#drooping daisy

[inthedarktrees]

An exercise known as “drooping daisy” is done in seven steps. Seven students here show the progression from standing to rolling onto floor

Walter Sanders, “Required Study, Relaxation,” Life, Feb 8, 1954

[mumpsetc]

Hi!, I was wondering if Daisy Bell had a specific computer she was based off of? :]

Not Particularly. I Got a Few Friends Into Old Tech But the Specifics Personally Elude Me. Design Wise Though I Wanted Somethinf That Was Mostly a Box So I Could Easily Redraw Her a Lot, But Not Just a Straight Up Cube So She Has a Sort of "Head and Body" to Give Her a More Unique Silhouette

[macfrog]

champagne problems sex on fire chapter ten

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

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

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

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

word count: 11.1k

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

The lavender is the first to wilt.

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

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

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

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

You lay staring at the ceiling the whole night.

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

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

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

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

We’re outside baby. Take your time.

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

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

It doesn’t feel good at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you say. Unconvincingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Henry,” you remind him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not your thing? Marriage.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why did you lie to me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why? you asked.

Just so I know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Baby?”

“Jesus!”

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

“You scared the crap outta me.”

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

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

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

“Just can’t sleep. Nice hoodie.”

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

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

“You want company?”

Not really. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To me, or to him?”

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

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

“He wanted to cheat?”

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

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

“Lied?” you offer.

“Lied, cheated, left. Yeah.”

“And he risked everything.”

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

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

“From cheating?”

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

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

“Somethin’ like me?” you interject.

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

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

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

Your heart jumps. The moon scatters.

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t wanna fuck me?”

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

“I don’t care. I want you to –”

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

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

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

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

“It ain’t that.”

“Then what is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“– use it. I swear I don’t mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We were always close.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then – “Alright. Talk to me.”

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

“Baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You weren’t?”

“No.”

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

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

“Start with the first one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the second reason, Joel?”

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

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

“Any more?”

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

“Joel.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Got that one.”

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

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

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

“’n what if I wanted to leave?”

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

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

He nods.

“Who’s we?”

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

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

“That’s…What?”

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

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

“Uh, yeah. Last time I checked.”

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

“You know what?”

“What?” he spits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whip it away. “Stop.”

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

“I don’t want you to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So why take me in the first place?”

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

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

And at the same time –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His answer terrifies you more than anything.

“You.”

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

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

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

Lie number one.

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

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

Two.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t –”

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

“Joel –”

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

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

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

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

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

“No? Sure sounds like you wanted something.”

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

It’s rage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

The third lie rolls from your tongue like a marble.

“Yeah. It’s what I want.”

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

Joel nods. Anything in the whole damn world.

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

[seattlesellie]

୨⎯ a helping hand ⎯୧

pairing: loser!ellie williams x fem!reader x dina nolastname synopsis: ellie's too shy and too nervous to take it all the way with you, and thank god dina's right by her side. warnings: weed, smut, mdni, soft dom!dina, awkward top!ellie, sub!reader, oral (r receiving), fingering (r receiving) authors note: this is based off of a request i got but accidentally deleted since i'm a little braindead ˚ ༘♡ ✧༺♡༻∞

It was thick, and and hazy, and the pungent smoke hung lazily in the air. The scent was… captivating. It wasn’t bad — no, it was a tad skunky and earthy, citrusy. Piney too, and a little bit of spice. 

Something that smelled sickly sweet wafted through the air. It was almost intoxicating— The way her Jasmine and Vanilla fragrance mixed with the musk and and the resin. 

Dina took the skinny spliff in between her fingers. 

Inhale. 

Exhale. 

Silence. 

Ellie’s eyes took a on a reddish hue. They were glossy, and bloodshot. She wore this languid, almost dreamy expression on her face. It rendered a slight droop to her eyelids and a gentle, unfocused gaze. She always got like this. 

She was not quiet— no, she was relaxed, calm. Shoulders dropped down, she wasn't hunching, she was perfectly serene, slightly manspreading on the velvety, emerald green colored couch. A piece of lint landed on her faded beige khaki’s, and she flicked it away gently. 

Everything seemed to move so slow. 

“Are you gonna let go of that blunt, D?” you questioned, lazily grasping and squeezing Ellie’s light blue stress ball in your palms. You caught her playing with that when she kissed you, once — Just a mere week ago. 

₊˚⊹♡

“Are you playing with your fidget while we’re making out?” Your voice was breathy and faint, just above a whisper. You could taste her on your tongue, bordering going on cotton mouthed. 

“No — no, I’m — It’s…” she stammered, and let the ball fly out of her hand and land on the concrete floor. 

An awkward silence. 

“You make me nervous” 

₊˚⊹♡

“It’s not a blunt, babe, It’s a spliff.” Dina took another drag, and handed it to you. 

“Whatever.” you shrugged. 

It caressed down your throat, a slight burn tingled in its wake.

Ellie always loved the way you smoked. A well manicured hand squeezing the bud between your fingers, the way your eyes were forced completely shut when you took a hit, the way your eyelashes fluttered while you exhaled. In all honestly, Ellie just thought you were very pretty. It was not the reason why she dated you; you were funny, and smart, and sweet — and the way you laughed made her stomach tie in knots and her heart feel like it was trying to leap out of her chest and leave her still as a corpse. 

But that “pretty” part, made her very, very nervous. 

She shifted on the couch, lifting her legs up to rest her chin on top of them. Ellie couldn't help but look, examine the way your chest heaved up and down, with her gaze fixed on you. She had a bit of a… staring problem. You saw her gaze from the corner of your eye, and smirked. 

“Can you two stop with your little sex games?” Dina's voice pierced through, breaking Ellie’s trance. 

“Sex games?” you probed, followed by a small huff. This wasn't a sex game. No, no... this was — purely innocent. Just two gals, who happen to be fresh as a daisy lovers, staring at each other while their best friend is in the same room.

“Ellie’s staring at you like she wants to fuck. I’m not a ghost — I’m here too, hello?” She waved her hand from side to side. You could tell she’s here too, you’d be lying if you said nothing in this living room screamed “Dina’s house!”. A silver menorah that’s been laying on the kitchen counter since Hanukkah, with a layer of fine dust collecting on top of the highest branch, a white crocheted mandala hanging slightly loose over the flat TV, bright colored crystals, and some dark ones too — splattered all over the antique mahogany table. Yes, Dina was definitely still there. 

But still, so was Ellie. And being around Ellie… made you want to… Well — Sex games? Is that how Dina put it? 

“We’re not doing anything” Ellie murmured, reaching over to take the spliff out of your hand. Her touch lingered a tad too long, lengthy finger softly caressing yours. Maybe you were? 

“You can go to the bathroom if you want. I wont peep” Dina suggested with a grin. That little devil. 

Ellie almost choked as she exhaled, You chose to ignore. 

“Promise?” You asked. 

“Swear.” 

Ellie huffed, Yeah right. 

“Gimme” Dina whined, signaling Ellie to pass her the half finished spliff. 

“I’m not done” Ellie’s defended, and took another hit. Her eyebrows were hunched together, and a small line had formed, creasing right between them. God, did she look pretty too. 

“Give it, bitch” Dina moaned, and abruptly took the spliff out of Ellie’s wet mouth, Ellie groaning in response. 

Dina rolled it between her fingers, and gave it a small squeeze. 

“Ew! You fucking drooled over it!” 

“Fuck you man” Ellie hissed, bumping lightly into Dina’s shoulder. 

“But seriously… Where’s like—“ Dina inhaled, blowing the smoke into Ellie’s face. 

“Dude—“ Ellie huffed, waving her hand in the air as if attempting to disperse the thick smoke that enveloped them. 

“Where’s the wildest place you had sex?” Dina questioned, as she smushed the spliff on the ashtray, then casually picked off some leftover tobacco from the table, absentmindedly wiping it on the red ceramic surface.

Ellie felt her cheeks turn an adorable shade of light pink. She was a blusher, you soon came to realize. 

The sex thing... that was an issue — Well, it wasn’t necessary an “issue” but it was… a thing. 

You and Ellie hadn’t had sex yet. ₊˚⊹♡

two full months of dating, resulting only in heated make out sessions. Sure, Ellie played with your tits, breathy and panting, and you almost came when she made you jump up and down her creamy thigh, crossfaded and washed by a sudden burst of extreme boldness, but that was that. When you lifted your skirt up to let her see what was underneath (that day, was a mint green colored lace thong) she hastily pulled it down, followed by a whispered “m’sorry”, and when you pouted, nauseous and incredibly embarrassed, she calmed you down with soft delicate butterfly kisses on your nose and on your forehead. 

“Wanna take it slow” she mumbled, her cheeks turning a rosy pink, lips curling down to a pout — almost matching yours. 

Maybe she didn’t really like you like that, you wondered, hugging your pillow, hot tears smearing all over the bedsheet. Maybe you weren’t attractive enough, perhaps she saw you more as a friend… A friend she liked to kiss and only kiss, a friend who made her stomach flip and her mind race, but still, only a friend. 

If you knew that Ellie spent the entire night after that glorious encounter with her purple vibrator in between her legs and a pair of your panties stuffed inside her mouth, perhaps you wouldn’t have cried. Perhaps… you wouldn’t have been embarrassed. Thing is, you didn’t know. So you didn’t kiss her hungrily after that, and you didn’t sit on her lap just to watch her get flustered like you always used used to. You kept your distance, respected her boundaries, and pretended to let it go. Small pecks, hand holding, and one kiss on the pulse of her neck — That’s how it went. 

₊˚⊹♡

You crossed your arms, and fixed your gaze on the yellow colored wall behind Dina. 

“We made out in Jesse’s bathroom” Ellie said quietly. That you did, right after Jesse’s birthday party, you needed to “Clean the bathroom” because “A girl threw up and made a mess”

Dina rolled her eyes, and turned to face her. 

“I asked about sex” 

“Mhm” Ellie hummed, feeling her toes curl inside her Chuck’s. She wasn’t going to get this. 

“Don’t know why you need to know so bad” 

“I'm just... curious," Dina stated, her smirk growing wider as she looked in your direction.

“You two seem like freaks.”

Ellie bit her lip so hard it almost bled. She couldn’t look at you, too embarrassed to see the look on your face, so she looked at the ashtray, examining its sleek cover. Would you pout again? just like you did when she pulled your skirt down? will you look angry? sad? disappointed? 

“Cmon” Dina grumbled. 

“I wont judge —“

She glanced at you.

“Promise.” 

You looked at her like you wanted to shut her lips tightly together with a piece of tape. 

“It’s been kinda dry for me and I’m trying to live vicariously through my best fr—“ 

“We haven’t had sex yet.” Ellie blurted. 

The room fell silent. 

Ellie’s eyes were glued to the table. 

Why the fuck… would she say that? 

Dina cleared her throat, her gaze fixed firmly upon you. Her lips hinted at a grin, but she suppressed it, pressing them together into a straight line.

“Oh” Dina quietly said. Noted. 

Ellie shifted on the couch, and mumbled something you couldn’t hear under her breath. Could have been a “so nosy” or a “fuck off”, but alas, it was barely above a whisper. 

“Happy?” she murmured. 

“Just…” 

Dina flipped her hair to the side, brushing her fingers through the thick, black strands. If you sat any closer, you would have been able to smell her pistachio-almond shampoo. 

“Surprised” 

“Pass me the weed? I wanna roll another one” Ellie groaned. 

“I dont have any” 

Ellie ts’kd, attempting to divert the conversation everywhere but towards what had just happened. Avoid, avoid, avoid. 

You sat quietly, manipulating the stress ball, squeezing it so hard your knuckles almost strained. 

It’s not like Dina didn’t know everything about you, because she did. It wasn’t confessing to some clueless stranger, this was Dina. And still, it hurt. You knew she wouldn’t judge you, never. But you — you would judge you. And that was worse. And now, this wasn’t an unspoken thing anymore. It was out there, waiting to be pounced on. 

Maybe… maybe you needed that. 

“Fuck” Ellie huffed. 

The room fell silent again. It wasn’t the smoke that made the air feel thick anymore. 

“Can I ask…” 

Dina turned her body to squarely face Ellie. 

“Why?” 

“No," Ellie stated bluntly, her voice tinged with raspiness and hoarseness. 

“Was it like this with Cat too?” Dina asked. She always knew how to hit the fucking jackpot. Cat. 

“No, t’wasn’t” Ellie rolled her eyes. 

“Can you let it go?” 

This was a conversation about you, that you didn’t even participate in. Until you did, because you truly couldn’t help yourself. Was it you? Did Ellie just… Did Ellie just like Cat better? 

“Is it me?” Your voice was shaky, soft and quiet. 

She wanted to say no, Wanted to ask Dina to just let it fucking go. 

It was silent for a moment again, till it wasn’t. 

Ellie took a deep breath, slid off the couch slightly as the need to hide under it slowly overtook her. She crossed her arms.

"Yes"

You felt something turning in the pits of your stomach. 

“Oh” you whispered, god, that was painful. It was you. 

Dina’s mouth fell agape. 

“No— not like that” Ellie retreated. 

“No it’s… I get it. S’fine” 

There was nothing Ellie needed more than a punch in the gut to knock her out and a fat blunt intertwined between her fingers. 

“You don’t get it though” 

“Think I’m gonna…” You hastily started to look for everything you needed. Sunglasses, purse, keychain. You weren’t doing this. 

“Gonna go” 

“Hear her out, babe… Sit” Dina calmly suggested. It was as if she knew exactly what Ellie had in mind. It was you, but not like that. How could it ever be like that? 

“Just… Fuck” Ellie mumbled. 

“Cat — she didn’t… Can you sit down?” 

You stared at the floor. Maybe you should sit down.

“Okay how do I—“ Ellie began, scratching her head. 

“How do I explain this?” She looked at Dina. Yes, Dina knew. 

“Calmly, and with reason.” She squeezed Ellie’s bicep, followed up with a small, breathy “Fuck you” from Ellie. 

“Cat didn’t make me nervous like you fucking do, man— She didn’t make me rethink every single step I took and kissing her— Fuck” 

Silence again. 

“Kissing her didn’t make me feel like my legs were fucking wobbly or whatever.” 

“I dont wanna disappoint you.” The way it came out of her mouth, so real, and so raw… you looked… wide eyed. 

“Ellie…” you whispered. 

“Why would you disappoint me?” Gosh. Give her a little squeeze! 

“Because what if I don’t fucking know how— What if you don’t like the shit I do and what if you think I fucking suck and leave me and—“ 

“Can I say something?” Dina interrupted. 

“No, Dina” Ellie nudged her. 

“Ellie shut up, you’re rambling and it’s probably turning her off more th—“ 

“S’not turning me off” It was your turn to interrupt now. "You don't know how?" the brunette asked Ellie, with a teasing smile. Oh, she was making fun of her. Ellie barely picked up on that, too frustrated by her own thoughts running circles inside her foggy brain.

"I do know how— Just... fuck, Dina, just let it fucking go" 

“I can help.” Is all she said. Quiet, but confident. She could help.

“What?” you were stunned. Maybe she had a printed guide? A 101 on lesbian sex? 

Dina rolled her eyes and flashed her pearly whites. 

“Remember that time… when you slept over?” She had to stop herself from grinning again. Her tongue was bumping her cheek, like a naughty little chipmunk. 

“What time?” As if there weren’t dozens of those times. 

“That… Time” Dina tilted her head slightly.

“Don’t know what time youre—“ you rambled, soon to be cut off.

“Ellie—“ Dina turned around to face her, yet again. 

“I fingerblasted your girl” 

“What the f—“ Ellie blurted, and her mouth fell wide open. 

“Dina!” you yelled. 

“I’m just—“ She lifted her hands up in defense. 

“I wanna help because it clearly felt good and—“ 

“Are you on fucking drugs?!” Ellie blurted, and immediately stood up. 

“I mean we fucking smoked, Ellie” 

It was almost comical — how fast paced all of this… situation was.

The room felt silent again. How many more times could this happen? awkward silences, questioning looks. 

“I’m saying I wanna help you, El” 

“Let me show you” Dina’s voice was quiet. Genuine. Begging… almost? 

Ellie stared at the floor. And then at you — and then at the floor again. She could feel her hands grow clammy, and a droplet of sweat forming and flowing down her neck. Show her? why didn’t that make her feel nauseous? Why did she feel it in her fucking crotch?

"What the fuck does that mean?" Ellie shook her head.

“Only if it’s okay with you” Dina murmured softly, and gave you a warm, calming look. Comfort — Dina. 

“And with you.” She took Ellie’s trembling hand and gave it a small squeeze.

"I can show you just what I did." 

Ellie dropped her ass on the couch, and fuck — if her legs didn’t feel so fucking wobbly again maybe she would have stayed standing up. But she sat, her legs slightly parting. 

“Okay?” Dina quipped. 

Ellie gulped.

“I won’t steal her from you… I’ll be your… tutor?” Dina questioned, a sly smirk forming on her lips.

“Dina” You and Ellie said in unison. Ellie glanced at you. She felt ashamed, she felt sweaty, sickly, and too fucking turned on to move a muscle. 

“Let me take care of this” She sounded genuine. Like she truly wanted to help. No grin, no smirk, no attitude, just long eyelashes batting softly as the sun sank lower in the west.

“Okay?” she quipped softly.

“Okay”

Dina smiled so wide she had to bite her entire cheek to stop herself from fully crumpling down on the floor. 

You glanced at Ellie, then Ellie glanced at you. She still couldn’t… fully look, But this was something. A small agreement. 

“C’mere” Dina patted her thigh softly. 

It took you a moment, but you took up on her invitation. Hesitantly, you crawled slowly towards her. When you lifted yourself up in order to sit on her bare thigh, her purple thin linen shorts ending right where your ass met her leg, Ellie felt it in her guts. Her face twitched, maybe in jealousy, perhaps in confusion, but none of it mattered, since her clit throbbed inside her boxers. She didn’t know what was more painful, seeing you — sitting directly on your best friends thigh, getting felt up by someone else, or the aching of her own cunt.

“And I won’t kiss her if you don’t… want me too. Just show you, okay?” Dina whispered. Always so fucking attentive. 

“Mhm” Ellie hummed, as her mouth felt too dry to form any real, clear sentences. It was as if time stood completely still. She could stop this, she could. She doesn’t want to.

Meanwhile, you, you were trembling all over. It was almost too much — and nothing even happened yet. Dina's thighs were soft, and her scent tickled your nostrils. Vanilla, jasmine, almonds, and a hint weed. Her chest was firm as it brushed your back, two soft mounds caressing it. She let out a long breath that lingered on your neck, you hummed softly.

“Ellie… come closer” she whispered.

“Get on the floor… right between my thighs, okay?” It was the way she had said it, that got you. The way it came out to soft, so delicate, as if she was trying to comfort her, make her feel safe.

Ellie slowly crawled right where she needed her.

Dina bunched your skirt up just a tad, revealing a little bit of your upper thigh to Ellie. She sat directly in front, almost as if she was watching a movie, the bystander that she was. Her chest rose up and down. She’s never even seen that part of you yet. 

“This okay?” Dina whispered in your ear, her saccharine voice making your entire body shudder in response. 

A barely audible "Yeah..." slipped past your lips, barely more than a whisper, breathy and faint.

“Ellie?” Dina questioned, adverting her look to face the girl. 

“Have you seen it yet?” 

“N… no” she huffed. Her clammy hand formed in a fist, short nails digging crescent little moons on her palms. She hasn’t seen it. Of course she hasn’t. She’s barely seen anything.

“It’s so pretty” Dina teased, bumping her nose into the crook of your neck.

“She has a really pretty one” she whispered, and began slowly pecking your shoulders. 

“You gotta make sure you treat her good.” kiss. “Make sure she’s wet for you” kiss.

Ellie was breathing like she had run a marathon in the Sahara desert for 18 kilometers.

“Do you wanna maybe… Move her panties to the side?” 

Ellie gulped, you almost heard the fat glob of saliva slip down her throat. her mind almost went entirely blank. This could not, under any circumstances, possibly be real.

Another moment of silence. 

“No?” Dina questioned, running her fingernails down your thighs. She pinched one of them, pulling the fat between her fingers, making you jolt in her lap. 

“Yes” Ellie groaned. 

“Fuck I wanna—“ Fast paced, and needy. Slurring her words and trying to stop herself from fainting on the floor.

She jolted forward, practically leaping towards you.

“Do it…” Dina teased. 

Ellie’s hands were shaky, and her movements were agonizingly slow. As she brought her hand up your thigh, slightly tugging on your skirt, playing with the hem of it, you felt your mind melting completely off. You could only whimper in response. 

With an unsteady pull, your skirt was down. It stood pretty right above your feet.

“God” Ellie groaned at the sight. All she wanted to do, was lay her head on top of Dina’s thighs, as if they were two soft cushions, and stare till her mind completely liquefied.

“Did you pick them just for her?” Dina teased, taking both of your hands in her palms. You hummed in response.

“She’s such a sweet girl, isn’t she?” she looked towards Ellie. Ellie could barely make eye contact with Dina, let alone with you.

All she could do is moan softly in response.

“You can do it, El”

“F—ffuck off” she hissed.

She slowly moved the fabric to the side, and her eyes almost closed entirely shut when she unraveled your drooling, messy cunt. She could see the big wet spot on your panties, and all she wanted to do was suck the juices completely dry, clean them with her tongue until all that was left on the soft cotton thong was her own saliva. she wanted to digest you whole, taste the sweetness running down her throat, but all she could fucking do was pull them to the side, and let out an incredibly harsh breath— bordering on a grunt, almost a whimper. 

“Isn’t it so fucking pretty?” Dina cood, patting your pussy lips softly, each little pat making you buck your hips forward. She played with the sticky strings of slick that hung loose in the air.

Ellie ran her fingers through them, as if they were the strings of her guitar.

You — poor you, didn't even know where to look. 

All Ellie could do was hum, and stare like a tortured, bordering on perverted soul.

“Tell her” Dina commanded. 

“Tell her how pretty you think it is” she parted your puffy lips slightly, revealing the beautiful pearl that resided inside. The cool air, mixed with Ellie’s breath, so so close to where you needed her, made you shiver.

You thought you could come with just her looking into you, examining you as if you were some sort of art work, the most beautiful one she’s ever seen, with details carved by the Gods themselves, a pretty little button, a hole that clenched in and out— inviting her in, and lips like gentle curtains, soft and ethereal.

“Its so… fuck” She huffed. She could feel her mouth watering, the soft muscle hiding inside slowly grazing the top of her mouth. 

“So pretty” 

Before you could move and react to Ellie’s praise, Dina plunged a finger directly inside your greedy hole. Small, delicate, sheer little bubbles made perfectly round of your own juices formed on the tiny tip of her middle finger. 

“Ow fuck!”

Dina, quickly as ever, smeared them all over Ellie’s plump lips. 

Ellie fucking whimpered, and babbled about how good it tasted, and almost instinctively licked all of the gathered slickness that formed on her mouth. 

“Thats a good girl” Dina smirked, patting her fingers on Ellie's left cheek. 

“Dont fucking good girl me” Ellie hissed, almost falling to her knees when she heard the needy, long, high pitched moan that escaped your lips when Dina caressed your cunt again. 

“I see how it is” Dina nodded, grinning like the little minx that she is. 

“Tell her” She whispered. 

“Tell her how good she’s being for you then” 

Ellie gave Dina a questioning look, and stared at your hazed expression. You were wheezing, it was all so fucking much. Dina’s finger slipping in and out, Ellie staring and panting like a cat in heat, and the way Dina started slowly but surely, grinding your hips back and forth to meet Ellie’s hungry, desperate gaze was making you see a million galaxies every time you dared to close your eyes shut. 

“You’re being so good” Ellie whispered. 

“So good” she repeated. She was telling it to herself, now. 

Dina’s middle finger began forming slow circles on your clit, making you whimper out quiet sobs into her neck. 

“Look at her… I think she likes the circles”

She fastened her pace, making you cry softly.

“Tell her you like them”

“I li— I like the circles… God— yesss” you hiccuped, bucking your hips faster and harder towards Ellie’s face.

The way she looked at you, like she was absolutely ravenous, was inexplainable.

Ellie sat on her knees, legs slightly parted, both of her hands laying on the plush of your thighs. Forcefully, she parted them further apart.

She was utterly hypnotized by the way Dinas fingers pinched your swollen clit between her fingers, tugging at the little button. Every time she gave it a little slap, and stopped those agonizingly slow circles she was forming, almost as if she was creating something out of clay — Ellie noticed how your eyes completely shut, she noticed the juice leaking from your hole directly into your ass, making Dina’s thighs glimmer as the slick created a small, sheer puddle on her thighs. 

Ellie had to stop herself from taking her pants off and grinding on the fucking floor. 

“You like that baby?” Dina cood, plunging two fingers inside of your hole, pumping them in and out slowly. She made sure she was putting on a show for Ellie. 

“M’— oh fuckfuck” you babbled, feeling it jolt inside of your stomach. 

“You ready? Ellie? Touch her fucking clit” 

“I c—“ Ellie panted pathetically. 

“Make her come, c’mon, make her fucking come” Dinas voice was breathless and desperate. Somehow, she managed to keep it stern. She was in charge, for now.

Ellie’s fingers met your cunt, pinching your puffy outer lips together, her gaze fixed directly upon it, marveling in how louder you got when it was her who had her fingers caressing you. Dina made you feel good, sure, but it was Ellie who made the coil in your stomach tighten. It was her you craved. 

You needed her. 

“El—Mph— Ellie” You cried, as you felt her movements grow faster and faster. She wanted to drown herself in it, at last — her mouth was on you. She gave no warning, was she truly the student here? 

It was fervent, and warm, and the tight, pink muscle caressed you everywhere, from your clit, and then lapping up the juices gathering in your entrance, it all happened too fast. 

The thing is, she couldn’t help it anymore. 

“Put your—“ Dina breathlessly mumbled. 

“Put your finger inside when you eat her out” 

Her ears perked up, and she obliged. Ellie pumped them in and out, so long they almost grazed your cervix, over that one sweet spongey spot inside, rendering you almost unconscious. 

“Fuckkk” Ellie hissed, as she hungrily kissed your clit, sucking the sensitive little button in between her lips. 

“I wanna fucking—“ Ellie panted 

“Dont you dare keep your mouth off of her, Ellie —"

"You like when she does that?" Dina mumbled, gripping your tit with her left hand, her right one opening your puffy lips together to let Ellie's fingers slip inside easier, quickly pumping in and out like she was trying to win a race.

"I love it— oh god" you babbled. You were almost riding Ellie's entire face, your thighs clenching around her.

"Make her cum Ellie" Dina tugged the taller girls hair.

Oh, she fucking did. 

[morning-star-joy]

but I wake up before we do it (Joel x F!Reader)

Pairing: Joel x F!Reader, Post!Outbreak Neighbors

Summary: You're Joel's new next-door neighbor when he settles in Jackson, and you're determined to add some positivity to the grumpy old man's life. Joel, however, is equally determined to keep you out of his life. Especially when you start to make him feel something he knows he shouldn't. Little does he know, you feel it too.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI Explicit Sexual Content Joel is Horny, Reader is also Horny (f masturbation, Joel hears you), Soft!Reader, Joel is kinda an asshole, Grumpy x Sunshine, Age Gap (Reader late 20s, Joel 56), Language

Wordcount: 2.9k

Part I || Part II || Part III || Masterlist (More Parts Coming Soon)

Joel Miller masterlist

Fucking hell, you were far too good to ever be true.

It was all Joel could think about, the pervasive fact that lingered in the back of his mind whenever he walked by that cup of water sitting next to the sink on his kitchen counter, with the long stems of the daffodils you had given him bunched up inside of it, the blooming flowers drooping awkwardly from the far too small container.

He had first dropped the flowers on top of the counter, dangerously close to the trash can beside it. Honestly, Joel had been aiming for it, but his hand had twitched at the last moment, the bright yellow flowers falling from his calloused fingers to land on the counter instead.

Another day passed before he stood in his kitchen in the morning, cup of coffee in hand, staring at those flowers laying precariously on the edge of the counter, hating how they mocked him before pushing himself up with a sigh.

Joel heard your voice then, being so bold as to tease him, something he hadn’t thought somebody as soft-spoken and sweet as you would be capable of: Traditionally, you put them in a vase. Fill it with water.

He didn’t have a vase, though. And he wasn’t about to put in the effort to find one just because you had mentioned it.

Still, he grabbed a glass from his cabinet, flipping on the faucet to fill it with water as he glared vehemently at the daffodils, grabbing them roughly to then unceremoniously shove them inside the glass, leaving them right next to the sink without giving it another thought that it didn’t deserve.

That was a lie, though.

Every time he passed through his kitchen, he saw them.

And he thought of you.

He couldn’t stop thinking about you.

What made the illness you had plagued his mind with even worse was the bright smile on Ellie’s face when he had passed along your daisies for her. It was happiness he hadn’t seen on the girl’s features since the first time they had visited Jackson, before the winter of fucking hell, when he had almost died, and a part of Ellie did.

Joel was even more irritated that he was still thinking about you, even now, walking back home from a long patrol that had left his body aching, in desperate need of a hot shower that he would gladly praise any fucking higher power that may exist for being possible in Jackson.

He looked down at the cuts on his hands, the dirt caked under his fingernails from where he had fallen from his horse today when it had gotten spooked by the appearance of a Clicker. Luckily he was still alive, thanks to Tommy’s quick thinking and quicker shooting, but the situation had been far too close for comfort for Joel to forget about it so quickly.

Maybe he was just getting too old for this shit.

With a sigh, he rolled his shoulder back, wincing at an ache that was beginning to throb there as he pulled his pack off to carry it in his hand instead. Joel focused on the weight of it in his hand, trying to ignore how his dirty fingers reminded him of yours, covered in soil when you had shown up on his doorstep with the flowers.

It was infuriating, not to mention incredibly disrespectful to your kindness (even though he was at a complete loss for why or how that kindness existed), that the dirt that had been marking what looked to be your incredibly soft skin and staining your immaculate, weathered sundress, had sent blood rushing right to his cock when he couldn’t stop thinking about it later that night.

Joel had forgone Jackson’s heavenly gift of hot water for a frigid cold one before bed, palms placed firmly against the wall of the shower as his head bent under the stream of freezing water, taking deep, steady breaths in through his nose and out through clenched teeth as he tried to will his growing erection to go the fuck away.

Even when he had woken up from a dream about you—one that taunted him with impossible images of that sundress on his bedroom floor and streaks of dirt left across your naked flesh from his own fingers—Joel had resisted the incredibly strong urge to palm his throbbing cock where it strained against his boxers, stumbling out of bed to head into the bathroom for another cold shower.

He did his best to avoid you once the lust to have you really started, opting to take the side gate in his backyard to get in and out of the house, cutting through the greenhouses to avoid running into you on the other side of his house if he left out the front door.

Jesus Christ, Joel didn’t even fucking know you.

But he knew that if he did, there would be a catch. Some hidden cruelty underneath those frustratingly warm smiles you sent him both times you showed up outside his door.

There was no way you would have survived this long otherwise.

Lifting his head, Joel let out a small sigh of relief as he turned onto the street where his home sat, ready to indulge in a hot shower for the first time in weeks, before the sound of light, musical laughter filled his ears, coming from the first house in front of him.

Fuck.

He saw you instantly, arms crossed as you leaned them on top of a fence, smiling kindly at an older woman on the other side that was talking to you with a small grin that spoke of undeniable fondness for you.

“I don’t know how you do it,” the older woman was saying, huffing out a playful sigh that drew another soft laugh from your lips, and Joel found his feet frozen to the spot at the end of the street as he watched the interaction. “It just never tastes the same when I make it!”

“Well, Ms. Garcia,” you said slowly, flashing a teasing grin that made Joel stiffen before you asked, “Are you absolutely sure you’re putting sugar in, and not salt?”

“Oh, you,” the woman sighed, wagging a finger at you, causing you to giggle in a way that made Joel’s grip tighten on his backpack. “You’re probably right, though. I’m terrible with this kind of thing.”

“I’ll just have to bring some more by for you,” you replied, still smiling brightly, a smile that didn’t fade even as Ms. Garcia’s gaze flickered over your shoulder, landing on Joel.

Joel frowned at the same moment the older woman did, leaning away from her fence slightly as her brows furrowed, bright countenance disappearing as he wondered how quickly he could walk to get by you without drawing your attention.

He already knew it was far too late to avoid you now, though, especially as you turned to follow Ms. Garcia’s sightline, your eyes finding him standing there, blatantly staring at you while you talked to your—and his, he supposed—neighbor.

To Joel’s complete and utter confusion, you straightened up with an even brighter smile, giving a friendly wave the moment you saw him.

“Hi there, Mr. Miller!” you called, still waving before your hand dropped, and you turned back to Ms. Garcia.

Joel was almost foolish enough to believe that that would be all you said to him, but as he finally began to walk down the street, he had to bite back a sigh when you stepped away from the fence to walk beside him.

He knew that his growing irritation at the situation he was now in was probably an over exaggeration. He knew that you had to walk home, just like he did.

But did you have to walk home with him?

“So,” you started, and Joel held back a sigh.

Did you have to talk to him?

“Did you just get back from patrol?” you ended up asking, and Joel glanced at you from the corner of his eye, noticing that you were wearing jeans today instead of the usual sundress, the pants paired with a lightweight, oversized sweater that hid your curves.

Good. He didn’t need his thoughts distracted right now, not when he was trying to get back inside his house as quickly as possible.

Because he really wanted that hot shower today.

“Is it that obvious?” he found himself drawling, the words holding no small amount of sarcasm.

Joel actually felt a small twinge of guilt as he noticed you shift awkwardly beside him, but you brushed off his rudeness with another laugh, the soft sound a bit less joyous, and a bit more forced this time.

In the back of his mind, Joel had the terrible thought that, maybe if he pushed you far enough, you wouldn’t be so kind as you seemed.

“Just a little,” you found your voice again, and Joel’s grip on his pack tightened, shifting the weight of it into his other hand as he felt his arm begin to ache from holding it.

At the movement, your eyes caught on his hand, and he noticed you swallow hard as you watched his fingers dangle by his side and Jesus Christ, no, you couldn’t feel this too—but then you were glancing back up into his face, your brows furrowed in concern.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“What?” Joel asked, not even realizing his face had turned fully towards you now until he looked down at his hand at the question and back up at you. “No. ‘M fine.”

“Uh-huh,” you said slowly, glancing over his face again, like you were calling bullshit and searching for the truth.

He thought that when his lips pressed into a firm line and he stared back at you, daring you to say something about it, you would back down.

You didn’t.

“I have some first aid,” you said quietly, gesturing towards your house as they began to near it, and Joel was already shaking his head, instincts telling him he needed to stay far, far away from ever entering your house, even as you continued, “I can help you—”

“No,” he said firmly, and your jaw snapped shut, brows furrowed as he watched your eyes spark with the briefest hint of frustration and ah, there it was. A crack in the perfection that was you. “I told you, I’m fine.”

A sick, twisted part of Joel wanted you to fight him on it, but your brows smoothed back out instead, and you gave a nod as your face melted into one of understanding.

Understanding, of all things.

What fucking bunker had they been keeping something sweet like you in for decades to preserve you in all this unimaginable kindness?

“Of course, you probably have your own,” you brushed off with another laugh, the sound a bit easier this time, eyes so warm that he was looking back down at your sweater again, wondering if your skin was just as warm underneath that—

Joel’s head whipped around, staring in front of him as you came to a stop at the pathway that led up to your front door.

“Well—”

But Joel kept moving, heading up his own pathway, not even looking back at you as you loitered at the edge of your property, refusing to give into the first time he had felt any sort of temptation to look back at you as he closed the door behind him.

God fucking dammit, he was having another cold shower tonight.

The cooler spring day began to warm up towards the end, so much so that you had to open up your bedroom window to let a gentle breeze in before bed.

You settled under your faded floral sheets with a book, opening it up to the homemade bookmark you had left to keep your spot, fingernail trailing across the words until you picked up exactly where you left off.

Unfortunately, after only a few pages, you found yourself reading the same words over and over as you thought back to your interaction with Joel that had occurred hours ago.

When you read the words “he said” at least 5 times before you lost track, you put your bookmark back between the pages, snapping the silly little romance novel closed and tossing it to the side with a groan.

Reaching your hands up, you pressed your palms against your eyes, willing the image of Joel Miller to disappear from where it had been haunting you.

It was just the latest of the very few, very short times you had seen him, but it had left you just as intrigued, just as unsatisfied as the ones before.

You shook your hand, letting your hands drop to your sides, placing your palms flat against the top blanket as you tried your best to stop thinking about him.

Part of you couldn’t help but feel a little worried, still rehashing how he had brushed you aside when you asked if he was hurt.

But Joel was a grown man—very much so, you thought as images of the silver in his hair flashed through your mind, the salt and pepper facial hair covering a weathered face and no, no, enough of that—and he had to know how to take care of himself. Especially in this kind of world you had all been in for the last twenty years.

Still, you couldn’t help but think of the cuts that had littered his hand, the dirt and a bit of blood caked under his fingernails when he had shifted his backpack to his other hand.

You also couldn’t help but dwell on the length of those fingers, how thick they were, as they hung by his side, inches away from the fabric of your jeans as you walked beside him.

No, you thought firmly to yourself, pressing your palms even harder against the blankets, willing yourself to keep them at your sides. No, you were not thinking of Joel Miller, your grumpy, standoffish neighbor who probably despised you, that way.

Then you glanced back over the book you had abandoned, taking in the scantily dressed woman draped across the broad, firm chest of a ruggedly handsome man across the cover, his strong arms wrapped around her and oh, no.

Your fingers began to slip up the blanket, biting your lip hard as you stared at the cover of that book, remembering the smutty words of the last chapter and oh no.

With a shaky exhale, you reached one hand out for the book, picking it up and quickly flipping backwards in the pages to that scene. You desperately reread the words, soaking in the description of a thick, throbbing cock sinking into the moaning, mewling heroine, over and over, your free hand slipping under your blanket to find the band of your shorts, moving underneath to fiddle with the hemline of your panties.

You shouldn’t.

You really, really shouldn’t.

In fact, you convinced yourself you weren’t. You told yourself you were purely basing this little self-love moment of much-needed release off the smutty book.

But when your eyes fixed on that description, your fingers sliding underneath your panties to glide along your folds, a soft moan escaping your lips as you collected your wetness to begin to slowly rub your clit—you weren’t seeing the way that man was described.

In your mind you saw dark curls instead of the short blond hair that was written; brown eyes instead of blue, holding a severe stare instead of a loving gaze; tan skin instead of pale, weathered and scarred, maybe? Did he have scars on his body, like the one on his temple, and the one on his nose?

Your hips lifted into your hand as your head tilted back, moaning again as you circled your clit faster, lifting the book above your head so you could focus on that one sentence—he thrusted into her quickly, his nails digging into the soft skin of her thighs, drawing wanton moans from her plush lips—and you moaned again, even louder, eyes fluttering shut as you felt yourself hurtling towards that edge, so close that if you just changed the angle of your fingers a little bit, you would—

The sound of a door slamming shut made your eyes snap open, a gasp pulled from your lungs as the book tumbled from your hands to land on the bed at the same moment your other hand snapped away from your throbbing clit.

You grabbed the sheets, pulling them closer to yourself as you glanced around wildly, heart pounding in your chest at the thought of being caught.

But who would catch you?

You were very much alone, having nobody to keep you company in your little house.

Then a breeze brushed past your face, and your eyes lifted towards your bedroom window and, oh.

Oh, no.

You pushed yourself from your bed quickly, too quickly, legs tangling in the sheets and causing you to fall to your forearms.

With a groan, you detangled yourself, rising to hurry towards the window that was still very much open.

For a moment, you glanced through it, noting the open window on the second story right above your own window.

Jesus.

Had he—

Your cheeks warmed, and you slammed your window shut, grabbing the curtains to pull them over it, feeling a surge of overwhelming embarrassment as you hurried back to hide under your sheets.

Yeah, you were never leaving your house again.

[autisticlancemcclain]

Keith clenches the flower crown in his hand, breathing heavy. The delicate petals of the not-daises crumple and crush in his fists, blue pollen smearing on the leather of his gloves. Half of the crown sits perfect, intact, unblemished and unbroken. The other half is miserable and unfixable, destroyed by something bigger than itself. He stares at it, hard, at what it is and what it represents, until his eyes sting from the dryness and begin to blur.

“Lance, I —” His voice comes out raspy, crinkled as the flowers. He swallows. “I’m never really going to — to love you. You know that, right?”

Lance’s quiet humming never stops, never hesitates. He continues to carefully poke the not-daisies onto their stem-string, building another crown, a new one, just as beautiful. “I know.”

Keith frowns. “You…know?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why do you…” He glances down at the crushed flowers again. Suddenly he wants to straighten them, desperately, fix their bleeding creases, their crumpled pieces. He tries, a little. He takes a broad petal from the biggest of the delicate flowers and smooths it against his thumb, again and again, trying to fix the brokenness. The crease disappears, but the petal lays flat against his skin; translucent, soaked with its own oils, bending to the shape of the pad of his thumb. It droops when he peels it off, worse than before. He feels something gentle touch on his head, a barely-there weight around the crown of his skull, and he smells something floral, aside from the flowers, like shampoo. Lance settles again beside him, second flower crown gone from his hands, now searching for a long enough not-daisy stem to start a new one. There’s a lump in Keith’s throat.

“Then why do this? Why —” He sweeps his hand out, broadly, gesturing the the not-daisy field before them, gesturing to the picnic blanket and the basket of food, gesturing to the castle in the distance, to the room they’ve shared more often than not lately, to their lions, to them, to them, to them. “Why do you hang out —” his voice cracks on the term, the blasé-ness of it, the fib, the hiding from the truth, the softer word to replace the truth — “with me like this? Why do you spend so much of your time with me? Alone? Why do we do what we —” He stops for a moment, finding himself short of breath suddenly, more feeling than the situation calls for crashing down on him at once, crushing his windpipe, making it hard for him to breathe, harder to speak. “Why do you stay with me like this, if you know?”

“Well, because I love you.”

He does not hesitate to say it. He does not swallow harshly as if the words are acid in his throat, as if they are too heavy to be spoken aloud. He says it easily, steadily, wondrously, as if it’s painless. As if Keith had said it first, and he’s simply responding. As if it’s something he says often. As if the words were not hard to find, were already heavy on his tongue, as if it was easier to say them then to lock them behind his teeth, choke them down. Maybe they are, for him.

Lance picks his head up from where it was hunched over the not-daisies, tying off the chain and lifting it, resting the crown gently on his own head. Coronating himself, with soft flowers, with the strength of a thousand men. He flicks his gaze to Keith, then, brown eyes wide and soft and glassy, slightly, shimmering in the orange sunlight, dark despite it, heavy and light alike. His expression is open, earnest. “Isn’t that reason enough?”

Keith doesn’t understand him. He knows Lance, knows how things eat at him, how small rejections build and build from the centre of his chest down his spine and wrap around each of his nerves, lighting him up inside. He’s seen how the doubt shapes his words, reshapes his sentences, clouds his thoughts. He’s seen how Lance pulls away from people before they can pull away from him. He’s seen the same ache in the Blue-turned-Red Paladin that he has, the same black hole in his own chest; the pain of the one left behind.

How is it so easy, then, for him, to say — it?

Keith holds his gaze, heart pounding, breathing short and shallow, as long as he can, as long as he can bear. He is the one to look away, in the end, and Lance soon after, looking for yet another long-stemmed daisy. It is only then that Keith realises that his second crown is crushed, too, in his other hand, stained with oil.

“Reason enough,” he echoes.

Lance hums affirmatively, absentmindedly lifting his legs and placing them on top of Keith’s, casual. Keith can’t tell if the move is deliberate or not, if Lance is genuinely oblivious to the intent of Keith’s sentiment or if he’s choosing to ignore it.

Either way it doesn’t matter. Lance slowly works his way through a good chunk of the flowers surrounding them, cheekily ordering Keith around the field, instructing him on what flowers to pick, how many, how often. Lance claims he just doesn’t want to move, but Keith is sure he just likes bossing him around. He organizes them in small piles by size as Keith gathers them, favouring the wider and fluffier ones, working with his tongue out in concentration as he carefully makes one, two, three, four, five more crowns than the two he’s already made, not including the two Keith destroyed. (Those were carefully scooped up from where Keith had discarded them, placed gently in the bottom of the picnic basket. Lance hadn’t said anything nor had he made any particular face, except that there was determination in his eyes as he held the crumpled flowers, defiance, almost, as he lovingly placed them among their used dishware and leftovers.)

Once he finishes the last knot — one crown for each team member, plus one to hang on Shiro’s doorknob — he swings his legs off Keith’s lap, sighing as he gets to his feet. Keith sees a sliver of brown skin as he stretches, a flash of his hip as his shirt lifts with his raised hands. It is the same temptation it always is, although it makes Keith more nauseous than usual.

“C’mon, you lump,” Lance says, holding out a hand. “I call dibs on not carrying anything back to the castle.”

Keith stares at his offered hand for a moment. He gets the same feeling in his belly that he used to get before walking into his final exams. Like he is being tested, like he is unprepared, like he is going to fail.

He stands on his own, quickly busying himself with gathering up their blanket and basket.

He follows just behind Lance as they walk through the field, back to the castle. They take their time — no one else will be back yet — and Lance stops every three seconds to coo at a beetle, take a picture of a plant, draw a heart in the dirt. Keith finds himself smiling without permission, struggling to school his face when he realises.

Keith has never met someone who is so unapologetically himself. He knows Lance has struggles, knows he doubts himself more than anyone on the team, probably. But so much of him is just a blatant adoration for the world around him; an obsession with the stars, an affinity for speed, an ataraxia in water, a blatant delight for any critter. He loves so much so often he bleeds with it. Keith has no idea how he survives, how he protects himself. It terrifies him. How is he supposed to protect Lance if Lance refuses to wear any armour? If he flays himself open and trusts everything and anyone? It’s as if he hasn’t yet learned to be wary, even though he has been hurt. Keith cannot fathom how he’s like this, how he’s survived like this.

Later, that night, he lies awake and counts Lance’s breaths as he thinks.

This wasn’t meant to last.

He doesn’t mean that they’re doomed to fail. They are, probably, the same way most things are (his mouth twitches on reflex as he hears Lance calling him emo in his head), but he hadn’t meant to start anything, with Lance. He doesn’t think Lance meant to start with him, either. He certainly never anticipated Lance, head pillowed on Keith’s chest, drool gathering on his ribcage, leg flopped over his and hand twitching in his face and hair. He never anticipated hearing his name muttered in Lance’s sleep, or watching him shoot up from a nightmare, wide-eyed and terrified, only to relax immediately back into sleep when he sees that it’s Keith who’s holding him. He never anticipated his own hands combing through Lance’s hair, his squeezing of Lance’s feet in between his thighs to keep them warm, his boots at the end of the bed, gloves on the nightstand. He never anticipated the way the smell of Lance’s shampoo would help him breathe again when he shoots straight up in terror and forgets where he is. He never anticipated the softness, the quiet smiles, the feel of his nails on his back, the press of his lips to his neck, the taste of his sweat on his skin, the breathiness of his hitched throat in his ear.

It started with a fight.

Of course it did, really. Why they were alone in the training room, Keith cannot recall, and why they turned to sparring with each other rather than staying at separate corners of the room he is at a loss. (Well, he does know. He knows he watched the litheness of Lance’s body as he bent and and contorted it and felt the swoop of his belly at his smug grin every time he landed a shot. He knows he watched sweat bead up on his forehead and drip down his face, burning a trail down his long neck. He knows he watched Lance bend over to set up shots, stretch, anything. He knows all that. But he thought he had restraint.)

He knows at one point they were snarling at each other, arguing over who had cost them a match with the gladiator, and then he knows that Lance had brazenly challenged him to a fight, and Keith had laughed in his face. He knows that they lunged at each other. He knows that he intended to give it to the smug asshole who had refused to leave him the fuck alone for even one fucking second since they got stuck in space. He knows he had Lance pinned to the ground, because Lance may insist that they’re neck and neck but Keith sure as shit had the upper hand in hand to hand.

What he doesn’t know is who kissed who. He doesn’t know who bit whose lip or who gasped or who shoved whose hand under whose shirt. He doesn’t know. He knows it escalated, he knows he felt fucking drunk on the taste of Lance’s skin, knows he felt like devouring every sound that came from that smart fucking mouth. He knows they didn’t even bother moving from the training mat on the floor.

He does know that he was the one who knocked on Lance’s door first, the next day. But when they fell into bed again Lance was the one who was prepped and ready, who opened the door within half a second and yanked him in by the collar, smirking.

Lance shifts slightly, muttering something as he turns his head. Keith freezes, barely daring to breathe lest he wake him up, waiting until after Lance has settled again, after he’s gone heavy on Keith’s chest.

In the beginning he’d convinced himself it was physical. Lance is objectively fucking hot, anyone with eyes can see that, and it’s not like Keith has any other fucking options here. But tonight, after everyone had split off after dinner and they’d landed in Keith’s room, again (is it really even Keith’s room, anymore? Lance’s hand is keyed to the lock. His products line the bathroom counter. His clothes are intermixed among Keith’s. He can’t remember the last time either of them had been in Lance’s room, let alone Lance by himself), as they always do. They’d gotten ready for bed without even talking, slipping in pyjamas and brushing teeth and running through a ninety four step skincare routine. They’d laid next to each other on the bed, Keith working through a random novel he found in the library and Lance breezing through some kind of math game on his tablet, before Lance had sighed some time before midnight, kissed him gently on the mouth, whispered “I don’t feel like doing anything tonight,” and then flopped on top of Keith’s person, wiggling until he was comfortable, passing out as soon as he was.

Keith’s hand curls around the curve of Lance’s shoulder.

Physical, physical, physical, he chants to himself. You have ruined every single person you have ever loved.

Lance groans slightly again, clicking his jaw.

“Keith,” he murmurs, accent heavy in his sleep. His lips twitch up in a smile.

Keith’s stomach turns.

———

next

based on this post

[poppiesandpromises]

The flower of hope tried so hard to thrive

Through frost and snow she still fought to survive

As the temperature dropped she began to droop

A once-ramrod stiff stalk curled into a stoop

She saw the daisies all waving goodbye

Withered & gone in the blink of an eye

The sunflower faces the next to fall

Left in the dirt though they gave it their all

Chrysanthemum blossoms littered the ground

Not one single bloom was left to be found

Soon even the trees all gave up the ghost

Left to endure the chill they fear the most

This winter garden is blackened with dread

Fear poisoned the soil & now hope is dead

[camelotsheart]

arthur saw merlin giving morgana flowers once and literally spends the rest of the show thinking that giving flowers is one of the highest forms of affection. like. whether he's under a love spell, trying to apologise to gwen, or wanting a romantic breakfast in bed, his go to is flowers. and like, its funny because im pretty sure merlin got the idea that flowers are a nice thing to give to someone because gwen gave him a flower from the bouquet that she was going to give to morgana.

so anyway my point is that arthur really played the whole jealous sibling role because morgana was getting more attention them him, but then decided to up the ✨ romance ✨ without having the knowledge on how to exactly do that, so he makes merlin his Romance Advisor TM. the problem is that merlin has flirting talent and arthur does not, so instead of smooth strawberry rose pickup lines, you get wilted daisies

but no one cares about the appearance anyway. and especially not gwen, the person who started this whole flower business. because she gave those flowers to morgana to make her happy and she gave flowers to merlin to make him happy. so she smiles at the drooped daisy and laughs at how merlin and arthur bicker over forgetting to bring gwen flowers with her breakfast. because really, the flowers are already there and have always been there between the three of them (and four, if morgana had only stayed)

[sweetiehyuka]

Sweet Creature - Choi Yeonjun

♡

Warnings - sub!yeonjun, gn!reader, dom!reader, sex in the forest/in a field, reader misleads yeonjun a little, light degrading, dacryphillia, penetration without protection mentioned overstimulation, pet names, fluffy ending

wc - 2k

Note - i couldn't resist my beautiful pixie boy in the daydream teaser <3 listen to ceilings by beabadoobee whilst reading this i promise it will be even better if you do

♡

This forest was like your home. Your feet knew this soil better than they knew any tile or carpet, and your skin knew this sunlight better than any artificial lamp or lightbulb. You were familiar with every tree, every flower, every little creature that lived here too.

As you wandered, the smell of dry grass filling your nostrils, you came across a creature that’s rare to spot here. Another human. A boy, to be exact.

When you found him, he was sitting in a patch of grass with his back turned away from you, eyes shut and head tilted up towards the sky. His torso was bare and his blue jeans sat low on his hips, allowing you to eye the curve of his hips and the line of his body perfectly. His skin was tan and looked impossibly soft. Maybe it was just beads of sweat, but you swear you could see specs of glitter sprinkles across his neck and back. He looked delectable.

This happens often. Pretty boys come wandering in here, not realising exactly how big the forest is, and not realising that there’s another, very hungry, person waiting to whisk them away and show them heaven.

As soon as you saw him, you wanted to have him. And have him you would.

♡

When you step towards him, some leaves crunch beneath your feet, startling the boy. 

You just stand there, still, the sun washing over you like a spotlight. You attempt to look demure and innocent, hoping he would trust you enough to talk to you.

The boy stares right back at you, hair fluttering in the breeze, cat-like eyes narrowed and focused.

“Hello?”

So, he speaks. 

As his lips move, you swear you can see sunlight glide across them, the pink of their plush flesh matching the little spots of sunburn dotted around his t zone.

“Hi,” you reply, edging closer to him, smiling. As he watches your lips curl up into a smile, a hint of confusion flashes over his eyes, making him look even more delicious than before. “are you lost?”

You can see the cogs turning in his head as he decides what to say, and you assume he’s deciding whether to be truthful and say he is, or lie to protect himself. After a few seconds, he responds.

“Yeah, kinda…”

You smile softly, hiding your intentions.

“I know my way around here well. I live nearby, so if you’d like, I can help you get out.”

His eyes light up at your offer, and you have to stop yourself from giggling over how cute he is. You hold your hand out to him and he takes it, looking up at you with a sense of fondness. 

This was gonna be easier than you thought.

♡

For about fourty minutes now, you have been leading Yeonjun through the forest. Unbeknownst to him, you had been leading him deeper and deeper inside rather than towards an exit like you had promised, as you had a certain spot in mind you wanted to take him to. It was a small field of daisies situated in a circle of willow trees ; the thought of him on his back beneath you, pretty face headed by a crown of daisies, blades of grass stuck to his soft skin, lit your stomach afire and made your desires grow stronger.

The journey had been mostly made in silence, only a few sentences of small talk and queries about directions struck up now and then. You tried to keep walking one or two steps behind him so you could admire him as he walked.

Finally, you arrive at the field. The boy gasps, tracing his fingers long the leaves of the willow trees as he walks through them, clearly not knowing whether to focus on the beautiful flowers he was walking through or the large, drooping trees that surrounded him.

“Pretty, right?”

He nods, still a little awestruck.

“We can rest here, if you want?” you propose, internally pleading that he’ll take you up on the idea. Without a second thought, he skips out of the shade of the trees and right into the middle of the small field, smiling back at you and holding his arms out . You have the urge to skip too, but you still want to keep up your facade of purity, so you decide to traipse over, wearing a shy smile on your face.

You both take a seat in the grass, and you can’t help but to stare at his lips, only now just noticing exactly how plush and kissable they look…

You can’t wait any longer.

You begin to lean in, parting your lips, but when he flinches away, you immediately pause.

"W-what are you doing?"

Feigning innocence, you shuffle back slightly.

"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. You just look so pretty-"

"You don't even know my name..."

You cock your head back slightly.

"I don't need to know your name to want to kiss you, angel."

A blush creeps onto his face at your sudden shift in confidence. He can’t hide that you’re exciting him, so you take the hint that it’s most likely fine to continue trying to seduce him.

"Like it when I call you angel, huh?"

He nods, smiling sheepishly. You kiss him on his red cheek, causing him to hide his face in his hands. He's so cute, you feel like you're gonna explode. 

When he looks back up at you, something in the atmosphere shifts. The giddiness in his eyes turns into some kind of longing as they look up and down the line of your body, staying on your lips for a beat too long. This time, he moves in to kiss you, and you happily oblige.

♡

For around fifteen minutes, you make out, and it only takes around two minutes until you start feeling at each others bodies. The boy’s desperation is very clear to you ; from his furrowed brows to his little whines to his growing hard on, his body is giving you many signs that he definitely wants you too. 

“Wanna take this a step further?” you whisper, lips brushing against his ear, his hair tickling your cheek. He nods.

“I-I’d like that…”

You giggle at his cuteness, then instruct him to take off his jeans, and that he does.

Nothing even has to be said to the boy ; he just lays down, already submitting to you before you have to instruct him to do anything. Gazing down at him warmly, you move to straddle his tummy, the squish of your thighs against his slender waist feeling heavenly. As you take in the sight beneath you, your breath hitches. This is exactly what you wanted. The dreamy boy’s skin glows in the sun, almost like a heavenly aura, and the daisies above his head are in the shape of a ring, almost like a halo. Angel really was the right nickname to choose for him, because that’s exactly what he is. A pretty little angel.

“You ready, sweetheart?”

The boy nods eagerly, eyes clouded with lust. You pet his soft hair then lift yourself up onto your knees, shuffling back a little bit in the grass so that you’re hovering over his pretty cock.

Of course, you weren’t going to give him what he wanted that easily.

You reach down and take his cock into your hand. You give it a firm squeeze and he whines, just like you wanted. You jerk it slowly, smirking as he babbles under his breath. 

“Don’ tease me, please…” he whispers, but you just shake your head - a wordless sign that you’re gonna do whatever you damn please, and he’s going to take it.

After a few minutes of teasing the boy with slow strokes and harsh squeezes, you finally lower yourself down onto his tip, grinning wickedly as he arches his back and cries out.

"P-please! More!" He yells, his nails digging into the flesh of your hips. You giggle, gaining great satisfaction when he pouts.

"Don' mock me..." he mumbles, blinking back tears.

"How could I resist?" you say, tone laced with venom. "You're too easy to mock."

Before he can open his mouth to retort, you slam down onto his dick with a feral groan, revelling in the way his eyes squeeze shut and his head curls away from you. You pay no mind to the stretch ; the heat of the sun mixed with the burn in your groin makes you even hornier than you were before. On top of that, the boy looks even prettier than before with tears clumping his long, pretty lashes together. Not hesitating for a second, you grab his face and turn it towards you.

"Look at me,"

The boy whines, not opening his eyes. You grip his cheeks tighter, pushing his lips out into a pout and bringing his blood to the surface of his skin.

"I said look at me, slut."

At the insult, his eyes fly open, and you feel his dick twitch inside you. Chuckling, you let his face go, and his mouth falls open in a silent gasp.

He's about to say something, but then, without warning, you start moving your hips. And fast, too. As expected, he mewls, arms spasming and legs kicking. Between moans, you laugh. He's so fucking pathetic, and pathetic boys are so damn hot. You grind faster, placing your hands on his torso, running them over the expanse of his chest and the pudge of his tummy. As expected, his skin is the softest you’ve ever touched ; you feel like if you prodded it hard enough it would just tear, and the thought of this beautiful boy bruised and broken through the means of your fingertips makes you rut harder, moaning deep and loud. 

♡

Needless to say, you didn’t go easy on the poor boy. By the time you were done with him, he was panting on his back, near passing out from overstimulation and most likely also heat exhaustion.

Now, he was laying in your arms, cuddled into you. The two of you enjoyed your post-orgasm glow in silence, enjoying the peaceful sounds of nature, the heat of the sun, and the warmth of each other's bodies.

After fucking him, you had plucked a few daisies and woven them through his soft-but-sweaty locks, so now you were twirling the petals between your fingers, careful to be gentle so you didn’t accidentally pull a hair and hurt him.

“You’re not just gonna leave me here, are you?” he mumbles. He doesn’t sound too worried ; for some reason, he really does seem to trust you. How adorable.

Usually, you really would just… leave them there. Sometimes you wouldn’t even make the boys cum, you’d just chase your own high then leave them empty handed. But this boy was different. You couldn’t put your finger on why. He just was.

After kissing him on his forehead, you respond,

“No, little angel.” you press another kiss to his forehead. “I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”

“Yay,” he whispers, a hint of giddiness in his voice. Smiling, you squish your cheek into his forehead, the sound of his lazy giggles making your heart warm. 

Maybe, just maybe, you wanna keep this one.

♡

[makethatelevenrings]

Hi can I request I feel safe with you, with Hangman? Thanks

TW: f!reader, alcohol, reader is drunk, slight angst at the end bc Hangman is an emo baby this is canon because I said so

When Jake entered the Hard Deck, he was met with Penny’s amused, half-hearted glare and a grinning idiot practically leaning off of one of the stools at the bar.

“Thanks for coming,” Penny said. “Phoenix challenged her to a shot competition and, as we all know, Natasha Trace can handle her alcohol. She can pay next time she comes in.”

Jake sighed as he bracketed you in with his hands on your hips to ensure you wouldn’t tip off the stool and face plant into the wood. He handed his card to Penny and she smirked, but didn’t say anything as she passed it back to him once she closed out your tab.

“Jaaaake!” you cried when you turned and saw him. Your eyes were glassy and a loose smile clung to your lips. A bottle of water was clutched loosely in your hands and he snagged it from you, twisting off the cap and putting it to your lips. You dutifully took two long sips and he pulled it away from you, placing the cap back on it, and then shook his head.

“C’mon, Piggy,” he sighed. “Remind me to ream Phoenix out tomorrow for letting you get this drunk.”

As if the aviator heard him from across the packed bar, Phoenix and Halo waved. Jake smiled at his friends and raised his middle finger in response. Natasha blew a kiss and he pretended to catch it before pressing his palm gently to your forehead and then jabbing his thumb over his shoulder towards the door. She replied with two thumbs up.

“Alright, let’s get you home. You’re going to finish that whole bottle and eat some toast before bed,” he ordered. The last thing he wanted was to wake up to you heaving over a toilet because you always cried when you threw up and he hated seeing you cry. 

For fuck’s sake, the two of you weren’t even an “item” and yet here he was, being called to pick you up from girl’s night. He didn’t understand why you kept flitting around him. He was cocky, self-centered, and a dick. You were plain sunshine and daisies with a smile that lit up the whole damn room. Yet, the moment you had met him courtesy of Bob bringing his “friend from knitting club” to the Hard Deck, Jake Seresin found himself drawn to you.

“Thank you, Jakey,” you hummed as he scooped you up and began to carry you out. Your cheek pressed against his shoulder and he almost shivered at the feel of your soft breaths brushing across the exposed skin of his chest, courtesy of the baseball jersey he had on.

“If you throw up in my truck, I will leave your ass in the sand,” he threatened, but there was no real heat behind his words. You giggled and pressed yourself impossibly closer.

“You wouldn’t do that, Kermit.” God, that stupid nickname shouldn’t warm his chest as much as it did. Your eyes widened as your alcohol-addled brain slowly processed words. “That would be dangerous. But you won’t let anything happen to me. You’re too good.”

“You have a lot of faith in me, Piggy.”

You nuzzled your nose against the column of his throat and let out a soft hum. “I feel safe with you. Always have.”

His heart lurched into his throat at your admission. Jake Seresin had been labeled a lot of things in his life. A pain in the ass, selfish, arrogant, but never safe. This had to be your tequila-soaked tongue talking and not the rational, brilliant woman he knew you to be.

But you continued talking, even as he maneuvered open the door to his passenger seat and gently set you down. He slid the seatbelt over your shoulder and stomach before clasping it into place and testing it was secure. His hand slid up to rest on your jaw as you stared at him with wide eyes.

“Like the night Bobby brought me here and that guy was making me scared, you knew what to do. You bring me soup when I’m sick and you help me when there’s storms.” Your smile softened and your eyelids drooped. “You make me feel safe, Kermit.”

Jake couldn’t help himself. He pressed a delicate kiss to your forehead and then stepped back. “Let’s get you home, Piggy, before you fall asleep for the night.”

Surely you would forget everything you had just said. He would make you breakfast in the morning and drive you to the Hard Deck to collect your car before you two parted ways and never spoke about the constant brewing tension between you. Because someone as kind and loving and caring would only be disappointed in the reality of who he truly was behind this veneer of arrogance. He was a broken man and he wouldn’t subject you to the jagged shards of Jake Seresin.

[eileenslibrary]

Thorns, Rot, Tangles, And Roots

A/N: I had a hard time understanding your ask, but I Wrote what I thought it meant, Please pardon me if I was wrong!

Warnings: Jealousy, Crying, Break Downs, Comfort From Crying, Arguments Described Vaguely.

Genre: Angst/Fluff

Gif Is Not Mine

You walk into your and your husband's room to grab something and see him lying down his hair splayed upon the silk pillow his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling gently, you smile and walk up to him to place a kiss upon his temple, his eyebrow twitches slightly and he stirs but stays asleep, you chuckle softly before walking over to grab the papers you need, you and Thranduil have grown distant over the few weeks, he became more snappy than usual making you shrink into yourself from his aggression. You loved him dearly but you missed the old him, his heart grew more thorns keeping you from the rot he is desperately trying to kill. You knew being with him would be hard at times, but your resolve was slowly breaking away no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t stop the harmful vines from his struggling heart. 

You were in a meeting between you, and a few nobles from Rivendell, you call for refreshments during the meeting, Thranduil watches the young male servant and how he stumbles over his words when he hands you your glass of water and the red blush upon his cheeks his eyes trailing over your bare collar bone dipping down, and Thranduil can feel the rot begin to grow once again. The king cages his burning heart in a puzzle of vines covered in sharp points, his tongue as sharp as a sword, and his chest tightens at your ignorance, so he locks himself from you. It’s quite childish he could talk to you and it would be fixed, the thorns that were stabbing you both would be cut, the rot would be cleared, and the leaves upon his heart would grow again. But he got so used to caging himself from others that he ended up hurting everyone else in the process. his heart is growing the thorny branches around it until it pops and the rot held inside is dripping out into his body while he watches the scene unfold. He starts to grow infected internally before it seeps through his pores engulfing him in a rage he can barely hold back, he stands from his chair and heads to the door catching your attention when you see the heavy doors fall closed and the echoes of the door slamming still sweeps across the room. “Excuse me, please enjoy the refreshments” you politely exclaim worry behind your expression. You rush out of the room ready to remove the rot in his heart.

 Thranduil sits upon the bed his crown sitting upon the vanity, and with it goes the poised, and respectable king, and the angry, confused, and broken man sits upon the bed, the rot grows until he feels it clash with the vines poisoning them until they shriveled and the shell of his heart becomes nothing more than dust. His hands tangle into his locks desperately trying to keep the anger at bay his head pounds as he feels the tangly branches of the tree slowly disintegrate.

The rot takes over as you run to him trying to desperately save him from the poison, but the tangles of confusion, anger, and heartbreak drive it to kill his heart faster, you try to work faster, but the rot lashes upon you harming you as you desperately try to get away, your heart made of daisies begins to sicken, the rot seeps from your eyes as you quickly turn and run, your features begin to decay into one of hurt as you leave the room, as you desperately try to encase your heart in the pot it once was placed in, the tall pot encases you into its clay confines effectively saving the small roots you cared for safe from the illness, but you grow sickly with conflicted thoughts of sadness, and fear, your leaves begin to droop and the petals slowly fall into the soil. You tangle into a large nest of pain. You allow the tears to fall slipping down your face, as rot begins to take over your heart, pulling you further into decay. 

As you weep over your fallen petals holding them to your chest desperately trying to keep them from ripping, Thranduil realizes what he’s done, he quickly leaves your bedroom, as Thranduil’s heart decays further as he desperately tries to find you, his long hair tangled from his hands as he looks for you, a few passersby’s watch the crazed king search for his queen. His once-perfect face slips into one of the scars from burns and decomposition, showing him in his truest colors, as he turns the corner he finds you on the ground your long robes held to your chest as you weep, the crumbling petals falling from your heart as you desperately try to save them, you feel someones scared but caring hands hold yours in theirs taking the petals into their hold, you recognize the hands to be your lover, you let your roots spread out to find theirs, as they accept your embrace feeding you with their nutrients, as blue lilacs slowly flower from the branches of the tree reaching out, he watches as the blue petals of your daisies grow back with his warm embrace, the vines untangle, and the thorns dull once again. You look up at your husband as he whispers apologies into your ear and intertwines his fingers with yours, you watch as the last of the decay fades from his heart, he holds you tightly reassuring you he’d never let your petals die again, as well as you promising to keep the thorns at bay.

@jujjuikijjyu

[cobaltsoulsearcher]

Inflorescence

The first thing any Ashari druid learns is how to make a flower bloom. It’s a holiday, almost, the day when children learn to make a bud split open. Grandparents smile and toddlers stuff their mouths with petals. Parents look forward to off-season bouquets, teens to the teasing exchange of tulips and daisies from friends and classmates and crushes. There are picnics at graveyards, and scavenger hunts for bulbs hidden for this exact occasion. It’s not just druids who learn, either; if a Zephrahn or Pyrahn or Terrahn or Vesrahn can cast one spell, it is this one. 

Orym is not Ashari by blood; his mother settled in Zephrah, his father wandered on. But he is Ashari, and nothing connects him more to his culture and his people than pulling summer from dew-coated capsules or smiling in time with a sudden blossom. He spreads his fingers as the petals of a pansy unfurl, and sprinkles them onto his mother’s baking; he harvests sunflowers to toast on warm days, no matter the month. His mother can’t cast the spell, but she loved flowers, loves watching him birth color and petals and beauty.

He pulled up their irises from the box beneath his window after Will died. They were half-browned, lackluster; he blessed them back to bloom. Only the best for his husband. Only the best to be buried with his father, only the best to be salted with his grief. He finds a packet of seeds Derrig had given them for housewarming in the cupboard; he brings them to inflorescence in the time it takes his watering eyes to form tears. 

The streets feel empty that night, and it’s not just because so many have huddled in their homes, drawing relatives close in fear. All the flowers have been shuttered, gently closed. It feels as if the entire city is holding its breath in reverence to those they have lost. Zephrah knows how to bloom, and Zephrah knows how to grieve. 

He moves back in with his mother. A bouquet is waiting to welcome him home, white petals already beginning to droop and fall. Snowdrops. He looks out the window, towards the manor where he has reported for duty day after day, time after time, and it’s all he can do to stop from crying again. 

The flowers in Alma’s garden don’t open until spring, that year. They feel so young and soft against his fingers, but he doesn’t pick them, and when they close and fall, he returns them to bloom.

My second piece for the weekly version of @mysticsparklewings's obscutober.

[ireallyliketalldarksultrymen]

happy flower husbands maybe????

oh my god nonnie tysm for requesting this bc this was the actual first time i’ve written fluff 😭 i’m giggling!! them!!!! omg i hope you enjoy!!

—

Scott sits crossed legged on his porch, watching as Jimmy eyes dart across the field, tongue peeking out the seam of his lips.

In his left hand is an assortment of picked flowers; daisies, poppies, a lily-of-the-valley or two. Jimmy holds them carefully by the stem.

His right arm is away from his body, reaching around the field. It looks like he goes to pick a flower as he reaches forward, but then Jimmy brings it back to his body, looking around for something else.

“Y’know,” Scott starts, “I could help you—“

“Nope!” is the blonde’s immediate response. “Nuh-uh, not a chance!”

It was worth a try.

Scott sits there a bit more, watching in amusement as Jimmy rethinks his choices over-and-over.

As a flower is plucked from the ground, the collection in his hand grows. This goes on until Jimmy’s hand can’t wrap it completely.

“It might be too much,” Scott hums as Jimmy plops down next to him. He sits in the same position as Scott, spreading the collection across his thighs.

“You…might be right.” Jimmy blinks at the excessive amount of flowers in his lap. “But the more the merrier!”

Scott only snorts, bumping his shoulder with Jimmy’s.

He watches careful as nimble fingers (well, as nimble as Jimmy can be) weave stems together by crossing and looping between petals.

Jimmy falls into a pattern; two poppies, a single daisy, two poppies, a single lily.

Scott can’t help but let his eyes trail up to his face. Jimmy eyes were so concentrated on his craft that Scott wouldve laughed if it wouldn’t break the moment.

If the Sun hangs at the right angle, she casts a ray of light that hits Jimmy’s face just right, eyes looking softer than ever.

Around them are his freckles, and though Scott isn’t a man known to be lovey-dovey, he swears he could write a sonnet about them.

They’re everywhere, even broader during summer.

Jimmy looks up, a confused look meeting Scott’s adoring one.

“What is it?” But he’s smiling, too.

Scott shook his head. “Just wondering how I got so lucky.”

Flush painted cheeks. “Oi! And how are you talking?”

Their banter slides through the afternoon easily, but they’re silent at times, too, enjoying the others presence.

It’s around dinner time when Jimmy makes a satisfied noise, cradling the crown in his hands.

“Finished!” he chimes, looking over at Scott. The latter has his face rested on Jimmy’s shoulder.

“What do you think?” Jimmy pipes, wearing his usual grin.

And Scott…

Scott can’t speak.

The pattern is more beautiful than he has realized earlier; everything compliments each other—the greens to the whites, the whites to the reds, the reds to the greens.

Jimmy’s arranged the petals to look more like cupid’s bows—there are dips and rises between each and every one of them.

At each end, the tips of the stems resemble a shape. From the singular point and the two curves, Scott sees that they’re hearts.

Scott can’t help but tear up.

Jimmy must notice, since his the corner of his mouth droop. “Do…” his tone is softer, “do you like it?

“Yeah.” Scott wipes his eyes, then smiles. “I like it a lot.”

Jimmy cheers, which shakes Scott off his shoulder. He doesn’t mind, though. Not at all if it makes Jimmy happy.

Jimmy brings the crown to Scott’s head, and he bows his head in understanding. Jimmy fixes it once, then twice.

“I dub thee the Flower Prince!” Jimmy declares in an oh-so formal voice that doesn’t suit him at all. 

Scott taps his chin in thought and smirks. “I’d prefer it if I were the Flower King, actually. I’d get to call you my Flower Husband.”

Jimmy sputters and pushes his shoulder with no real malice. “Such a charmer, aren’t you?”

“I try my best.”

They sit together, Scott rubbing his thumb over the back of Jimmy’s hand and fhe other bumping knees with the shorter.

Dinner seems to be forgotten.

“Y’know,” Jimmy whispers, as if the air is fragile enough to break. “Maybe we rule an empire together in another universe.”

Scott hums. He can’t find a reason to disagree. “Maybe we do,” he whispers back.

He leans in to kiss the bridge of Jimmy’s nose, who in turn lets out what’s in-between a squeak and a squawk.

Scott laughs at it, and even harder at Jimmy’s pouts. It isn’t too long before the blonde joins in with him.

He wouldn’t mind doing this more often.

[strwberri-milk]

Could I request Kaeya with an s/o who has a Dendro vision that reacts to her emotions? Whenever she's happy, flowers bloom everywhere, and when she's sad the flowers droop.

At first, Kaeya didn't really notice this happening around you. He just thought that the flowers only seemed to be blooming brighter in your presence because of how much he loved you, not because your vision was actually making them. For him, he just loved you so much that everything seemed so much more beautiful in your presence.

That, combined with your own happiness that he fueled by simply being around you meant that things just tended to stay pretty alive when they were near you. In fact, Kaeya developed a habit of picking flowers for you whenever you drew near because he just felt they were so much better in your presence.

One day, you were in a bad mood. He was coming out to pick you up for a date, humming happily to himself as he left his office to see you standing at the main entrance. The downcast look on your face immediately made him worried, sparing only half a glance at the wilted flowers that stood sadly next to you.

However, once you saw him and allowed him to cheer you up he saw how they quickly perked up. That's when he realised that your vision that was constantly lowly glowing was the cause of all this. The connection seemed so simple now that he figured it out after cuddling you up and making you smile that he secretly used them to gauge your mood.

You found him out fairly quickly, gently scolding him for not telling you sooner. He didn't mind of course, taking note of how strong the daisies behind you looked. Clearly, you weren't actually upset with him and the way you immediately melted into his hold when he kisses you was just further proof.

[sprouts-xreader-stories]

Daisies .

Requested : Nope

Genre : Fluff, Familial, Human AU!, OC X Canon - Elsie X Alastor [Hazbin Hotel]

POV : Third Person Semi-Omniscient

Warning(s) : Not really anything tbh. This is a songfic tho so incase you don’t like that ig

Context : Elsie is Alastor’s daughter (wow such an overused trope). In canon, she is 6 years old; however, here, she is simply 4 months old.

“Hey pal, hey friend, hey buddy, why so sad? So downright unhappy? That’s not my cup of tea…”

Alastor quietly got out of bed, heading to the crib in the corner of the room. Elsie was crying. It was soft, barely audible over the sounds of the city, but he heard it. He heard everything about his little girl.

“You know that this could be your last day here on earth, so, buddy, please: won’t you smile? Just for me?”

Elsie’s chubby little face was scrunched up in her discomfort. She whined softly, unable to hear. While she wasn’t entirely deaf, it was subtle, and it stopped her from hearing him sometimes.

“My dear, my dear, no, you don’t have to cry. That ain’t a pretty legacy to leave behind.”

He carefully scooped her up, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Carefully, he pushed her lip upward. No wonder she was crying. She was starting to teethe.

“Stop and smell the roses while you’ve got the time. Pretty soon, you’ll be pushing up daisies where the sun don’t shine. Pretty soon, I’ll be pushing up daisies where the sun don’t shine.”

He walked over to a cabinet in the kitchen, the child in his arms, and found one of her teething items. Alastor carefully pried her mouth open with two fingers, slipping the item between her lips.

“You know, I just gotta say that you might not have a lot of time to waste, so lose that long face.”

Elsie’s cries had reduced to nothing but whimpers, her eyes opening to reveal the pretty little blues. She blinked once, soft brown hair falling around her face. She was so much like him, looks-wise.

“None of us are here to stay, so treat every day like it’s a holiday! Until the day you slip away.”

He headed back to his bedroom. The cleaner one, anyway. That’s where he kept Elsie. Silently sitting on the bed with her in his arms, continuing on the song he’d made up for her.

“My dear, my dear, no, you don’t have to cry. That ain’t a pretty legacy to leave behind.”

Elsie’s eyes started to droop once more. Alastor grinned; it was working. Lightly stroking her cheek, he stood up once more, slowly padding over to her crib again.

“Stop and smell the roses while you’ve got the time. Pretty soon, you’ll be pushing up daisies where the sun don’t shine. Pretty soon, I’ll be pushing up daisies where the sun don’t shine.”

Her eyes closed fully. Alastor carefully pulled the toy from her mouth and set it aside on the nightstand for easier access before placing her in the crib. She was so small.

“Pretty soon, you’ll be pushing up daisies where the sun don’t shine…”

He crawled back into bed himself, clicking off the lamp with a small tug at the string.

@vexter-the-comedian @vaporwave-dr34ml4nd @guardianangelhaver @aroacerick @mad-mantis-649

[calmcoldevening]

Your boys

TW: well, there's no them

Characters: Vincent Sinclair, Thomas Hewitt (polyamory)

Ps: Well, I made that for my ex-girlfriend in the past, but I through it is cute for reading :) I hope you enjoy it ♡

You lived in a small house on the outskirts of the city. It was akin to a warm mansion next to a shallow river, surrounded by dense thickets for miles around. There was a grassy clearing in front of the house, always dotted with large daisies in summer; a paved gray path led to the entrance; the porch was covered with dark ivy. The front of the makeshift garden was filled with many flowering bushes of red geranium and white scabious.

Today was a very busy and tiring day, so you were very tired and irritable. Recently, your damn director has behaved extremely openly and promiscuously towards you, what's more, he hung extra work on you in order to cross paths with you once again. It made me very angry. So the only thing you wanted right now was to come home and go to bed.

You forcefully pulled the door handle, then pulling the keys out of the keyhole. With one awkward jerk, entering the house, you closed the front door and threw your keys and bag on the floor. Also quickly taking off your shoes, you exhaled heavily and went to your bedroom, plopping down on the bed. I wanted to lose myself in this cool bedspread and a large pillow with a pleasant lilac scent from the new fabric softener.

It was getting overcast outside the window, the clouds were gradually thickening, covering the shining sun, a real downpour was about to begin. The wind was getting stronger, and now it penetrated into the room, enveloping your body, from which the skin was covered with goosebumps. Your face was burning from the still present tension after a working day. The caressing evening air was relaxing. Especially now, here in the forest, when everything around has acquired the smell of damp earth and damp trees.

You squeeze the blue bedspread with your fist, burying your nose more into the pillow. After a moment, the mattress next to you will crumple under a heavy weight, and you feel a big hand on your hip. The palm is large and rough even through the thickness of jeans, but the movements are rhythmic and soft. Your shoulders involuntarily lower, relaxing. You squirm a little, and the movements on your leg stop.

"Hi, Tommy," you whisper, lifting your face from the pillow, leaning on your elbows.

The man nods briefly and looks at you with excitement. You slowly sit down, not taking your eyes off the man. His hair is disheveled in the usual way for him, falling over his broad shoulders, curls curl into small curls. Big blue eyes move over your body with obvious anxiety and fear, noticing every tense movement of your body. Now he was wearing the clothes you bought, and there was no mask on his face, revealing a slightly rotting skin and a missing nose.

Thomas looks at you, scrutinizing your awkward gaze and drooping shoulders, when he finally clumsily signs: "Are you okay?". His sign language wasn't as good as yours yet, he started learning it quite recently, but he was already making decent progress, so it turned out to be quite easy to understand simple phrases on his part.

"It's okay, Tommy. It's okay," you awkwardly tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, "I'm just tired. My boss is not very good, so..."

You were interrupted by the feeling of a warm palm on your cheek. Thick fingers gently rubbed against your soft skin; eyes the color of forget-me-nots looked at your face with awe and pity. Thomas could not always convey his thoughts in words, he liked to show his feelings. And now the man was trying to calm you down and show that everything that a bad person has done to you is not important, because Hewitt is next to you, here and now, and he will protect you from all the nightmares in the world.

Sitting on his lap was the best thing to do after a hard day's work. Over time, the man got used to your excessive tactility, especially in stressful situations, and began to perceive it as a good sign, an excuse to show his love. Because now he was gently pressing you to him, putting his head on top of your head. He was mumbling incoherently, I think it was a lullaby about a mockingbird, which his mother sang to him in early childhood. You cooed softly, pressing your cheek against his broad and large body. The noise in your head slowly subsided, and you hardly remained on the verge of vivacity and sleep.

When you were embraced by another pair of hands, more neat and skillful, you sighed in relaxation, lowering tense eyebrows. Vincent was very quiet, you didn't notice him coming over. The man stroked your hair, running his artistic fingers through the pliable strands, like ribbons flowing over his skin. The palms are rough due to constant work and in places excessively smooth and warm, like wax. The man was whispering something softly, resting his head on Thomas' shoulder, the second only chuckled smugly.

A quiet voice moved to your ear, gently scorching your skin; you felt Vincent's breath on your neck and cheeks, and then he gently touched your lips, giving a weightless kiss.

"Want to eat?" Vincent signs when you open one eye; you nod. Thomas gets out of bed, still holding you in his arms, and gently pushes the artist next to him behind his back, smiling.

Spending time with them like this, the three of them, seemed like a real fairy tale. You don't remember when this strange relationship started, and when the boys agreed to it, but it didn't matter. Hewitt and Sinclair loved you the most in their lives, gradually they got used to the mutual presence, perhaps some strange friendship formed between them, you don't know. But they are crazy about you and will do everything in their power to make you happy.