#i've been holding that in for FOUR YEARS now

[howlingday]

Jaune: (Standing over his mother's body, Holding potion) This should do it...

Jaune: (Carefully administers potion)

Mama Arc: ...

Mama Arc: (Opens her eyes) ...Jaune? Is that you?

Jaune: Mom... It's been so long...

Mama Arc: Oh, Jaune... You've gotten so big... How long was I asleep for?

Jaune: (Gulps) About four years.

Mama Arc: Oh, I'm sorry. I must've forgot to set my alarm...

Jaune: Mom, I've been through hell and back, almost died multiple times, and actually did die once... And now I only have one question...

Jaune: Is Terra my sister?

Mama Arc: What? Why would you ask that, Jaune?

--------------------------------------------------

Terra: No one will hear except the neighbors!

--------------------------------------------------

Jaune: Please... For my sanity... Just tell me the truth!

Mama Arc: Jaune, of course Terra's your sister...

Jaune: (Crying)

Mama Arc: ...even if you were adopted into the family.

Jaune: WHAT?

STEP-MOM ROUTE IS NOW AVAILABLE

Jaune: ...I should've known this was coming.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO ACCEPT THIS ROUTE?

Jaune: (Sighs, Stands up)

Mama Arc: Jaune? Where are you going-

Jaune: (Jumps out the window)

Mama Arc: OH MY GOD! JAUNE!

FULL RECOVERY ACTIVATED!

Jaune: Ow...

Mama Arc: Jaune, are you okay?!

Jaune: (Sighs) ...Yes, Mom. NONOWAIT-

STEP-MOM ROUTE ACCEPTED~!

NOOOOOOOOOO

[heatheninpraxis]

Hello Tumblr. This is my first ever foray with fan fiction, so go easy on me, I am extremely nervous. There's just too much incredible Joel Miller smut on this hellsite and y'all inspired me. I'm halfway through the second part of this lil fic, so if there is an audience for it, I'll post part 2 asap!

Feel Her Love (part 1)

🎶Alluring Eyes - The Brudi Brothers

Tags: MDNI, smut, jackson!joel, Joel x reader, old!joel, caretaker!joel, grumpy!joel, dark themes, tw, PTSD, fmasturbation, m genitalia mentioned

AN: slow burn, age gap (legal obvs), fmc is an ex seraphite, excessive description of PTSD/trauma/mental illness, f masturbation, dirty bath water, power imbalance (inexperienced/mentally ill fmc), implied history of sa, subservience. I love Joel and have a hard time putting him in a position of taking advantage, but I'm giving them tiiiime damnit.

Without further ado - feel her love part 1

As you wake, your anxiety sets in instantly. You bolt upright, halt your breath, swiftly examining your surroundings. Where am I? You hear soft, slow snoring. You look down. Four others asleep in makeshift pallets around a dying fire. Deep breath. I am safe. I am away from them. 

“Hey… hey, you're alright. I've been keepin’ watch. Y’ain't missed nothin'.” Your head snaps up to locate where the low, surly voice is emanating from. Joel is up, seated on a large rock, finishing packing up for the morning. His eyes meet yours, then flick away, so as not to spook you. 

You've only been traveling with the group for two weeks or so now. He zips his pack and grab his rifle, securing the strap and gently swinging it over his broad shoulder. 

“Coffee? I think there is a bit of that jerky left, if yer hungry.”

You let out the breath you've been holding. Silently, you slip from under the canvas jacket you'd used as a blanket, rise soundlessly to a modified crouched position, and reach out to grab the aluminum thermos lid of steaming coffee Joel had poured for you. You say nothing, giving a curt nod to convey your gratitude. Coffee is not something you were used to in all your years with the Seraphites. Since you'd run off, your nerves had permitted you little rest, and in small doses, the caffeine helped keep you moving in step with the group. 

They were from a large camp, some place called Jackson. They were out on a scouting mission. You barely managed to gather enough information through torn and hodge podged, ruined road maps to have an idea of whereabouts they'd picked you up. Well, damn near kidnapped you, really. You had not gone willingly. You glance down at your injured leg. You'd managed to mangle it in some crude, makeshift trap a hunter had left on the roadside a few weeks ago- you’d wager somewhere outside Billings. You'd barely managed to stay alive, trying to fight off infection with what minimal foraging and holistic medicine training the Seraphites had given you. The group had spent half of a night trying to track you down after catching a glimpse of you dragging yourself through the woods, trying to lay low. As they closed in on you, you'd trained your last arrow on Joel, and after seeing how sick, hurt, and desperate you looked, he lowered his weapon. You didn't. You were ready to die fighting, no matter how pathetic a foe you appeared to be. Joel crept up to you, cooing and promising to help you. Just as you were about to loose your arrow into his chest, you heard “Sorry” and saw black. He'd pistol whipped you and flung you over the back of his horse. You awoke 18 hours later, feeling much less feverish and looking much more clean and bandaged. 

“You good kiddo?” Joel asked, snapping you out of a daze. You don't meet his eyes, just silently nod. Silence. It's all you've ever had to protect yourself in this world. You've kept your head down, you've tried to follow instruction, but all you've ever known was fear, trauma, and isolation. Silence kept you out of trouble. Kept you safe from clickers. Kept the Elders’ persecuting gaze on others - poor unfortunate souls - that weren't you. You'd seen what they were capable of. You'd seen both friend and foe, strung up above the earth, missing their entrails. Your heartbeat skyrockets at the blood chilling memories. 

“Heh, d’you ever shut up?” Joel playfully barks at you. You jump at the words, but understand he meant no harm by it. You give him a tiny, almost inaudible chuckle. It's the best you can do to not let on how damaged you feel psychologically. You still haven't told them who you were running from. The others start to stir now from their slumber. You focus on your rapidly cooling coffee. It's bitter and is sure to increase your anxiety soon, but you gulp it down, praying it gives you the energy you need to finish the trek back to Jackson. You focus on gathering your things, and keep your eyes down from the awakening crew. 

“God you can be so loud when you want to be, Miller. The sun isn't even fully up and you're already hollerin. Let us get some fuckin caffeine in us first. " a young man, you think his name is Josh, playfully fires at Joel.

“And let you sleep all damn day? We're ‘bout seven hours out from Jackson and I'm rearin’ to get back to my own bed” he jabs back. “Now get yer coffee and get to packin’ up, ya lazy asses. “

The others are still groaning as they rush to gather their belongings. You're already at Joel's chestnut's side, clasping the bedroll Joel lent you into its leather straps on her saddle. You idly pat her haunch as you wait for Joel to assist you up. He is already rounding the treeline before you know it, and you can't help but steal a glance at his straining biceps through his thick flannel as he straddles his mare and reaches down to offer you a hand up. Your neck flushes. You sink your good foot in the stirrup, grasp his calloused, enveloping hand, and let him haul you up, careful not to bump your injured leg. You swing your leg over and, once again, find yourself seated at the front of the saddle, back flush to his chest, and your rear indecently close to his… manhood. 

You think you're about 25 years old, though time meant little in your life as a cult member, and you certainly didn't celebrate birthdays. It was a cult, no matter what your mother and siblings had tried to tell you. They were true believers in the Prophet. After your mother had drug you and your siblings into their grasp, you started to lose them. You know you were about 7 when you became one of the Seraphites. And every year since then you'd known your family less and less. When your mother had fought to marry you off to some scraggly looking older man, you knew she no longer loved you in the way she had when you were a little girl. Maybe she was just trying to do anything she could to keep you alive, but in doing so, she killed who you were. Today you were a shell of a person, with little more inside than the personification of pure, undiluted fear. 

Traveling with this group had been a great comfort to you, after the initial panic wore off. They tried to welcome you into the fold at night by the fireside. They protected you when danger was afoot. They nursed you back from the brink of death. There was even a woman in the crew, who sang songs as you all rode through the wilderness, that you might have remembered from when you were a small child. Maybe not, though. Maybe you just wanted to remember them, because they lit a warm little fire in the center of your chest that didn't fizzle out for days. 

And Joel, who gave you all the space you needed without your asking for it. Who kept you tight to his chest in your long trek back to Jackson. Who kept an extra watchful eye on you. It felt like he'd taken you under his wing, and no one had ever done that for you before. Eye contact was difficult for you, having grown up in such a diseased hierarchy of a social setting. You were to be obedient. Subservient. And anytime you let your guard down, you'd paid for it. A slap in the face, a knuckle rapping, a week in a cell with little food and ample prayer… God, the prayer. As much as you tried to lean into it, to accept it as your reality, the prayer made you sick. You tried to accept your fate as a devout Seraphite, but deep down you knew the Prophet was full of shit. 

“Almost there, kiddo. And don't worry about Jackson. I'll make sure they take it easy on you. Yer goin’ ta be safe here. Now, we are gettin’ to be full up around town, but there's a spare room at my place, till we find you your own apartment. Maybe a roommate or two for a lil while, but only when yer ready. You can stay with me n Ellie till yer good n sick of us. Yer gonna be safe with me. A'right?“ Joel gently squeezes your thigh and for once, you don't jump out of your skin. You melt back into the man who has managed to make you feel safe for the first time in your life. It makes your chest feel warm and your body feel heavy - drowsy. And you drift off to sleep, right then and there, on the back of a horse. 

As the familiar Jackson skyline came into his line of sight, Joel let out a heavy sigh of relief. He and the others had gone out a few weeks back, on a mission to check in on some old radio towers Jackson could potentially utilize in the future. The mission was mostly a bust - another team would have to go out in the coming months for some heavy reconstruction, to make the one tower you did find even remotely usable. And now, this. This skittish rabbit of a woman he was dragging back into town. Mean as a viper when they'd cornered her, but softened as the days went on. Joel couldn't get a good read on her. She sure was timid, and did not seem to enjoy meeting anyone's eye. He didn't know why, but he was drawn to her and found himself hovering, overly concerned about her. He would normally be annoyed at how helpless she was, adding little to the group's efforts. Not to mention the shit storm he will be walking into, very soon now. How did someone with such little survival and navigational skills end up out here on her own? After 2 weeks, they had managed to get a few answers to some questions out of the woman. She didn't want to disseminate who she had been with prior. Images of raider thugs laying their hands on her flashed through Joel's mind, and just the thought made his blood pressure rise. Who had hurt this girl? Who carved those scars into her face? For their sake, he had better never find out. Joel did feel shame for the decisions he had made in anger in his past, but never regret. He certainly didn't learn from it, because if he ever managed to get the names of her captors, abusers, whoever they were, out of her, he was going to make them pay in flesh. 

Jackson's leadership would not be pleased Joel was dragging another stray into town, another mouth to feed. The winter had been hard on their community, and they had long since run out of safe homes for new admissions. The construction teams were struggling to keep up with demands for home renovations. But what was Joel to do? Leave this girl in the woods to burn up from her infected open wounds? Maybe if she had been someone else, but one look into her big round fearful eyes, her bow taught and trained on his center of mass, his heart seized up and he knew he was on the hook for another soul to protect - to live and to die for. Part of him resented her for that, another person to protect, to feed, to have depending on him. It feels like that's all his life ever was - working hard and worrying for people. As he was approaching his mid 50’s, he could feel the weariness and the weight of it bearing down on his bones more than ever. 

Joel found himself breathing deep, inhaling the earthy scent of his passenger's hair, and she slept gently resting under his chin.  It was tied up in disheveled braids, secured closely to the crown of her head. They hadn't been able to provide any substantial bathing measures for her, and her hair smelled dirty, like earth and sweat, but intoxicating to him nonetheless. She was sickly looking, and covered in grime, but try as he might, he couldn't deny the shapeliness of her body, or the undeniable beauty of her face, even with the two deep scars protruding from the sides of her plump lips, and tracing all the way up to her ears. He stiffened, realizing how fucking creepy the act was, sniffing on a defenseless young woman as she slept, ruminating on her beauty. Shame sent prickles under his skin and up his chest and neck, and he gripped the reins tighter, determined to get off this horse and back home to the privacy, comfort, and quiet of his humble Jackson home. He needed to get his fuckin’ head on straight. They were only about 5 minutes out from the gate now, and he bristled preemptively at the inevitable interrogation and invasion of space she was about to endure. He felt a growl forming in his chest. He was fucking exhausted and didn't want to deal with it, but he was going to stay composed for the girl, she didn't need to see him lose his head just yet. 

You awake to a quick, rough jostling. Joel is shaking your shoulder with a firm grip. 

“Wake up, girl. We're here.” His tone is stern, colder than you were used to from him. The others had dismounted, and were joking with the team that had arrived to greet them. You swallow dryly. You're uncertain what you'll do if they turn you away. The idea of picking back up and walking away from this enormous settlement had your teeth on edge. This was more than you could have ever expected to see out here in the tattered remains of the world that once was. The walls were high, made of sturdy, reinforced wooden logs. There must be hundreds, if not thousands of people living here. All dressed in warm clothes and well fed. Your chest pangs with a grief you had tried for years to bury, wishing you could have broken through to your siblings. You thought your mother was too far gone, though. Who would your siblings be if they'd ended up here instead of the harsh, swampy region your chapter of the Seraphites had held domain in? Joel hopped off the chestnut mare without a word, letting you stumble with no support behind you any longer. His sudden departure from the protective persona you'd come to know him as left you feeling uncertain and vulnerable. He slung his pack over his shoulder and picked you up effortlessly to set you on the ground beside him. A shooting pain radiated up the back of your leg and you whimper, barely perceptible. You catch a glimpse of Joel's eyes, looking shocked and remorseful, before they dart away and he gestures for you to follow him closely. 

“Shit… ” Joel winces under his breath, I'm a fucking prick. Shoulda been more careful, he thought. He was desperate to get this over with and to get you back to his place. You hobble at his side, bracing yourself for what was to come.

“You're shittin’ me, Miller. You know this can't fly right now.” an older gentleman groans in Joel's direction as his eyes rake over you in frustration. “Another mouth to feed. Where the hell you gonna put her?” Joel barges past, his arm hovering around your back, herding you through the team collecting the horses. The others you'd travelled with were filling the gaurds in on their findings about a decrepit radio tower. 

“Not in the fuckin’ mood for chastisin’, Mike. Get Tommy and the rest ready. She's stayin at mine and I won't hear another word till the rest are here for intake protocol.” Joel is steadily guiding you through the gate. Your body is lit up, nervous for your potential exile, or maybe the possibility of this place, full of life on bustling streets, being your new home. Your heart races as you sidle next to Joel, trying to keep your head down and your heart from getting its hopes up. You pass homes and stables, bakeries, a seamstress and cobbler's storefront... You would never have dreamt this was out there beyond the woodlands you'd grown up in. You could smell food cooking, possibly something from the bakery, and hear faint music coming from what looked to be a tavern. The anxiety was palpable, swirling through your chest and above your head. Joel catches a glance at you every few steps, warming at the wonder in your eyes. He is desperate for this to go as quickly and painlessly as possible. It's glaringly evident him you have trauma, possibly PTSD, from whatever hell you've lived through in place of a real life. And from what he gathered from you over the last couple of weeks, you weren't ready for the grilling he knew you'd be subject to shortly. You eventually walk up steps to a white washed wooden building. The porch was adorned with bunting flags in bright colors, with bountiful flower pots on either side of the glass doors. The entry way was filled with fliers - job postings, advertisements for yoga classes and square dancing lessons, babysitting offers… all edivence that this really was a thriving community. It took your breath away. 

“Alright now, listen to me.” Joel says, grasping both your shoulders firmly and pulling you to face him, his gaze determined to penetrate yours. You do your best to hold your eyes to his, as much as it makes you squirm. “These people are tasked with keepin’ this place safe and runnin’ efficiently. It's their job to make sure we ain’t runnin’ this settlement into the ground or takin’ in lawless psychopaths. Now I know you're harmless, and just tryin’ to survive, but they're gonna want to be convinced. I'm gonna try to answer what I can but I need to know you ain't gonna give ‘em your infamous silent treatment. I need you to be brave and tell them your story, okay kiddo?”

Your eyes are watering now, and you burn under his gaze. You start to nod, but manage to muster up a quiet, but firm “yes." You cannot mess this up. It's your only hope. Joel holds your gaze for a few beats longer, nods once, takes a sharp deep breath, and opens the door. He guides you into a large room with a panel of individuals at the back. There are benches lining either side of the aisle he leads you down. Your heart is thudding in your chest, but you keep your head level with your audience. They scrutinize you as you approach, filling you with the urge to dash, but you plant your feet firmly on the ground and pretend you are brave.

“Joel… “ a woman greets him with exasperation in her voice. 

“Maria…” he nods, and extends the greeting to the others on the panel as well.

“And who do we have here?” Maria wastes no time asking.

Joel introduces you, and you nod at the panel, doing your best to mirror his body language. He gives them a brief rundown of their mission, and what scraps of information he and the others had coaxed from you over the time you'd spent together so far. He sounds weary, but tries to put on his most charming tone. Joel is desperate for this to go by without a hitch. He doesn't dare to imagine the sleepness nights ahead of him, worrying about you outside of these walls, if they don't make an exception and welcome you in.

“Well, let's hear it from you. Where did you come from? Who is it you've left behind out west?” the man Joel addressed as Tommy asks you.

Your chest starts to seize, you're terrified to speak their name out loud. Outside of Washington, you're unsure what opinions come to mind when someone hears the word “Seraphite”. Do they know of their cruelty or deranged beliefs? But you weren't one of them. You had to make them understand. You had to make them see you aren’t like them. Your breathing speeds up and your mind is whirring.

“Hey, now. S'okay kiddo. Just tell them the truth. Ya ain't got nothin’ to hide “ Joel's voice is warm and coated in honey now, just for you. He places his broad hand on your back. It snaps your mind back into the present moment, and gives you just enough courage to tell them the truth. So you do. Quietly, quickly, you tell them your story - cult, WLF, whistles, and the rest. You don't mention how your mother tried to marry you off to the man who tried to take advantage of you as a teen. You don't mention the executions you bore witness to. You don't mention the oppression and neglect you endured or exactly why your face is carved up like a jack-o-lantern. You just try your best to tell them who you are and why you left. After you prattle out the information, you look up from under your lashes to gauge their reaction. Some look shocked, some look at you with pity. None of them look angry. Your breath shudders. 

“Good job, kiddo. You did real good. Why don't you wait out in the lobby for me while we finish up?” Joel coos.

You look up at him, fearful and teary eyed, and he nods reassuringly. You turn tail and exit the room. To your surprise, you don't panic as the door closes behind you. You don't even cry. You just focus on your breath, and listen to the muttering on the other side of the large wooden door. You make out the word “responsibility” and maybe “appointments” but within a few minutes, you hear heavy boots approaching on the wooden floor. The door opens slowly and Joel walks into the foyer. Without looking at you he says “Let's go” and notions to you with a nod of his head. You follow, relief flooding your body when you realize you aren't about to be handcuffed and escorted back out into the Wyoming wilderness.

Joel leads the way as you walk through town towards his home. The others seemed sympathetic to her story, but no less pissed off at him. They're worried about your stability, and want him to get you to a therapist for an evaluation and weekly visits. Only Greta had heard tale of the Seraphites. Her sister in a settlement in Canada had mentioned them years ago, but referred to them as “scars”, and only as what she thought to be a fringe group, not the religious zealot foothold in the PNW you'd made them out to be. Your recounting had been enough to spook the others, and make Joel grateful for the distance he and his team had managed to put between you and your abusers. He was feeling overwhelmed by it all, and maybe a little stupid, after a comment Tommy made about him feeling the need to save all the damaged women he ever stumbled across. Fuckin’ bratty little brother and always will be, Joel thought. None of his fuckin’ business who I deem worthy of a helping hand anyway… 

It was nearing sunset as he rounded the street corner to his dead end street. His heart gave a small skip at the sight of his flimsy little white picket fence, grateful to be back home and the fuck away from other people. That is, except for you. He turned around, realizing he had been walking too fast and too determinedly for someone of your stature and state to keep up. You weren't far behind, though. And you were just happy to be somewhere so idyllic. It felt like a dream. One you never could have mustered up while hidden away in Pacific northwestern forest, only ever knowing destitution and the lack of joy in things like picket fences and painted shutters. Joel thinks he might have caught you smiling as you were taking it all in. 

“Well, here it is. I gave you my word that you could stay with us as long as you needed. Ellie stays here in the garage, you can take her old room. Let's head in and get you cleaned up so I can take a look at that leg.” You no longer detected any gruffness, nor any of the honey soaked reassuring tone from earlier. All you could hear was exhaustion. 

Joel led you onto his creaking front porch and in through his heavy wooden door. He tossed his pack down on the kitchen floor, and gestured for you to do the same. You didn't have much with you, just some chewing sticks from home to keep your teeth clean, a small glass jar of liquid castile soap, your canteen, one change of clothes, and some hair pins to keep your mane tame. Joel had taken your hunting blade and bow when they'd picked you up. He had promised to arm you at the first sign of danger, but that sign never came. You held your bag close to your side, and he looked down at it, then shrugged as if to say “suit yourself, you can bring it up to your room” and he turned around to start fiddling around in his kitchen.

“I'm throwing on a kettle, get you some tea started” he said as he filled the kettle. “Water heater is old, so it takes a while to get hot” you watch with rapt attention, not really knowing what he was talking about. You knew what a kettle was, and didn't understand what would make his take so long to heat up. Joel could read the incredulity on your face, and wondered what kind of regressive hell you lived in to have not known the luxury of a hot bath. He tries to rephrase “uh, I'm gonna make us some hot water for tea and then I'm going to start the water for your bath, it just might take a while before it's ready for ya”

You watch as he clicked on the burner and set the kettle down. He rounds the corner and brushes against your hip, and you step back, flustered from the contact. You had never been permitted to be in such close contact with men before, and even as you became all too familiar with the sensation of bouncing just outside the confines of Joel's lap day in and day out, these little brushes still sent tingles throughout your body. You scramble out of his way, he slows and braces you with a desperately light touch, and he mumbles “Er sorry” and he carries on his path to his bathroom. Once inside, Joel grasps either side of his sink, closes his eyes, and let's out a long, deep sigh. What the fuck have I gotten myself into. This poor woman ain't used to civil society… he looks in the mirror at his sun damaged, salt and pepper reflection, shakes his head, and turns to draw you a bath. In the kitchen, you look around, enthralled by the commodities Jackson residents are permitted, even after all the destruction of the last few decades. The Elder's would spit on this place were they here. Spit on you for revelling in it. They despised “new world” comforts, and lauded minimalism and conformity. But you were here, looking at artwork on the Miller's walls, and they were miles away, likely shitting in a hole in the woods. You almost permit yourself to smile at the thought. You move silently throughout the first floor, listening intently for Joel's footsteps to approach. You find a tiny carved bird on the fireplace mantle. You pick it up and get lost in its charm. Each feather chiseled out in meticulous detail. You don't recognize the breed with what information you can discern from a wood carving, but pick your brain for all of the species you had learned about back home.

“Eh that ain't my best work” Joel says as you jump and almost let the bird clatter to the ground. He hadn't made a sound, even with his enormous body and this aging wood flooring. You scramble to set the bird back down on the mantle, feeling ashamed for touching things that didn't belong to you. You clasp your elbows behind your back and fix your gaze at his feet.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have … “

Joel approached you slowly with his arms out, like you were a wounded dog. “S'okay, you're allowed to touch anythin' in this house. S'your home now, too. You don't ever have to be sorry. I know it might take a while for you to feel like this is your home, but I'll be here to make sure you do. “ he stops a few feet shy of you, and you feel embarrassed. You know this isn't how normal people behave. You wonder when you arrived at this level of broken. Joel gingerly maneuvers through the house, and switches off the burner so the kettle's whistle doesn't spook you. He returns from around the counter and coaxes you towards a door in the middle of the hallway, just under the stairs. He guides you to step inside the wash room, and you see the bathtub full of steamy water. You hadn't bathed in one since you were a kid, and never with hot water. You had only ever bathed in the stream with several other girls in your age group. You look up at him with gratitude and anticipation. 

“She's all yours, take all the time you like. Left some of Ellie's ol’ girly shit on the window sill for ya - shampoo and razors and whatnot. There's a hairbrush in the vanity until we can get you some supplies of yer own. You need anything, you just holler.” And with that, Joel closed the door and left you to it.

You checked around the room and peeked out the window to make sure you were really, truly alone. You hadn't bathed alone maybe ever in your life. A girlish giggle nearly bubbled up out of your chest, but you swallowed it down and started stripping off your dirty layers. You peeled the bandages off your leg and winced, the wound wasn't fully closed and you knew it needed washing. You stepped in front of a large standing mirror. Your curves were still there but you looked thin. It made you frown. Your face was filthy and your hair was stringy and disheveled, even with the braids still secured tightly to your scalp. You took the pins out one by one, and let your tresses fall around your shoulders and breasts. You bent down to find the hairbrush Joel mentioned in the drawer of the vanity. Vanity… the Elders...

You turned your back the mirror and quickly brushed out the rats nest on your head. Slowly you dipped one leg over the edge of the claw foot into the dreamy, hot water. It was perfect. Instantly dirt melted off and swirled out into the clean water. You left your wounded leg draped over the side of the tub as you seated yourself fully in the luxurious water. You sigh blissfully and felt enraptured by the sensation. It was overwhelming and quietly joyful. You permit yourself to just revel in it and soak. You submerge your entire body up to your ears and eyes. The only thing you hear is a slow dripping coming from the faucet. It almost startles you, the quiet and comfort. It's deafening and starts to make you nervous, so you begin to slosh around a little more to make some noise, washing your body with the scented soap Joel left for you on the window's ledge. You diligently scrub yourself and luxuriate in the greatest washing up of your life. You lather and scrub your hair, the shampoo creating more foamy suds than you've ever seen. You meticulously shave your legs, leaving only a handful of knicks on your knees and ankles. By the time you wash your wounded leg and the rest of your body, the water is grey and the suds have dissipated to swirling white streaks in the filthy water. You step out of the tub, pulled the drain plug, and look around the bathroom. There are no towels in sight. Increasingly panicked, you begin to check every drawer and cabinet. 

In the living room, Joel waits for what seems like hours. Trying desperately to keep the image of your naked body soaking in his tub from his mind. He fusses with the kettle, dumping cups of water down the drain and refreshing them with hot water each time they go cold waiting for you. Joel's throat feels thick with anticipation and he just wishes he could go off and rub one out in the privacy of his own room. His length is stiffening in his jeans. He angrily tugs at the crotch of them, trying to create space for the thickening bastard inside. What the fuck was wrong with him? He hadn't been alone with you for an hour before his perverted ass mind ran off with visions of you naked, legs spread indecently wide across his bed. I mean Jesus, how old is she anyway? Half your age? It ain't fuckin right Miller. Joel hears drawers opening and closing down the suddenly now. Joel immediately realizes his mistake and mutters a drawn out “fuuuuuuck… no”. He forgot your fucking towel. He knew you'd be too spooked to call out for him. Could you even make your voice reach an audible level from that distance? He rushes downstairs to find his fluffiest clean towel from the laundry room in the basement.

You had exhausted all potential storage spots in the bathroom and decided to open up the door to call out for help. As the door swings open Joel rounds the corner of the stairs and comes face to face with your dripping wet, fully nude body. You freeze. Absolutely stock still. Joel curses and tries to hand you the towel. He tries desperately to look away, and to understand why the hell you were just standing there. He is apologizing profusely, and you see the desperate attempt he is making to look away, but you are still in shock at your poor timing, nothing registers in your brain. Joel sees you are in trauma response freeze mode and realizes he needs to help you. He fumbles to unfold the towel and drape it around you, but not before he catches a glimpse at the beauty between your thighs or those large, tear drop shaped tits sitting pretty on your chest. He feels his heart squeeze in agony - for betraying your trust and for the fact that he will never bury his face in your perfect cunt or spend hours lazily sucking on your dark pink nipples. To avoid this agony clawing at him, he sternly wraps your body in the towel and mutters “what the hell kiddo, help me out here”. As you finally snap out of it, you clutch the towel to your body, and slam the bathroom door behind you. You know he saw every inch of you. You saw his eyes dart over your body. You felt them sear into the place between your thighs. The heat from his eyes still lingers there. You were no stranger to this hunger, but could usually will it away by trying to think of anything else - foraging guidelines, the prophets scripture… it isn't going to cut it this time.

Joel is flustered on the other side of the door. He rips his glasses off and rubs his palm over his face, cursing, his other hand on his hip. He calls your name. “Hey… I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to barge in, I was just about to knock when the door opened. I'm so sorry.” he groans, frustrated in more ways than one. “Just… I left a pile of clothes for you. Get dressed and meet me out here. I got warm tea for ya and I'll dress that wound again.”

You take deep breaths and remove the towel to dry your sopping wet hair. You realize this heat isn't subsiding, it's expanding. Your breasts start to ache with the need to be touched. You rush to cover them, to tuck all your private bits away and hope they quiet down and stop tormenting you. You know what an orgasm is, from the whisperings of the other girls your age, you've just never experienced it. You know instinctively this is what you need, but you have never had the privacy to learn how to obtain one. You shared a room with tens of others your entire life, with night watch standing by every hour, keeping you all safe from wolves or other dangers. Never have you had the opportunity to become familiar with your body. You just remember the other times you've felt this heavy and paralyzed with aching longing, and how long it took for it to subside. You recall a string of days, feeling that button of sensitive nerves in your private area pulsating incessantly.

You panic a little as you remember Joel said you'd have your own room. You'd never slept alone before. The prospect frightens and exhilarates you. You hurriedly slip into the clothes Joel laid out for you. The bra he provided fits well, but the clothes are a bit tighter than you're used to. The cotton shirt squeezes your breasts in a deliciously uncomfortable way, and the lower hem drapes across your hips indecently, displaying your figure and you resign yourself to taking it off as soon as you're away in your room for the evening. The satiny pants, not appearing to be standard street wear, must be for indoor use around the home. They are soft and slinky, and unfortunately showcase your behind in explicit detail. You can make out every dimple in your round, jiggling ass, and flush at the thought of Joel seeing you like this. This was certainly not aiding in the banishment of such indecent feelings. 

You plait your hair, placing each braid carefully across the crown of your head and pinning them firmly in place. The bath greatly improved your mood and comfortability, but the idea of walking out into the living room has your heart racing again. You press your nervousness as deep down into your gut as it will go, and quietly step out of the bathroom and down the hall. Joel is waiting for you, the sleeves of his worn flannel peeled back, exposing his beautiful muscular forearms. He is seated on a worn but comfortable looking couch, elbows resting on his spread knees, medical supplies laid out before him on a low table. He seems to flush all over again at the sight of you. He glances up at you, and then back down at the table gesturing to the small mug of tea waiting for you.

“S'justa herbal blend from the cafe, ‘sposed to be relaxing. Ellie used to drink it when she couldn't sleep. Now get over here and let me take a look at ya." He hands you the mug before patting the cushion next to him. You take the mug, delightfully warm in your palms. “Thank you”, you eke out before taking a seat, maintaining a safe distance from his hulking body on the sofa. He leans back, indicating he'd like you to place your leg on his lap for him to examine. You cautiously oblige, and he gently stretches your leg out across his lap. He slowly pushes the loose fabric of your soft pant leg up to your knee. You hear him audibly swallow. “S'lookin better. Might have to get you down to the clinic in the morning for some oral antibiotics. S'it hurtin’ you much?” He asks. You shake your head in response. You watch, and urge your body to stop trembling under his careful ministrations. You sip your tea to distract yourself - a chamomile blend, possibly a bit of lemon balm. He added honey, it tastes fresh. You silently wince as he prods at your cuts, and let him apply a salve. You watch his arms work as he wraps your leg in a fresh bandage, his jaw clenching in concentration. When he is finished tending to you, he reaches up to cover your leg, dragging his palm down the flesh on the inside of your calf. You shudder and your pussy throbs. Your eyes betray you as they widen, before you catch yourself reacting to his touch. You pray he didn't catch it as he gently places your foot back on the ground. You think it might be better if he had euthanized you, as you are starting to feel rabid at his close proximity. You notice the tea rippling violently in your mug, and attempt to steady your trembling hands. Joel stands abruptly, turns away to adjust his jeans, and curtly says “I'm ready to hop in the bath m'self now. Can I show you to your room? I made it up with some clean linens while you bathed.” You down your tea, praying to no one in particular that there was a sedative you hadn't quite identified in the herbal blend. You stand, ready to follow him upstairs. You try desperately to avert your eyes from his incredible ass as you ascend. The room smells a bit stagnant, but Joel must have noticed before you and he walks over to crack a window. But it's comfortable, clean, and most importantly, feels secure. The windows are intact and you worry less about intruders, being on the second floor. You place your tiny pack of belongings on a table near the door. “Thank you. I… I cannot find the words to express my gratitude. You've saved… you've done so much for me. I promise if there is a way I can make it up to you, it will be done.” You spoke to the floor, but force yourself to look up at his face as he stands in the doorway. 

“That won't be necessary kiddo. It's been my pleasure. You deserve so much more than what cards you’ve been handed in your life. Let's see what we can do to get you started on a better trajectory. I'll get you down to the clinic first thing tomorrow and we can take it day by day from there. My room is just the next door down from ya. You come get me if you need anything at all, darlin'. I'll just be a little while in the tub and we will call it a night. Now you make yourself comfortable an’ get some rest.” He waits for a moment, taking you in, and closes the door behind him.

On the other side of the door, he looks up to the ceiling and mutters a curse before he treks back down the stairs. Having your bare feet in his lap was absolutely torturous and he is considering letting the tub run cold before taking a dip. He walks into the bathroom and starts to undress, sighing as he frees his straining cock from of his restrictive jeans. He glances down at the tub, a layer of filth remains in the basin. His heart aches for you - all the trauma you'd been through, all the things you never got to enjoy, like a simple soak in a warm bath. He rinses the basin out and attempts to shake out all the perverse thoughts of you from the day. How shockingly beautiful your face was under all that grime, either because of or despite your deep scars. The way that old threadbare t-shirt clung to your perfect body. The smooth, freshly shaven skin of your legs under his rough palm. The thought of your beautiful mound mere inches away from his hand as he pushed your PJ pants up your leg. God have mercy, get a grip Miller. You're old enough to be her daddy. She needs you to get her back on her feet and that’s it. Not drooling over her like some old pervert. Get your fuckin’ head on straight.

Just upstairs, you remain still on the bed. You try to adjust to the quiet of the house. You hear the faint noise of the town from the crack in your bedroom window, still alive and bustling outside of the quiet respite of Joel's home. You can feel your heartbeat between your thighs - hear it pounding in your ears. You double check the windows and make sure they don't open easily, you suppose in case of very determined intruders with ladders. You peel off your shirt, relieved of its restrictive fabric. You lay down and tuck yourself into the covers. You've never laid in a plush, clean, fully dressed bed. It feels foreign, but you think you could get used to its softness. The throbbing is still there, and it's driving you mad. You feel desperate, somehow hungry. You adjust your head on the pillow. You hear Joel's footsteps down the hall, and his door closing behind him. You try to fall asleep and pray for the tea to help settle your nerves. You begin to feel exhausted, and long for the rest you've been deprived of for weeks. But the incessant throbbing and hunger plagues your every thought. Joel's eyes on your naked breasts, at the apex of your thighs. Joel's forearms. Joel's perfect ass. Joel's palm on the soft flesh of your calf. You raise your head and slam it back down into the pillow. You groan in frustration. You hear Joel settle into his creaking bed. In a huff, you grab your blanket and lie down on the floor, your stomach pressed firm against the ground, your arm tucked under your chin, supporting your head. Slowly you tuck the opposite arm under your body, and drag it down to your pelvis. You crave stimulation, pressure - anything to cease this unending, aching pulse. With your arm fully extended now, you lift your pelvis to make room for your fist, directly under your hypersensitive mound. A tiny moan slips out as you rest your body down on top if it. The pressure is a relief but it's not enough. You can feel the satin pants sticking to your cunt and your thighs. The heat radiating from the crotch of your pants is near burning on your balled fist. You begin to rock your hips side to side, and it makes your breath catch in your lungs. It isn't enough, but it's helping. You're wide awake and your mouth is watering at all the images of Joel you've committed to memory over the last few weeks. You drag your pelvis up and over your knuckles and cry out, loudly. The hand under your head reaches out to clamp over your mouth. Your breath is hot and quick over the backs of your knuckles. Your eyes are clamped shut, and a tear slides down your cheek from the sheer frustration of it all. You feel confused, unsure of how to bring yourself to climax, and you're wound up tight like a spring. You have never had the luxury of privacy, or the opportunity to tend to your own needs. Your swollen, aching breasts press into the floor, hard nipples rasp against the soft fabric of your bra. You are reduced to nothing but nerve endings and need. You grind aimlessly onto anything firm, but as you rest your body on the hard floor, it gives in to the exhaustion. You drift off to sleep under a clean quilt, directly on top of your fist.

[gwynrieldreams]

hello there! i have no idea where to air out these thoughts i've been having for a while now regarding the ACOTAR fandom, but your blog has always felt like a safe place to me so im sending it here haha. and this is NOT trying to cause drama, just genuinely wanted to get this off my chest and see what an outside source thinks.

so im an Elucien mainly, but i've come to love Gwynriel as well, and when i first got into the fandom and came to tumblr for more content i kind of struggled to find accounts that were fully dedicated to Elucien content and so i ended up following a lot of Gwynriels since they were (from what i found) easier to find and a lot of them posted about Elucien as well. I then blocked anti tags, or any nasty accounts i came across, and all was fine and dandy for me on Tumblr up until like maybe a month or two ago. Maybe its because the book announcement anticipation feels real this time and people are getting especially on edge, but the fighting between Eluciens and Gwynriels is getting almost too much for me. I hate seeing it as much as i hate seeing anti posts from E/riel accounts. It's fine to disagree on things and have preferences, that is inevitable and healthy, but i've seen animosity between Eluciens and Gwynriels these days that ive never really seen before (at least in the almost year i've been in the fandom).

I always thought, one of the many beauties of shipping these ships is that you kind of get the best of both worlds. All four characters involved can get their happy endings if things go this route and I love that. I love all four characters, maybe some more than others, but I'm excited for all their stories and get giddy thinking about it. It makes me sad that I see all this fighting, uplifting certain characters by putting down other characters, and i've even seen a couple of Gwynriel accounts i've followed and loved for months and months now stop posting Elucien stuff and I can only assume that is because they now hold negative feelings towards that ship from all this bickering. And I don't really blame them for that either.

Maybe i'm naive for thinking it's typically sunshine and rainbows between Elucien and Gwynriel, but in my experience it was MUCH better like a few months ago/last year. Now I'm contemplating unfollowing or even blocking certain Elucien and Gwynriel accounts that I previously loved and have been following for a while, just cause i dont want to see the hostility between the two, it brings me down!!! I understand we don't need to live in perfect harmony, thats unreasonable, but i've been seeing some posts lately that straight up make it seem like we are rivals. Anyway this was long im sorry, no worries if you dont respond, just thank you for reading and i love your blog!

Thank you so much for your kind words!

I know exactly what you're talking about and even though I'm a gwynriel primarily and love Azriel and Gwyn more than any other character, I still don't like seeing gwynriels fight with eluciens. That's exactly why I don't actively take part in it.

Personally, I don't mind seeing critics of my favourite characters or ships (I don't even block e/riels or the e/riel tag). I can see a negative post and go about my day. I don't mind when people critic Azriel, because I understand he's a very dark character and he's not everyone's cup of tea. In his bonus, all I see is a beautiful metaphor for his heart, but others hate it.

What people need to understand is that Azriel and Lucien are two sides of the same coin similar to Rhysand and Tamlin. Both bastard sons of a (High) Lord, both have been tortured by their own family and bear scars for life, both felt like outsiders, both are spies in their own way, both are insecure and have bottled up trauma, both were in love with women, whom they thought to be their mate (Jesminda/Mor), both have feelings for Elain. I also believe we'll see more parallels between LoA and Azriel's mother. People should focus on finding common ground and respecting tags instead of fighting. Dana has made a beautiful character analysis about them, you can read it here.

In my mind one ship happening means the other will happen, too. Before acosf, I was torn between elucien and e/riel. I believed Lucien was the one for Elain but I also wanted Azriel to get his book. After, acosf with Gwyn coming into play and the bonus, elucien solidified in my mind.

If it makes you feel uncomfortable, you can block the Lucien critical or Azriel critical tag and if that doesn't do it then block the accounts you want.

I hope I helped you and again thank you! I hope my blog continues to be a safe place for you 💙

[ncassiopeiae]

OOH OKAY

1. Oldies Station, but it used to be Guns for Hands

2. Clancy! Chicago night one, I wish I was closer though I'm so happy to have gone

3. ...Overcompensate, I used to *hate* the bridge but now I'm completely obsessed with that song

4. I'm a Bandito through and through 😔

5. I've wanted to draw Clancy in overcompensate but I never got around to it; not yet!

6. Mulberry street!!!

7. The longer pink SAI era hair, during the livestream 💛

8. "Here's my chance, time to take it / Can't be sure that I'll make it even though / I'm past the point of no return."

9. A friend I had in highschool introduced me to Migraine, and it was all downhill from there 😭

10. Clancy Bishop, but I believe that it's a cycle that loops between blurryface through clancy and subsequently, The Line (after the line ends repeating at HDS), but every time until the Paladin Strait we see has been a failure. I believe Clancy never learned how to do psychokinesis until this last "loop" that we see in the album. Then, by destroying all 7 other bishops and fears (keons already being dead). So I think that Nico knows it can't repeat because of all of the power he's lost, but he needs to see this through and get *something* out of it in order for the fear he garners to persist, so he seizes Clancy once more and thats where we are with the tour lore, now that TB burned Dema down alone because Clancy was smeared.

11. Since 2018!

12. Lovely <3

13. I'm paid to say Trench (but it's secretly SAI)

14. Smithereens, sorry :(

15. I've always struggled with this question, I wanna say Self Titled is not the best representation of TØP as a whole despite how much I love it, and I never fully agreed with the fan consensus of "Holding on to You." I would love to say Guns for Hands, or Vingette

16. ... #1 four years in a row babeyyyy

17. Listo is technically my bishop, but I love how Keons represents death, and how despite our fear of it, death is not cold and apathetic, it is compassionate and caring while at the same time not glorifying death.

18. Sleep Token, Boywithuke, and gnash

19. I want to get a tattoo of mountains with a field of yellow flowers in front of it, with the sun rising in the background. Kind of a mix of vessel and trench because those are the two albums that have been the most empowering for me

20. I don't know enough by name, unfortunately :(

21. Knowing me, it would be hard to break the cycle for a very long time, so a citizen for a while, but I think eventually I would join the Banditos

22. I own vinyls of every album (including some shitty knockoffs of self titled and rab), the vessel 10th anniversary box vinyl, and a cd of clancy for my car so i dont destroy my Spotify wrapped

23. Josh's Clancy hairstyle has me (platonically) obsessed-

24. Prove me Wrong my beloved </3

25. ....Mhm. most notably a yellow trench flag that hangs in my window that used to be on my ceiling, but a few shirts and hoodies, and the Clancy christmas tree ornament-

26. The first TØP song I ever learned on bass was Next Semester! But I taught myself Navigating, Ode to Sleep, Car Radio, My Blood, Pet Cheetah, The Outside, Shy Away, Jumpsuit, Morph, and Hometown all on Bass. Out of all of these, Navigating is by far the most fun to play and sing at the same time.

27. Message man while on a run, over someones bt speaker

28. Paladin Strait, especially the beginning few measures and the end.

29. Backslide, Car Radio, and "Friend, Please" get me crying sometimes, but almost every single time I've listened to Oldies Station I can't sing "You don't quite mind...." without getting a shaky voice.

30. I'm not personally into shipping anyone relating to TØP, but more power to you if you do!

This was so fun, and I loved getting to spill all of this out, thank you!!

Twenty One Pilots ask game

1. What’s your favorite song currently?

2. Have you been to any concerts? If so which one(s)?

3. Is there a song you didn’t like the first time you heard it?

4. What’s your favorite album?

5. Have you ever made clique art?

6. What’s your comfort song?

7. What’s your favorite hairstyle Tyler’s had?

8. What’s your favorite song lyric?

9. How did you discover tøp’s music?

10. What’s your craziest lore theory?

11. How long have you been a fan of twenty one pilots?

12. What’s your favorite song from Regional at Best?

13. Which album’s color scheme do you like the most?

14. Is there a song you skip regularly?

15. What song do you recommend to people who haven’t heard tøp yet?

16. Was twenty one pilots one of your top artists last year?

17. Which bishop is your favorite?

18. What other bands do you recommend to twenty one pilots fans?

19. Do you have/would you get any twenty one pilots themed tattoos?

20. Who’s one your favorite clique artists?

21. Would you be a bandito or a citizen of Dema?

22. Do you own any of the CDs or vinyls?

23. What’s your favorite hairstyle Josh has had?

24. What’s your favorite song from No Phun Intended?

25. Do you have any tøp merch? (Including diy)

26. If you could learn any twenty one pilots song on any instrument, which song and instrument would you pick first?

27. What’s the most surprising tøp song you’ve heard in public?

28. What song is your favorite just based off the instrumentals?

29. Is there a song that regularly makes you cry?

30. (Ofc I had to include a ship question for my moots) what’s your favorite tøp ship?

All of the questions about clique art also include tøp fanfic btw. Also please note these are all for funsies and are in no way meant to judge you for your “level of commitment to the band” or anything like that

[revvethasmythh]

listen, now that everything is said and done i'm going to say something i've been thinking but not outright saying for the past nearly four years. frankly, imogen and laudna's relationship is a pale shadow of caleb and veth's and if you really sit and think about it, it's outright embarrassing for the former party. it's like if you saw a beautiful piece of art and tried to emulate it and then the only thing you managed to jot down that was the same was the basic shape and you never added any color when the color was the most important part. imogen and laudna's relationship is formed out of almost the exact same origins (troubled mage who needs to keep a distance from regular society joins up with monstrous misfit with a traumatic backstory and become each other's most important person while traveling place-to-place because they keep getting into trouble in cities). the difference is, genuinely, how much more colorful and lived in caleb and veth's story feels. they met in a podunk county jail and worked together to break out of the place, stayed together for practical reasons (straight-up survival) and then out of genuine friendship. they were hobos in the woods together. they cuddled on the side of the roads on cold nights together. they were genuinely each other's sole lifeline because they were the type of people no one in the world cared about in a very real, visceral way. they were also con artists, and sam and liam worked together to come up with an entire booklet of different cons they used to survive, which come into play surprisingly often during the campaign (Modern Literature, famously, but also Mother's Love and Money Pot featured).

comparatively, we know next to nothing about what imogen and laudna's lives looked like after leaving gelvaan, and the Incident™️ that sent them running in the first place remains amorphous and random no matter how many times the story is told or whatever extra details get added. the people of gelvaan found laudna to be a generically threatening presence (because of her fun-scary appearance and/or kooky-fun-scary behavior) and picked up their torches and pitchforks to run her out of town. imogen heard her thoughts and found them so beautiful she nearly killed two of the townspeople she grew up with the defend her and then they fled into the night together. and that's it. what did they do for two entire years after that? i don't know! neither do you. they don't appear to have struggled for money like caleb and veth did, there's no reference to hard-living, no real reference to what jobs they took to stay afloat, no mention of the practical realities of living as homeless nomads, no mention of towns and cities they'd visited and how those places impacted them. nothing. empty. no color. how did their relationship develop? also don't know! they seem to have slotted together perfectly as friends with no conflict for years before slotting together perfectly as lovers while batting aside all attempts at conflict later. done and dusted, that's the relationship, and people have the gall to call caleb and veth's successor relationship 'soulmatism' when it doesn't hold a candle to what the original offered.

which was, to be clear, endless complexity. i can't tell you how to define it, and i don't think the character's themselves could define it if they tried. sam went into the campaign intending to lean into a familial relationship and quickly realized that wasn't the vibe, course-corrected into veth having a crush on caleb--something sam has said developed fairly early in the campaign.* liam went into the relationship not intending to care about her nearly as much as he ended up doing, then spent the early campaign eps grappling with just how suddenly important she was to him, to the point that, in the face of her potentially dying in episode 20, liam says to sam, "do you want to make my character turn evil already?"** both were surprised at how tightly their characters clung to each other, and developed a deeply caring, highly insular dynamic where they were suspicious of outsiders and desperately guarded each other. with full retrospect, both went into the relationship intending to use each other (caleb for general usefulness/protection and veth, obviously, hoping caleb could change her back one day), then found such deep and tender care that they became each other's worlds. for a time. until nott became veth and veth had a husband and it sent their relationship into a tailspin because no matter how you frame the relationship, caleb clearly felt his feelings for her and the way they behaved together stepped over the line of how one should act with a married woman. after that, he is terrified of the idea that he might not have a place in her life and works so hard to create opportunities to insinuate himself into her present and future (teleportation spells so she can travel home quickly and still return to the group, making room for her family in the tower so she can stay with him, offering to tutor luc in magic to stay in her life, etc). veth gets her body and her life back but fears returning home will be lackluster compared to what she's experienced with the group, starts falling out of love with her husband, and has intense extra-martial feelings for caleb that are canonical. their relationship morphs and changes constantly throughout the campaign, and the one thing about their dynamic that never changes is how deeply and truly they love each other. you want to talk about soulmatism? them being the two party members with fake names who's real names share aspects of each other ("Bren" and "Brenatto") both from small-town dwendalian empire who's lives have been deeply impacted by meddling of the cerberus assembly (veth's in adulthood, caleb's in childhood) and who's deepest traumas are respectively fire and water does the trick for me.

so why is one so popular and the other, particularly as a romantic ship, very much is not? it would be obtuse of me not to immediately point to the fact that imogen and laudna are two pretty, skinny white women who claim to have deliciously little agency in their own stories and provide a blank enough canvas that the relationship can be whatever you want it to be. there's a reason there's so many AU fics for them, after all. caleb and veth on the other hand would center first a relationship between the handsome white fandom-popular sadboi and *checks notes* a self-described ugly, unfeminine goblin with deep neuroses and later a short, fat brown woman who also happens to be a young mother from a small country town. popular fandom, tragically, will almost always turn away from dealing with complexity of the latter for the empty calories of the former regardless of the quality gap between the two. if anything, watching the popularity of imogen and laudna's relationship has cemented my opinion that if veth had been different (either a man or a generically attractive white woman or someone more conventionally pretty just in general), widobrave would have been a massively popular ship, and i think it would have been regardless of veth's marriage. people can forgive a lot to write about their two generically attractive favorites getting together. they're a lot less forgiving for an ugly goblin or a fat, brown young mother, though.

tldr: reject modernity, embrace tradition. ship widobrave

*Talks Machina for C2E88, VOD no longer available, but a paraphrase of the quote can be found here **(2:09:30 on the YouTube VOD).

[vargaslovinghours]

Say it like you mean it

[griseldabanks]

Comfyvember 2

Story: The Four (original) Prompts: Favourite song — Holding hands — Walking and talking

Note: The first syllable of "Myrian/Myriath" is meant to be pronounced MEER, not MIRE.

The bed was soft, the blankets warm, the darkness eased by silver bands of moonlight that stretched across the floor through the wide open windows that let in the soothing rush and sigh of waves rolling onto the beach. And yet Timor could not sleep.

The boy sat on the low bench by the window nearest his bed, hugging his knees to his chest as he gazed out over the sea. The moon was only half-full, yet it limned the crests of the gentle waves as they curled over and tumbled back down into the black depths.

For once, Timor wasn't afraid of the darkness or his unfamiliar surroundings. His heart was too heavy for fear. Too numb.

Perhaps that's the answer I've been seeking, he thought with a sigh of bone-deep weariness. The key to courage is to be so wounded you can feel nothing more.

“That is the sigh of a man twice your age,” a voice said softly behind him.

Timor's heart didn't so much leap as give a feeble lurch of surprise. It helped that he instantly recognized Farawin's voice. He didn't look up as the Myrian crossed the room on softly slippered feet. “C-Can't sleep,” Timor mumbled, still staring out into the dark night.

“I thought as much.” Farawin stopped at his side, folding long-fingered hands that almost seemed to glow in the moonlight. “That is why I sought you out.”

“Even if you t-tuck me in, I won't b-be able t-to sleep.”

“I am not here to play nursemaid, my friend. But as long as we are both awake...will you walk with me?”

Timor looked up at him. Farawin's pale skin was luminous in the moonlight, the silvery scale-like patches of skin on his cheeks and neck shimmering in a way they didn't in full daylight. His long, golden hair had been washed and pulled back in an elaborate web of braids such as Timor hadn't seen since the first day they'd met. But unlike that day (so long ago it seemed), there was nothing but compassion and understanding in those sea-green eyes.

Farawin held out a hand. With another weary sigh, Timor took it and let his friend help him to his feet.

It wasn't until they'd passed quietly through the corridors of the Myrian palace and stepped out onto the main street that Timor realized Farawin had never let go of his hand. He didn't mind, though. It felt good to have something to hold onto.

There were few people out at this time of night, so for most of their midnight stroll, there was no one to stare at the elegant Myrian prince walking hand-in-hand with a scrawny, dark-haired human boy who walked with slumped shoulders and nibbled at the finely embroidered sleeve of the tunic he'd been given.

After a few minutes, Timor realized the white cobblestones of the main street of Myriath were fading away into a simple stone-lined path. “Where are we g-going?”

“To the Ash-Phanash.” Farawin pointed along the path they followed, which led to a round building on the edge of the cliff Timor had seen out his window. The dome shone white in the moonlight.

“What is it?”

“I think you would call it a temple,” Farawin said. “It is where we sing praises to the Great Eagle, and where we hold meetings and rituals. When the moon is full, singers pass in and out in shifts, so that the building is filled with unceasing song both night and day.” He looked down at Timor with a little smile. “But tonight, we shall have the Ash-Phanash all to ourselves.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence. The Ash-Phanash had no doors blocking the entryway, so they simply walked in through an archway made of marble or some other white stone. After passing through a dark passageway where Timor clung even tighter to Farawin's hand, they emerged in an enormous round room.

Far above their heads, the dome they'd seen before stretched like the sky above them. Seats rose in tiers all around them, carved from the same white stone and covered with small round cushions for people to sit on. There were no torches or candles to light the enormous room, but somehow it didn't seem dark and gloomy. There were windows all around, letting in the moonlight as well as the fresh sea breeze.

Farawin led the way to the highest tier of seats, and they settled down on matching red cushions near a window that looked back over Myriath in the distance. Timor was glad to get off his feet; he hadn't realized how far they'd walked. Not to mention that he was still recovering from their flight to the island.

Peace seemed to permeate the very walls of the Ash-Phanash. Timor closed his eyes, listening to the distant echoes of the surf crashing against the cliff far below. Something in his chest loosened. He opened his eyes again and looked up at Farawin. “D-Do you have any songs for-for...for when you've...l-lost somebody?”

The sorrow that had been swimming deep in Farawin's eyes now bobbed to the surface. “Yes,” he murmured. “Would you like to hear one?”

Timor nodded.

Instead of bursting into song then and there, Farawin got to his feet and walked back down to the center of the amphitheater, motioning for Timor to remain seated. When he finally got to the small dais they'd passed on their way up, Farawin turned to face Timor again. He looked very small and far away.

Putting a hand over his heart, Farawin opened his mouth, and a melody as pure and clear as moonlight poured from his lips, as distinctly as if Farawin still stood beside him. Timor couldn't understand the words, if words they even were, but he sat there and let them wash over him like the waves on the beach.

In fact, there was something to the music that was reminiscent of the ebb and flow of the tide, of the wind rustling the trees, of water lapping against a boat, of the swelling and diminishing of the moon.

Time rolled on. The sea was ever-changing, yet ever the same. Timor closed his eyes again, and felt something like peace fill his chest where before had only been pain.

[sortanonymous]

You hear about the one-hit wonder all the time, but you know what we need to discuss more? What I call "one-hit blunders". And no, I'm not talking about bad one-hit wonders.

I mean where the artist is actually really good, but not only did only one of their songs become popular, but it was the worst possible lone hit for them. Either the song just sucks, it's a really bad representation of the artist, or it's both.

Exhibit A: Tiny Tim

Oh my dude, Tiny Tim.

[astramachina]

you know. it only just occurred to me that i've never shared a particular assortment of OCs on here??? (<- notoriously bad at talking about his own cretins and knows it) they've been on the mind lately because i wholly intend to torment a couple of them this year but i'm not quite sure as to how yet soo.

i feel like y'all might be partial to a certain Dr. Thorne because she's very normal and very well-adjusted (lie). she's also 6'2 and once beat the shit out of someone with a fire extinguisher. she's a very cool and swell gal and there's nothing wrong with her at all. :)

[mortalityplays]

talking about impenetrable accents/dialect just reminded me. when I was in Milan a couple of years back I was staying in this little rathole hotel and I had the biggest fucking migraine, so I was like non c'è problema I'll just go buy painkillers. of course every pharmacy on the map in a three block radius was closed, so my stupid ass just starts wandering around trying to figure out on the fly if you can get OTC from supermarkets in italy.

I walk into this little everything store (to my foreign eyes the kind of place that back home could sell you a bunch of carrots, a 6-pack of beer, pantyhose, bleach and a screwdriver set) and I see some household basics in the back but not what I need. with the confidence of a person who is only in the city for 3 days because he got bored and packed a bag and booked the cheapest flight available the week before (<= MENTAL ILLNESS), I was like no worries I know some italian, I can just ask.

I grab a bottle of water, walk up to the counter, and I'm like Ciao, hai il paracetamolo? And the guy is like che, and I'm like paracetamolo. Per la mia testa. And he's like che?

This is where I would have said 'aspirina' except I can't take aspirin for medical reasons, or 'antidolorifico' except I don't know that word and I've got no phone data for google translate and also I'm stupid. So in my fucked up leith-glasgow-italian accent I'm like paaa-ra-cetta-mollll-ooo. He's like ohhh bene, bene, and he calls another guy out of the back and asks him to go get something. Other guy then walks out of the store into the street, and before I can be like hey, che la fuck, he comes back and hands me a huge bundle of herbs.

At this point I'm like okay this entire interaction has been a bust, but these guys have been very nice and patient and they're both smiling happily at me because they've been of service, so I'm like ahh perfetto, grazie, pay them a couple of euros and leave.

EVENTUALLY I find a pharmacy that's open, and my head is fucking killing me, and my phone still isn't connecting, and now I have this small shrubbery poking out of my coat pocket, so I don't even bother looking around the shelves. I just walk straight to the counter and I'm like uhh ciao, scusi. And hearing my nightmare of an accent the guy answers in english and I'm like thank christ, do you please have paracetamol. Not aspirin, I can't take aspirin. And he's like yeah yeah hold on, goes into the back, comes out with what I need.

Only when he comes out he gives me this look, and then he starts laughing. And then he pretends he's not laughing and rings me up and I pay, and as I'm leaving I can see him losing it. But I don't care, my head is going to explode, I'm going back to the rathole to close the blinds and fall comatose for four hours.

When I get back to my hotel room I take off my coat and remember the huge bouquet of herbs in my pocket. They smell amazing, and I'm like I'm pretty sure this is parsley in which case I can just get some tomatoes and mozzarella later and make it work. but since I have no idea what that interaction was, I want to make sure. I bring out my phone to get a visual reference of what parsley leaves look like, and because I was using it for google translate earlier I put 'parsley' in the wrong box like a dope and translate it to italian.

prezzemolo

I wish I could have been the pharmacist in the moment he looked at my tired pissed off anglophone ass, heard me say 'paracetamol' in my fucked up accent, and turned around saw what was in my pocket. I'd have lost my shit too.

[the-gay-prometheus]

.

[eraserbread]

Obsessed with your Nanamin ♡ Also obsessed with the idea of our boy being a virgin before he meets his wife so she's his one and only. Wow I wish he was real.

four weeks into dating, and kento's barely even grazed your hand. it's not that he doesn't like you, because he does a little too much. you're all he thinks about -- all he pines and stews over when he's alone.

you two met in the odd space between high school and the thought of university where nanami was finally feeling the toll sorcery was taking on him, only going out once a week to drink his guilt away. it’s there, at dinner with co-workers that he meets you — a mutual friend of his desk mate who had a little too much to drink one night.

now, nineteen-year-old nanami was not the nicest. he drank and spent his sleepless nights staring at walls, begging for a reason, or just purpose.

he has terrible insomnia because he sees the ones he lost to curses every time he closes his eyes. it’s why he left sorcery in the first place. he’s not strong. he’s barely capable of keeping his own head up. call it teenage angst, but nanami will call it his burdensome state.

eighteen year old you was full-spirited and beautiful. you always had friends begging to go out drinking and partying. that year was a whirlwind of nasty hookups, terrible hangovers and love-lust. safe to say, you and kento were complete opposites.

all that to say — opposites do attract, and nanami's been obsessed with you ever since that fateful drunken night.

it was one particular morning date over two cups of strong coffee that you finally poke a little further than the stupid childhood stories and plans for the future. you want him to touch you.

"i won't lie, i've been waiting for you to touch me this whole time." it feels embarrassing to finally say out loud, but you didn't know how many more hints you had to give him.

he stills over his sip of coffee, vibrant hazel eyes going stagnant. you can tell you finally got him -- you sparked a reaction.

that day, as soon as he gets you home, he's pushing you on the bed. nanami's all heavy breaths as he crawls over you in the afternoon light, biting over his bottom lip as he meets your gaze.

"i'll try and be gentle..." he whispers before sliding down and tucking his head under your loose t-shirt. kento fits so perfectly there, purring against your warmth as he kisses up your stomach, lips finding their home against your lower sternum.

you're blushed down to your toes, rocking your knees together under kento's lanky frame. he's got you on lock, left hand finding your wrist against his sheets to hold you there.

you've never been this intimate. he's closer to your heart than you are.

"can you breathe down there?" you whisper, breathing harder when you feel him drag to your left nipple.

"mhm." he responds, vibrating the entirety of your body. he gives your nipple a little experimental lick, stopping to gauge your whining reaction. "breathin' you."

"fuck, kento."

he's blushing so fucking hard when he comes out from under your shirt, golden hair ruffled with static. it gives you something adjacent to cuteness aggression, you just want to kiss him already.

it's missionary that first time -- he hovers over you like a angel, pretty eyes screwed shut as the tip of his cock drags slowly through your slit. it's driving you crazy, all this build-up, but nanami can't stop. he fucking loves the way touching you like this felt, this was enough.

"you won't... it's not gonna hurt me, just do it. put it in." it's your final, desperate plea for more, but he's too caught in his head. he shakes it.

"i can't... i can't cause i'm gonna - I'll finish." he's tucking his cheek into his shoulder, whining low as he guides his tip across your entrance. it dips so perfectly there like it's meant to fit, but he just doesn't do it.

it's actually starting to get annoying.

deep down you have an inkling he doesn't really know what he's doing. but, it's okay because neither do you. you know that his lips on your sternum felt good, but the thought of his body inside of yours felt even better.

you just wanted him to take you. you've never wanted something more.

you whine. "nanami, what are you so afraid of?" you try, snaking hand up his naked back to the base of his neck. he shivers hard at your touch but he loves it.

"don't wanna... oh, baby..." he murmurs when your fingers find the tension knot just at the base, using strong fingers to massage over it. "just don't wanna hurt you."

"the only thing that'll hurt me is if you leave. just don't leave me," you pull him close, hugging both arms around the back of his neck.

"so, just put it in... please, please please."

[deadpresidents]

"What emerged in two interviews with Trump, and conversations with more than a dozen of his closest advisers and confidants, were the outlines of an imperial presidency that would reshape America and its role in the world. To carry out a deportation operation designed to remove more than 11 millions people from the country, Trump told me, he would be willing to build migrant detention camps and deploy the U.S. military, both at the border and inland. He would let red states monitor women's pregnancies and prosecute those who violate abortion bans. He would, at his personal discretion, withhold funds appropriated by Congress, according to top advisers. He would be willing to fire a U.S. Attorney who doesn't carry out his order to prosecute someone, breaking with a tradition of independent law enforcement that dates from America's founding. He is weighing pardons for every one of his supporters accused of attacking the U.S. Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021, more than 800 of whom have pleaded guilty or been convicted by a jury. He might not come to the aid of an attacked ally in Europe or Asia if he felt that country wasn't paying enough for its own defense. He would gut the U.S. civil service, deploy the National Guard to American cities as he sees fit, close the White House pandemic-preparedness office, and staff his Administration with acolytes who back his false assertion that the 2020 election was stolen."

-- "How Far Would He Go", TIME Magazine's interviews with Donald Trump, April 30, 2024.

I know we're saturated in coverage of Trump and it's easy (and probably better for our mental health) to usually ignore most of the articles when we see them, especially since he's so full of shit and infuriating. But it's also important to recognize that he is going to be the Republican nominee for President and he could absolutely be elected in November, and if you thought his first term was scary and dangerous, you need to understand that in a second term he's going to have people around him that are better prepared and VERY willing to do the crazy shit that he wants to do to this country. They aren't even hiding the fact that they are seeking vengeance against political opponents whom they feel have wronged them, and are ready to fundamentally dismantle the democratic foundations that are barely holding this country together after nearly 250 years.

Just look at what Trump says about the people who he incited to attack the United States Capitol in an attempt to overturn the results of the 2020 election and halt the peaceful transfer of power that has happened every four years since 1789:

"Trump has sought to recast an insurrectionist riot as an act of patriotism. 'I call them the J-6 patriots,' he say. When I ask whether he would consider pardoning every one of them, he says, 'Yes, absolutely.' As Trump faces dozens of felony charges, including for election interference, conspiracy to defraud the United States, willful retention of national-security secrets, and falsifying business records to conceal hush-money payments, he has tried to turn legal peril into a badge of honor."

Oh, and please note that Trump -- a former President of the United States and possible future President of the United States -- said on the record in these interviews with TIME: "There is a definite antiwhite feeling in the country and that can't be allowed either." We are at a point where political leaders are outright saying that in this country again, and it's because of Donald Trump.

So, take the time to recognize that Trump is straight-up telling us the country we're going to be living in if he wins again in November. And understand that your vote matters -- and WHO you vote for matters -- because, as I've been saying for years now, ELECTIONS HAVE FUCKING CONSEQUENCES.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 1: Convalescence

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: M. Chapter Summary: "Help him," Maria says. "Help Tommy’s brother, Joel." Chapter Warnings: HEAVY SPOILERS FOR S2E2, FIX IT FIC, pov switching, joel survives abby's encounter, injuries, healing, blood, death, apocalypse health care, temporary blindness Words: 2,725

A/N: I don't think I've ever written something so deep and sad, but damn, Joel Miller will do that. Thank you to @mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, and @for-a-longlongtime for guiding me and looking everything over.

Healed Masterlist Masterlist

—- You’ve given up trying to avoid the glass. Blood smears red against the clear shards strewn across the floor. Too many voices, too many cries of pain. You’ve been in Jackson for only one day, a town that you thought would be a sanctuary amongst the wreckage of the world you used to know. And yet, you quickly learn, no matter how tall the walls are, the blood never stops flowing. The room suffocates beneath the hot, metallic tang of it, pooling beneath your feet as you move among the bodies. You can't get away from the screaming.

You are doing this on instinct. You must be.

"You're a doctor," a voice says. Maria, one of the leaders, grips your arm. "We need a doctor.”

You follow her as she pushes through the crowd, leaving the blood. 

The air is bitter as you step outside, the stench of death is strong as you make your way through the corpses of your new neighbors and the infected. 

"We need a doctor," she repeats, as you follow close behind. "Before it's too late."

You don't have the heart to tell her that it probably already is. You’ve already seen this type of despair line the streets through the apocalypse.

You’re both running down Main Street, the same street you rolled down just yesterday, exhausted and starving.

You should still be worn down from the days of travel, from the confusion and loss. But each time you think you can't take another step, you do. It’s almost enough to give you hope… until you see the gate burning while a group quickly seals a fissure in the fence.

Just past the flames, a man kneels over someone lying in the snow.

"Help him," Maria says. "Help Tommy’s brother, Joel."

—-

He’s not moving. His leg is mangled, tourniqueted by a belt soaked in red. You put your ear down to his heart and check for a pulse. Nothing.

Tommy still kneels, crying and pleading as his shaky hands grip Joel’s shoulders.

“Move,” you command, getting into position. You find the center of his chest and begin compressions.

One, two, three, four…

A small group forms around you, whispering Joel’s name as they look on. You can’t focus on them now.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

You tilt Joel's head back, pinch his nose you’re sure is broken, and give him two of your breaths. His broad chest rises slightly with each one. Back to compressions.

One, two, three, four…

He fills his lungs with air, but it sounds like the opposite… like they're letting the air out.

He’s alive, but barely.

He needs surgery. Now.

"We need to move him," you say urgently, looking up at Tommy. "Can you carry him?"

Tommy nods, and with the help of two other men, they lift Joel's limp body. His head lolls back, face gray beneath the blood. You keep your fingers pressed against his neck, feeling the faint flutter of a pulse.

—-

There's too much blood to hold on to anything, it's impossible to even see without a suction running the whole time. This is not what they taught you in med school. This is nothing like it should be. It hasn’t been for 25 years.

You're out of practice and out of your league.

There’s no oxygen therapy in the apocalypse, and he’s barely breathing. His pulse is weak, but he’s still here, holding on after you brought him back to life. 

A doctor, who looks like he should have retired years ago, tells you it’s nearly impossible to save Joel’s leg.

"I’ll try," you respond.

The bullet fragments are still in his leg. Some of them. Maybe not enough to kill, but enough to leave him limping the rest of his days. If he makes it through.

Your steady hands dig and find, dig and find. Shards land on the floor with a tink as they hit the tile.

The operation shouldn't have lasted this long, not with what looks like an old man, not with the slight pulse he barely holds onto.

But he lasts.

Joel Miller survives.

You wash his blood off your hands and breathe in relief for the first time today.

You walk out the door of the tiny, barely sterile operating room, Tommy stands across the hall.

"He's going to live," you say, that’s all he needs to hear.

He hugs you.

"Thank you,” he whispers, pulling away. “He needs care," he says, hands still on your shoulders. “The hospital's overrun. Joel—" His voice breaks. "Joel's gonna need someone who knows what they're doing."

"I'm not sure—"

"Please," his grip tightens. "You saved his life. I'm asking you to help him keep it."

—-

And that’s how you found your new home. Save a life, get a bed. The room across from Joel’s is now yours. 

It’s a nice enough room. A queen bed, two worn side tables, and a closet that can easily fit your one change of clothes. You haven’t had an actual bedroom to yourself in ten years. Yet, you hardly spend any time in it, it’s easier just to sleep in the worn recliner near Joel's makeshift hospital bed that sits in his living room.

The silence during the day is overwhelming. Just your footsteps on the worn floorboards, your soft voice telling Joel what you’re doing as you care for him, your knitting needles tapping against one another as you knit with what little yarn you have left. He never stirs; he just lies there silent.

The nights are even quieter. Joel’s breathing is the only sound you hear when you drift off to sleep every night, air filling and emptying, rattling his lungs.

He sleeps for days. You change his dressings, monitor the fever that makes him sweat and shiver, and refill the makeshift IV drip that hangs from a nail in the wall. 

There’s a framed sketch sitting on his mantle. The man that stares back at you from the yellowing paper is quite handsome. You think it’s him.

But for now, his face is only a collection of pain.

Bruises, cuts, scabs.

Contusions, lacerations.

Stiff and swollen.

You unwrap his bandages, cleaning his wounds twice a day. You talk softly to him, as if he’s listening.

He's really not much company. The house sits still like him. And yet, every morning you tell him good morning and reintroduce yourself, just in case.

It’s lonely.

Sometimes there’s company, but not enough. 

Maria brings you new clothes, spools of yarn, and some essentials you haven’t had in so long. When she leaves, she grabs your hand, tears welling in her eyes, and thanks you. “So many people depend on him here.”

Tommy checks in every day, and on the days he has the time, he sits silently watching his big brother’s chest gently rise and fall. He brings you food, one less thing for you to worry about as you spoon-feed Joel broth and blended vegetables. 

“He’s tough,” he always says before leaving. “He’ll pull through.”

You only nod. The wounds are severe; infection is a constant threat. And yet, Joel refuses to let go.

—-

A young woman hobbles in one day. Ellie. Tommy’s mentioned her many times. She winces as she sits, damning her broken ribs when she leans forward and grabs Joel’s hand, tears falling down her cheeks.

She asks if he’s okay.

You nod.

She asks if he can hear her.

You nod.

She asks you to leave the room.

You leave.

—-

His face is still swollen and misshapen, barely recognizable. You stare at the sketch on the mantle. Ellie drew it, a supposed perfect reflection of who Joel was, you look over at his broken face. If you squint, you can almost make it work. You wonder if he will ever look like the man in the drawing again.

His body sprawls on the bed, limp under the blankets that you pull away from him as you check over his body and wash it.

"I'm going to clean you up a bit," you tell him softly, dipping the cloth into the basin of warm water beside the bed. You're not sure if he can hear you, but you talk anyway. "It might sting a little."

His body tenses slightly at your touch—the first real response you've gotten from him.

It’s all so clinical, but you can’t help but take a moment to notice the size of his body. He’s marred, yet still golden. Purple bruises cover his torso, and a large, mangled scar stretches across the side of his stomach. You wonder what story it tells.

“You’ve been through a lot,” you whisper aloud to nobody.

His leg is healing, though still swollen and damaged. He must be in so much pain.

He stirs under your touch, and the briefest twitch of his eyelid tells you he's still hanging on. "Joel?"

Nothing.

It's so strange to care for someone like this, someone who doesn't even know you're there. Or maybe he does. Maybe somewhere in the darkness he’s shrouded in, he can feel your presence.

—-

You don’t know if you’ve ever been around this much silence. You’re quietly reading in the recliner when you see his fingers twitch, the corner of his mouth pulls back just enough for you to tell he's fighting his way back to the world.

“Joel.”

You say his name. His breathing quickens at the sound, but there's no response otherwise.

He's drifting in and out, unaware that you're beside him. But at least he's moving.

He's barely conscious, his breaths turning into grunts and mumbles as you watch over him.

You place a hand on his arm, soothing him softly, petting against the small part of him that isn’t injured. He calms, his breathing evening out. “You’re okay, Joel. You’re safe.” He doesn’t respond, it’s not like you expected him to. 

If you can't hold a conversation with him, at least you can try reading to him.

You start taking books from his bookshelves. You start with the westerns. He stays still, stuck under a haze, but you read to him like he's listening. “Lonesome Dove, hm,” you muse to him, when you pick up a thick hardcover book. “Sounds kinda like me right now, doesn’t it?” 

You pull the chair close to Joel’s bed, 

“When August came out on the porch the blue pigs were eating a rattlesnake – not a very big one.”

You barely finish the page before you nod off. You’re exhausted, you can’t remember the last time you stood in the sunlight.

When you wake, his fingers are twitching again.

You pick up the book and read on, twenty pages this time. 

Days blur into one another as Joel's condition improves just enough for you to keep your spirits up. He can't see you through the swollen mess of his face, but you know he hears you.

You read him chapter after chapter, the only entertainment for the two of you. He barely says a word, just grunts in approval or pain.

You feel more like a librarian than a doctor.

—-

The sound of your voice is more real than anything else. He floats through the clouds of half-consciousness. Part of him thinks he’s dead.

He must be a ghost, hovering above the empty shell of his body. But when you speak, he’s tethered back to life.

He wants to see you, to open his eyes and find out if you're real, but it's too much work. His lids are heavy with injury, and the swelling doesn't allow them to open.

He hates the dark.

Sometimes you hum, sometimes you talk out loud to yourself, sometimes to him. He holds on to your voice because when you speak, the pain goes away.

He can just make out your silhouette backlit by the window near his favorite chair. Your face is a blur he can't bring into focus. Maybe he did die, maybe this is some sort of limbo he’s in, because you sure as hell sound like an angel, and when you touch him, he feels at peace.

A whole week passes. The swelling is still too much for him to see anything besides shadows and forms. 

He hears pages turning and knows you're still there.

He hears the edge of worry in your voice as you talk to his brother and knows you care.

You’ll sometimes drift to sleep while you’re reading to him, always waking when his breaths become strained, when he struggles in his dreams.

Always there.

"You need to wake up," you tell him. 

And still, he can't be sure you're not a figment of his desperate imagination.

Sometimes he’s sure he must be dead, because he thinks you’re an angel. He wonders if he deserves one.

Another day passes.

Another.

And another.

He loses track of how long you've stayed by his side. Until he loses track of everything except the sound of your voice.

But you don't leave him.

His body refuses to cooperate, but you don't give up.

And then, after god knows how many days, progress. His voice is the first thing that returns to him. It barely makes it past his throat.

"Ellie?" It's the most important question.

"She's safe," you tell him.

“Water,” he manages, the word scraping against his dry throat.

“Here,” you say. Your hand slips beneath his head, lifting it gently as you bring a cup to his lips.

“Slow,” you whisper. “It’s been a while.”

"How long?" he asks. He sounds like such an old man, but at least he sounds like himself.

"A while… but you survived.”

“Who are y–” the question dies in his throat, he’s too weak to form it completely.

“I’m a doctor, your brother asked me to care of you."

“Your voice,” he says, the words barely audible. “I know your voi—”

“Try to rest,” you tell him as you adjust his pillows.

—-

Soon, he’s able to say a full sentence without feeling like he’ll never be able to speak again. He gets to tell Tommy he’ll be okay. He gets to tell Ellie he missed her. He gets to say your name.

It has to be easier to take care of him now, he tries not to think about how much of a burden he is to you. A stranger, in his home, taking care of him in the way that you do. The soft way you adjust his pillow, the way you gently brush his unkempt hair out of his face, the sweet way you greet him every morning. 

Every night, after dinner, you read to him. It’s his favorite part of the day. The familiar sound of the chair scooching into place, your soft throat clear, and then your voice.

“Live through it," Call said. "That's all we can do.” Your voice catches at the end of the line.

“Repeat it,” he requests. 

You read it again for him. He sits silently. Your sweet voice saying “live through it” is repeating in his head.

—-

The breathing gets easier, the swelling begins to subside, and you still don't give up on him.

He flutters his eyes open just enough to see, to test it. It’s no longer shadows. 

This time, he opens his eyes and he sees you. He sees your face.

He really sees it.

You’re as beautiful as he imagined, backlit by the window, you’re bathed in an aura of soft light shining in through it. You are an angel.

He stares at you. The mystery of the metallic clicking he’s been hearing is solved. You’re knitting, two needles clicking away in your hands. His vision is the clearest it's been. 

He says nothing and watches you. He watches and he memorizes.

You don't even notice him. You're so used to him lying there, lifeless, that you don't even look to check… until you’re done counting your stitches and look up, your needles freezing mid-stitch.

“Joel…”

He croaks an affirmative.

You drop your knitting needles and gasp.

"Joel?" You kneel by the bed, and for the first time, he can see your whole face. For the first time, he’s sure you're real.

You press your palm to his forehead, testing his temperature before grabbing your stethoscope and checking his heart rate.

“Can you focus on breathing for me, Joel? Your heart is elevated.”

He takes a deep breath, trying to settle his heart, knowing it’s only because of you. 

—-

Next Chapter

My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!

My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon

[dilf-docs]

My Baby's Fit Like A Daydream

husband!pedro pascal x younger!reader

summary: your relationship is finally out to the world. now, pedro and you will explore what it feels like to have your love out in the open.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, FLUFF, the empire of bad humor strikes again, hurt/comfort bc all roads lead back to angst, a brief mention of bodyshaming, this is lowkey pwp my bad, dirty talk, fingering, p. in v., bathroom sex ijbol, exhibition kink (they be fucking everywhere but in a bed), degradation kink (he calls her a slut twice), the one and only creampie (twice), so naturally: breeding kink, ALSO pls stop the husband!pedro reqs, i beg. a delulu girl can only take so much 💔

word count: 10,991 words

side note: not one but two requests to be fullfilled! this is as a sequel to call it what you want. also, spam time: i happen to write in wattpad as well, and i have a pedro pascal social media fic going on :) but it's on spanish tho. if u speak the language and would like to tune in, read it here AND spam again but speaking of the ptwt dynamic, why don't we become moots? check my (new) stan twitter account here (i had one in 2022 that i had since 2016 but entered a crisis and deleted it lol)

part: prev | masterlist | next

The news had spread like wildfire.

As soon as you hit the red carpet, hand on hand, rings finally on display―shining under the spotlight, your phone had been blowing up nonstop: every show, podcast, tabloid, news outlet and social media had been talking about it. California had turn into an easter egg playground; everyone was eager to know it all.

(They had found the church where you married, the dress boutique, jewelry shop where Pedro bought the rings―the employees ratted him out, even sharing pictures of the moment, your husband posing with them without knowing of the future treason. They too had found the place where the reception took place, and even the name of the priest who had married you, but he refused to give the hungry press any details. God Bless)

In short, it had been a hell of a week. You figured dissapearing for a while was for the best, but with some interviews still left, that option had been discarded. Still, doesn't mean you couldn't retreat for a couple of days to the tranquility of your home while it was time to show up again. Well, as peaceful as it could get, since reporters were camping near your house and roaming around Hollywood Hills like vultures; the neighbour's nagging was just another layer of problems in your shit cake.

"I'm sorry, Louis. Walks will be postponed for a while" you talk to your cat, but the lazy bastard just stretches and lays down again. "Yeah, I can see you're affected. Don't cry"

"It's not the cat's fault" Pedro emerges from behind, "don't take it out on him"

He takes a sit next to you, two mugs in hand. He gives you the one with a chocolate steam, a souvenir he bought when you visited your home country last summer. You wonder if that's a trip you'll ever be able to make again.

"I'm not. Just- It's horrible that I can't even go outside my own house and walk the same roads I've walked in four years because the press is hidden with cameras in, I don't know, bushes!" you exclaim, quiet rage carried within your words. "It's unfair, really. All I want is to walk my damn cat without a flash up my ass"

Pedro nestles his face in your neck, nose carressing the skin. Giggles leave your lips, the sensation ticklish.

"It'll pass. It always does" he says, voice assuring, probably because he's used to the violation of privacy, but you're not. Getting bigger, is this the price to pay for making a name for yourself and claiming out loud who you love?

"I hope so" you murmur above the quietness of your home, a sound as eerie as fake, devoid of it's tranquil nature as a world of invasion awaits outside.

"Do you trust me?" Pedro speaks, voice unwavering. He holds your gaze, steady brown challening your shaky orbs.

"I do" you speak up, yet you wish you could believe it. You believe in him, there's no question to that, but do you believe in yourself? That the love you'd put out to the world would be treated with the same care and respect you have treated it in secret? For a fleating moment, you miss the secrecy.

"Then trust me this will be over sooner than expected" he presses a kiss to your lips, soft and sweet, feeling remanents of chocolate he licks away, as you mockingly yell ¡Qué sucio! but it's devoid of malice. "In time, this will become another anecdote we'll share with our kids, and laugh with our grandkids when we get older"

You smile, feeling tears in the corner of your eyes. Oh, doesn't he turn you into a pathetic sappy wife?

"Well" you sniffle, giggling to push back the tears away. "About the old part..."

He playfully kicks your side. "Uno ya no puede ser romántico, que le salen con estas cosas. Your generation could use some respect, you know?" (one can't simply be romantic anymore)

Pedro gets up, picking the mug from your hands as both rings brush together, the gold shinning under the morning Californian sun.

"And your generation could take a joke" you quip, lips curled up like you hadn't in weeks.

"Very funny, y/n. Thought you loved me" but then he's pressing a kiss to your temple like kissing you once isn't enough, promising to return after washing down the mugs.

"I do!" you shout to his dissapearing broad frame as he enters the kitchen, and he playfully makes a dissmissing move with his palm.

The laughing dies when your phone chimes next to you.

You shouldn't really, but the curiosity that draws you in is as intense as a magnet. The phone burns on its position, screaming for you to open it, despite being told by your husband that the best was choice was to ignore it until the buzz had died down, but you're afraid the turmoil isn't nowhere to be finished. Comments can be mean, he'd said, they can hurt you. Pedro said he'd learn with time to ignore it, but he was experienced. You weren't, so naturally, as your husband and protector, he wanted to shield you from the pain.

Although, both of your fandoms had been pretty supportive of your relationship, some user even claiming to suspect it, making threads full of easter eggs and connections that validated the theory which was now a reality. I've connected the dots, followed by pictures of you sharing wardrobe, slips on interviews, similar backgrounds in your posts across social media, and of course, the two Gladiator Ii interviews. Many resorted to making edits or screaming over your pictures in the premiere, demanding for more content you had yet caved in to share (there was a gigantic carpet of evidence sitting heavy in your cloud).

So, in a way, this support made it hard for you to truly dimension the hate Pedro warned you about: all you saw was fans being happy and showering you with love, making paparazzi to be the only problem as for now.

That's it.

You cave in, turning the phone on as you bite your lip, searching first your Instagram: a bunch of new followers, many with variations of ispunk on their usernames, as well as a swarm of comments on your recent posts. There's a small voice in your head telling you to turn away, but your thumb moves without thinking, clicking on pictures of the red carpet―a carrousel of you and then a picture of you both at the end, one fans had been gushing about the last couple of days, rings on display, practically up their noses. You were smiling, and Pedro was looking at you fondly, his other hand holding Lux but his gaze never leaving yours; he was too perfect to be real―yours.

You unconsciously smile at the captured moment, love obvious on your faces, so you open the comments, thinking it would be the same support or love radiating of the comment.

But boy, weren't you wrong?

It was all the same, support lost between waves of hate. Variations of bodyshaming, age shaming and even gold digger claims were on full display across the comment section. "She's ugly" "In it for the money, am I right?" "I thought Pedro had better taste, lol" "She got the role in Gladiator II because of nepotism. Or cocksucking" and then a cruel answer that read "Right, threesome with Ridley. Ew, what a whore!"

Worst of it all, some even had Pedro profile pictures, or usernames and accounts dedicated to him.

Your heart was beating like crazy, chest heavy and hollow, face red with emotions you couldn't quite place (embarrasment? fear? rage? sadness?) as you kept searching across Twitter*, doing a quick skim of the trendings that included you. The same hate speech pattern was all over the timeline, some betting for divorce in a couple of years (even months!), while others took their time dissecting your looks and relationship. As if they knew. Long gone were the edits and harmless threads: the hate wave was here to stay. Some where even being a bit racist, the irony of it all, being Pedro himself was latino and didn't shy away from it, rather proud as he didn't miss an opportunity to shot out his dear Chile. Or any social issue, as a matter of fact, very vocal on his political beliefs.

This was fucking ridiculous, and if the cameras were an issue, this swarm of negativity is what really took a toll on you, the flashes as you went grocery shopping now barely a scratch. No, this was worst. All you wanted to do was cuddle in a blanket while wearing one of Pedro's shirts and dissappear. Too much noise. Too much hate. You can feel it creeping up your body, tainting your soft curves, wrinkles, acne scars and face. It's like rough hands, tugging harsh, ripping your vocals because you can't scream; no words to express this pain.

You knew one day it would come, but never imagined the hurt and to what extent people were capable of. Cruelty. Dissecting your life and body like it was a show for them to be entertained: your marriage was a circus and your body a joke.

It hurt their condescending dismiss of your love, questioning as if the gap were only numbers and not a pillar of your relationship that made you and Pedro closer, despite the bridge in age. You were reduced to a middle-age crisis, and he to a filthy man pinning for a younger girl. Your body was turn apart, despite no real flaws existing. Humans are meant to be so, not perfect, but real, and that was the problem: you had turn into an object―a target for their dards to pierce through.

Your body shakes violently with cries, deafening your ears that you don't hear when Pedro walks in.

"Why are you crying?" he rushes to your side, panic on his voice. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

You barely manage to shake your head, and then his eyes scan all over your features, until they land on the phone on your hands. The worry turns to anger as he asks:

"You looked at them, didn't you?"

He isn't yelling, but it would be better if he did. This contained fury, fading into dissapointment, as if you were a naive child scolded by their parents makes you feels small and stupid, as if you knew no better.

"I'm sorry-" you manage to choke out among tears, "I know you told me-"

"I told you" he interrupts, words laced with wrath, "so this wouldn't happen. See what happens?"

"Why are you talking to me like it's my fault?" you yell, and Pedro sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. "I didn't ask to receive all this! Do I deserve the death threats, shame and hate?"

He walks past you, and it's like a slap to your face. Was he going to behave like this? Didn't it matter how you felt, or was it something childish that could be brush to the side like nothing? Insecurities you hadn't even think of come crashing down on you, doubts creeping up and attacking you from all sides. It's horrible. You try to hold onto the good memories, praying you don't loose him. You can't. You just can't.

"Answer!" you demand, tears spilling like a broke dam.

"I was just closing the windows. Or do you want to fuel the talk, huh? Give the hungry hoard more to bite?" Pedro then stands to hold your gaze, and you hate that you can't place his emotions. Anxiety corrodes your brain: was this really the beginning of the end?

"Do I?" you dare to speak up, and even if its loud, it comes out drowned, the exhaustion from the emotional turmoil taking its toll on you. "Do I deserve it?"

"No, you don't, carajo!" Pedro bursts. "You don't deserve any of that, which is why I didn't want you looking at those things!"

He sighs, realizing the anger is misdirected.

"I'm sorry"

Your broken wails are the only thing to be heard. He hates himself for being a part of it, even if not the biggest.

"No, I'm sorry for being so stupid" you sob. "I-I just wanted for people to be as happy for us as I am with you"

"Come here" but he's the one cutting the space to embrace you.

His scent calms a part of you, body still rocking with violent shakes.

"You're not stupid. Nor ugly, or any of those things people are calling you. No, mi amor. You're beautiful, smart and talent. They fail to realize I'm the lucky one. So please, don't be hard on yourself, yeah? I can't bear to see it. Less if I know it's not true. You didn't ask for it; you don't deserve all that bullshit"

He presses a kiss to your temple, arms that hug you tighter holding you close close up to the point his heartbeat melts within your own.

I won't let you go. You won't fall as long as I got you.

"We'll get through this, yeah? Think of the future, and what's to come. It's hard, that I know, but let us enjoy the moment. Life is too precious to waste it away" he brushes stray tears with his thumb, softly and full of love that words aren't enough to express. "I'm here" the out loud, "and I'm not going anywhere. That's a promise"

Later that day, Pedro posts a carrousel of unseens, even one of your wedding (a video of your first dance), telling people to leave you alone. That he loves you, and that no malicious news, fans or comments will ever change that―suck it energy laced within his rageful statement.

Safe to say, in the next weeks, hate is barely a small voice whispering in the back of your neck, one that hushes down with each kiss and/or words uttered by your one and only devoted husband.

mandoshoney: y/n protection squad pull up, we ride at dawn starlightt180: unhing3dprincess WHERE ARE U??? PTWT IS IN SHAMBLES AND NEEDS U MY SHAYLAAAAAAAAAA elysyannemimi: i feel like a kid scolded by their dad. pedro has achieved the ultimate daddy status bobgirlll: is no one going to talk about how rageful/protective pedro sounded in that story????? NEED MORE FERAL PEDRO RN GRRrrrr ps. photos so cute, wish that was me lol pyramiidsf: i hope y/n is okay, ppl can be so cruel sometimes but at least she's got pedro on her side <3 he's such a perfect man :,)

It had been days since your fight.

In an sweet attempt to cheer you up, Pedro had taken you out for dinner to a fancy restaurant you can't remember the name of. If they'll snap pictures of my wife without my permission, I might as well show you off. So, per his petition, you had wore a little black dress that hugged every curve of your body perfectly and pushed your tits to the top. Stunning, he had growled, and it had been hard to push him off as he devoured your mouth in your house's doorstep.

"Let's give them talk" you had agreed.

So now you sat at the restaurant, Pedro filling your cup of wine for the third time in a row, talking about all and nothing: about politics, the weather, your siblings, Louis the cat, upcoming gigs around your home you wanted to go to, how support had risen and the hate had dwindled, the numerous calls of job offers and interviews to keep on milking your relationship... life had never been more hectic.

"You know, maybe the dress was a bad idea" he takes a bite of his meat, tone nonchalant.

"Yeah?" you challenge, cheeks flushed with alcohol, "why's that? I thought I had to look good. What changed your mind?"

"Turns out" he looks at you, gaze piercing through your body, brown warm eyes darkening, "I figured something"

You know your husband. It's still fresh in your mind the first day you took a notice of it: jaw clenching, gaze fixated at nothing and white fists balled up on to the sides, arms swinging while fingers itched. A vein on his forehead would pop, and brows would melt together in a furrow. It happened when you got recognized by a fan, on your early days, and he had taken a picture of you, uploading it to social media. Dating Pedro had been going on for little to five months, and the way this guy hugged you from behind, hand resting above your ass, had made your then-boyfriend see red. His posture stiffened, demeanor changed and face adquired all the characteristics above. There was only one correct answer: Pedro was jealous, so fucking jealous.

So here he is now, jealous to the bone, alcohol increasing the rage.

"And that is?" you push his buttons, something you normally wouldn't do, but you're drunk and God, so sex-starved. His possesive side was always hot, yet now? It had a layer of allure it didn't have before, the idea of calming him down long lost.

"You know what it is" he answers, but you tilt your head to the side, acting confused. Pedro growls, clenching the glass a bit too tight; you fear it'll break.

"No, I don't" you serve more wine in your glass, savouring the liquid. Some spills into your mouth, and you lick it while not breaking eye contact. "Enlighten me"

"Turns out" the words come out strained, a whirlwind of emotions burning in the tip of his tongue, "that I wanted people to look at my wife, but I looked their looks and realized I don't like how they look at her"

He rambles the words out, speech pattern slurred and ideas clashing into one another, clearly drunk.

"I see" you draw out, demeanor calm, but your panties have started to get wet.

"No" he hits the table, making your eyes go wide and people turn to your table. You should be embarrased, but you're only aroused. "You don't see what I see. And I hate it, I fucking hate it" he seethes, words spit out over your unfinished meal.

"Dessert?" the waiter appears from seemingly nowhere, menu on hand.

Pedro doesn't even look when he answers, "Sure. Bring your best"

"The chef's suggestion is Soufflé, a classic dessert from his country"

"That'll do" Pedro looks at you, but his brain seems to be somewhere else. Like he's thinking. "How long will it take?"

The waiter ponders the answer, yet doesn't think any weird of it.

"About twenty to thirty minutes. Would that be alright? Or would you prefer to switch to one of our quick-fixes? They're as delicious as our fresh and-"

"No" your husband interrupts, eyes shinning with something akin to dangerous. "We'll take the soufflé. Just want my wife to eat the very best"

The waiter smiles. "Sure, will be back in a few. More wine?"

Pedro stops the action, removing the bottle's neck from pouring more red liquid in your glass.

"Won't be needed"

They excuse themselves, leaving both of you alone. The restaurant bubbles with chat and instrumental music from a band playing on a corner, but all you hear is his heavy breathing and your heart.

"I wanted more wine" you pout, not even knowing why you said it.

He smiles devilishly. "I'll give you something better than that"

How does it happen, you have no idea, but then Pedro gets up with a brash move, chair making a sound that draws attention. He smirks, his auburn reflecting on the candle glowing in the center with a light that's menacing.

"I'm going to the bathroom" an announcement that feels like a threat that runs through the newfound tension; it could be cut with even a butterknife.

You sit there in silence, too stunned to speak. Your phone chimes in what feels like an hour (it's been a few minutes, probably three). You open the notification, a single text from Pedro.

I'm waiting.

So this was his plan all along, huh? Maybe he's gotten bored of sex on a bed and room like normal couples, because ever since that time you sucked his dick in his trailer, Pedro has shown an appetite for public sex. Well, more like just shown but never done. Guess that changes as of tonight.

I'm coming.

Truth is, after the reveal and fight, you hadn't had sex since that time before the London premiere. Press tour hadn't finished, and the movie was still playing in theathers, but it feels much longer the time you had gone without having his dick rearranging your insides. That changes as of tonight.

You practically leap out of your sit, rushing to the restroom, which is too fancy for your liking. You're unsure how to proceed, and it should be because you realized how stupid and reckless this is, but it's more because you don't know which door Pedro is behind: men or women.

You knock softly on the ladies room first. "I'm here" you speak, voice small.

After a few seconds, a muffled voice from behind replies: "Me too"

You giggle as he pulls you inside, mouth devouring yours in a hot kiss.

"The lock!" you squeal, yet Pedro is busy buring his face between your breasts, pulling the dress down until he's nipping at the skin before licking the spot with his tongue. Your back is pressed against the tiled white wall, cold meeting your now heating skin.

"Mmm, missed this" he mumbles in a drunken state. "Needed my girls so bad"

His words elicit a moan out of you, a way to comunicate that your body too had been aching for this.

"Please, Pedro-" you whimper, trying to get rid of the pretty dress. He doesn't say it, but his movements command for power, big hands dragging your dress down until the black cloth falls to the floor in a sound filled with grace, it feels merciful.

"Black panties? But I thought I was a man with a plan" he groans, calloused digits ghosting over the wet patch in the middle. He smells your arousal off his fingers, and this is so nasty but you're so into it.

"Two can play" is all you answer, eager fingers unbuckling his belt as you unbutton the formal pants and pull them down to his knees, so with his underwear.

"Sure thing" he chuckles darkly. "Just look at you, baby. So loud, but you gotta be quiet. ¿Quieres que alguien entre y te vea así? Fucking slut, begging for my cock" (do you want someone to come in and see you like this?)

He's always been sweet-talking you through sex, and you know he doesn't mean it aside from being lewd words, but you also didn't know you could be aroused by it. Change is welcome, to say the least.

His hard dick is immediately stroking at the apex of your thighs, like he's got no time to loose, kissing you roughly like he hasn't eat and your mouth is his meal.

"Twenty minutes" he grumbles, groaning.

"Or thirty" you add, whining when his cock brushes dangerously close to your dripping folds.

"Can't believe you're this wet already" he chuckles, but it sounds more like a breathy sigh, lost in the inside of your mouth.

"I've been wet since before we left the house and you kissed me"

"And I kissed you" he adds. "No sé ni por qué putas te traje si sólo quería quedarme en casa y comerte" (i don't know why the fuck i took you out if all i wanted was to stay at home and eat you out)

You moan at his dirty mouth, clicking your tongue as a way to say so.

"You dirty old man-" it dies in your throat when he glides inside your folds with ease, a finger slipping in, then two, as he curls them. Your head rolls back, landing against the door with a hollow thud.

"Dirty? But you enjoy this, don't you?" his fingers buried up your hilt. Your eyelids flutter, whimpering drowned by your lips, bitten so deep you think you start to taste blood. "Bad news, mami. You're as dirty as me"

You choke in your words. "No-"

"No what?" Pedro mocks, sliding his digits out of you and shoving them inside his mouth, sucking on them while looking at you. You whine at the display and loss of them, knowing he's tauting you for fun. "Don't tell me you don't want someone to come in here and see you acting like a dirty slut? To see you almost coming here and now with just two of my fingers"

"Fine. What if I want to, huh? Just give me your damn cock already and quit teasing"

Words were lewd, but Pedro smiles with adoration.

"That's my girl"

His length springing free to slap against his now smooth stomach, your mouth drooling.

"Sit"

He glares back, "in the toilet?"

"Well, do you happen to see a couch or bed?" you quip. "That's right: you were the one who chose the bathroom, desperate old man. So needy, aren't you?"

You see your husband turning around, ashamed, and you laugh. "I didn't think it through" and you avoid to add a that's quite obvious snarky type of reply.

"Want me as much as I do?" Pedro doesn't protest anymore, grunting some spanish curses before sitting on the cold surface. "Good. Then comply"

You swing a leg over his lap, not afraid if the thing breaks, dragging your wet folds against his cock. He moans, gripping your thighs hard, biting at your lower lip to hide a growl that seems to erupt from deep within his chest.

"Gonna ride you, baby. Is that okay?" you take the lead, and Pedro gets frustrated that you're taking up a plan that was originally his. Despite such, he just finds himself nodding wordlessly like a fool.

You line up, desperate to have him inside of you. But you go slowly down, taking his size, maybe because you're drunk or because you'd never fucked in a bathroom before. Because, really, how will you even try to explain your PR team a broken bathroom?

You gasp as he bottoms out, struggling to catch your breath with the relentless push. His strong arm cages your waist, as he moans in your ear, bodies going up and down in sync. His slides are smooth across his length, helping you find your pace.

"Fuck" you whimper, legs starting to shake. "I think I-"

"I know" he interrupts you, a quick kiss to your earlobe. "It's okay; I've got you, linda"

He thrusts upwards, toilet creaking as Pedro keeps you in place.

You bury your teeth into his shoulder to muffle your moans, skin slapping against skin loudly, his movements becoming faster. The pressure keeps on adding, until the tightness on your walls is too much, and you're collapsing over his chest, folds spasming as he empties his load inside of you, seed deep in your walls, dripping down your legs.

"Oh, shit" you gasp, "Pedro!"

"Perdón!" he shouts, then covers his mouth. "Mierda, no quise ser tan ruidoso. Ay, carajo. Didn't want to spill all over you-" (sorry! didn't mean to be so loud. oh, fuck)

"There's a sink" you start, "and toilet paper. We'll manage"

"Right" he looks at his watch, "we got about ten minutes"

You smile, cheek resting against the warm skin of his neck. "If the chef took the whole thirty"

"There's only one way to find out" he gasps for air. "Pero, ¿no estás llena? Still up for dessert?" his big hand finds it's way to your tummy, you still contentedly stuffed full of him. It lingers, and when you look into his eyes, he averts his gaze, ashamed of whatever he thought. (but, aren't you full?)

"After this, I need some sugar to make it home" your eyelids drop. "I'm starving"

He presses a loud kiss to your head, "that's my girl"

"Yours" you pull back to rest your forehead against his. "Just yours"

He jolts forward, capturing your mouth in a hot kiss, and you smile into it.

"Good. Now, I'll give my good girl what she deserves" he takes some toilet paper to clean his spilling load out of you, kisses running from your face to neck. Then, gently so, lets you dress in again, exiting the bathroom first to give you some cleaning up space. When you come back to your table, the Soufflé is there.

"Eat" he commands, voice thick and rough. You smirk, giving it a bite as you look into his eyes: hair disheveled, puffy lips and droopy eyes. The bite mark seems to shine, or maybe you need to lay down for a while. "Y no mires atrás, ¿sí? We got ourselves a crowd" (don't look back, yeah?)

That night, you upload a story with a picture of the dessert with a caption that reads: best meal I've ever had. The context is lost until news of your bathroom affairs hit headlines next morning, but you don't notice: your phone happens to be dead, and you're too busy getting railed in what could count as round two to charge it.

pompeiianbollockr: hello just woke up and saw the pictures WTF TMZ??? did they really do #that 😭 bring back public shaming unhing3dprincess: i bet my grandma they fucked in that fancy ass restroom ㅤㅤmostannoyingbillioner: unhing3dprincess QUEEN U ARE BACK 😭 BETTING UR GRANDMA AGAIN? OH IKTR WE WERE LOOSING THE ANCIENT TEXTS poppysplayground: ohhhhh they're so nasty (do u want a third) ㅤㅤann-gell: poppysplayground fr like INVITEN

The interview for Entertainment Weekly's behind the cover for Gladiator II was supposed to just include Paul and Pedro, but taking advantage of the free publicity and buzz your announcement made, they added you. Especially after the news about your restroom affair had hit, courtesy of TMZ; the rumor wasn't taken into account in the beginning, but now added gasoline to the gossip fire. Just what the movie needed: free promo.

You're sat in the middle of the two men, dressed in white as well, to match their attires with a flowy dress that loosely resembles that of Rome's. Then, Paul begins to speak.

"I saw the film for the first time when I was about 13 with my dad" he talks about the original movie.

"I saw it in the movie theater when it came out" you imagine a young Pedro lined up to see Russell Crowe's magnetic performance and let out a small smile. "I saw it twice, because of how emotional the movie was. Obviously it's incredibly visceral, and epic and the kind of movie you rarely get to see made, uh, these days"

You look at him, elbow resting on the arm chair as your body is all turned to his side. Truth is, you love listening to him, especially when he seems so invested, love for the subject rooted in each word.

Pedrito, you'd affectionally call. Ésto es una conversación, no un monólogo. And he'd blush embarrased, only for you to laugh it off, saying you would turn mute if that meant for him to continue speaking. (this is a conversation, not a monologue)

"It had an impact emotionally. I remember that, I guess, sadistically I was drawn to a second time go back again because, weirdly, it was very comforting. I remember it perfectly came out in year 2000. Right?" he asks, and Paul and you agree with a yeah. "I can remember what theater I was in and everything-"

"What theater was it?" Paul interrupts his passionate talking.

Pedro stops, "It, uh-" he rambles, before you all laugh.

"What about you, y/n? Were you even born?" Paul jokes, making you roll your eyes at his antics and deliberate desire to keep nagging you like some older annoying brother.

"I was like, born a year after you, Paul. But I didn't watch the movie until I was fifteen" you feel the gaze of both men fall upon you. "The first Ridley Scott movie I watched was Thelma and Louise, as you all know. Then my dad insisted I should watch it, and finally, at fifteen, when I had given up on my dreams to go on one last epic trip to the Grand Canyon, he played it. My eyes, they were, like, glued to the screen. I couldn't stop thinking about it for a while" you leave a small lingering touch on Pedro's arm, "just like he said: epic and emotional. Also, I had a huge fat crush in Joaquin Phoenix that lasted until I was twenty"

"That was like, seven years ago!" Pedro yells, making Paul snorts. "I feel deceived"

"Qué dramático. We're both married, you big baby!" you laugh, then make a joke before the next conversation starts: "You wouldn't think he plays an epic Roman General, would you?" (how dramatic)

They film some shots of you and the boys before moving to the next talk.

"I was doing a play in London at the time. I'd met with Doug and Lucy who are the producers of the film in LA, and then a zoom was set up and I spoke to Ridley for about 5 minutes about what Gladiator was going to be about. And then we spoke for the next 25 minutes about like, gaic football and dogs, and then I thought we'd do like camera tests and- but no, he just-" he shrugs. "I found out about two weeks later"

Now it's Pedro's turn.

"I knew that the project existed. I knew that Paul was doing it. I think it started with an actual like meeting with Ridley to go and sit down with him and I, whether or not the movie was going to happen for me or not, I was like I'm going to go meet Ridley Scott" he jokes, making you both chuckle. "It wasn't even about getting the job, it was like I'm going to go and sit down maybe five minutes, ten, twenty, as many minutes as I can"

"It was in LA" you speak up, "in his offices"

"Yeah, and thankfully he was willing to talk about all the things I wanted to know about, in terms of other movies, and that's what it really turned into"

"He's a wonderful Storyteller" Mescal compliments. "You could sit down with Ridley for-"

Pedro makes a joke, speaking over him. "Give me another one, give me another one-"

You still kind of hate the guy after his supposed comments on your husband's weight, but won't talk bad about a man who gave you work and your biggest role to the date yet, so you explain how it happened to you.

"I wasn't even planned to appear on the movie. As a matter of fact, my character was squeezed in last minute. Ridley is, just as they said, indeed, a storyteller" you smile. "The truth is, I worked with Cuba, his granddaughter, on a proyect together, a photography one. I was in London at the time, auditioning for a movie, when we met"

"London?" Paul asks.

"Yes" you laugh, ashamed. "I traveled to London with some of my savings, because you know what they say about not doing and then regretting. But I do regret it; I cried for my money to be back!"

"You didn't get the part" Pedro adds, barely containing a snicker.

"I didn't" you sigh, "Cuba saw me sitting alone on a café, eyes red with tears of failure and talked me into capturing such vulnerable moment. She didn't know me but made my day better, and she took some of the most beautiful pictures I've seen of myself. So, in a way, I won. I mean, she's the reason I got the role: my name came up on a phone call with Scott, as I had already made a name for myself, and showed him the pictures. He got in contact with my agent and I got the role after auditioning. Call that friendship nepotism"

"Didn't Pedro tell you about it? I find it funny that he was in the movie and didn't get you in" Paul comments, curiously.

"We were supposed to remain a secret, and the sudden connection when we had barely interacted according to the public, would've been weird. So no, Pedro rubbed his role on my face and then I came home with the new script as he received his. We both won our roles separately, and until we got it both, we realized just what it would mean"

"But now we're here" Pedro speaks fondly, taking your hand. "Rome conquers it all"

You can only hold his and stare back lovingly.

"Oh" the Irish man feigns disgust, "don't get all lovey dovey on me!"

The topic changes again, as Paul speaks.

"We meet early in the film, and this is again kind of Ridley's genius. He shoots it in a way that it feels plausible, but in like- the real action of that there's no way-"

They start talking ovwe each other excitedly about the process of filmaking, Pedro listing all the settings were the epic action takes place.

"We lock eyes" Pedro jests, "we lock eyes"

"All right" Paul plays along. "Three, two, one"

"i'm right here" you say, pushing your body to the front. "You got me third wheeling in my own marriage"

Paul laughs, breaking contact.

"Time for you to get a taste of your own medicine. You've made the rest of this press tour unbearable!" he protests, but his tone is devoid of complain.

"Marcus Acacius represents like-" Mescal then speaks about your husband's character, "he's a Roman general"

"No, he is the general of Rome" you correct, smirking.

"Be careful, princess. Don't let the emperor see you all over his General" the blue-eyed man next to you mocks, and you roll your eyes again.

"Will you ever let me live?"

Paul then talks about his character. "I'm like a lieutenant in the numidian Army. I kind of see Acacius as this, he- he represents everything that I hate about, uh, the Roman Empire"

"Well, the Roman Empire is expanding and expanding" Pedro takes the word, "and invading Numidia just to gain more and more power, and we realize that there really is kind of no ceiling to the lust of that power"

"And that's to do with the Emperors, right? Like, played by Joe and Fred who are wonderful" Paul adds, complimenting both actors in the process. "And let's not forget our Empress too"

You make a face at that, feeling in the need to defend your character.

"Empress Alba is tragedy. I think she embodies well the feelings of helpnessless all women felt during that time. She's an object, another shiny possesion subjected to her husband's amusement, so she drowns in all pleasure available to forget her existence. Lucius hates her because he sees all the filth of Rome in her, like, this whole debauchery and squandering while the people beg for scraps. But it's a pattern seen across history, isn't it?" you pause. "I think it's interesting to compare her to Lucilla, because she's loved by the people, seen as human- despite being noble. It's sad because it's until too late that Lucius realizes she's a victim of the system he hates"

Pedro smiles at your little intervention, loving the way you explain a character you'd play so graciously. One of your favorite movies is Marie Antoinette, by Sofia Coppola, so probably it felt personal to you in some level. God, hadn't you made him watch it at least ten times?

"It unravels through the film that I've kind of miscalculated who I think Acacius is, just as with Alba" Paul comments.

"His character misunderstands my character just like Paul misunderstands us" Pedro quips, making both of you laugh.

"Then it kind of culminates in a big fight that we have in the-"

"Doesn't it always?" you add. "Wouldn't be an epic without it"

"Do you want to talk about it?" Paul dares, jokingly.

"No we're not talking about it" he cuts him off.

"Who's the better fighter'" Paul asks after some silence. Pedro dares him with a go on.

"I would say I'm better the better share. What you think?"

"I would say Lucius is the better fighter"

"Lucius is the better fighter" Pedro repeats slowly, incredulous. "Do you want us to fight? Lucius is a better fighter than the general of Rome, who survived decades and conquered" Paul tries to defend himself but Pedro doesn't let him. "I fight four men before I get you, and I call it off!"

"Yeah, but I think if you hadn't called it off -"

"You don't think I would have do some sort of mature aged learning-"

They end up discussing a bit more until you clear your throat.

"Why don't you ask for a third party to break your tie?" and you point towards yourself, mouthing a cute me with your painted pink lips.

"No!" Paul immediatly opposes, "It would be biased, silence her!"

"Have you seen Acacius' arms?" you gauge Pedro's arms, biceps flexing under the white attire. "It definitely isn't biased, at all"

The conversation carries on after some more shots. In some, you pose seriously, but in between such, you laugh along with them, Pedro even hugging you and Paul from behind in one of both. No kisses yet, but you know fans will be rabid just with the lingering touches and flirty undertones in your interactions.

"We began together in Morocco, and I think seeing that set and the scale of the production so quickly, desensitized me to the scale of the of what- Malta was in the Coliseum, and Ridley moves at such a pace, which I actually think really helped me because you don't have time to kind of sit there and and kind of bask in the wonder of it" Paul talks. "Because you're shooting three or four scenes, build your expectations of how to meet the size of, it or anything 'cuz 'cause it's impossible" Paul looks at Pedro and asks: "and I think Ridley; did I tell you what Ridley said first day of shooting to me? He came out to the tent while they were dressing the set, thousands of extras, everything fire, camels and he comes in, and he's- he's smoking a cigar, and we're all stood around and he's like Are you nervous? and we're all like No and he slaps me on the back and goes Your nerves are no good to me, before we filmed anything. But I think it was like- it's funny, but it's this idea that this is your playground, and you have to kind of step into it and own it. So, I-I don't actually really remember my first walking into the Coliseum, 'cause I feel like I lived in the Coliseum for about three or four weeks"

"You lived in the Coliseum of your mind" Pedro quips, making Paul laugh.

"I do remember, you know, when I first walked into the Coliseum, you know. It- it gave me chills. Like, literally chills. Look! I still get the goosebumps" you point your arm. "Honestly, all of it felt just too real, and I couldn't help but for a moment, think I actually was in Rome- that I belonged to nobility"

Pedro takes your hand and kisses it gently. "That's because you do, princesa"

"One of the things that I have never experienced on a movie before, is that there was so little left to the imagination" Pedro expresses. "Me and the rest of the ensemble are together in the emperor's box, and there's this enormous battle that's taking place, and Ridley composed all of the off camera for us in the emperor's box, with Paul leaping from one ship to another taking two men down what would you call that?"

"A cloth line flying" Paul answers.

"Clothes line?" you try.

"A flying- a flying clothes line" Pedro decides, carrying on "just so that we could know what we were looking at. I couldn't f*****g believe it"

"That's true" you remark. "The result goes so hard- I mean, it looks amazing" you sheepily laugh. "The action, the violence, the epic... it all shines through. It just- it makes sense"

The conversation shifts again.

"The legacy of the first film is so profound, and has such a strong place in so many people's, like, hearts and minds, it's inescapable, but I was looking at it- and I was like" Paul shares. "The screenplay does a lot of that work for you in terms of like, the rubbing the dirt between the hands. the kind of DNA and the genetics that Lucius inherits. I remember reading the script and there's like, a moment in the script where it's Lucius puts on the breastplate and it's written like Lucius now becomes Maximus"

"But Lucius, despite being a son, is also a man" you counter. "He isn't Maximus"

Paul agrees.

"I kind of tried to park that to one side, because ultimately, where Lucius is coming from at the start of the film, he has a very different journey than Maximus does, and I was hoping that whatever DNA- and even just the physical gestures, was going to be one part of- a kind of small part of the performance" he explains. "What I tried to do is figure out exactly who Lucius was and where those differences lay between Lucius and Maximus"

"One of the things that I loved most about my character is that he's introduced in the beginning of the movie, in this very epic battle sequence, that I think in its own way homages the first film" Pedro shares. "But even better, because we follow him back to Rome and discover his direct connection to one of the only characters that is living and with us from the first movie, and I loved being a a kind of thread, an invitation, into what we know from the first movie by being Connie Nielsen's man"

Paul looks at you silently, before poking your side: "Someone is real quiet with that comment"

You narrow your eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about"

"I am Connie Nielsen's man as Marcus Acacius, but as Pedro Pascal, I'm all y/n's"

Your face goes red at how easily you are to be understood, your husband answering just what you wanted to listen.

"Ha! Look at your face, I was right!" Paul ridiculises you.

But after such an embarrasing moment, he shifts the conversation again.

"There's a moment where Pedro has this, uh- it's so clever from a- from an acting standpoint, but also in the in the script like, you see this brutalizing Force come into Numidia, and there's this section where there's the burning of the bodies, and that it's one of my favorite shots in the film" Paul muses. "It's this closeup on Pedro, when he says Vae Victis to the conquered, and you feel like it's a really difficult thing to communicate in one line, that you see: Oh, this General is, kind of wearing this responsibility with great difficulty and shame"

"I wasn't doing that at all" your husband deadpans. You stiffle a giggle.

"You were very good in it" Paul argues back with a smile.

"That wasn't what I was playing" he insists, serious but Paul asks What were you playing? and you all laugh.

"If I had a favorite scene, I'd say it'd be naval fight" you mention. "The colliseum is filled with water, and it's this- it feels like a thing that has never been done before, and with the people cheering and the buzz, and the announcement and echo of the drumming, it's as if you were there, in the crowd. The tension is palpable, the violence is thrown at your face but the scariest one, is the one that lies underneath. Uh, Lucius character tries to attack the General while we, you know, the royals and especial guests, are sitting at our box, and he gets so close, it serves, I think the bottom climbing the ladder to bite the ankles of the top. Obviously, that before we know who Lucius actually is, but I think it's kind of cool"

The interview is ending, the last of your twelve-minute conversation being filmed now.

"I am really excited for everyone to see Paul" Pedro beams, making the younger one laugh. "I'm sorry but it has to be said. You are sensational in the movie" then adds, "and pretty easy on the eyes"

"Everyone in this movie is easy in the eyes" you quip, looking at your side. Pedro coughs a bit before speaking again, even if a faint blush is coating his cheeks.

"-And he worked so hard, and I got to see that happen like, in front of me, and on the day and just lead with Ridley, this enormous crew and this enormous cast... To get to see that, on the big screen, is really exciting and I think people are going to- they're going to love it"

"That's very kind" you exclaim softly with a smile, then add. "I'm sure of it, especially if you were a fan of the first. Both are very interwined, although each film is its own thing" you comment.

"For a lot of us, the actors, we haven't worked on a film on that scale" you violently shake your head "and I think, there's a little bit of trauma bonding that went on with, kind of having to- kind of feel like, total impostor syndrome within it all. But to see your friends operate at that level on a film of that scale, doing like incredible work. I think, across the board, I haven't seen a film on this scale for a long long time rhat's rooted it has the scale and the performances, and I personally think it's one of Ridley's greatest pieces of work"

senhoritamayblog: y/n was SO REAL holding pedro's arm and talking abt how he'd beat paul bc he's beefy ME WHEN moltisantiii: you know what i think ridley's greatest piece of work is? giving us this trio youlooklike-clarabow: y/n is truly a princess 🥹 i don't know if i want to be y/n to be with pedro or pedro to be with y/n ㅤㅤann-gell: youlooklike-clarabow well, she's the people's princess after all!

You haven't even left the room when Pedro is all over you, kissing your neck on that sweet spot of yours that elates a little breathy whine. Doesn't he know you well?

"What are you doing?" you manage to squeak out as his needy big hands grope your body, flesh soft under the flowy white dress. He grunts when he catches your panties, embarrasingly wet already at just a few sloppy kisses and eager touches.

"What do you think?" he whispers against your ear as you both try to walk away from where voices can be heard, and then Pedro is guiding you to a room, closing the door behind him. If he was able to walk to the room while kissing you, he must've seen it in a passing. Had your husband plan this all along? Greedy needy old man.

"What I think, baby, is you're forgetting something" you push him off, giggling. He makes a little pout, making it hard to keep your ground. "Now that everyone knows we're married and we suddenly both go misteriously missing at the same time, they'll just put two and two together. I mean, does it really take a smart person to figure it out?"

Pedro doesn't back down, still caging your frame against the locked door.

"So?" his annoyed and tense voice only makes you laugh more. That turned on was he? Pedro seems annoyed at your fit of laughter, his pants tight.

"What do you mean so? We almost got caught by Paul last time!" you chuckle amused. "And, are you seriously going to pretend TMZ didn't air our bussiness just about last week?"

"Well, maybe you should've thought about it before" he goes back at the task of attacking your mouth, words spewing in between hungry kisses. You mouth a little taunting innocent looking Before what? and then Pedro is talking while his gaze is glued to yours, tightening his arms around you, and the answer is just about that. "You should've thought about it before getting all flirty with me, grabbing my arm in front of the camera like the naughty girl you are. So fucking needy you can't hide it for a few hours, can't even go through an interview without touching me, looking at me, being possesive at a fictional marriage even" your face burns hot with embarrasment at that. Oh, was he being nasty on purpose? Why bring that up? "Haven't I taught you manners?"

It's hard to force yourself to hold his gaze while standing still. Taunting. Defiant.

"José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" you chastise, "do you want people to know we are raw dogging in the dressing room? That's the manners you so badly talk about"

His face goes red, his demostrations stopping for a bit as he studies your now serious face.

"Wait, do you want to raw dog in the dressing room?" he gasps at the boldness in your words, which, to be fair, is kind of exaggerated, as you both have said worst stuff before. "That's not what I had in mind"

"That's not?" you arch an eyebrow. "Oh, no. Absolutely not. You can't just kiss my neck greedily and touch my body eagerly like a goddamn starved horny idiot, and then expect me to not act up on it, you old man"

There's silence before he speaks up again. "Y/n, you talked about manners"

You take a deep breath in, making sure the door is actually locked.

"Well, fuck them manners"

You capture his lips on a hungry kiss, same kind of force you had made fun of him, just minutes ago. He's pushing his tongue inside of you, as his hands move up to your shoulders and back down to your waist. You rub yourself against him, looking for some kind of friction, and his big calloused hands pulls your waist closer in an attempt to do the same.

"Manners maketh man" he's reciting, and such stupid proverb and line from one of his old works shouldn't turn you this much. Pedro lifts up the dress until your body is devoid of the cotton, murmuring about how unfair it was for you to taunt him with translucent cloth, tender flesh hiding under the white. So hard to focus on interviews, mami, when you're close to me or something like that, as you're too lost in the fire. No bra? Fuck, baby. Do you want to kill me?

"Sofa" you command, eyes darting to the furniture so you can show him where. "Now"

You take off your panties in a go, revealing the slick that's just a few seconds from running down your legs.

"I see, my legs won't be the only thing drooling" you mock his agape mouth. He takes off the blazer with shaking hands, sitting as you get on top of him. Pedro kisses his way down your neck, sucking on the skin. How will you get out of here without comfirming suspicions? Surely, there must be something inside here that could be of help.

"Well, I've wanted to do this for a while" he mumbles against the now red patches of before honey-ed skin. Again? you think.

"Have me or fuck again in public?" you ask out loud, and even if you're laughing, there's a layer of fondness in your voice. "I'm starting to wonder if you have an exhibition kink, papi"

He breathes a little no before biting right above your collarbones, his tongue then releaving the pain with a wet slick move over the flesh as you let out a whine.

"Busy schedule, mami. A husband's gotta find a way to make time for his pretty wife, even if it means fucking her in the goddamn dressing room" he says into your ear. Pedro had done more interviews than you, and between that and filming for his other projects, he's right. "So what if they find out? Need them to know who you belong to. I'm just a devoted husband, will you punish me for that?"

You caress his face, pristine hair now disheveled, the gel succumbing to the heat and sweat trapped in the room.

"Look at you, naughty boy. El burro hablando de orejas" you laugh, "but of course I won't. Need you too so bad" (look who's talking)

His finger wanders down to your pussy, big hand roaming around the area. His middle and ring finger run over it, the golden band starting to shine with your arousal. Fuck, that just made you wetter.

"Shit, baby. You're so eager... wasn't lying when you talked before"

"Needed you since you kissed me today, when you woke up" your teeth grit at his lingering digits. "Your dick rubbed against my bare thigh, fucking hard"

Truth is, you're always horny; being married to Pedro Pascal does that to you. But mornings? Waking up to that handsome face and girthy dick? You really be testing yourself sometimes.

"Jesus, mami" he whistles. "So fucking dirty, thinking about me all the interview because my morning wood grazed your skin, you dirty naughty girl"

Pedro finally slides his fingers inside of you, making you squirm under his gaze as your back archs. "So fucking beautiful, can't believe you're all mine" he moans and you squeeze his shoulders, nails digging and bruising his skin under the shirt that sticks to his skin, body heating up like a furnace.

"Please, Pedro" you plead, lip biting your under to supress a whimper. "Please curl your fingers, need to have you- feel you inside. Fuck-"

Your words cut off as he moves his fingers with learned ease, his thumb rubbing your clit as a treat.

"Mmm" you murmur with pleasure, back arched again, your tits too dangerously close to his face. Without much thought, he licks your nipple and then devours the whole breast with his mouth. All while looking at you, this absolute horndog. Your nails dig in deeper as you pronounce his name in a shaky exhale. Wanting more. Begging for more.

"Mmm? That's right" his palm on your waist squeezes lightly, more pressure on his grip. "Can't speak 'cause I'm making you feel so good, huh?"

You don't answer, instead throwing your head back, nails digging deep to the point he winces, making a face by the pain. You mouth an apology, but then he licks your nipple again, and teeth move to your nibble your earlobe―you're not sorry anymore.

"S-stop" you choke out, body shivering.

"What? Can't take what you asked for? No muerdas más de lo que puedes masticar, niña mala. Bad girl" (don't bite off more than you can chew, bad girl)

His lewd words elicit another moan out of you.

"I-I can. In fact, I want- no, need more. I don't want to cum on your fingers" you whisper in his ear, hot breath probably why he shivers. "Pull down your pants, pretty boy, because I want to cum on your dick"

"Fuck, mami. What a dirty mouth" he moans.

Eager hands try to lower his pants as your fiddle with the same feel, the borrowed wardrobe struggling to get off in the current position. His underwear goes next, and you squirm as he aligns his tip with your dripping entrance.

You moan and he grunts, as his dick enters your tight folds, sounds clashing onto each other as so do your bodies, fitting perfectly. His hands travel from your waist to ass, his head against the back of the sofa, your hands that were before on his shoulders now on his chest.

"Such a pretty view you're giving me, wifey" he tries to laugh, but the sound comes out strained along each powerful stride of his cock that buries inside of you, each bouncing harder, his hands pathethically running over your ass, back, hips, and legs, as his eyes devour the way your tits jiggle with each thrust, tongue burning with desire to suck on the skin again. "So beautiful, and all mine. Only mine. Mía"

His words drip with devotion and wordship; all the love in the world. Pedro calls you beautiful, goddess, and a string of spanish words crossed with adoration. Mami. Linda. Princesa. Diosa. Hermosa. It has your orgasm looming over, head spinning and pussy stretched, walls tightening.

"I'm close" you whisper, riding him with soft-paced movements as his turn sloppy.

You see stars, walls almost kicking his dick out as you coat it in your slick, arousal dripping down until it's coated his balls and smeared the white attire. Fuck. Now Pedro's moving his waist, hunting for his own orgasm.

"Me too" he breathes out, "stay with me"

His hands travel sloppily to your waist, lazily holding you still with his calloused digits.

"Quick, baby" you breath out, "I'm sensitive"

"I'm almost there. Just hold on a little longer" then a whine before shakily pleading. "Please, please, just wait for me"

You move your hips slowly, aroused by his needy pleads, robbing a moan out of him. "Cute" you praise, making his cheeks redden with sweat and blush.

He is cute: hair messed up, mouth red and puffy, and brown puppy eyes.

"I love you so much" Pedro let's out, and it sounds like a confession, despite being married for so long.

"I know, baby, I know" you reach for his face, removing some sweat beads from his forehead, and he leans on the touch, closing his eyes as another gutural growl erupts from his chest. "I love you too"

You keep on riding until you feel his dick twitch inside of your walls.

"We need to stop doing this" you pant out.

"Too late for that, bonita. At least no one found out this time" Pedro laughs. "But you like the talk, don't you? Gonna give 'em something to talk about" he pants, "will fill you up so good you won't be able to walk without my seed spilling from you" sweat beads from your face fall onto his. He obscenely licks the salty drops. "Te voy a dar tantos hijos, que no cabrán en la casa. That way they will know you're mine" (will give you so many kids, they won't fit in the house)

You moan loufly, folds now coated on thick ropes of hot cum, as his movements come to a stop, slowing down until all that can be heard is your uneven breaths trying to recover.

And on cue, there's a knock at the door. Shit. You both remain silent, as if it would stop, but the knocking turns persistent.

"Pedro, I know you're in there"

It's Paul freaking Mescal, again. You might just have to invite him next time if he keeps showing up like that.

"Should I go?" Pedro whispers, and you shrug, stating it would be weirder to pretend he wasn't if Paul knew he was. "How do I look?"

You eye him up and down, eye glistening with dissaproval, red cheeks giving away your thoughts as if the furrowed eyebrows and ashamed gaze didn't already.

"We are fucked"

"No" he giggles, "we just fucked"

"That's not funny!" you roll your eyes, playfully smacking his chest. "Please, look into the mirror and try to fix yourself a bit. If not, we're doomed to be remembered as a horny couple. Oh, we were going so well! Fans will make fun of us and the press will call us horndogs" you lament, exaggerating your voice.

"Oh, shush. We wanted to be able to be in public. This is what it feels like"

You blush. "Maybe we can reduce the public aspect a bit..."

Pedro snorts before doing a quick fix to his appearance, walking to the door where Mescal patiently waits behind. Oh, of course; that little fucker. After the TMZ news dropped, he connected the dots and know that whatever happened in that trailer when Pedro told him to fuck off, wasn't holy at all. Now, he's probably laughing or scheming.

"Paul!" Pedro opens the door. "W-what's up?"

The younger man does a quick scan of his friend, barely able to hide a laugh.

"Looking radiant, my friend" he answers with a shit-eating grin. "They need to do some re-shootings. Have you happen to seen y/n? She just keeps dissappearing when you- oh, when you do!" he mocks. "Well, if you ever happen to find y/n, tell her you both need to get a good fix unless y'all want to show up on TMZ again. I'm pretty sure you can find something in this dressing room to cover those marks, yeah?"

He finally breaks down laughing in front of Pedro's shocked face.

"Ah, you guys are the absolute worst" he folds in a fit of laughter, "so fucking horny you end up fucking in bathrooms and dressing rooms!"

Your voice can be heard from inside as you growl, face red with fury and shame:

"Hijo de puta" (son of a bitch!), "don't make me bring Daisy Edgar-Jones into this!"

l-u-n-a-m: they're just milking their relationship atp for promo but i'm not complaining need more pictures of the photoshoot NOW vnightx: istg if they don't stop flirting in front of my single ass face. i need a gun at0michips: have i gone insane or does pedro have love bites ㅤㅤmybritishstyle: MI HIJO DOES NOT HAVE LOVE BITES. HE JUST FELL DOWN THE STAIRS

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @trashcora / *i'm never gonna call twitter as X. it's still twitter, and will always be. fuck that ugly bigot filthy billionaire hoe called elon-trump-cocksucker-musk.

[differenteagletragedy]

Simon x SingleMomReader, Part Four! Thank you for reading and commenting and being so nice, I love it here <3

Part One - Part Two - Part Three

Weeks went by, and little by little, piece by piece, Simon begins learning you. Your last name, the one you share with Charlie and Emma, your birthday, your favorite food.

Bigger things, too -- how Charlie was a surprise in a not-so-great relationship with a man who'd left and come back, sworn up and down that he'd changed just long enough for another surprise to come in Emma, and who'd left again soon after.

He doesn't just hope for random run-ins with you at the park now, either. He has your number, and you have his. Sometimes you invite him over for dinner, sometimes Charlie grabs the phone and begs him to come play, but more and more, he's finding himself at your house.

One day, Simon talks to Charlie at the dinner table while you're giving the baby a bath, and the scene is so domestic it almost hurts, the way some bit of sweetness can cause a toothache if it hits just right. You and he haven't talked more about his feelings for you or whether you share them, but that's fine by him. You trust him now, enough to let him tend to your son or hold your daughter, and that means everything to him.

"You wanna hear a joke?" he asks Charlie, who nods, smiling and ready, so he says, "What do you call a teddy bear who's going bald?"

"I don't know, what?"

"Fred Bear."

Charlie looks at him blankly, big eyes confused. "The bear's name is Fred?"

"No, sounds like threadbare. Fred Bear, threadbare."

"... His name is Thread?"

Simon chuckles, but before he can say anything else, you come out from the hallway, holding baby Emma.

"Is Simon trying to tell more jokes?" you ask Charlie.

"Yeah, but it wasn't funny."

"Aww, they never are, are they, baby?"

You grin playfully at Simon, and even after all the hours he's spent with you and your family, it's like the first time all over again. Except better now -- it's better every time. Because now, he feels like he's actually earning your smiles. Almost like he's worth all the warmth and kindness you've shown him, just by letting him be with you like this.

Next is the bedtime routine, which he's familiar with at this point. Emma, who's been so close to sleeping through the night, you've told him, gets one more feeding and plenty of snuggles before getting placed in the bassinet by your bed, while Charlie gets an equal amount of snuggles, as long as he'll sit still for them, and a bedtime story after he's all tucked in.

Simon helps out where he can, or when he's confident enough in whatever placed he's carved out in your family to offer, but often he stays back, cleaning up after dinner or straightening up the living room.

He's in the kitchen now, working through the dishes, when you come in, kid-free and trusty baby monitor in your hand. By the look on your face, he knows what you're about to say, and he tries to nip it in the bud.

"Don't need the 'you don't have to do this' speech tonight, love, I've heard it enough I can recite it by heart now."

"But you don't," you tell him, leaning against the counter by the sink, close enough that he can feel your warmth when he puts a clean dish in the drainer. "You know you can just come and hang out, you don't have to do my cleaning for me."

He smiles, glancing up at you, and says, "You want to say my part now or should I?"

You roll your eyes, taking a soapy dish from him so you can rinse it yourself, and pitch your voice as low as it can go, mocking him as you say, "'Know I don't have to, I want to, I’m a very large, very tough man and a sink full of dirty dishes and a bin full of dirty nappies is no match for me.’”

"That's what I sound like, is it?"

You laugh, bumping his hip with yours, and continue with the silly voice.

"'My name is Simon, I tell awful jokes and am very mysterious, but if you need a nap and have a four-year-old who won't slow down for two seconds, I'm your guy.'"

It's all very silly, but very cute, and he can't keep the smile off his face. You keep opening up to him more and more, and every new thing he sees from you, even dumb little moments of levity like this, make him fall even harder. It's such a stark contrast to the woman he met that first day, the one who trusted him only because she had to and lied about having a husband so he might think twice about hurting her.

Even then, he would have died before hurting you, but now?

"I am, you know," he says quietly, handing you another dish.

"You are what?"

"Your guy."

To him, it's just a fact. Of course he's yours. But you look at him with widening eyes, not all that different than the look Charlie gives him when he fixes the persistently leaky faucet or carries all the groceries home so you can carry the baby and hold the boy's hand -- like he's doing something magical when he's just doing something that he knows should be done. It's too much, to be held in such high regard. To feel this important.

With careful hands, still warm and damp from the water from the sink, he grips your waist. When you don't push him away, he gently lifts you to sit on the counter in front of him, closer to eye level. And when, miraculously, you still seem good with what's happening, he leans in.

Simon wants to go fast, because he knows how much he needs this -- how much he needs you, just like this, sleepy after a full day and happy with a full life and right there in his arms -- but he doesn't. He moves in slowly, giving you ample time to stop him, but you don't. Instead, you lift your hands to his shoulders and pull him in to close the distance between you.

It's a soft kiss, but one full of the wanting he's been feeling for months now, and as you move your lips against his, he can feel a bit of your wanting too. It's enough to pull a low grunt from his throat, one that spills from his mouth and into yours as you part your lips to deepen the kiss.

He'd always known that if he ever got the chance to kiss you, it would be good -- he could never see a way that it wouldn't be. But actually doing it, tasting you in more than just his dreams, was so much more than he ever imagined. He loses himself in it, just a bit, his hands only just slipping under the hem of your shirt to feel your smooth skin.

When he feels your fingers grasping at his shoulders, an adorable, almost anxious little attempt at pulling him closer, he scoots you to the edge of the counter so that his chest is flush against yours. The kiss turns hungrier, deeper.

Then the baby cries.

It's a sharp sound through the monitor paired with the muffled sound from the down the hall, and you pull away, breathless and flushed.

"Sorry," you say softly, giving his shoulders one more squeeze before hopping off the counter. "I, um ... just stay, ok? I'll be right back."

He lets out a breath as he watches you hurry down the hall to your bedroom where baby Emma is wailing, trying to wrap his head around the situation.

Through the baby monitor, he hears you softly soothing your daughter. He can't make out every word, but the love and care in your tone is clear. He sees the goodness in you every time he's with you, a softness unlike anything he's never known, and it's intoxicating. It's dizzying, someone like you letting someone like him get so close. It makes him feel like he's falling and flying all at once, like he wants to claw at his own skin just to get his hands on the part of you that buzzes through him. It's too much to keep inside him, as big and broad as he is. Too much to bear, all this longing.

All this love.

Simon hears a lullaby through the baby monitor, and sharp cries that turn into little whines before things go silent. A moment later, he hears your feet padding softly down the hall, then there you are in the doorway of the kitchen, hands on your waist and a question in your eyes.

His answer, of course, is "yes." An unequivocal, unrelenting yes, to any question, to anything you want or will ever want from him.

PART FIVE - PART SIX - PART SEVEN - PART EIGHT