your way down the narrow corridor. The faint glow spilling from the cockpit confirms your suspicion: he’s there, just as you expected.
You pause in the doorway, your heart beating harder than you’d like. He hasn’t noticed you yet. His head is bowed, his fingers raking through his messy blond hair as he leans over the console. He looks
 defeated. The sight sends a pang through you, sharp and unwelcome.
Taking a breath, you step inside, keeping your voice soft as you speak. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He straightens abruptly, his shoulders stiffening as his chair creaks under the sudden movement. His eyes meet yours for a moment before flicking downward and darting back up, his jaw clenching. You catch the faintest flush across his cheeks, but his expression is unreadable.
“What are you doing here?” His tone is flat, but there’s a strain beneath it, like he’s barely holding himself together.
“I could ask you the same thing.” You try to smile, but it falters. Stepping closer, you cross your arms, suddenly feeling more self-conscious than you expected. “I—” You stop, unsure of how to begin. “I just
 I wanted to check on you.”
His brows furrow, suspicion flickering across his face. “Check on me?”
“Yeah.” You force a small laugh, but it sounds hollow even to your own ears. “You seemed
 off earlier.” You hesitate, glancing at the console to avoid his gaze. 
The silence that follows feels heavier than when the ship’s gravity went haywire and pushed down on you all. You risk a glance at him, only to find him watching you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. His hands grip the armrests of his chair like they’re the only thing anchoring him, his knuckles pale.
“It’s fine,” he says finally, his voice tight, controlled. Too controlled. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
The way he says it makes something inside you crack. You know that tone, the one he uses to push people away, to keep himself locked behind walls you’ve only just started to glimpse behind. And it hurts.
“Curly
” You step closer. “That’s not what I—”
“Don’t,” he cuts you off, his voice sharper now, his eyes flashing with something you can’t quite name.
But you don’t back down. Not this time.
“Don’t what?” you challenge, leaning closer to him. You keep your voice soft, almost hesitant, but there’s no mistaking the edge behind it. “Don’t worry about you? Don’t care?”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he might not answer. He just stares at you, his stormy blue eyes locked on yours, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he finally says, but there’s no conviction in the words. They’re a shield, flimsy and cracking.
You tilt your head, your voice dropping lower. “Why not?”
“Because
” He looks away, running a hand down his face, and you see the way his fingers tremble. When his gaze snaps back to yours, there’s fire in it, raw and unfiltered. “Because I can’t keep doing this, alright? I can’t—”
He stops himself, his voice breaking on the last word, and your heart stumbles in your chest.
“Can’t what?” you press, taking another step closer, your bare feet brushing against the cool floor. Your voice softens, and this time there’s no teasing, no game. “Curly, just tell me.”
He lets out a frustrated sound, somewhere between a growl and a groan, and rises abruptly from his chair. The suddenness of it makes you flinch, but you hold your ground.
“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice is louder now, but it’s not anger—it’s desperation, raw and bleeding. “You waltz in here in your—” His eyes flick down to your barely-there pajamas before snapping back up, his expression torn. “—your
 whatever that is, and you look at me like that, and you think it’s funny, don’t you? Messing with me, pushing me, like it’s all some game!”
You blink, stunned by the outpouring of words. “I—”
“No,” he cuts you off, his voice cracking. “You don’t get to talk right now. Do you know how hard I’ve been trying? Trying to keep this
 whatever it is
 locked down? To keep things professional, to not
” He trails off, shaking his head like he’s trying to dislodge the thought.
“To not what?” you whisper, your voice barely audible.
“To not ruin everything!” he bursts out, and the words hang in the air between you, heavy and unrelenting. “Do you have any idea what it’s like, waking up every damn day and seeing you, knowing I can’t—shouldn’t—feel this way?”
His chest heaves, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He’s closer now, the space between you shrinking with every ragged breath.
He leans in closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours, and you can see the tension in his jaw, the flicker of hesitation before he barrels on. “Do you know what it’s like to sit next to you every day, to have you so close and know I can’t touch you? Can’t tell you?” His laugh is bitter, almost self-deprecating. “God, I can’t even think straight when you’re around. You’ve got me walking into walls, screwing up flight routes, forgetting my own bloody name half the time.”
“Curly
” You reach out, but he grabs your wrist before you can touch him, his grip firm but not painful.
“Don’t,” he says again, but this time it’s a plea, his voice breaking. His gaze locks on yours, his eyes glassy with an emotion you’ve never seen from him before.
And then, before you can say anything, he moves.
In one swift motion, he pushes you back against the console, his hands braced on either side of you, caging you in. His face is inches from yours, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, the unsteady rhythm of his breath.
“I can’t
” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it, but you don’t move, don’t dare to break the fragile moment hanging between you.
“Then don’t,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
His eyes search yours, and for a heartbeat, everything stands still. Then, with a groan that sounds like defeat, he closes the gap, capturing your lips with his in a kiss so fierce it steals the breath from your lungs.
The kiss is not soft or measured, but raw, desperate, and full of everything he’s been holding back for months. His lips crash against yours with an intensity that makes your knees go weak, and you gasp into him, feeling the weight of all his pent-up frustration pouring out into this moment.
His hands, rough and calloused, grip the edges of the console beside your hips like he’s barely holding himself together. You feel the tension in his arms, the way his muscles cord and flex, the sheer power of him caging you in.
And then, suddenly, his hands shift. One moves to your jaw, tilting your face to deepen the kiss, while the other slides down to your hip, pinning you firmly to the console beneath you. The cool surface bites against your skin, grounding you as his fingers wrap around you with just enough force to keep you there without hurting you.
He pulls away for a moment, searching your eyes for any hint of rejection, finding none.
You open your mouth to speak, but he doesn’t give you the chance. His lips crash back down onto yours, more insistent this time, as if he’s trying to erase every teasing word and playful glance you’ve ever thrown his way.
His body presses closer, and you’re keenly aware of every inch of him—the strength in his broad shoulders, the solid weight of his chest against yours, the way his body is being held between your thighs (which you’ve just realized that you wrapped around him), keeping you and him firmly in place. His free hand trails down your side, his touch firm and possessive.
“Curly,” you keen, eyes fogged from the kisses he just gave you.
“Don’t,” he warns, his voice low and rough. “Not unless you’re ready to take responsibility for what you’ve started.”
The words send a shiver through you, and you meet his gaze, your breath catching at the unrestrained emotion in his expression—anger, yes, but also longing, vulnerability, and an aching kind of need that makes your chest tighten.
“I’m not sorry,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling but steady enough to hold his gaze.
His lips curl into a gentle smile, and he shakes his head, leaning in until his forehead rests against yours. “I expected such,” he murmurs, his voice softer now but no less intense.
And then he kisses you again, slower this time, but just as overwhelming. It’s less about frustration now and more about everything else—the want, the need, the relief of finally letting it out. His hand slides from your hip to thread his fingers through yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as if to soften the moment, to remind you that despite the force of it all, he’s still Curly.
Even then, as he pulls his lips away to trail his kisses down that delicious neck of yours that he’s been fantasizing about for the past couple months, he bucks his hips into yours subconsciously. 
His eyes widen at the realization of what he just did, and he’s just about to apologize when he hears your soft groan, your hips grinding back into his. 
You’re going to be the end of him. 
“Fuck,” he mutters, his mind goes entirely blank while reaching his hands to grab onto the mounds of your chest as he places wet kisses all over your neck. 
The sensation makes you gasp—his warm lips suckling all over the crook of your neck, trailing slightly further down as his large, warm hands grasp at you, fingers gliding against the thin fabric over to the tips of your nipples. He teases it over the fabric, each graze sending a jolt down your core as his pants get tighter.
You watch as Curly’s eyes glaze over while looking at the thin fabric of your shirt, watching your nipples peak and harden under his ministrations. One of his hands pulls away from a breast, brushing down your body until he pulls the skimpy fabric of your shorts and your underwear to the side and places his fingers right onto your heat at just the right spot, rubbing at it.
Your gasping, arms tightening around his neck, and your hands gripping at the hair on the base of his neck only serves to spur him on. His eyes are still hazy with a sheen of lust as he brings his fingers to his lips and licks them lasciviously before easing a finger inside your hole, slowly massaging at your walls until he finds your most delicious spot. 
When you tense up and you let out another gasp, his tongue darts out to lick at his lips, knowing that he’s found it. As you reach up to capture his lips with yours, he slips another finger in. 
As you’re kissing, you let out a choked moan as he only rubs against that little spot more, fingers starting to curl up rougher and faster. His fingers filled you up so well—so thick and long, pressing your insides in all the right places. 
When you clench and spasm around his fingers, you expect him to slow down, but his fingers only get faster through your orgasm. You squeak in response, and his eyes are hooded as he finger fucks you into oblivion.
“Is this what you wanted?” he growls against your lips, his voice thick with frustration and something darker. His breath fans hot against your cheek as he pulls back just enough to speak, his eyes blazing as they meet yours. “To push me until I couldn’t take it anymore?” 
His face is a storm of emotions, each one fighting for dominance. His jaw is tight, clenched as though he was holding back. His lips are red and slightly swollen from the kiss, a stark contrast against the stubble shadowing his sharp jawline. 
But it’s his eyes that leave you breathless—dark and blazing with an intensity that borders on feral. Those blue eyes, turbulent and unyielding, locking onto yours like they’re searching for every answer you’ve ever hidden. It combines with the feeling of his fingers pressing you in the right spot, making you see stars.
“You’ve been playing with fire, haven’t you?” he breathes, his voice rough and biting. His lips curl into something that’s not quite a smile—a shadow of one, edged with frustration and disbelief. “All those looks, those little comments. You knew exactly what you were doing.”
His hand at the console shifts, and he presses a little closer, his body heat seeping into you. “God, do you have any idea what it’s been like? Watching you parade around like that? Laughing, teasing, pretending you don’t notice what you’re doing to me?” His words are a low snarl now, sharp with exasperation and tinged with lust as he drives his fingers deep into you, earning a squeal from your lips.
“Every time I thought I had it under control, you’d pull something new. A touch here. Showing off some skin there.” His free hand slides along your jaw, his thumb brushing deliberately across your cheekbone. His touch is gentle, almost a mockery of the fire behind his words and the intensity behind his fingers. “You really thought I would break eventually, didn’t you?”
His eyes flicker to your lips, and his fingers keep curling and thrusting inside you in a way that makes you squeak. The sound makes his gaze snap back to your eyes, his expression darkening further. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, trying to ground yourself from this onslaught of pleasure.
“Was this the plan all along?” he taunts, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “To push me so far I’d lose control? Or were you just so sure I’d never cross that line?” He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “Well, congratulations. You’ve got me right where you want me.”
He pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes again, his lips curling into a wicked smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “So tell me,” he murmurs, his tone both a challenge and a warning, “what are you going to do now?” Your gummy walls clench on his fingers as he works you undone again—with both his fingers and his words.
“Please,” you keen, voice breathless. “Just fuck me, Captain.” 
The use of his title in that pleasure-drenched voice of yours makes him sharply inhale. He leaned back, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Not yet," he says, his voice low and commanding. "You're going to need to be ready for me. Really ready. So, I’m going to take my time." He knew the company regulations like the back of his hand—no personal items, especially not the kind that could be used for pleasure. And he knew you hadn't had anyone else in almost a year.
Your eyes go wide with shock as he speaks, and you realize what he meant. "But I... I've been... stretching," you protested, face heating up at the implication. 
Curly's smile grows, and he leans down, his mouth hovering just above yours. "With your fingers?" he asked, his voice filled with amusement. "That's not enough. Not for what I've got in store for you." You look up at him in shock.
"Trust me," he murmurs against your lips. "You'll thank me for it later. Especially when I break you like you tried to break me. I’ll have you begging, you little tease." His words send shivers of excitement up your spine.
With that, he slides his hand back down your body, his fingers slipping into you again. Your muscles are still contracting from the aftershocks of your two climaxes. He pumps his fingers in and out, watching your face contort with pleasure and overstimulation. But he knew he had to prepare you, had to make sure you could take him.
He leans in, whispering in your ear. "You're going to come again," he tells you, his voice a promise. "And then again. And each time, I'm going to make you feel so good that you'll forget your name."
Your eyes close, breath coming in short pants as you moan into his mouth. Curly revels in the feeling and the view of your hips moving in time with his touch. 
Curly slides in a third finger, curling them gently, feeling the slickness of your arousal. Your eyes fly open, and you look at him with a mix of shock and need. "Curly," you gasp, your hips bucking against his hand, hole stretching around his fingers. "Please..." He strokes you in a steady rhythm, watching your face contort with pleasure. You bite your lip, trying to be quiet, but the occasional whimper escapes. 
He pushes your tiny tank top up, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling it as he continues to play with you. Your hands pull him closer, urging him on. He can feel your body tightening, your legs starting to tremble. He knew you were close.
And then it happened. With a cry, you cum again, your muscles clenching around his fingers. He still doesn’t stop, though, instead curling his fingers deeper inside you, keeping the pressure on your sweet spot. Your orgasm went on and on, your body shaking with pleasure, legs giving out.
As the last of your tremors subside, he pulls his hand away, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He tastes you, watching as your face heats up. "So good," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “I’m going to push you until you can’t take it anymore.” 
Without warning, he slams his mouth onto your core, his tongue flicking you rapidly. You scream, hips jerking up. Your nails claw at the console, searching for any kind of purchase before gripping his blonde locks.
Curly feels the warmth of your orgasm wash over his hand and lips, juices coating his fingers and face as he watches you come apart in front of him. He'd never seen anyone so beautiful. Your eyes squeeze shut, and you let out a guttural cry, body arching. 
He waits for you to open your eyes, to look at him with the same hunger he feels burning in his gut. When you do, there are tears in the corners of your eyes, and you’re panting. "Please," you beg, voice a whimper. "Please, Curly. I need you inside me." Your vision was already starting to go blurry, and you felt a slight twinge of dizziness from all the mind-numbing orgasms.
His only response is a shit-eating grin and his fingers continuing to work you open. The sound of your wetness fills the cockpit, and he couldn't help but groan. You’re so tight, so perfect. And all his. He watches your face as he works into you, his tongue circling you in time with his fingers curling up and down, thrusting in and out. You’re close, so close to breaking altogether, and he can feel the tension building in your body.
“Curly, please, I-” And then, with a scream, you cum again, gushing wetness all over his hand and face. He pulls away, wiping it from his cheek with a grin. 
"See?" he says, his voice filled with pride and eyes filled with darkness. "I told you I'd make you beg for it."
Your chest heaves, breath coming in ragged gasps. You stare up at him, eyes glazed. "Curly," you whisper with a needy voice. "Please... I need you."
He stood up, his cock straining against his pants. "Not yet," he said again, his voice firm. "We have all night."
He reaches down, helping you to your feet. You sway slightly, legs weak from the intense orgasms. He swiftly picks you up and carries you to the Captain’s Quarters. The crew is asleep. The only sounds are the steady hum of the Tulpar's engines and your two footsteps.
Once inside, he places you down onto his bed gently, your legs still shaking. He hovers over you, his eyes dark with hunger. He kissed you again, his tongue delving into your mouth, tasting you and your desire. You moan, hands reaching up to tug at his shirt.
He breaks the kiss, pulling his shirt off. Your eyes scrape up and down the sight of his bare chest, his muscles rippling in the dim light. He leans back in, his mouth moving down your neck, leaving a trail of kisses and gentle nibbles. You shiver, skin sensitive from the previous orgasms.
Curly slides his hand down to your hole again, his thumb pressing against you as he kisses his way down your body. You gasp, hips rising to meet his touch. He spread open your legs revealing you, all bare and wet. He took a moment to appreciate the view, your swollen hole and the glisten of your arousal—the glisten of your multiple orgasms.
With a groan, he buries his face between your legs, his tongue flicking over you at the perfect spot. You almost scream, the sensation too much. He slides two fingers inside, desperate to continue stretching out your inner muscles.
He licks and sucks, his mouth a symphony of pleasure. You cum again, body bowing off the bed, hands tangling in his hair. He doesn’t let up, his tongue relentless, his fingers curling inside you, pushing you to the edge once more. Your cries grow louder, more frantic, until you’re almost screaming. And then, just as suddenly, you go quiet.
Your eyes roll back in your head, and you go limp beneath him as your body refuses to stop twitching. Curly pulls back, panting, his mouth wet with your essence. He watches your chest heave, your breath coming in ragged gasps. He knows you’re on the edge, just about to shatter into pieces.
He slides his fingers out of you, watching the way you quiver.
He stands, his own desire clear in the bulge in his pants. "You’re doing so good," he murmured, his voice filled with satisfaction. "Now you're ready." Curly chuckles as he watches your muscles twitch. “So cute,” he mumbles as he zips his jumpsuit down all the way and pulls his boxers down. It's massive, thick and long, standing erect and flushed with arousal.
You’re still unable to form words, eyes blank as you come down from the onslaught of pleasure. Your eyes flutter open when you feel him getting back onto the bed, chest heaving as you stare up at him. "Curly," you breathe, voice shaky. "I don’t
 I don’t know if I can take it anymore."
He leans over you, eyes dark with need. "You can," he says, his voice firm. "You will. And you're the one who begged for it."
Curly lines up his cock with your slick entrance, the tip kissing you lightly. It's hot, and you can feel the pulse of his excitement. His reddened tip is so much larger than what you've felt before, veins standing out. Your eyes widen, looking at the size of him, and you feel your stomach flip.
Slowly, with a look of absolute focus, he starts to push in, watching your face as you bite your lip to keep from screaming. The head of his cock, that angry red tip, breaches your entrance, and you can feel your body stretching around its thickness. He goes so slowly, so carefully, that you can't help but trust him. The veins on his shaft stand out like roads on a map, and they feel like they're carving into you as he slides in inch by inch.
The pressure is intense, but you’re so wet, so ready for him. He slides in deeper, feeling you stretch around him. Your walls cling to him, and he knows he'd never felt anything so amazing. He pauses for a moment, savoring the sensation.
And to his surprise, you cum again, walls tightening around his cock. A keening sound tears from your throat, and you buck your hips against him, trying to push him deeper. He holds you still, watching your face, feeling your walls pulse around him. 
It was like nothing he'd ever felt before, a wave of pleasure so intense it almost brought him to his knees. “Fuck,” his eyes squeeze shut, voice hoarse. 
But he doesn’t stop. He couldn't. He pushes in further, feeling you tighten even more. You were whining now, a high-pitched sound that seemed to echo through the room. He knows he’s hitting all the right spots, that you were on the edge again. And he was going to make sure you fell over it.
You're so wet, so ready for him, that he's able to ease into you with surprising ease, despite his size. Each time he pushes in, you feel your muscles resisting before giving way, your body adapting to his thickness. Your walls clench around him, trying to get used to the feeling of being so full, so claimed. It's as if every part of you is being rewritten, every nerve ending remapped to accommodate his size.
His thumbs press gently against your pulse points, feeling the rapid thrum of your heartbeat. “You’ve been in my head for months. Twisting me up so bad I can’t tell what’s real anymore. Hell, I can’t even close my eyes without seeing you.” His voice has dropped lower, huskier, the edges roughened by emotion and strain.
The feeling of fullness is intense, almost overwhelming, but it's mixed with an aching need for more. You can feel your body stretching, adjusting to his size, and it's both slightly painful and incredibly arousing. He's so much larger than any toy you've ever used, and the thought of taking all of him sends a fresh wave of desire through you.
You glance up at his form, the dim artificial lights overhead casting a faint, bluish hue across his bare chest. His skin glistens faintly, a sheen of sweat highlighting the sculpted lines of his muscles—the curve of his shoulders, the sharp planes of his chest, and the ripple of his abdomen. Shadows deepen in the grooves between his ribs and along the flex of his arms as he shifts, his every movement purposeful, almost mesmerizing. There’s faint golden hair dusting his chest and trailing down his stomach.
The sight of him makes you coo, “Curly, you’re so perfect.”
His eyes never leave yours, and in them you now see a fierce concentration, a hunger that's been building for a long time. The head of his cock reaches deep into you, and you arch your back, the sensation overwhelming. You're so full you feel like you might burst. But then he pulls out slightly, only to push back in even deeper, and it's as if you've been hit by a bolt of lightning.
With one final, powerful thrust, he's all the way in, and you let out a cry that echoes through the cabin. Your nails dig into his back, your body shaking with the intensity of it all. His cock is so big, so hard, that you feel it in every part of you, filling you up in a way you never knew was possible.
Your hips are moving, rutting against him, urging him deeper. 
He starts to move, his hips rocking into yours, his cock sliding in and out of your tight hole. You moan, the feeling so intense that you don’t know if you can handle it. Orgasms roll through you, one after another, each one more powerful than the last. You couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began, they just blended together into a never-ending crescendo of pleasure.
Curly's movements then become more forceful, his thrusts deeper and faster. Each time he fills you, you can feel your inner muscles clench around him, trying to hold onto that delicious feeling of fullness. He groans, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he starts to pick up the pace.
Tears slide down your cheeks as he fucks you, each stroke hitting deeper than the last. Your eyes are now squeezed shut, and all you can see was the bright white light of pure ecstasy. You don’t know if you can take it, don’t know if you could handle his size, his strength. But you don’t want him to stop.
The room fills with the sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of you. It's primal, animalistic, and you can't help but get lost in it—in the feeling of his body pressing into yours, in the heat of his breath against your neck, in the way your orgasms build and crash over you like waves.
Your body starts to shake, your muscles tensing as you feel another climax building. You look up at him, eyes pleading, and he leans down, capturing your mouth in a fierce kiss. It's as if he knows exactly what you need, and he's more than willing to give it to you.
Curly starts to hit that spot inside you with every thrust, the one that makes your toes curl and your vision blur. You moan into his mouth, your hips rising to meet his, desperate for more. Fuck, but you don’t know if you can take it anymore. He's relentless, his cock driving into you, stretching you further and further until you think you'll shatter into a million pieces. 
And then, with one final, powerful thrust, you do.
You push him away, just enough for his cock to pop out of you, and you squeal. “‘Curly,” you keen, twitching all over as you release all over yourself, him, and his sheets. His dick twitches as he watches you spasm all over his bed, coating both of you in your cum and slick. 
The corners of your eyes sting with tears of pleasure, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Curly’s gaze doesn’t waver, his lips slightly parted as he watches you, his chest rising and falling with his own labored breaths. 
“Bloody hell,” he mutters, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, his voice hoarse and rough. Then, without hesitation, he flips you over with a strength that sends your pulse racing all over again. His hands are firm yet careful, a mix of desperation and reverence in the way he touches you.
“You drive me insane,” he growls, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. The weight of his words settles over you, and you know this is far from over. His frustration, his need, his months of pent-up tension—all of it is unraveling here and now, and you’re the one holding the thread.
And with those words, you know it’s going to be a long, unforgettable night. The thought crosses your mind in a brief, hazy moment of clarity: How are you supposed to walk tomorrow? But the question is quickly swept away, drowned in the whirlwind of Curly’s relentless thrusting and the electric heat between you.
Hours later, when the two of you finally collapse into each other, exhausted and sated, there’s a rare, blissful quiet in the air. His arm drapes over you after he cleans you up, heavy and warm, pulling you against his chest. The steady rhythm of his breathing lulls you into a peace you haven’t felt in ages.
For the first time in years, Curly sleeps soundly. No tossing, no turning, no restless hours spent staring at the ceiling. In his dreams, as in reality, you’re there with him. And ever since then, he hasn’t had any insomnia.
And you? You have no regrets.
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a/n: the finale~~ let me know what y'all think!
oh yeah.. smut.. neverending smut..
taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just curly/mouthwashing characters or if you want the news on alll my fics.
also might be accepting requests hehe! i can’t guarantee that i can do em, but i’ll accept ideas!
btw. not beta read, please let me know if there are any typos/inconsistencies stay safe & hydrated as always!
(and go to sleep if you’re reading this super late. don’t be a curly. take care of yourself!)
thanks for reading! <3
crossposted on ao3
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taglist: @m-carriaga2021, @skyeconch
directory/m.list ⇩ previous chapter
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