#if i wear long sleeves and a jacket in the winter i WILL break a sweat walking to the bus stop

[schwazombie]

It's currently 37°F/3°C and I'm sitting here in a spaghetti strap without the heater on because I got too hot and was sweating. Even had the window open for a while. I think my therapist was right about the whole needing to get that checked thing

[tasteleeknow]

warm

pairing: minho x fem!reader genre: smut. fluff. established relationship.  content: 18+ minors dni. afab!reader. profanity. pet names. dirty talk. strength kink. unprotected intercourse. word count: 2.9k

summary: you and minho find yourself trapped out in the winter weather. he warms you up and then you return the favour.

“He’ll be here soon,” Minho murmurs again, as if repeating the phrase to himself will make it true. 

You wrap your arms around your waist and tuck your chin into your jacket collar, attempting to shield yourself from the biting cold. It had only been a short walk from the restaurant to the train station, short enough that neither you nor your boyfriend had considered the temperature before venturing out into the winter night. You both had long coats and Minho even wore a woollen hat with ear warmers. You were prepared, you’d thought. When you’d arrived at the station and found the trains weren’t running, Minho had called his roommate to come get you. That was at least 15 minutes ago. It felt like your nose was about to fall off your face. 

“You’re shivering,” your boyfriend observes, stepping in front of you and taking your face in his palms.

“I’m fine,” you insist, attempting to bury your chin into your collar again. 

His arms slide down your arms to snake around you, pulling you into his chest. “He’ll be here soon,” he repeats, a note of uncertainty in his voice this time. You nuzzle your face into his coat, the scratchy fabric a relief compared to the stinging cold air. It doesn’t do much for the rest of you, but your nose is catching a break and that’s enough for now.

When he takes a small step away from you, you glance around—thinking perhaps Chris had finally arrived. You don’t see him. “Come here,” Minho’s low voice pulls your attention back to him. You find him holding his coat open, waiting for you. You take a step towards him quickly before he loses too much heat, wrapping your arms around his waist under his coat. It’s warm, his body heat working to create a cosy space for you to escape the frigid air. Then he pulls his fluffy hat over your head, the woolly flaps falling down over your frozen ears. You lift your face from his neck, attempting to look up at him but blocked from where he’s pulled the hat too far down—shielding your eyes. He huffs out a laugh, adjusting it for you.

“Take it back, you’ll get cold,” you whine, attempting to reach up and do it for him. 

“Stop complaining,” he mutters, wrapping his arms around you in a vice grip, enveloping you into his long coat with him and simultaneously preventing you from reaching up to your head. He’s wearing a soft, white, turtleneck sweater underneath and you feel like vibrating with content as you press your face to the warm fabric. “Better?” he asks. 

“I wasn’t complaining. Your ears will get cold,” you mumble into his neck. He says nothing in response. You rub small circles into his back as he squeezes you. The sounds of the city around you dull as you press your ear to his shoulder harder, squeezing him hard in return. Then he shivers, strong enough for you to feel it. You lift your face to find him looking down the street, clearly trying to spot his friend’s car. His ears are red from the cold already, matching the tip of his nose. You tug your arms from his waist to lift up and wrap around his neck instead.

“What are you doing?” he grumbles, returning his attention to you. 

“You’re cold.” 

The corner of his mouth curves up. His lips have lost some of their usual colour. “Obviously,” he says.

You bring your lips to the tip of his ear and breathe warm air over them, holding him still with a firm hand to the back of his neck. His arms tighten around you as you repeat the process a few times, breathing in through your nose then gently breathing warm air from your mouth. You finish the treatment with a kiss before moving to work on the other. When you finish, your fingers are numb—poking out from the sleeves of your sweater. You peck the tip of his nose then wrap your arms around his waist again, attempting to warm your frozen hands. 

“My lips are cold,” he mutters after a moment, eyes flicking to your mouth and then fixating there. 

You smile. “That’s a shame.” 

A car horn makes you jump, pulling your attention from your boyfriend’s plush, albeit pale, lips. “He’s here,” Minho announces as you untangle yourself from him. He grabs your hand and pulls you towards the car so quickly you almost trip trying to keep up. He bundles you into the backseat, following quickly after. “What took you so long?” he grumbles as you struggle to push the seat belt buckle in, fingers still numb. 

“Traffic,” Chris answers from the driver's seat. 

Minho reaches over to push the buckle in for you before doing his own. “Nearly froze to death,” he mumbles. “Turn the heat up,” he adds, louder this time. 

Chris reaches for the temperature controls then turns to look at you. “You right?” 

You nod, offering him a small smile. “Thanks for picking us up.” 

“It’s good,” he says easily before turning back to the front and pulling out into the street. “Roads are a bit blocked up with the trains not running.” 

“Did you find out why?” Minho asks. You lay your head on his shoulder, pulling his hand into your lap to play with his cold fingers. You lift them to your mouth periodically, blowing over them to warm them faster. You zone out the two men in the car, closing your heavy eyelids eventually as your skin slowly warms. 

You wake to your boyfriend’s gentle touch against your cheek. “We’re home,” he announces softly. You hum, much warmer than you were when you’d last been awake. You follow him out of the car, shuffling along the seats until he pulls you onto your feet. You’re not sure why you’re so tired, you’d felt wide awake while waiting to be picked up. Something to do with the warm car, you assume. You hear him huff out a short laugh and then he’s scooping you up into his arms.

It feels natural to you. You were used to him picking you up for much less. Sometimes he’d grumble, acting like he hadn’t taken you into his arms completely unprompted and instead been made to carry you by force. “Were walking too slow,” he’d mumbled as you’d been walking home from a cafe a few days before. You weren’t in a rush. “You’re in the way,” he’d whined only this morning, lifting you off your feet and depositing you away from the bathroom sink so he could brush his teeth.

When you reach Minho’s bedroom he helps you shrug your jacket off before he pulls his own off his broad shoulders. He moves to hang them both up in his closet as you collapse back onto his bed, legs dangling over the edge. He hovers over you shortly after and you blink your bleary eyes open to look at him. “My lips are still cold,” he mutters. 

“Still? I’m all warm,” you answer with a small smile. 

“You aren’t gonna help me? Warm me up?” 

“How would I do that?” 

His eyes fix on your mouth, then his tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip. They’ve gained their colour back, benefiting from the long, heated car ride. A small puff of air leaves your mouth at his transparency, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down so you can kiss him. He hums contentedly into your mouth as one of his hands trails up your thigh to settle between your legs. “Know how else you can warm me,” he murmurs. 

“Do you?” 

He hums, warm tongue dipping into your mouth as his fingers trace patterns across your thighs. Both of you are still fully clothed but your skirt allows him easy access between your legs, the patch of skin above your thigh-high socks the only bare skin between you. “Always so warm down here, hm?” he mumbles as his fingers slowly inch closer to your centre. “You gonna warm me up, kitten?” he whispers against your lips. 

You smile then press your hands to his chest, pushing against him and forcing him from your lips. “I’m not convinced you need warming,” you tease, reaching up to thread your fingers in his soft hair. “Look at you, you’re all fluffy and warm.” 

He rolls his eyes and you can’t help laughing at his dramatics as he grasps your wrists and holds them down beside your head. His thumb strokes over your skin, pressing directly into you briefly as a silent request to please stop laughing in his face. You know you won’t be able to move until he lets you, completely secure in the fact all you’d have to do is ask. You smile, enjoying the firm pressure against your wrists as you recover from your laughter. “I’m cold,” he insists, offering no further argument. You lift your head off the bed to peck the small freckle at the end of his nose, suddenly completely overwhelmed with fondness. 

His nose scrunches, feigning disgust at your display of affection. You grin. “Alright,” you relent. “You wouldn’t lie to me would you?” 

“I’ve never lied in my life,” he insists, clearly lying. 

“Oh really? Never?” His eyes flick to the closet beside the bed, so quickly you might’ve missed it with an ill timed blink. “What’s in the closet?” you ask, suspicion evident in your tone. 

“Clothes,” he answers, like you’re stupid. 

“Nothing else?” 

He lowers his body onto you, pressing you into the mattress. “I’m cold,” he whines dramatically, kicking his legs where they dangle off the bed. “Warm me up.” 

“If you tell me what’s in the closet,” you bargain. He groans, rolling off you and onto his back. You roll on top of him, taking your turn to press his hands into the bed. “What are you hiding?” 

“I’m cold and suffering and you’re interrogating me,” he pouts. “I thought you loved me.” 

You shrug. “You’re alright, I guess.” 

He pulls his hands from yours easily and grips your waist. The ease at which he escapes your grasp reminds you again how much stronger he was. How easily he scooped you up and moved you around. You wrap your hands around his biceps, attempting to feel them through the layers of clothes he still wears. He mumbles something under his breath just before he stands, taking you with him. You wrap your legs around him as he walks backwards and pushes you up against the closet door. His palms wrap around your thighs, just above where your skin peeks out from your long socks. “Say you love me,” he grumbles. 

“Tell me what’s in the closet,”

His grip tightens on your thighs, calloused fingertips pressing into you almost painfully. Then his face drops to your chest, a low rumble in his throat your only warning before he turns and tosses you onto the bed. You squeak as you hit the mattress, bouncing a little as he stands over you. “Tell me you love me,” he says again. 

“Alright, you big baby,” you laugh. “I love you.” 

He nods then turns, pulling the closet doors open and digging into the pockets of the coat he’d just worn. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch. His sweater rides up his back as he leans over, revealing a sliver of skin. You should make him take that off, you note. When he stands and turns around his eyes are wide open, vulnerable. You couldn’t handle his puppy eyes. You sit up properly, shuffling to the edge of the bed. “You don’t have to show me,” you assure him, suddenly concerned. “I was only playing.” 

He holds his hand out towards you in offering, a small silver key sitting unassuming in his palm. “I thought…maybe you’d like to move in with me,” he says, voice faltering a little with uncertainty. You take the key from his palm, turning it over in your hand. You practically lived here already, spending most nights in his bed. 

“A spare?” 

He shakes his head. “Not for here. I uh…found this place. It’s perfect,” he says. “For us, I mean. I didn’t want to lose it.” 

“You… want me to move in with you? Just us?”

He nods slightly, failing to meet your eyes. You take a second to process before slowly standing and then snaking your arms around his neck. He looks up at you and you jump, letting him hold you up against him again. “I love you,” you whisper, lips ghosting over his. He smiles then presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, sighing as you slot your lips together properly.  

Then he walks you back towards the bed. When he’s hovering over you again, hips pressing into yours, he speaks. “Gonna fuck you everyday. Don’t have to worry about Chris hearing.” 

Minho had never cared about his roommate overhearing him fucking you. It was the way you got quiet, holding back your moans and whimpers when you knew he was home. That was what bothered Minho. “You found us an apartment so I would be louder during sex?” you question.

“No.” 

You kiss his nose. “No lying.” 

He scrunches it again then confesses. “Partly,” he whispers before pressing his lips to your cheek. “You can warm me up whenever I’m cold, too.” 

“Like you are right now?” you prompt, reminding him of his scheme. He hums, reaching down between you to adjust himself. “Poor baby,” you coo, brushing your fingers through his soft tangles.

“You’re so good at making me feel warm,” he mumbles.

You bite your lip, struggling to keep a flood of emotion at bay. It was the way he said it. He was talking about a different kind of warmth now. The same warmth you felt in your chest when he told you he loved you. He wasn’t great with the mushy stuff, expressing his love through actions more than words. You breathe his name and his eyes trace over your face, a flicker of worry crossing his expression before he drops his mouth to your shoulder—sucking a mark into your skin as he presses your arm above your head. He lets you keep the other hand in his hair. He liked when you tugged at his hair. 

He traces patterns into your thighs, calloused fingertips brushing gently over your skin. Then he lifts his head as his fingers tap over the cotton covering your cunt. “Can I?” he whispers. 

“Mm,” you hum. “Take what you need.” 

He pulls your underwear down your thighs, giving up when they get caught at your socks and moving to pull himself from his slacks instead. You smile, grasping his hair tightly. Clothed sex, you hadn’t done that in awhile. The sound of tearing fabric fills the room as he rips the underwear and untangles it from your legs. 

“Did you have to do that?” 

He hums, not lifting his eyes from between your legs as his finger dips into your entrance. Then he takes your hand from his hair and presses both your wrists into the bed above your head, holding you still as he enters you. You watch his eyes squeeze shut and his lips part as he sinks in, his hold on your wrists tightening as his mind slips a little. “Hot,” he mutters, barely audible. 

“Mm?” you prompt, clenching around him.  

“So hot,” he repeats. “So fucking hot around me… warming my cock.” His face drops to your neck and his tongue dips out to taste your skin, then he’s sucking on you again. Small moans accompany his suckling as he begins pulling out slightly and inching back into you—thick cock stretching you open as he chases the tight heat of your cunt. He often started this way, gentle small movements and quiet muttering before building up. It was a gradual build, giving you time to adjust to the feel of him. Then, when he was ready, he’d start using you. 

He sits back and flips your skirt up onto your stomach, giving him a clear view of your cunt so he can watch his cock push back into you. He lifts one of your legs, his fingers gripping your thigh so he can use your leg as leverage. Your socks have rolled down a little, revealing more skin to him. You attempt to watch his face, the way his brows furrow as his eyes fix on where he fucks into you. Then you give up, throwing your head back and giving in to the feeling—taking in the obscene sounds of your skin slapping together. He’s merciless when he’s fucking into you like this, jostling you up the bed with the force of his thrusts. He doesn’t give up his possessive grip on your thigh, using it to pull you back down onto his cock as he fucks back into you.

“So fucking warm,” he gasps out.

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[stormqueen280]

Climate change is undeniable

Brazil's southernmost state, Rio Grande do Sul, is going through the worst flood of its history. Almost half the state is underwater, including state capital Porto Alegre. There are pictures in news sites that are absolutely terrifying. I have seen videos of at least five different bridges being carried out the the water in the past four days only.

Rio Grande do Sul underwent a big flood last September, and it was already incredibly frightening. There were storms in June and November too, but September was bigger. And this current storm has been lasting longer already. Things are likely to get worse in the next week - weather forecast says rain will give the state a break starting tomorrow, May 5th, but by the 8th it should be raining again.

The pictures explain better than my words can:

But if Rio Grande do Sul and its neighboring state Santa Catarina have been facing massive floods, the rest of the country is going through the fourth heat wave of 2024 (they consider a heat wave when the weather is over 5° C above the average temperature, for several days). Now, you must be thinking: Brazil is a tropical country, it's supposed to be hot.

It's not supposed to be 37° C in fucking May.

We have a state in the southern region, called Paraná, whose capital city, Curitiba, is the coldest state capital in Brazil. In fact, there is a stereotype (very much confirmed) that Curitibans are insufferable when it comes to talking about the weather, because no Brazilian, in any place of the internet, talking from anywhere in Brazil, can complain about the cold without a Curitiban showing up from nowhere and saying "well, but here in Curitiba is colder". They really are that insufferable.

Curitiba's average temperature for May is 12° C to 21° C. I just checked: it's 28° C right now. Curitibans have taken to forums to complain about the heat, which must be unheard of, because those assholes (I love you guys, but you're assholes) can't stop talking about the cold all damn year. I have never, in 40 years of life, have seen them talking about the heat so much.

When I was a kid, i used to wear coats for some periods of the year. Rio has never been a place to wear heavy coats, but you know, long-sleeved shirts, a denim jacket during the winter? Normal.

I can't remember the last time I consistently wore a jacket. It was probably before the pandemic, and only because of the air-conditioner at work. It just isn't cold enough to wear anything more than short sleeves for more than three or four days in the entire year.

Climate changes are undeniable. Anyone who's denying it is either incredibly stupid or incredibly ill-intentioned.

[thevegandarkelf]

Taken Care Of

18+, MINORS DNI

Masterlist

AO3 link

This oneshot features my OC Lydia Vector (from my story 'Finding Myself, Finding You') & Daryl Dixon (TWD) after they've officially gotten together. I was going to wait until I had posted all the chapters of it to post this, but it's getting too difficult to restrain myself. It isn't necessary to read the story beforehand, but some things from it will be referenced in this piece. If you love smut with fluff, feelsy smut (as someone on AO3 called this), and Daryl being a massive softie for his partner, then this one's for you.

Lydia/Vec/Vector (she goes by all of those) (c) me, TheVeganDarkElf

As their relationship continues to strengthen, Lydia & Daryl begin exploring things in the bedroom. After many trials and tribulations, Lydia finally feels she's ready to take things all the way.

This is my first time ever writing smut, so please go easy on me. Constructive criticism is appreciated (emphasis on constructive), but please be gentle or I'll cry.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x OC

Era: Alexandria, pre-Saviors

Word count: 7.3k

TW: referenced/mention of/allusion to sexual trauma, mention of panic attacks

CWs: swearing, smut (duh), oral sex (female receiving), p in v with protection (wrap it before you tap it my friends), gentle sex, Daryl losing his p in v virginity, dirty talk, praise kink, body worship (maybe? idk?), grinding, hand job (sort of), nipple stuff, a lil' bit of post-orgasm crying from our girl. Let me know if I forgot any!

“You’re practically drooling, Vec,” Rosita laughed, snapping her fingers in front of my face.

“Hmm?” I was only half-present in my response.

“Leave her,” Maggie giggled, “she’s off in her own little world.”

Winter had come to Alexandria, gracing our presence with its ice-cold temperatures and early sunsets. Snow hadn’t fallen yet this season, but it was certainly getting cold enough to do so. I had to break out some jeans and long sleeves, packing away my usual attire of shorts and sports bras for the next few months. Rosita, Maggie and I were sat on the front porch of Maggie & Glenn’s place. Rosita and Maggie had taken the opportunity to have some wine, saying they needed a way to warm themselves from the inside due to the cold. I skipped the alcohol, opting to warm myself with some tea instead. That and Daryl’s leather jacket. Even when he hadn’t been wearing it, his jacket still carried his warmth like it was storing it just for me.

When he was getting ready, I’d tried to convince him to put on his jacket, but he insisted I wear it, telling me he would be fine with a couple of flannels and his poncho. I believed him, as the layers combined with how warm he was all the time would surely keep him nice and toasty, but I also knew his weakness was seeing me in his clothes. That was further corroborated by how handsy he’d been that morning.

He was covering gate duty for the day, his crossbow locked and loaded in his arms, ready to take out anyone or anything that came too close. I was watching him, my mouth slightly agape, dissociating as the corners upturned into a small, delirious smile. There was nothing special or different about his appearance today, but he was looking particularly handsome.

I could’ve been ovulating, but I was down so bad for that man, I didn’t need to be ovulating to be drooling over him.

Rosita pretended to pick something up off the porch and held her hand out to me, palm up, the invisible object resting on it. “Here, I picked your jaw up off the floor for you. You’ll probably want it back. Y’know, so you can use it later.”

“Rosita, please. How many times do I have to tell you that your voice carries?” I snapped.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” she teased, chuckling softly and taking a sip of her drink.

“You’re one to talk,” I sassed, “your mind practically lives in the gutter.”

“Let her ogle her man,” Maggie retorted. She swirled her wine glass in her hand, the red liquid spiraling up around the sides and nearly spilling over the edge, before taking a sip. “How are things with you two anyway?”

“Fantastic. It’s…it’s like a dream being with him,” I gushed. My eyes fell to my notebook, and the blood was rushing to my cheeks before I had even finished my sentence.

Daryl and I had been official for a few months now, probably four if I had to guess, though no one around here religiously kept track of dates. He treated me like a queen, doting on me despite any sort of little pushback I gave. I was Miss “I’m hyper-independent, let me do it myself,” and I’d met my Mr. “I know you can, but sit down and let me.” And I won’t lie, it had me weak. He was a goddamn angel. I got to wake up next to him each morning and fall asleep next to him each night. Daryl was perfect in every way. Being with him was perfect in every day.

“Still haven’t figured out how to stop blushing, I see,” she laughed. A small smile crossed my lips, and a breathy laugh escaped my nose.

“Daryl thinks it’s cute,” I replied, craning my head in her direction, “doesn’t exactly incentivize me to want to stop.”

There was a tension that hung in the air as Maggie began to ask me her next question. “So…have you...ummm—“

That tension was quickly cut by the sharp knife that was Rosita Espinosa. “How’s the sex?”

“Rosita!” Maggie & I gasped in unison. I gently whacked her arm with my notebook.

“I am not giving you any details about that,” I huffed. My cheeks were quickly turning red once again.

“I told you she wasn’t going to share anything,” Maggie whined, leaning back to talk to Rosita behind me.

I looked back and forth between them before burying myself back in my notebook. “I can’t believe you two.”

Even if I wanted to, truthfully, there wasn’t a whole lot to share.

Our sex life was a journey for the both of us. Daryl was a virgin before we began being intimate. I had given him a crash course in sex ed prior, as the little knowledge he did have about women came from his brother. And frankly, it was horribly inaccurate. Daryl said Merle was degrading when he talked about women, only discussing them in the context of sex and how it was for him. Couldn’t say I was surprised that he never bothered to try to teach Daryl how to please a woman. That didn’t matter to me though. Not having experience in pleasing women meant I got to teach him everything from pleasure points to dirty talk to my praise kink. And Christ, he was a quick learner.

It took some time for him to get confident in the dirty talk department, but he’d quickly mastered that skill once he saw how I responded to it. I had no issues going down on him. Getting comfortable with him going down on me took a bit more work, but he was nothing short of patient and understanding. Early on in that journey, there were times where I’d ask him to talk me through what he was doing, such as telling me where he was going to place his hand before doing so. That didn’t leave any room for surprises, and since I found his voice relaxing, there was a soothing aspect to it too. At first, I was worried he might find it silly, but he never did, Not once. More than anything, he was flattered that I found his voice comforting enough that I wanted to listen to it in our most intimate moments. We’d never gone all the way, but we’d come close a few times.

It had been a few weeks since we last tried, and I’d decided today was the day I was going to tell him I wanted to try again.

I’d been hyping myself up all day, even picking out a matching bra and panty set for later to boost my confidence. If you know, you know. I so badly wanted to experience him in that way. It was almost difficult to put into words how much my body craved him, ached to feel him in the most intimate way. But my brain always had to rear its ugly head and ruin it. It was simply doing its job—trying to protect me from the trauma that lied deep within the recesses of my mind. I couldn’t be too mad at that. My body tingled with nervous energy—excited nerves, anxious nerves, anticipatory nerves—and despite the butterflies in my stomach, I had a good feeling about this one.

“I’m sorry,” Rosita apologized, “I shouldn’t have brought it up. Or at least not been so crass about it.” I peered up at her over the brim of my glasses before adjusting them on my nose.

”I’m sorry too. We just want to know you’re…being taken care of,” Maggie assured.

I chuckled softly. Being taken care of…what a cute euphemism, I thought.

“You both know I can’t stay mad at you.” I looked up and watched Daryl as I continued. “It’s nothing personal, of course. It’s just…it would feel wrong to share details. I know he doesn’t talk about me like that. It wouldn’t feel right to do it to him.”

“We won’t bring it up again,” Maggie promised. She leaned back again, craning her neck to look around me. “Right, Rosita?”

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Right.”

“I won’t give you nitty gritty details, but I can assure you I’m being taken care of.” I smiled as Daryl turned in my direction, giving me a little nod. “That’s all you’re gonna get.”

I spent some more time with Rosita and Maggie before going home, gathering my notebook and tumbler and walking down the dirt path with an extra pep in my step. I wanted to get home before Daryl so I could get changed and spend some more time hyping myself up. Letting myself inside, I kicked my boots off and went upstairs, eager to change into the cute lingerie set I’d picked out. It was one I’d gotten months ago on a department store run, one that Daryl hadn’t seen yet. One that I’d been saving for a special occasion such as this.

I took the set out of my drawer and quickly undressed, tossing my clothes blindly behind me into some far corner of the bedroom. He could be home at any time, and I wanted to be ready, as well as be able to have some time to myself. I took one of Daryl’s black flannels and tossed it on, leaving it unbuttoned to show off my lingerie. I’d chosen a matching black set, the cups on the bra and the cheeky panties made entirely out of lace. My sternum tattoo peaked out from underneath, the blue flowers adding a pop of color to my dark attire. I adjusted my breasts in the cups, careful not to let my nails snag and tear the delicate fabric. I fidgeted with the straps to make it as comfortable as possible. I wore a 34B, so I met the criteria to join the itty bitty titty committee. My smaller chest had always been an insecurity of mine. I had a smaller frame, so my smaller breasts and butt looked proportionate on me. However, even I couldn’t escape the pre-apocalypse pressure of women’s beauty standards. Daryl didn’t care though. He didn’t care what size my itty bitty titties were or how big or small my butt was. He loved every square inch of me. Plus, he was just happy to be able to see me naked. I chuckled softly to myself as I recalled the first time Daryl saw my bare chest.

“Why ya got your eyes covered?” he’d asked as I approached him, topless and with my face buried in my hands.

“I don’t wanna see the look on your face when you don’t like what you see,” I said, my voice muffled by my hands and my cheeks quickly growing hot. I’d stopped in the hall and waited, anxious wiggling my toes as I heard him step closer. I could hear him laughing softly and feel him eyeing my bare breasts.

“Damn girl, ya got a nice rack,” he replied in an attempt to make me giggle. His hands fell to my hips and pulled my body against his before they wandered up to my hands, removing them from my eyes. I blinked them open, my baby blues meeting his for a brief moment before he kissed me, soft and tender, just like he always did. “Don’t got nothin’ to be shy ‘bout. You’re perfect.”

I fluffed my hair in the mirror, sweeping my bangs out of my eyes and running my fingers along my scalp. I smiled softly and did a few twirls, the hem of Daryl’s flannel flowing around my hips. The outfit was already boasting my confidence, and I knew Daryl was going to love it. He adored lace on me, and that combined with me wearing his shirt was going to drive him wild. I stepped around to the nightstand on my side of the bed and pulled the drawer open, checking to make sure there were still condoms inside, which there were. I rubbed my arms with my hands to try to keep warm. I could’ve put some pants on or threw a blanket around myself, but I wanted my lingerie to be on full display the second Daryl walked through the door. Plus, I’d be wrapped up in his warmth soon enough.

I was filled to the brim with nerves, both good and bad. Of course I was anxious. This would be a new step for us, a step we’d tried to make several times before. Unfortunately, my trauma always got in the way. But I was also excited. Excited to break boundaries, excited to slide into bed and be pleased by him in a new way. Excited to feel him in the way my body had been craving for months.

I heard the familiar creaking of the front door hinges, followed by the sound of Daryl’s bow clattering on the floor. I looked in the mirror and took one last deep breath before walking out. I rounded the corner from our bedroom and stepped out into the hall. The cold winter air that blew inside when he came in had quickly chilled the entire front of the house, the now icy wooden floor shocking my bare feet. I did my best to ignore the feeling.

“Hey handsome. Glad to see you home,” I called out as I made my way down the stairs. He kicked his boots off and turned around, the annoyed look on his face quickly turning into a flirty smirk as he laid his eyes on me. He folded his arms across his chest as he eyed me up and down.

“Lydia Rae, get your sweet ass over here,” he ordered. I skipped over to him, and he picked me up by the waist, spinning us around as he kissed me.

“I told you you’re not allowed to call me that,” I whined as he set me down. My arms remained draped around his neck, playing with the tag inside his shirt.

“Not unless ya’s in trouble.”

“Well what am I in trouble for?”

“For lookin’ so damn good.” His hands wandered down to my hips, his fingers fiddling with the sheer fabric of my panties. “This new?”

“Not new, no. I got this months ago. I’ve been saving it,” I explained. I dropped my eyes to the floor, wiggling my toes once again and scratching the side of my thumb with my index finger behind his head. I was already turning red. “Could we talk?”

“‘Course. What’s goin’ on?” he asked. My arms fell from around his neck to his chest, playing with the buttons on his shirt as I often did when I was nervous. “Ya doin’ okay?”

“I’m okay,” I assured. I bit at the inside of my bottom lip. I was brimming with excitement, but the anxiety had my vocal cords in a chokehold. “I, umm…” I sighed and buried my face in his chest. “Shit,” I said under my breath.

Daryl kissed the top of my head and buried his nose in my hair, snaking his arms further around my hips to pull me closer. “Ain’t a mind reader. Gotta tell me what’s goin’ on in that pretty little head o’ yours.”

“Fuck, this is harder than I thought.” I ran my hands through my hair, taking a deep breath as I did. I closed my eyes and let the words trickle off my tongue before my nerves could stop me. “I, umm…I think I wanna try again. No, sorry, not think. There’s no uncertainty. I wanna try again.”

There were a few beats of silence between that only lasted seconds, but in my mind, they lasted hours.

“Ya sure? Last time was…ya weren’t doin’ so good after that one,” he reminded.

He was right. Granted, every attempt had been similar to the last one, where I was left having a panic attack over who knows what trigger. But I’d done a lot of work on myself in the last couple of weeks, making sure there were no doubts in my mind about being ready.

“I’m sure.” I leaned my head up and kissed his cheek, which was quickly growing hot under my lips. “Very sure, baby. I’ve sat on it for weeks.” ‘Baby’ had become a pet name we only used to indicate to the other person we were in the mood & in the bedroom. 

He eyed me up and down again, his gaze lingering on the junction of my thighs. He’d seen me naked countless times now, but I still found my cheeks turning pink when he looked at me with lust in his eyes. As he closed the space between us again, he pulled my body firmly against his, encapsulating me in his warmth.

His tongue tickled my lips, silently seeking permission to enter. I parted my lips slightly, and our tongues tangled as his hands pulled at his shirt that hugged my body. I lowered my arms to allow it to fall to the floor, quickly bringing my hands back and tangling my fingers in his hair, tugging gently at his chocolate locks. My heart was pounding, the vibrations it sent through my chest radiating across my entire body. The butterflies in my stomach were working overtime. A soft moan escaped me, and he pulled away, gently nibbling my bottom lip as an amused chuckle trickled off his.

“We got condoms?”

“Already checked.”

“Then let’s get somewhere more comfortable.” He picked me up by the waist and held me close, coaxing me to wrap my legs around him. I draped my arms around his neck and continued to play with his hair, the faint scent of our coconut shampoo a sexy juxtaposition to his rugged appearance.

“Daryl Dixon, don’t you dare drop me,” I laughed as he took us upstairs.

“Ain’t ever dropped ya ‘fore, have I?”

We were hardly in the bedroom door before his lips crashed into mine again. Despite the cold, there was already a light sheen of sweat forming on his skin. Those familiar electric sparks tickled my skin, and I smiled into our kiss, remembering the first time I felt those sparks, back when we first met & I walked out of my bedroom door past him, our arms brushing ever so slightly as I did. If only me then could see us now.

He sat back on the bed, laying down and propping me on his pelvis to straddle him. I snickered as pressure built up underneath me. His erection was already begging to be freed from the confines of his pants.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” I giggled, trailing a finger down the buttons of his flannel, drawing little shapes and slowing down as I got lower, “you just get turned on really easily.”

“You’re one to talk,” he teased.

“I mean, look at yourself. Can you blame me?” I tried to lean down to kiss him, but he dug his work-worn fingers into the flesh of my hips to pull me back.

“Just wanna look at ya for a sec.” He held my hips in place with his firm grip, and the pink of my cheeks quickly turned to a rosy red as his cock continued to rise under me, coming in contact with my core. I bit my lip and averted my gaze. Even after all this time, it was nearly impossible to keep eye contact with Daryl when I was blushing. His eyes trailed up to my breasts, and I gathered my hair out of the way to allow him to get a better look. He was devouring every square inch of me with his eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Ya change your mind, just say the word,” he reassured. He drew little circles on the front of my hip bones with his thumbs. The tone in his voice shifted to a more serious one as his gaze met mine. “I mean it. Ain’t gonna upset me at all. Don’t want ya pushin’ yourself just so’s I can get my rocks off.”

“I know. I won’t push myself, I promise.”

He pulled me down to his level, our tongues meeting once again. My panties were already soaked, wetness seeping through and coating his jeans as I grinded against him. Hitched, grunt-like moans escaped him, which only turned me on further. Daryl knew how much I loved when he was vocal in bed.

As I continued to straddle him, his hands found my bra clasp, unhooking it with one swift motion and allowing my breasts to fall free. I pulled away just long enough to slide the dainty fabric off and blindly throw it somewhere in the room. I began working at the buttons on his shirt, caressing his chest as I traveled south.

“Shit,” he moaned as I tossed my head back and shook my hair out. He gripped my hips again and rolled us over, pushing me onto my back and pressing his weight onto me. His mouth fell to the sweet spot on my neck, first leaving open-mouthed kisses, then licking and softly nibbling. A series of moans interlaced with soft giggles rolled off my tongue.

When we first began being intimate, him putting his weight on me used to be a big trigger of mine. Now, there was a safety in being underneath him, being protected by him when I was at my most vulnerable. I loved the feeling of his weight on me, and even in the most sensual contexts, it brought back those butterflies I used to get when we were getting to know each other.

His hands kneaded my breasts, his thumbs tweaking my nipples and eliciting little gasps from me. I squeezed my eyes shut, taking in every sensory experience, small waves of pleasure beginning to wash over me. I continued to blindly work at his shirt, which was almost completely unbuttoned now. I wondered if he could feel my heartbeat with how hard and fast it was pounding.

Daryl trailed kisses down my neck to my chest, tracing little shapes with his tongue down to my breast. My head fell back on the bed, eyes squeezed shut and gritting my teeth as he flicked and sucked and licked the supple tissue.

“Goddamnit,” I groaned. I frantically tugged at his shirt, and he pulled away just long enough to rip it off and throw it over his shoulder before focusing his mouth back where it belonged.

He planted sloppy kisses along my sternum tattoo, leaving a light sheen of saliva behind, as if he was marking his territory. As he came back to kiss me, he put his weight on me again,

grinding his clothed cock on my core to the rhythm of his tongue swirling in my mouth.

I had to restrain myself from digging my nails into his back, as I worried the sensation might be too smilier to what caused his scars. I gripped onto the bedsheets for dear life, balling it in my fists with such force, I was sure my nails would tear right through them. The friction of his jeans against my clit was euphoric.

“Oh…God…fuck, yes.”

He chuckled and dropped his head to my neck, his soft lips and gruff voice tickling my ear like a feather as he talked. “Ya like that?”

“God yes,” I replied through gritted teeth, “don’t stop.”

He was rock hard, his erection pleading to be freed from its prison with each pass over my most sensitive area. He was practically throbbing in his jeans as he continued to grind into me, and feeling him twitch, knowing I was the one making him feel this good, only brought me closer to release.

“Shit.” His strained groaning in my ear sent tingles through my core.

“Ok…ok, that’s enough.” I tapped on his shoulder, indicating for him to stop. He did so immediately, panting in an attempt to catch his breath. As much as I was enjoying the feeling, I didn’t want to come just yet.

Daryl brushed some strands of hair out of my eyes and kissed my cheek. “Ya doin’ alright?” Even when he was in the throes of pleasure, Daryl always checked in with me throughout our intimate escapades, making sure I was comfortable.

“I’m great.” I lightly panted and nodded. “But you know what would make me feel even better?”

“What’s that?”

“If you put that skilled tongue of yours to use elsewhere.” The sexiest smirk I’d ever seen crossed his lips as blood rushed to my cheeks. Even after many sessions of mattress action, I was still timid in asking for what I wanted.

“Think that can be arranged.”

He kissed down my body, incorporating more of his tongue the lower he got. Every muscle in my body was clenched, and I fought to keep myself still. Stopping just above my panties, he slid the delicate fabric down my hips and off my legs, letting them naturally fall off my ankles. Kneeling at the edge of the bed, he wrapped his arms around my legs and pulled me to him as he settled into his favorite spot.

He planted soft kisses along my slit, teasing and taunting me by licking and dipping the tip of his tongue in my entrance. My head was back on the bed, my eyes already beginning to roll back in my skull, but I could feel him staring up at me from between my legs, his eyes glossed over with lust and passion. The way Daryl looked at me, kissed me, touched me, was something akin to worship.

“You’re so beautiful. Love seein’ ya like this, gettin’ all worked up just for me.” His sultry Southern accent was dirty talk all on its own, and combined with words of praise made me tingle from head to toe. He left a few more long, teasing kisses before slipping his tongue between my folds of aching flesh.

He was slow at first, taunting me just the way I liked as he repeatedly flicked my clit. As he picked up speed, I reached for his head, tangling my fingers in his hair and rocking my pelvis in motion with his fluid tongue as he brought me closer and closer to the peak of pleasure. I became so lost in the throes of lust that I was struggling to gain control of myself, bucking and shaking and squeezing my thighs together. His moans and grunts sent vibrations across my core, the sounds that dripped off his lips evidence that he, too, was in ecstasy. This was just as much for him as it was for me. My fingers in his hair, being surrounded by my warmth, the intoxicating taste of me coating his tongue…this was his paradise.

“You’re shakin’, baby.” His hands gently pressed against my knees, coaxing them apart. “Gotta keep your legs open for me.”

Fuck, I’ve taught him well, I thought.

Shockwaves of pleasure radiated through every cell of my body. The only sounds echoing off the walls were my mix of luscious moans and delirious giggles. I used to be self-conscious about how loud I was the bedroom, but Daryl had assured me on numerous occasions of how hot he thought it was, how they were sounds often on repeat in his dreams.

“I’m close,” I said, words coming out broken though breathy moans, “so close, baby.”

Daryl took that as his cue to pick up speed, his magical tongue rapidly encircling my most sensitive area and devouring me like I was his last goddamn meal. Every centimeter of my skin was burning with pure ecstasy as the metaphorical cord in my center grew more taut with each pass of his tongue. I instinctively bucked into him, gently tugging on his hair and eliciting more deep grunts and groans from him, and my eyes rolled back into my head as the suction on my swollen clit pushed me over the edge.

“Ah…ah—fuck!” My cries were followed by my signature string of giggles, the telltale sign that I had climaxed. Daryl plunged his tongue in my entrance, yearning to feel my walls twitch around him as I rode out my high.

“That’s my good girl,” he hummed, leaving one last long, tender kiss between my legs.

As my body came down from the peak of pleasure, he crawled back onto me, leaving kisses along my jawline. I was all delirious smiles as the kisses trailed to the sensitive spot under my ear, all the while repeating how much he loved me. No man had ever cared about my pleasure in the way Daryl had. He always made sure to get me off first, and often, more than once.

“Ya still doin’ alright?” he asked, running a hand through my hair and lightly massaging my scalp with his fingers.

“Oh, I’m fantastic,” I replied, giggles still intertwined with my words. His signature little grin crossed his lips as he kissed me again, slipping his tongue in to allow me to taste myself on him.

“Ya wanna keep goin’?”

“Yeah.” I hoped my nod and tone of voice would mask the anxiety creeping up in my chest. Alas, it did not. This man was somehow attuned to my every thought, reading me like a damn book no matter how hard I tried to keep a poker face.

“What’s goin’ on?” The tone of voice softened, and I could tell he was starting to get worried. This was typically the point where I would start having a panic attack, and he was bracing himself to jump into action.

I bit the inside of my bottom lip and nodded again, dropping my gaze. “Mhm. Just a little nervous is all.”

“We can stop,” he reassured, “like I said, ain’t gonna upset me.”

“I wanna keep going. I’m alright, I promise. Just first-time butterflies is all. Those’ll be around until…y’know, it’s not the first time anymore.” I brushed strands of hair out of his eyes, tucking them behind his ear as I brought my gaze back to his. The safety that lied within those baby blue eyes soothed me instantly. “I’m sure you’ve got some of those too, right?”

His cheeks turned a faint shade of pink. “Maybe, yeah.” He dropped his gaze for a moment before bringing it back to mine, biting his lip. “Was worried ya might…I dunno. Just didn’t want ya worryin’ ‘bout me. Wanted ya to focus on yourself.”

“Aww, baby,” I cooed, taking his face in my hands and tenderly caressing his cheekbones with my thumbs, “it’s alright to be nervous. We’re doing something new for the first time. It’s gonna be a little nerve-wracking for both of us.” I kissed the tip of his nose and gave him a soft, reassuring smile. “Do you wanna keep going?”

He adjusted himself to straddle me, my wetness further soaking his jeans. He left a few more tender, open-mouthed kisses on the sweet spot on my neck before sitting up, tossing his head back and shaking out his chocolate locks.

“Sure do.”

I bit my bottom lip as I unbuckled his belt, sliding it off and tossing it down beside me, the buckle clattering on the floor. I rubbed him over his jeans, lingering and swirling my fingers over his swollen tip. I licked my lips in anticipation, my core tingling and aching to feel every inch of him. His breathing picked up, small grunts and groans trickling off his lips, one of the sweetest sounds I’d ever heard. I paused to unbutton and unzip his jeans, his erection breaking free the moment it had even a hint of wiggle room.

I pulled him from his boxers and stroked him. The bulging veins on his member pulsated under my grip, and he was so rigid, you would’ve thought he was made of stone. A small bit of precum started to leak out, which I eagerly swiped up with my finger, maintaining eye contact with him as I licked it off my hand before continuing. He tossed his head back again, his mouth falling open as I drew circles with my thumb over his sensitive red tip. 

“Christ, woman.” He removed my hand from himself, kissing the back of it and placing it on his chest. His heart was pounding, his ribcage the only barrier keeping it from bursting from his body. “Keep touchin’ me like that, ain’t gon’ last much longer.”

Daryl climbed off of me and dropped the rest of his clothes to the floor. I watched as he retrieved a condom from the nightstand drawer, carefully tearing it open so as to not rip the rubber. I pulled myself up and adjusted, propping my head onto the pillows at the head of the bed. I watched with hungry eyes as he slid the condom down his length. I was craving him, aching, needing to feel him fill me in the most intimate way possible. Though there was still a small presence of nerves, the butterflies in my stomach were beginning to settle. I was ready.

“Ya comfortable?” he asked as he propped his arms up on either side of me and settled between my legs.

“Very,” I responded, “are you?”

“Mhm.” He dropped his head back into the crook of my neck, lips grazing the helix of my ear as his gravely voice whispered erotic promises to me. “Wanna look at ya while it’s happenin’. See how good I’m makin’ ya feel.” I dropped my gaze and snickered as the blood rushed to my cheeks. Only Daryl was capable of making me giggle and blush like a schoolgirl.

His cock twitched on its own accord, grazing my clit as it did and sending little shockwaves through my center. “Ya sure you’re good?”

“I’m great, I promise,” I assured. I ran my hands through his hair and down his neck around to his chest, his muscles flexing as I caressed him.

“Just got one last question.”

The blush on my cheeks returned again. “What’s that?” I wondered. Like I didn’t know exactly what he was about to ask me.

“Can I fuck you?”

“Christ, yes.”

He took his time entering me, sliding in slowly to soak in every second of the feeling. My mouth fell open, and I looked down between us for a moment to watch him slip inside me. His cock slowly sinking further into my entrance was a beautiful sight.

The face he made when he first slid in…I’d give anything to see that face again, to capture a still of it and it imprint it into my memory forever.

“Shit, ya feel good,” he moaned, his head falling into the crook of my neck. 

“Kinda…tilt your pelvis…” I instructed, placing my hands on his hips to help guide his adjustment, “to get—oh, there you go.” His pubic bone put the ideal amount of pressure on my clit as he thrusted. “Nice and easy.”

“How’s that feel?”

“So good,” I replied, words spilling out me between moans as we kissed, “you feel so good.”

I was aching for him to return every time he pulled out. His tongue was magic, but his cock was otherworldly. He was the perfect size, comfortably filling every square inch of me and bottoming out with each thrust. It was like he was crafted just for me, and I was crafted just for him.

My eyes fluttered closed.

“Fuck, baby.” The words trickled off my lips like an erotic prayer.

“You’re so sexy.” He dropped his forehead to mine. “I love ya so much.”

I echoed his adoration, the words coming out between huffs and puffs. “I love you too…so much…you can…go faster…if you want…”

I opened my eyes in time to see him smirk, and I gasped at the pleasure that rolled through me as he picked up speed. “That what ya want?”

“Mhm.” After a few quick thrusts, he slowed his pace again, this time pumping in and out even slower than when he started.

“Ya know I need to hear ya say it,” he reminded. When it came to consent, a nod or an “mhm” or moan in response wasn’t good enough for Daryl. He needed verbal confirmation every single time, and to me, it was one of the hottest things about him.

“Yes,” I practically begged, “I…” I averted his gaze and bit my lip, my cheeks growing hot as I blushed the hardest I had so far. “I want it faster.”

The sinful sounds of skin-on-skin and salacious moans entangled as he repeatedly thrusted deep into my core. My breasts bobbed as we rocked back and forth, the squeaking of the bed becoming the harmony complimenting the melody of our bodies. Despite my eyes being closed, I could feel his on me, watching as my face warped and contorted with each wave of euphoria he sent between my legs. His moans were almost animalistic in nature, and his body was rigid, his face turning red as his breathing became more rapid. He was desperate for release, and it was evident that he had needed me just as much as I needed him. The enticing sounds slipping off his tongue were sounds I often played on repeat in my head when he was gone, my dreams recollections of our past intimate endeavors. I wrapped my legs around him, my heels digging into the small of his back, allowing for him to hit my G-spot at the perfect angle.

“Ugh, fuck, I’m gonna come.”

“Wanna feel it,” Daryl growled, hardly able to form a complete sentence as his tongue followed the curve of my helix, “wanna feel ya twitchin’ ‘round my cock.” I could tell he was close too, using every fiber of his being to hold himself back until I could get off first.

“Mmm…fuck…oh God.” Small initial shockwaves of pleasure began to roll through me, subtle and almost muted at first, letting me know what was waiting for me once I peaked.

“That’s it.” His voice was a sexy dichotomy of gravely and silky smooth as he nibbled at the sensitive spot below my ear. “Ya gonna be a good girl ’n scream my name?”

That alone almost sent me over the edge.

All I could do was nod in response, my eyes squeezed shut and moaning sweet nothings directly into his ear. My legs were beginning to shake, and I knew it was only going to be a few more strokes before ecstasy took over. I was moments from coming undone.

“Mmm…oh…oh, Daryl!”

I clung to him for dear life as I came, my body trembling and writhing underneath him. My fingers dug into his back muscles, my face pressed into the crook of his neck, practically gasping for air as orgasmic bliss nearly took my breath away. I bucked into him instinctively, demanding to feel continued pressure on my clit as I rode out the most intensive waves of pleasure yet. My walls clenching around him, along with my signature string of lewd giggles, were the catalyst to his release.

“Aah! Shit!” Strained moans and gasps came out through gritted teeth as his forehead fell to mine. I gasped at the feeling of him pulsating inside me as he emptied into the condom. He continued to frantically thrust, prolonging both my pleasure and his, before relaxing in my arms, the happy hormones coursing through him bringing a smile to his face. He trailed kisses along my jawline, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Every muscle in my body felt like jelly. My limp legs slid off onto the bed, and my head fell to the pillow, eyes rolling back. I stared up at the ceiling, taking deep breaths and listening to my heart pounding in my chest. My ears felt full, like when the air pressure changes on a plane. Every cell in my body was singing his praises, and I was seeing stars.

He pulled out once he went limp inside me, rolling over to remove the condom, tying it off and letting it drop to the floor. He grabbed the covers and pulled them up over us, coming back and pulling me close to him. He’d rolled onto his side, propping himself on one arm and leaning over in my line of sight, running his other hand through my hair.

“Hi beautiful,” he practically cooed, kissing my cheek. A silly, delirious smile broke out on my lips.

“I think I just saw God,” I laughed, eliciting an amused chuckle from Daryl. As I panted, my gaze met his, and he kissed me again, tenderly, just like he always did. Even in the naughtiest contexts, this man never made me feel anything short of loved and adored.

“Ya know, I’ve tried my damndest to recreate that sexy little giggle in my head when I’s on the road, but ain’t nothin’ like hearin’ it from the source.” My cheeks began to turn rosy red at the thought of Daryl thinking about me to relieve himself when he was away for too long. “How ya feelin’?”

With those three little words, a myriad of post-coitus emotions coursed through me. Pride, joy, appreciation, and love, just to name a few, hit me like a train and sent me careening into a fit of tears. I was immediately overwhelmed, the feeling building in my chest overflowing as tears streamed down my face and soaked the sheets below me. Even though they were happy feelings, there were a lot of them, more than my body was able to handle in my current state.

“Hey, you’re ok.” He leaned over me, wiping tears off my cheeks and wrapping his other arm underneath me. “What’s wrong?”

The tone of his voice had dropped, and he looked sad, like he felt awful, like he thought he’d done something wrong. The worry radiating off of him was palpable, and I could tell that he thought I was spiraling into a panic attack. I gave him a big, stupid grin, kissing all over his face to reassure him that these were, in fact, happy tears.

“Nothing’s wrong, my love,” I promised, holding his face in my hands and stroking his cheeks with my thumbs, kissing the tip of his nose, “I’m just…overwhelmed, but with good feelings.” I blinked back more tears and took another deep breath. “I did it. I’m so proud of myself. And it was…you were…incredible. First time having sex that was so good, I cried after.”

“That good, huh?” he smirked. He adjusted his position over me, puffing his chest out a bit as he did. Clearly, I’d boosted his ego.

“Mhm. Really good,” I reiterated, biting the inside of my bottom lip as a faint blush of pink returned to my cheeks once again. “How are you feeling? How was your first…time getting your dick wet?”

“Amazin’. I mean, you were amazin’,” he replied, “happy ya said somethin’ when I got home. Ya’s lookin’ so good, I almost lost it.” His fingers trailed down my side, circling over the tattoo on the front of my right hip. “Gotta start dressin’ like that more often.”

I looked up at him, my baby blues locking with his as I gave him a soft smile. Every ounce of love I had for the beautiful man in front of me fought to break free from my chest as my heart swelled in my ribcage. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

He chuckled as he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and kissed me. “Takin’ care of…’t’s cute.”

Taglist: @raddydaddydude @lovenormandixon

[starfxkrinc]

i feel like as winter’s approaching, we need to discuss how the characters dress! 🤫

FOUND ITTTTTT OK

kitten leans fullf into her darker/metalhead style for sure. thing is she doesnt have a lot of clothes so she just repurposes her warm weather clothes. so def doubling up hosiery and with tghts AND socks, still wears her same boots, and she wears gloves to keep her body temp up. black coffee and cigarettes fiend and switches from ck one to the woodier darker ck be.

pup will always be the oddball of the cut i fear. vibrant colors for sure and she crocheted her own sweaters/scarfs. the sweater is def oversized not cropped though. wavers between skirts and pants she wears both. doubles up the jewelry and makeup in the winter with lots of jewel tones. sticks to lush sun as a solid perfume.

as the resident aquarius foxy loves winter bc she really likes celebrating her birthday. long sleeves and vests and jeans are her go to. adds a light scarf to wear inside bc she's kinda always cold. still very dweeb-esque like nothing about it is purposefully fashionable but shes consistent with her style so she still looks good. switches to hugo boss deep red which her mom gave her years ago.

bunny wants to wear her pink adidas jacket so fucking bad. spends a lot of time on vacation which she only likes bc she can ice skate. is preppy DOWN from ralph lauren to burberry to uggs not necessarily of her own volition but because shes compromising with rafe and fitting in. plus she cant use hee "its too hot" excuse to dress like a ghetto girl. but she still wears a puffer coat instead of something "classier" rafe lets her have that. oversprays love dont be shy in the cold.

bambi THRIVEEEEES in winter. wears a combo of her own clothes, her brothers clothes and barrys. layers them all and its super bulky on her but she tends to stay outside during winter so she really has to keep warm. her family camping/hunting trip is also in fall/winter so she's gearing up for that/ wears the bee gloves that lamb knitted for her.

lamb hates winter, but loves that she can finally wear pants. keeps things super simple, likes to be cozy and generally dresses like she just put on her warm clothes and walked out the door cause she spends most her days in bed sleeping and eating warm soups because she just cannot stay warm. breaks out her grandmothers pearl earrings for winter though. wears bambis hat that she gave her in 6th grade.

[laracrofted]

we'd run inside out from the cold (part ii)

synopsis: after a quiet moment in the snow, jake and his girlfriend warm up with a midnight shower. (read part one here)

pairings: jake seresin x fem!reader (no y/n, c/s is butterfly)

warnings: 18+, minors dni, fluff and smut - shower sex and oral (f receiving), mentions of christmas, excessive use of pet names, waxing poetic about jake in sweaters, swearing (wc: 2.5K)

note: welcome to the steamier (lol) part two of the soft christmas fic... aka the shower smut that jake implied against my best intentions. enjoy!

tag list for people who wanted a part two: @theharddeck @six-bloodyminutes @thedroneranger @blue-aconite @dhwanishah09

It is pitch back in the living room without the glow of the Christmas lights, but Jake finds your hand in the dark, engulfing your still chilled fingers in his reliable warmth.

You’d forgotten to grab the spare mittens on your way outside, the ones from the shoebox in the hall closet that Ms. Seresin showed you on your first afternoon here. 

“Shit,” Jake lets out a hushed curse, cradling your one hand between his palms. Hot breath blows across your cold fingertips in the darkness. You smile where Jake can’t see. “You’re freezing. Let’s get you warmed up.” 

You expect him to guide you up the stairs, steering you around the steps that might creak too loud, lifting you over the third and second-to-last steps like last night. Hands, a familiar heat around your waist. 

He pulls you in a different direction, further into the house. 

Snow is floating down outside the paned window at the end of the dim hall, casting everything in a soft white glow. Moonlight winks off the assorted picture frames, hung slightly crooked on the old wallpaper after Ms. Seresin took them down to show you the young Jake Seresin highlights one by one. He had the chubbiest little cheeks as a child and the same up to no good smile. 

He tugs you into the bathroom, gently closing the door behind you, careful not to let it slam and break open the fragile silence. 

It is so quiet, so serene. Like the Seresin ranch exists in a freshly shaken snow globe, not a sprawl of land outside Austin, Texas. 

Something from a dream.  

“Don’t want to run the upstairs shower and wake Ma up.” 

You lean against the bathroom counter, arms crossed over the fabric of the worn crewneck sweatshirt that is really his, stolen from the top drawer of his dresser back in San Diego. You’ve been ‘borrowing’ it for months now without the slightest intention of giving it back, and Jake doesn’t mind one bit.

He likes you in his clothes. 

Jake darts around the bathroom, gathering a pile of fresh towels from the closet, pulling back the shower curtain and cranking the water on. He checks the temperature once, twice, and in the process, pushes the sleeve of his white sweater up to his elbows, revealing a tantalizing stretch of forearm. 

You are loving the cold weather for festive activities, but Jake has had to hide away all of that hard muscle this week under wool sweaters and flannel button-downs and in the case of the Christmas Tree Farm this afternoon, a denim jacket with a lined collar that made him look like an outdoorsy Abercrombie model.

Winter is... admittedly an excellent look on him.

Who knew that Jake would look so good – and so much like a long-lost Chris Evans relation – in a fisherman sweater? He looked so classically handsome, straight out of one of those vintage L.L. Bean catalogs. 

Sweater Jake was appealing in a way that surprised you both.

You, upon seeing him come down the stairs on that first night, wearing a thick cable knit sweater and flannel pajama pants, looking cuddly enough to make your heart ache.  

Him, upon sneaking into your room later that night, which ended with your sleep clothes strewn across the blankets and your boyfriend’s large hand across your mouth to muffle your moans. 

“Might I remind you… We agreed not to have sex in the house,” Jake mumbled into your neck afterward, too amused to sound chastising. He rolled onto his side and half-pulled you onto his bare chest, pressing an affectionate kiss to your temple, interlacing your fingers on his stomach. “You’re the one who suggested that rule.” 

He had you there.

You had suggested that rule, nervous to go home with your boyfriend for the holidays, despite Jake’s repeated insistence that all of the Seresin women would adore you to bits. You didn’t want to give them any ammunition to dislike you – and especially not overheard sex noises in the dead of night after Ms. Seresin had so kindly made up the guest room for you.

“You wear the hell out of a sweater, babe,” was the only drowsy explanation you could provide, pushing up to leave an open-mouthed kiss on his jawline that made his breathing stall… which led directly into another round when Jake rolled you under his weight and pressed you into the pillows. 

Still…

You’d taken the mild San Diego weather for granted. Being able to see Jake in fitted tees and on the cooler nights, unbuttoned Henleys that gape at the neck, giving a delicious sneak peek of that gold chain.

You haven’t seen his washboard abs in such good lighting all week. 

You stare. More than is warranted, given Jake is your boyfriend and would probably rip off his shirt upon request without any follow-up questions. 

Muscles ripple in his abdomen when Jake pulls his sweater over his head, revealing even more tan skin. You want to drop to your knees and run your tongue along the line of his abs. Want to lick up his chest and get comfortable in that spot under his jaw that makes him moan. 

You should probably take off your sweater too and avoid hypothermia and get in the shower and all of those important details. 

You keep staring instead, absolutely shameless, and Jake catches you.

A smirk pulls at his mouth. “Planning to maul me again, darling?” 

Are you drooling? Probably a little bit. 

“Do you think Mav would let you wear sweaters in the cockpit?” 

He pretends to consider it. “Might get a little warm up there,” Jake says after a few seconds. Heat simmers in his gaze as Jake watches you back, pulling his bottom lip between his white teeth, and reaches out to sneak his index finger under the hem of your sweater. “Wool is probably a little more flammable than the Nomex too.” 

“Better than frostbite, right?”  

His smirk widens into a full-blown grin, and Jake pulls you into an embrace.

“Frostbite is no laughing matter,” Jake says against the back of your neck, tugging the collar of the sweater away and pressing a chaste kiss to your nape. Goosebumps erupt over the skin. “Better get undressed there, Butterfly, before I have to do it for you.” 

Butterflies flutter in your stomach, as if invoked, and despite the mild threat, Jake doesn’t give you the chance to get undressed.

Calloused palms slide along your bare back, tugging the sweater over your head, careful not to snag your hair. You push your pants and underwear down in one motion, casting off your socks along the way, and after shedding his own flannel pants and boxers, Jake bands a strong arm around your waist and tucks his chin over your shoulder.

He is a damn furnace against your back, already half-hard.

You swallow, and Jake studies you in the bathroom mirror, ghosting his fingertips across your stomach. A promise that makes every part of you tighten, and Jake presses a grin into your shoulder, kissing the small scar there. 

“Let’s get in the shower.” 

Steam rises around your bodies as Jake pulls the curtain closed and looks down at you. Affection warms his face, a soft glow. Fingers trace down your arms, somehow still covered in goosebumps from sitting out in the snow, and Jake asks, “Still cold?” 

Not really.

Not since before your boyfriend kissed you a few minutes ago, whispering dirty things in your ear about not being able to walk tomorrow. Not when Jake is looking at you like that with such adoration and tenderness and blatant desire in his green eyes. 

You catch a wicked gleam in his gaze, underneath it all, and decide to invite a little trouble. Make a whole show of shivering in a way that draws his split-second attention to your chest. 

“A little bit.” 

He leans in, naked chest pressed against yours, warm water cascading over your heads and down your back. Presses a white hot kiss to the center of your collarbone, then lifts your chin with one finger and nibbles up the side of your neck in a way that makes your lids flutter closed.

“Think I’ve got a good way to warm you up.” 

You’re facing him one minute and the next, Jake spins you to face the shower wall, pressing his whole body against yours. It is cold against your cheek and your bare chest. You shiver and complain, and Jake makes a sympathetic – if a bit mocking – noise against your throat. 

“Jake…” You don’t mean to sound so unbalanced. You love the man, but Jake doesn’t need the ego boost right now. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Jake says again, bringing back the same words from earlier, the same thread of teasing condescension in them. “Told you I’d go easy on you, didn’t I?” 

You don’t think Lieutenant Jake Seresin has ever gone easy on a damn thing in his life and have every intention of telling him so, but he is quicker to the draw. Every thought vanishes from your brain when Jake glides his hand down your stomach and touches you.

“God, darling…” He practically moans the words, rocking his hips against your back, which makes you push against the palm that’s there for you to grind against. He wants you to do it, to take your pleasure from him like that. “You’re so wet. How long’ve you been like this?” 

Since the Christmas Tree Farm. 

“No one has ever…” You start strong, but Jake runs his fingers through the slick wetness again, causing you to take a quick breather. “…chopped down a Christmas tree for me, okay? You were like a sexy lumberjack.” 

His chuckle is a low hum against the shell of your ear, and Jake abruptly withdraws his fingers, turning you around. You catch a flash of tongue as Jake slips his shining fingers into his mouth and sucks on them.

God. Damn.

“What do you think Mav will say when I tell him the news?” 

You stare at him, confused, brows knitting together, and Jake looks too amused and proud at his own wittiness to leave you in suspense. 

“Obviously, I won’t have time to be a fighter pilot while I’m learning how to become a full-time lumberjack for you.” Water drips from his lashes, making his eyes look liquid warm. “Is it just chopping down trees that gets you this hot? Can I maybe split some firewood instead? Might be more cost effective, less time consuming.” 

A giggle escapes your lips, and Jake laughs too, capturing the hands that want to cover your flushed cheeks. He winds his fingers through yours, pressing them back against the slippery tile.

“Stop it, Jake. You don’t need to change careers for me. You’re a damn good pilot, a great one. Just…” You gnaw the edge of your lip, studying a freckle on his shoulder, letting the words out in a hushed tone. “I’d settle for one tree every Christmas.” 

You meet his eyes, parsing out if Jake gets your meaning. 

You want every Christmas with him. 

Every damn one.

Tenderness shines in his eyes. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” 

You don’t have time to appreciate the warm and fuzzy feelings inside your chest because Jake rewards you with a too short kiss on the lips and then, smirking again, sinks down to his knees. 

“Now,” Jake says, looking up at you, splaying his hand across your stomach to hold you upright, “I think I said something about warming you up, sweetheart. Can’t have you go into Christmas cold or unsatisfied. What kind of boyfriend would I be then?” 

Any response evades you as Jake hooks your knee over his shoulder and dives right in, not even pausing to rev you up with teasing. Why bother? He already managed that with the damn Christmas tree. 

He spreads you open with his fingers, licking wet strokes across you. His non-regulation stubble chafes against your thighs, almost definitely leaving an angry beard burn that’ll hurt in your jeans tomorrow.

You couldn’t give less of a shit right now.

“Taste so good, darling,” Jake says, pulling back to sink one thick finger into you, then adding another, watching your face the whole time. “Sweeter than those Christmas cookies.” 

What a fucking cheeseball of a man. You’d roll your eyes if Jake didn’t already have them rolling back in your head.

Coyote, Rooster, Phoenix… None of them would believe that Jake was such a walking Hallmark movie. He doesn’t let anyone else see this side of him.

“I’m the only one who gets to see you like this. Ain’t that right, darling?” 

You nod, dropping your head back against the shower wall with a gentle thump, and Jake swirls his broad tongue over your clit, once, twice, then… pulls back and looks up at you with expectant smugness.

“Don’t think I caught that. I’m the only one who…” 

You stifle a snort, rolling your eyes this time. Such an ass. 

He ghosts the slick pad of his thumb across your clit, teasing and taunting. You almost lose your balance, stretching out a hand to grasp at his shoulder, and Jake flashes you a self-satisfied grin.

“You’re the only one.” You nod fervently, digging your nails into his shoulder, canting your hips closer to his face. You can practically feel his breath against you, only centimeters away. “Come on, Jake…” 

He closes his lips around you, curling his fingers inside of you, hitting a spot that makes your mouth gape open. His words are increasingly fragmented, bits and pieces of unintelligible nonsense as Jake encourages you to rock against his face. You are damn near floating with the pleasure of it all. 

“You’re so pretty like this.” 

“No one can hear us down here, darling. Let me hear those wonderful sounds.” 

“You’re it for me. Please…” Jake asks, begging, pleading, worshipping you.

You reach the precipice and fall over the edge in a whirlwind of bright spots that look like Christmas lights. Look like the December moon reflected and refracted in the fresh snow. It is absolute heaven.

From there, Jake could easily get up from his knees, push you back against the tile, and slide right into the spot between your thighs that’s wet and aching for him, waiting to be filled. But he stays right there, kneeling between your legs, absentmindedly stroking himself with one hand.

Looking at you like the luckiest man alive. 

“Give me one more, darling,” Jake gently orders, then goes back in with enthusiasm, holding your shaking thighs in place over his shoulder. 

You stay in the shower long enough to make the water run cold, and in the steam-filled bathroom, Jake gathers your limp form in his arms and bundles you both in fluffy towels... that end up immediately abandoned on the carpet of the guest bedroom. 

And after kissing every inch of your body, holding your hips hard enough to leave bruises, and fucking you into the soft sheets with stuttered breaths, fingers interlaced with yours, pressing kisses against your back to muffle his own groans, Jake holds you against his side. 

He brushes your hair back from your face, still damp from the shower, repeating the motion, tracing the curve of your jaw and the shell of your ear, back and forth.

And with the soft rush of snow blowing against the window, Jake whispers, “Merry Christmas, Butterfly.” 

end note: wishing you all a happy and safe holiday and a hot, cuddly boyfriend under the christmas tree. send me all your thoughts and feelings!

(and since it didn't make it into here, i actually do have a hc for the call sign butterfly, so i might revisit these two again sometime!)

[bread--quest]

[ID: A digital drawing of four personifications of different U.S. cities, carrying trains from their respective metro systems like pets. They are all feminine-presenting and drawn against a textured gray background. NYC is a person with light brown skin, dark brown hair with pink streaks in two low ponytails, and pink eyes, wearing a red jacket with pink sleeves over a shirt, pants, and shoes. Philly is a person with dark brown skin, a loose orange afro, and orange eyes, wearing a dark green jacket over a bright blue shirt, dark blue pants, and boots. Boston is a person with light skin, short straight reddish-brown hair, and dark blue eyes, wearing a gray hoodie, blue faded jeans, shoes, and a green beanie. They have a knee brace on one leg. Chicago is a person with dark brown skin and long, straight, dark red hair that fades into gray and seems to dissolve into smoke at the ends, wearing a black shirt.

NYC stands calmly holding their phone with a NY subway train next to their feet. The train is drawn like a creature, with its front windows squinted like angry eyes and an open mouth, displaying pointy teeth. It appears to be growling angrily. Philly is flinching away, holding a frightened looking SEPTA train protectively. Philly, alarmed and angry, yells "Get your dog, bitch!" NYC, looking bored, replies "It don't bite." Philly, speech bubble spiky with outrage, yells "Yes it do!!"

Boston stands holding a Dunkin' cup with one hand and pointing at an MBTA train (Green Line) with the other, glaring at it and saying "Bad transit system." The train hisses, unrepentant. 

Chicago is happily scratching an L (elevated) train under the chin, saying "Good transit system!" Good is underlined for emphasis. End ID.]

got the idea to draw this while on the SEPTA train back from winter break, finally finished it today. was wobbling on posting it, but then amtrak started posting about city shipping and i figured it was a Sign, so

anyway. if cities were girls transit systems would be their little pet bastard creatures. you agree. reblog

[the-east-art]

Fantail Pigeons and Mourning Doves - Part 3

The Very Long Stitching Up An Injury Scene

Mel watched the RV pull up to the pump. A woman stepped out, shoulders drawn and hands restless at her side. She talked to the driver of the car before closing the door and circling to the other side. He considered her physical countenance - it matched with the body language he had seen time and again at the gas station. Some kind of a mixture of exhaustion from a long haul in car and frustration with the companions they had willingly trapped themselves with. That kind of body language usually meant Mel smiling tightly as people yelled and argued at one another inside the store as he pretended he was no there, or a piece of decor. That kind of yelling and arguing always made his hands shake and his teeth clench, prepared for… something. 

Outside, the woman at the RV yelled something and the RV left to circle the lot for the fourth time. For five solid minutes, Mel had watched this RV attempt to get in the right position to fill its’ tank. A boxy van parked itself next to a pump, first try and everything. The woman - now directing the driver of the RV by waving her arms in wide semi-circles - shot a look at the van. Mel couldn’t make out the expression from his vantage point, but he assumed it was either envious or angry.

Mel cast himself out there alongside the woman, pictured himself waving his arms to help direct the van. He thinks it would look funny - his oversized sleeves would flop all over the place and emphasize the movement. In his projection of the event, he was able to make small-talk with the women and his efforts made it so that the RV did not have to circle the lot another time. In this version of events, he headed the issue off at the pass. With his help, both the woman and the driver were no longer frustrated, and by the time they entered the store, they were smiling and laughing together, along with however many occupants there were in the vehicle. They did not come in and yell at each other, or their kids, or at Mel. 

“Someone busy daydreaming?”

Mel is pulled out of his thought process the way that one plunges into an icy lake in mid-winter. He hadn’t even noticed the man enter the store. Mel forces his attention from the window, and as per usual has to work not to have his head at its’ usual permanent upward tilt. Wrens’ face beams back at him from the counter. 

“Sorry to interrupt - looked like it was a good one.” Wren comments, adjusting his items on the counter. He has a soda - one of the weird ones they carry in a glass bottle - and a bag of extra-sour gummy worms. 

“It wasn’t dreaming.” Mel replies. He contemplates for a moment explaining the projection to Wren. Zephs’ face instead swims forward in his memory, and he reaches for the soda. Wren isn’t wearing his usual get-up - the jacket and t-shirt combo. He’s instead donning a simple grey button-up tucked into his jeans. An iron-on decal over his breast pocket declares that his name is Wren. If he had been wearing this the other night, Mel wouldn’t have had to admit he had forgotten the name. He takes too long looking at Wrens’ appearance, and Wren breaks the silence as Mel hasn’t even rung up one of the two items yet. 

“Yeah I know, not exactly the most fashion-forward look. I have to be presentable though - play the part.” Mel tilts his head to the side without thinking, replaying the sentence over in his head. 

“What part do you have to play?” 

“I work as a handyman.” Wren waves a hand through the air. Mel thinks it makes it look like he’s trying to shoo away the topic of conversation. “Electrical, plumbing, the works. It’s something people need, ya know? But no one likes having a stranger in their house. A uniform, a nametag… helps put people more at ease.” Mel took a beat to imagine that. At the Seminary, there was always a sibling or aunt or uncle that could take care of anything, but at his current place, it was just him. He had never considered what he would do if the lights just suddenly stopped working, and pictured himself trying to sit and read on the mothball couch while someone he didn’t know prowled around the three small rooms. Even the idea made the hair on his arms rise from imaginary tension.

“I see.” Mel nodded to emphasize his understanding. The machine beeped as he rung up the items, and then snatched his hand before it could automatically push purchase to the card reader. Wrens’ face shifted into an easy-to-read smile as he passed over a few bills. 

“You remembered!” Wren said the words enthusiastically. His smile became smaller as he listened to the crisp ba-ling sounds of the register. The hedgehog sounds. Mel wondered what the smaller smile meant, and not for the first time he wished that he could understand those focal movements and body language as intrinsically as everyone else seemed capable of. Most days Mel felt like a foreigner struggling to understand the words of those who were native to the land, catching every fifth word and only halves of sentences. 

“This is long way from town.” Mel made the observation out loud. “Why is a handyman all the way out here?” Wrens’ hands - reaching for the gummy worms - freeze for half a second. He let out a laugh, a sharp staccato sound. Mel attempts to decipher the meaning. 

“I take care of work all over the place.” He waved one of his hands around as if to encompass the entire desert. “Down south, up north, out where the sun rises, out where it sets.”  Wren rocks his head side to side on his shoulders as he talks. “Everyone everywhere needs something taken care of, and shit, I need money.” He shrugs in a way similar to the first time that Mel and Wren had talked, but Mel thinks this one means something different. The conversation continues before he can fully analyze it. “I mean I’m talking someone to who works in a place where ‘middle of nowhere’ is the permanent address. You go where you gotta to make money.” 

“I like working here.” Mel casts a glance at the lot. The RV rolls into place, and there is much rejoicing from the woman at the pump and the three children that spill out from the doors. They’ll be in the store soon. For some reason that bothers Mel. He doesn’t usually care whether there are or aren’t customers - staring out the window is just as well as observing people in the store. But right now Mel doesn’t want this moment disturbed. In his lapse of attention Wren has changed his expression and posture. Mel is at a loss at what that means.

“No offense, Mel, but I worked retail for two years back when I was in High School and wanted to kill myself every day.” Wren has his items gathered up and should be ready to leave, but he makes no indication that he intends to wind down the conversation. The children have made their mad dash across the black asphalt. 

“I like the quiet.” Mels’ statement is immediately undercut by the yelling of the children, racing each other for the bathroom. Wren glances back in surprise and then turns back to Mel with a smirk on his face, clearly finding the serendipity of the moment funny. Mel takes a crack at a smile too. “I like how it’s quiet most of the time. I like…” Mel casts his thoughts back to the start of the conversation, and unintentionally his chin lifts up slightly. “...I like daydreaming.” 

“Cristopher Andrew put that down. We are not getting powdered doughnuts you’ll get the sugar everywhere.” The woman that had guided the RV has entered the store, her mood soured. She brings a chill air with her, superceding the August warmth that radiates off the nearby window. Wren catches the cold too, shifting uncomfortably, and checks his phone.

“Dangerous to come here - losing track of time chatting it up.” Wren adjusts the ballcap on his head, and when he smiles it makes his eyes thin. “But I guess if I want to see you I know where you are.” 

oOo

Mel doesn’t see Wren again for two weeks. It feels odd, to miss a customer. Mel is used to absence - impossible to grow up with dozens of siblings, share a room with nine other people, and not feel it once that was gone. Mel hates himself, a little, for getting attached to someone. If he needs to leave this place he will now leave a hole himself. He doesn’t like that thought. It leaves the impression that life is walking across paper with glue on his shoes. Wherever he walks he leaves that unseeable gap in reality. 

Wren certainly left an absence. Mel finds himself looking for either of his vehicles -the little green one or the large repair van. 

Like a dark tide, night comes in. That’s what Mel imagines, anyway, he’s never actually seen the ocean. His siblings used to on outings, leaving the Seminary in groups no bigger than a handful, sometimes for weeks at a time. They never told Mel what they did when they left, but they would tell him about where they went. He can still remember the way that Zeph was practically vibrating as he tried to describe what it was like to see the ocean, to stay and what the water creep up the coast, swallowing the sand like the slow prowl of a mountain lion. So really, the analogy went the other way - night is what Mel imagines the dark tide to be like. 

It leaves a strange effect on the gas station. During the day it’s easy to see that the gas station is in the middle of nowhere, but at night… at night lit up by the buzzing yellowed lights surrounded by the dark, the gas station feels like it’s in the middle of nothingness. Like it might be the only thing in the world that exists. Past the lots and pumps is nothingness. Cars and people are formed somewhere in there, crafted by God, and sent to Earth. The only Earth left in the black of space - to the gas station. 

The green car rips through the ocean of darkness. As if physically thrown out from the night it emerges at speed, barreling forward and across the lot. It brings with it a livliness - no - a it brings awareness. A jolt of adrenaline, of wrong. Like when a daring fox breaks the treeline and makes for the sheep. Like sitting in an empty chapel and Raguel busting throught the doors. 

Wren exits the car, slamming the door with force, movements rigid and jerky. His right arm is tightly wrapped around his midsection. He slams through the front door at such a force that Mel flinches. He doesn’t glance at Mel, or wave, or even acknowledge that Mel is in the room. Wren staggers straight through the shelves to the backthroom, and the door bangs closed behind him. 

The air remains charged as Mel stands behind the counter, eyes trained on the tiny hallway that contains the doors to the two bathrooms. Through the window the only two cars in existence are Mels’ and Wrens’, no one is at the pumps. 

Before he can let indicision freeze him in place any longer, Mel moves to the front door and locks it. He turns his back to the glass door. The small walkway to the bathroom suddenly seems infinitely long, stretching out before him. Off-grey tiles, dappled with black and white spots. Mel looks down, and spots of bright crimson look back up at him. One of them is smeared, presumably by Wrens’ stumbling steps. 

Mel is wrenching open the bathroom door before he even consciously thinks about it. Wren, sitting on the bathroom door, looks at Mel like he has been caught stealing something - Mel knows this expression he’s studied it enough times. It’s a mixture of fear, surprise, and shame. He used to see it all the time when he caught his younger siblings taking food from the storage outside of meals. That always carried with it an air of levity, absent in the present moment. Instead the air is weighed down as Mel surveys Wren and the situation he had just thoughtlessly thrust himself in to. 

Wrens’ jacket has been thrown off, tossed halfway across the small room. Wren is frozen in place, staring at Mel, and it leaves one of his hands in the middle of raising the hem of his shirt. There is a dark blotch on his shirt, stained and wet and torn, and it is raised enough that Mel can see the skin dyed red with blood under it and the corner of one of the lacerations. Wrens’ fingertips are already painted.

“Fuck, Mel, sorry, I didn’t know where else to go.” Wren breaks the reverence of the moment with the swear and finished riding up his shirt, fully exposing his abdomen as his other arm sifts through a duffle bag he had brought in with him. “I got this.” 

Mel can’t stop staring at the bleeding wound, Wrens’ stomach smeared with a crimson that shines under the flourescents. It’s a single slice through the skin, deep, a view into a world that is the dark color of clotted blood. Mel recalls, dimly, one time at the Seminary when he cut his food badly, and how Uncle Boaz had described it as ‘sliced into the meat of it’. 

The sight makes Mel want to burn his jacket. 

“What do you have?” 

“Just a knick.” Wren attempts to do his usual hand-waving gestures and inhales sharply through his teeth in pain, aborting the movement. “Nothing you need to worry about.” Mel shakes his head and comes to the ground, forcibly grabbing the duffle with an intensity he doesn’t mean. He feels only half connected to his body right now, like the other half of him is in the stratosphere instead of honing in on the matter at hand. 

Mel pauses in looking at the duffle bag and, this his right hand, harshly slaps himself across the face. 

“Focus focus focus.” He mutters under his breath, a mantra. Wren is staring at him, mouth open. 

“Are you okay?” Wren asks through tense vocal cords and twitching hands. Triumphantly Mel withdraws a smaller bag from the duffel - like a toiletry or make up bag - and opens it to reveal a wide variety of medical supplies. He begins to locate what he knows he’ll need - a spool of synthetic thread kept in it’s own baggie, a needle, small pliers, a pair of tiny sewing scissors. The black lighter from the first time Wren had come into Mel’s life. Mel looks back at the wound. It’s still bleeding - the limping to the bathroom can’t have helped - but not as profusely as it could be. 

“This needs to be cleaned.” Mel says the words out loud, but he hears them through the voice of Aunt Apollonia. Internally Mel flicks through the contents of the store - rags rags rags where are the rags right now. He rises to his feet and tosses the jacket back at Wren. “Put the pressure back on.” And he’s out the door. 

It’s strange to leave the bathroom. The rest of the store doesn’t seem to know what’s going on, ringing as hollow and quiet as it usually does. Through the glass doors Mel can see a car at pump 7. The world is turning on its’ axis everywhere but in that room. Mel snags one of the rags where they sit folded up behind the counter and sheds the maroon jacket, leaving it like a stand-in on his usual stool. 

Wren doesn’t look up when Mel re-enters, braced up against the wall with his eyes squeeze tight, his jacket balled up and tightly pressed against the wound in a grip tight enough to see his tendons and all the muscles in his forearm. Mel returns to kneeling on the ground infront of Mel after wetting the towl at the sink, reaching place one of his hands ontop of Wrens’. Wren inhales sharply at the touch and allows Mel’s light touch to lead his hand away from the clump of bloody cloth. 

“This is going to hurt.” Mel looks at Wren at the admission, as if it’ll be news. Wren sucks in another breath and just nods. As carefully as possible Mel detaches the blood jacket, placing it off to the side to stain the floor, carefully not to disturb the wound too much risk tearing out the clotting blood. With a tender and deft hand Mel begins to dab at the area around the wound, cleaning up the blood enough to get a better view of what he was working with. It would be impossible to fully clean Wren’s stomach with the small piece of cloth, but just getting a feel of the area would help. The places that manage to get cleaned up adequately enough reveal the forms of other scars, long healed. Not Wrens’ first rodeo, then. 

Wren stared at the long cut and bit his lip. The thickly clotted blood was good for keeping Wren from losing more of it, but the wound should also be cleaned of current bacteria. Did the store have anything to disinfect a wound? Did Wren? They never did at the Seminary, but they had also had the watchful eyes of his experienced Aunts and Uncles. Here there was just Mel and Wren.

“You need a hospital.” Mel muttered and looked back at the duffel bag. 

“Kinda far away from one of those right now.” Wren said wryly. Mel withdrew a bottle from the bag, shaking it to get a feel of how full it was. 

“Water?” 

“Lemonade.” Wren replied. Mels’ lip was starting to bleed from fussing at it too much. 

At the sink he rinsed the bottle out, then pumped from hand soap in and rinsed that through a couple times too. Hopefully clean enough, Mel filled it with water from the tap and screwed the lid back on. He squeezed the water over the wound, dislodging coagulated blood and hopefully anything left in the wound from whatever the weapon had been. It ran down Wrens’ abdomen in rivulets, and Mel patted the surrounding area with the towel for want of something else to do. He refilled the bottle two more times and repeated the process. Wren was silent through the ministrations, taking deep breaths through his rose and out his mouth. 

Clenching the needly between his fingers and holding the lighter tightly in his other hand he attempted to disinfect it. At least Wrens’ eyes were closed so he couldn’t see the number of attempts it took for Mel to make the lighter work. He hated these things, they made him feel like a child with fingers too clumsy to get back safety measures. Once he got a steady flame, he held the needle up to it.

“Fuck.” His fingers spasmed apart and dropped the needle onto the definitely not sterile floor. Stupid stupid stupid. Mel echoed the word in his head. Shouldn’t heave been holding it like that anyways. He picked the needle back up and held it with the pliers this time. “Fuck.” He repeated as he fumbled with the lighter. 

Wren let out a small laugh and made a grunt of pain. 

“You don’t look like you swear.” He muttered, voice constrained as he attempted not to use the muscles in his stomach as he spoke. Mel didn’t reply. Zeph and Astrophel had always found it funny when he swore, used to encourage it when he was younger. Uncle Haniel had grabbed the switch when he’d heard him swear like that. 

He put away the lighter, hoping it had done anything to made this more sterile. Slapped his face again, trying to push away the thoughts of the past. He allowed them to come in and out at work, do their damage with their mix of nostalgia and pain and loss, but not here and not now.

“I’m going to start the stitches now.” Mel said and Wren nodded along. 

He instantly wished that the had a curved needle to work on this with. One steadying breath, and Mel pierced the skin. It always put up more resistance than he was expecting. Despite Mel’s attempts to remain int he present, the tactile memory invaded his senses. Sitting a table, hunched over a freshly dead pig from the field, Aunt Apollonia guiding him through the process. 

‘One day’ She would say. ‘Someone will need you to fix them up when they get home.’ Mel would do his best not to look into the pig’s unseeing eyes. 

‘What do they do when they leave?’ She’s smack him across the knuckles for that. 

‘You’re better off not knowing. Do not ask again, Melchior.’

When Mel comes back to the moment, he is already knotting the other side of the first stitch. He snips the thread and starts the second one. It is different than working on a dead pig, the flesh beneath his hands rises and falls gently, occasionally hitching under him when Wren loses his control over his self-imposed calm. Second stitch finished, pinching the skin together. Is this too tight? Is that possible with stitches? Mel can’t recall right now. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wants to know how many cars are currently in the lot. 

“You done this before?” Wren asks. 

“When I’m finished I’m going to need to drive you to a hospital.” Wren talking provides the room for Mel to voice his own thoughts. Wren lets out a grimace sound. The third stitch is tied and snipped. He’s doing the distance between each suture by what he can recall being right, just feeling it out. 

“Aren’t you on shift?” 

“I don’t think you can drive yourself.” Mel responds, and Wren grumbles to himself in an inaudible voice as the fourth, fifth, and sixth place line up like soldiers. 

“You’re going to get yourself in trouble, leaving in the middle of a shift.” Wren finally says. Seven. Eight. Wren is patient. 

“You’re going to get an infection or worse if a professional doesn’t look at this. You’ve clearly been hurt before, you should know that.” Mel glances back at the scars for a moment and flexes his hands. He forgot how sticky blood was. It’s unpleasant. Has never liked his hands having anything on them. Nine. Ten. 

“Comes with the job?” Wren doesn’t even attempt to make the statement pass inspection, turning it to a question at the end like he’s asking if Mel would buy that excuse. Eleven. Mel doesn’t want to keep counting these, he’s only about halfway. Twelve. 

“You aren’t in uniform.” Mel replies. “And you drove your regular car, not your van.” Thirteen.

“You’re observant.” Wren seems to pick his words for stitches fourteen and fifteen. “I was taking care of different business. My, uh, my hobby I guess. Or passion project.” Sixteen. “Uh, don’t ask more details. I’m not good at lying about this shit, and I don’t think the blood loss is doing me any favors here.” Seventeen. His words, despite being distinct, still ring of Aunt Apollonia’s statement. 

“No one tell me shit.” Mel grits out around stitch eighteen. “I needed to be observant to glean anything worthwhile.” Suffocating silence follows his statement. Nineteen. Twenty. 

Mel sighs and rocks back on his heels, flexing his hands, blinks his eyes several times. His fingers are tired and sticky. He needs to wash them, but Mel doesn’t really feel like standing up. When he glances up it’s to see Wren checking over the work. His facial muscles are pinched, and whether it is in an emotion or in pain Mel can’t tell. Frankly he’s too exhausted to try and guess. 

“Twenty exactly.” Wren says, and tugs his blood stained shirt back down, making some kind of an expression as he reaches for his jacket. Mel stays crouched, looking at his hands. They’re red and orange and sticky. Different than the blood of an animal, somehow. Memories flash through his mind - snippets of words and images. Behind him, the sink runs for a moment - Wren stood up at some point on his own. Mels’ never been hurt like that, but considering how he’d been acting, Mel knows he shoudl be surprised that Wren managed it. The bloods under his fingernails. He rubs his hand against the palm of his hand until the dirrt and crime and viscera stands to roll together in clumps. 

Mels’ view of his hands is abruptly cut off as a wet rag lands ontop of his hands, still dripping water. 

“Thank you.” Wren says from above him. He has his duffle swung over his shoulder - must have gathered up the materials while Mel was distracted. Without thinking, Mel starts to use the rag to wipe down his hands. The rag itself is still dirty despite Wrens’ attempts to rinse it. Mel doesn’t look at his hands and rises to his feet. “Now you were gonna put your job in danger and get me to a hospital, right?” Wren starts to head out the bathroom without waiting.

Mel washes his hands. 

[kndrules]

What fashion types would Sector V have? Going beyond "core" type stuff. What would they feel most comfortable wearing? Bonus if it's for both causal and "going out"/fancy.

I definitely have thought about this a lot let's see

Nigel- Well, Nigel is weird because his canon clothing choices are baffling. But you gotta respect it. Shorts in the winter?? Sure. I think Nigel always leans towards looking "put together". Even his most casual outfits will have a clean, sharp quality to them. I definitely subscribe to the idea that he wears leather jackets as a teenager, but as he gets older his style becomes more like "library employee". Sweater vests and always an ironed pair of slacks. Cozy but classy sweaters.

Here's some examples from raverly cuz this is how my brain works now I guess

Another important point about what Nigel wears is that he converts to Judaism as an adult when he marries Lizzie. So throw in some cute fair-isle kippahs.

I always imagined Nigel prefers muted colors, of course leaning towards warmer palettes.

Nigel's formal and casual outfits definitely overlap, but we see in the show that he enjoys dressing black tie given the opportunity (though, notably with a bowtie, not a necktie haha). So in a very formal setting, he's breaking out the James Bond style suits.

Hoagie- I had to rethink the way I make Hoagie dress after my gender headcanons changed for her rather dramatically. But in high school, it's the same because she's not fully out yet. She relies on button down shirts with fun patterns and ironic graphic tees so that she doesn't have to spend much time thinking about what she's wearing, and during this time in particular, I imagine she had a somewhat emo-lite style going on (a lot of black in that waredrobe).

After she starts dressing in a way that's more comfortable for her, I like to draw her in loose, comfortable blouses. I think she still prefers pants over skirts so that she can move freely. And a comfortable pair of sneakers or loafers with added support is important.

This is again a circumstance where casual and formal outfits can overlap. I could see Hoagie not being very good with dressing very formal, preferring to be comfortable. I need to play around with all these ideas for her though.

Kuki- Big, oversized, comfy!!!!!! and CUTE!!!! She loves skirts and tights, not a huge fan of pants but will wear shorts if she has to (shorts with thick leggings underneath if it's cold out). She likes her clothes to be roomy for sensory reasons, and she loves to flap her long sleeves. Another sensory thing is texture- the clothes that touch her skin gotta be soft. I project a lot of my sensory particularities onto her, so she hates denim and any thin, plasticy feeling material. She won't wear something if it's not cute. Bright colors are preferred.

She loves dressing up as a teenager. Knee-length prom-style dresses with frills and glitter are fun!

As she grows up, she has to dress more refined. She still doesn't wear pants, preferring dress suits instead. She doesn't actually like wearing dress suits, but she has to for work. The second she gets home, the comfy clothes come on. There's always a little trace of her personality still on her work and formal clothes as an adult- a little hint of color or something.

Wally- This kid barely gets any new clothes through his adolescence. His sweatshirts and pants are all old, worn out, dirty and gross. This is partially because his parents can't afford much, but he's also resistant to change like that. He likes the clothes he has, they're comfortable and worn-in. He doesn't like the idea of new stuff. Wally likes oversized clothes, too. Baggy sweatshirts and baggy blue jeans. His jeans either have to be hemmed shorter by his mom or they get all muddy and ripped up at the bottom, because they're too long for him. He doesn't care about looking "good", he only cares about looking "like a boy" (based on his own definition of what that means).

Don't bother asking him to dress nice for a formal event. He's just gonna show up in one of these:

In med school and as a doctor, he has to conform to some degree. I've always had this ridiculous headcanon that in med school he starts wearing polo shirts with popped collars, like a classic douchebag. He starts caring about his clothes getting ruined, because clothes have become a status symbol thing to him, and also because he's not used to the idea of "just buying new ones". His clothes still stay comfortable as much as possible, though. He will wear jeans and a t-shirt any time he can. And of course, scrubs are a must. As an adult, he can get through a formal event, but only just barely. He will never know what he's doing in that regard.

Abby- She's a stud, this is so important to my version of her. Her style is kind of "butch-athletic", with relaxed jeans, big t-shirts, jerseys and jackets. And nice sneakers.

(images from pintrest)

(Note that unlike these images, Abby doesn't wear makeup)

A good real life style reference for Abby is the musician Syd

Abby also prefers to keep her hair in protective styles as much as possible, for ease. Since she can't keep her hair like that all the time, in-between styles she still keeps it gently out of the way.

Her style is always pretty casual, but it's easy to dress it up with smart blazers! As an adult, she leans towards casual-ish pants suits. Blazers with regular undershirts and relaxed slacks.

[actual-changeling]

needed to share this with someone, so: my Spotify played Life According To Raechel by Madison Cunningham on shuffle and the lyrics are so Joel and Ellie coded I felt like it was a personal attack towards me, who was just trying to listen to my silly little songs and have a good time.

I know that experience too well, anon, Spotify has thrown so many songs at me that had me almost sobbing over Joel and Ellie.

Literally losing my mind. I wrote a ficlet this morning about Ellie and grief (kinda?) and I never intended to let it see the light of day but now I will put it under the cut for those who are interested in pain. Unofficial title is stairs leaning dusk til dawn.

There is a small house painted blue with worn floorboards and creaky stairs, with dark wooden counters and mismatched furniture, a house she knows every single inch of, a house she can find her way through with closed eyes and hands covering her ears.

It has two bedrooms with matching patterned comforters and an array of books scattered through both of them, there are two toothbrushes in a cup next to the bathroom sinks, shoes in two sizes piling into falling hazards in the hallway.

A blanket is slung over the back of a couch that can fit them both if they try, a collection of movies sorted by how much they liked them, hated them, how much the other hates them; there are enough hair ties covering every surface and pocket of space to last a lifetime.

There is a dirty set of dishes in the sink, a mug saying worlds best grandpa next to another one with a hand-drawn dinosaur in the cupboard, cold coffee drowning the bottom of the can, staining it brown.

Fresh flowers on the kitchen table and two pillows in one bed because it's winter, because they were cold, because there is only one thing she wants after fire and blood and metal. Laundry set aside to be folded later, a half-read comic on the nightstand, sheets unmade, messy, waiting.

Sunlight breaking through the blinds, opened to let in the warmth, snow a layer of white powder frosting plants and flowers they know will come back in the spring like they do every year; two badly wrapped gifts hidden away in the bottom drawer of the living room cabinet, Ellie scrawled on one of them, Joel on the other. They always chose the same hiding place.

She picks up the sweatshirt left behind on her bed and presses it to her face, inhaling deeply enough to let the scent coat her lungs, deeply enough to make it stay. The fabric is soft against her cheeks, soft like his palms, soft like his lips when he kisses her temple, soft and warm and alive, and there is an unfinished drawing on her desk and a half-carved guitar on his and a song written by both their hands.

Their home has stilled and the rooms are a collection of their lives, a museum she walks through without having to think because it is her, it is him, and now she leaves her fingerprints on the mirror for the last time, for evidence, next to eyes she knows aren't his but might as well be.

His voice is in every scuff mark she kicked into the floor, every bruise she got from bumping into the door frame, every stain they left while laughing, while living, and she wraps her arms around herself and lays her fingers into the spaces between her ribs, emptiness where it shouldn't be.

Someone will dust off their strawberries when the sun melts the snow and turns their yard into green grass and mud, they will return, resilient in bloom, and Joel was waiting for that, for them to be reborn in the way they were, and the house is waiting for him to come back, too.

Ellie pulls on his shirt, sleeves too long, one last embrace, and there are so many memories she could take but the only one she picks up is the gun he left in his jacket, wearing nothing but trust instead. She locks the door behind her, breaths dissipating into the cold, turning it into a time capsule never to be buried while they will be.

There is a small house painted blue with worn floorboards and silent stairs, with empty wooden counters and lonely furniture, a house she knows every single inch of because they turned it into home, a home Joel expected to come back to.

He never did.

Neither will she.

[grem-archive]

Tag Game To Better Know You! Send this to people you’d like to know better!

Oh, geez, so I’ve never really done one of these before haha but thank you to @draw-a-circle-thats-the-compass for the tag!

What book are you currently reading?

Unfortunately, I haven’t been reading much lately, but I am looking for suggestions! The last thing I read was Pox Americana by Elizabeth A. Fenn. It’s about the smallpox epidemic that hit North America around the time of the American Revolution and its effects, but it simultaneously takes you on a broader look at the impact, such as on Native American populations and the outbreak in Mexico City. Granted, it was for a class but a wonderful read that will make you not only think about history but reflect on the pandemic of today.

What’s your favorite movie that you saw in theatres this year?

…

Top Gun Maverick…I went and saw it three times with three different friend groups.

What do you usually wear?

Ah, well, the winter fit is usually sweatpants of some kind coupled with any random assortment of t-shirts, both short- or long-sleeved, then some kind of hoodie or jacket. I’ve been trying to break in a leather jacket though so that I can paint it! That thing is far comfier than it should be.

How tall are you?

5’ 5” or about 165 cm.

What’s your Star Sign? Do you share a birthday with a celebrity or a historical event?

I am a Cancer. I don’t really believe in astrology, but I know far too much about it because of friends. They tell me I am a “classic Cancer,” and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. And I do! June 21. I share a birthday with Chris Pratt and the U.S. Constitution. It’s also the day the Sox pitcher Rube Foster no-hit the Yankees 2-0 at Fenway in 1916. Make of those what you please.

Do you go by your name or a nick-name?

I go by my nickname Jill, or Grem/Gremlin online. Call me whatever the hell you want though, I’ll reply regardless.

Did you grow up to become what you wanted to be when you were a child?

I wanted to be so many things as a kid. Astronaut, microbiologist, paleontologist, a whole plethora of other things… As long as it had to do with using my hands for something and getting to learn and sate my obnoxious curiosity, I would be happy. Doing archaeology checks all those boxes, so I can’t be mad! I’m a recent convert to anthropology and I love it. Learning more each day just makes me love how diverse the Earth and its inhabitants are. I’m a filthy optimist, okay?

Are you in a relationship? If not, who is your crush if you have one?

Single and vibing.

What’s something you’re good at vs. something you’re bad at?

I don’t think I’m much good at anything, but I guess I can draw! Would love to be better at writing.

Dogs or cats?

Don’t make me choose.

What’s something you would like to create content for?

To keep it in the scope of Hetalia, I would like to continue the historical fic I started writing centered around the American Revolution, as (early) American history is my secondary study. But I’m not confident in my skills enough to continue it. Forget posting it anywhere. But I had a prologue, first chapter, and second chapter in different states of completion before putting it down.

What’s something you’re currently obsessed with?

Cold War-era armor.

What’s something you were excited about that turned out to be disappointing this year?

My grades. [rimshot and laugh track plays]

What’s a hidden talent of yours?

I don’t think being ADHD-fueled human encyclopedia counts so…I can write with my toes. I can sing and play euphonium, too, I guess! Idk guys fr

Are you religious?

Not particularly. I am a very lazy pagan, at the very least.

What’s something you wish to have at this moment?

All my friends and mutuals with their fine asses right in front of me so that I can give them all ginormous, lung-squeezing, spine-cracking hugs. Y’all need to stop being gorgeous double-cheeked-up baddies on this Tuesday evening.

I’m nominating @sunnysssol @ironicorange @cicadatalia @magictrio1118 @sunnylolli @modernday-jay @abbittheturtle because you are all wonderful and are either close beloveds or super chill!

[silkenblankets]

The job was done, red coated the scene and it felt like he could finally think. There was a moment of bittersweet silence, lowering his metal arm and taking in a deep breath. Gunpowder, it wasn't his first time smelling it. Every time before, that scent meant another piece of him was torn from his body, his identity would break into a smaller shard than before.

But it also meant freedom. The initial fear of pain dissolved, replaced by a sweet catharsis. He dropped the weapon, walking up to the body and lifting it's right hand. A handcrafted ring, silver band, with small grey stones beaded on either side of a slightly larger stone resting atop the finger. It came off with a good tug, inspecting the metal before attempting to place it on his own finger. The metallic surface didn't hold the ring, and so he opted to hide it in his only worldly possession: a small pouch of dice pulled tight around his artificial wrist.

Turning his back on his God, he left the home and everything that happened within it. He was lost, he was angry, he was doubtful. But he knew the driveway led to a road, a city was to the right. Or, something similar. He wasn't sure, but it was his only plan.

The road was endless, and unkempt. Despite the dullness of his touch, he could feel the loose asphalt under his feet, scuffing the metal and adding small dents to the form. It was cold, his jacket was the only thing keeping his body from shivering. Slightly oversized with tearing in the sleeves, the only clothing he could fit over the thick spikes worked into his prosthetics. He has always disliked the shape, now outright hating the form it gave him.

He could tell his legs would be sore by now, his hips already ached and his back hurt. The man's posture was more akin to a zombie, his body long since tired.

The moon had been thrown over him, completing its arc as he entered the small city. The sun had begun to emerge, everyone would be waking up soon. But not God. That felt nice to know... But the rattling in his foot signaled damage, he wanted to patch that up. Except he didn't have materials, or method.

Lifting his eyes from the ground, his gaze bounced from one building to the next. Maybe he could find someplace that fixed cybernetic limbs? Though, as far as he knew, nobody really had those. For whatever reason, he had been made the outlier, rather than another corpse in the frigid winter.

Oh, that looked promising. A building that looked more like a garage than the others, the inside showed displays of what looked to be assorted car parts. But it was small and cramped inside, the business wasn't big in the slightest. He tried to pull open the door, but found it was locked. Must be closed. He tried to plan for what time it would be open, hearing muffled footsteps and the scattered crunch of a latch. Feeling the door open, he backed away and stared at who opened it.

A short brunette wearing some kind of work jumpsuit, a name tag was embroidered on the fabric: Michael.

"Hey- do you need something? Are you okay?"

It took him a moment to process that he needed something, he needed to be fixed.

"Do you do repairs?" His metallic voice caused visible confusion in Micheal. "Yup. What for?"

"... My foot."

Michael looked down, skipping past the exposed hips and crouching to inspect the metal appendage. Tilting his head, he gave a confused smile. "It doesn't look that bad, I can fix that I suppose."

He nodded quietly, following the smaller man inside the building. Michael pulled a chair into the garage, which was empty as of now. Motioning to the seat, the cyborg sat down in silence. His foot was lifted and set on a crate, Michael went from one toolbox to the next before returning with a handful of material.

For once, he was grateful for his dulled touch, barely aware of the molten heat touching him. Michael must've found the silence uncomfortable, shifting his stance to look at the man. "What's your name?"

"..." Xavier was dirtied. He didn't know what other name he had. "... Xavi."

Michael smiled. "That's a pretty neat name." He glanced to the gashes in Xavi's jacket, clicking his tongue. "Hey would you like those shaved down? They look really uncomfortable."

Xavi looked at Michael, trying not to show his excitement. "... Can you do that?" He got a nod in response, the mechanic stood and pat Xavi's leg. "Of course, then we can put something on ya to keep you from freezing." The man smiled, holding out his hand.

"C'mon, it should only take a few minutes. Maybe I can get to know you better."

It felt... wonderful, to be a person again.

Xavi used the aid of Michael to pull himself back to his feet, his smile hidden behind his artificial jaw. "Thank you."

Michael gave the cyborg a quick, partial hug as he led him towards the rest of his tools. As he rummaged through the drawers, his smile returned.

"My pleasure, Xavi."

[thewatermelloncat]

Letterman Jacket

Summary: Having been robbed of all her jackets in the middle of winter, Rosé finds help from one of the most unlikely people. Though that doesn’t mean it’s easy for her to accept it.

Author’s Note: I legitimately forgot that I wrote this. I’d abandoned it with a few more sentences to write, but now it’s done. I hope we all enjoy the new characters who are introduced.

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

If only the rage within her could heat her up from the inside out. Unfortunately, temperature doesn’t regulate based on emotions so it would never work like that. So instead, she’s stuck shivering, pressed into the corner of a couch in the student lounge. Her arms tightly wrapped around her, and her hands bunched up in the long sleeves of her shirt. By now she can’t remember when she could last feel them properly.

It was probably less than five minutes after she left the house. She was never lucky enough like everyone else to have a pair of gloves to wear in the snow, but she normally has a jacket. Except for today when her parents had taken all of hers away.

“I’m sorry, Rosie” Denali apologises as she comes back from checking her car for a spare. Genuinely sounding upset as she sits close beside her. “I really thought I would have had one.”

“S’okay” Rosé’s voice stutters slightly.

“I can go home and get you one” Denali offers as she untucks Rosé’s hands from beneath her arms to blow warm air onto them.

Rosé shakes her head. “You’ve got the science test first period. You can’t miss it.”

Denali groans a little at the fair point. “And I was going to wear a sweatshirt and a different jacket but then I changed my mind.” She looks down at the thicker puffer jacket she wears instead. “If I didn’t, I could have given you one.”

“It’s fine” Rosé dismisses. “Just hug me.”

Denali doesn’t have to be told twice before she wraps herself around Rosé, holding her tightly. Rubbing her hands quickly against her arms and her breath leaving warm puffs of air on Rosé’s neck.

“Did you think it was summer today, McCorkell?”

A voice has them both looking up to see the line-backer, who somehow got the nickname of Tina, walk into the room. His and Rosé’s feud has been long standing but there’s a certain amount of respect for each other that neither of them will ever admit to.

“Yeah, I saw the snow on the ground and thought that I might go swimming later” Rosé bites back. The sass dripping from her tone has Denali giggling beside her.

“Where’s your jacket?” Tina frowns instead of continuing to spar with her.

“Fuck I know.” Rosé shrugs. “I don’t know where any of them are.”

“You can’t have lost them all.” Tina shakes his head in disbelief.

“I didn’t. My parents took them all away.”

“What – why?”

“I left one on the back of a chair in the lounge and they thought it would be justified to take away all of them because I can’t put them away properly” Rosé explains.

“You’re joking” Tina says as he moves around the couch behind them, pulling at the cuffs of his sleeves.

“Fucking wish I was. It’s the dead set of winter” Rosé says flatly. “What are you doing?” She suddenly hunches forward when she feels a weight draped across her shoulders.

“Being nice. Wear this” Tina says, wrapping his letterman jacket around her.

“I’m not going to wear your jacket” Rosé stubbornly refuses.

“Yeah, you are Rosie” Denali affirms, pulling back from her to help force her arms through the sleeves.

“So warm” the involuntary sigh replaces whatever protest Rosé was going to continue with instead. Curling in on herself as the residual body heat stored in the jacket touches her skin. Despite how her hands burrow back into the sleeves, she still turns back to Tina, “I don’t want to take it from you.”

“It’s fine. I’ve still got this” he dismisses, pulling at the collar of the hoodie he was wearing underneath. “Besides, if you shiver any harder you’re going to break your teeth.”

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

“It suits you” Denali pulls at the sleeve of the jacket as she walks the hallways between second and third period beside her.

Rosé scoffs loudly. “Yeah, ‘cause wearing school branded memorabilia just screams me.”

“Okay, well maybe not” Denali takes back. “But you don’t look bad in it.”

“I don’t look bad in anything” Rosé jokes, playing up an act of brushing her hair over her shoulder.

“Pfft” Denali huffs out a laugh as she shoves her. “What about that frilly dress you had to wear for one of the productions last year?”

“Okay, so maybe I can’t pull off frills.” Rosé rights herself and continues walking. “But that’s a costume so it doesn’t count.”

“You just admitted that you don’t look good in frills, so that’s enough for me” Denali says before she slows her pace as they come to a different hallway she has to turn down. “See you at lunch?”

“Yeah, see ya.” Rosé nods a goodbye before quickening her pace up again and continuing to her next class.

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

“Rosé, jacket off.” She doesn’t get three steps into the classroom before she’s already in trouble.

She’s never liked her maths teacher, Mr Rice, but not many people do. He is always telling everyone off for the most minute of things and saying people’s names wrong. For him specifically in Rosé’s case, it probably doesn’t help that she just generally hates maths.

“Why?” she asks lowly, not sparing him a glance as she moves to her desk at the back of the room.

“If you haven’t earned a letterman jacket, you can’t wear it” his answer is utter bullshit, and also invalid.

“I have actually. I qualified for one for theatre nearly a year ago” Rosé points out. “I just can’t afford it.”

“That’s a football jacket.” Mr Rice eyes a patch of a football stuck on one of the sleeves.

“They look the same anyway” Rosé defends. And they do. If she had her jacket for theatre she could still stick a football patch on it if she wanted to.

“Unless you want a detention, take that jacket off and stop talking back to me” Mr Rice warns. “If it’s not yours, you can’t wear it.”

“Since when?” Tina asks from his desk near the front of the room. “It’s mine and I’m letting her.”

Rosé huffs a sigh as Tina gets involved. Though they rile each other up all the time, it wouldn’t sit right with her if he got himself a detention because of her. As words argue back and forth, Rosé shrugs the jacket off, loosely folding it as she heads over Tina’s desk where she sets it down.

“Rosé?” He frowns at it before he looks back to her. His hands reaching to give it back to her.

She only shakes her head, conveying that it’s not worth it before she turns to head back to her own desk.

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

Her arms cross tightly over her books against her chest as she steps out of the classroom and into the much colder hallway. There’s only one more period until lunch and she’s honestly considering ditching so she can curl up in her bed and be warm again, but the thought off walking outdoors doesn’t sound all that appealing.

A sudden weight on her shoulders has her flinching forward and she spins around. “Jesus! Don’t sneak—” she curses as she finds Tina behind her with his hands up in surrender.

“I just want to give you this back” he explains, holding the letterman jacket in his hand higher.

“You keep it. I don’t want it” Rosé lies as she turns around again.

Tina huffs a sigh and drapes the jacket over her shoulders as she walks away. “Rosé” he protests, keeping his hands on her arms so she can’t throw it off. “Keep it on. If you get a detention just take the hit. It’s better than freezing your ass off and getting sick.”

“You can’t get sick from being cold” Rosé counters as she turns back to face him.

“Well, do you want to be cold?”

“No.”

“Keep it on” Tina settles, tapping his hands on her arms before moving away.

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

Loose bits of gravel crunch under her boots as she walks toward a pickup truck in the school parking lot. Around her students sit in cars with the aircon on, waiting for their windscreens to un-fog before the drive home. Except for those like Tina, who stand outside their vehicle talking to friends. His conversation stopping when he sees Rosé step up to him.

“Thanks” she says, handing over his jacket.

“You can wear it home. Just give it back to me whenever.” He doesn’t reach to take it back from her.

“Now is whenever” Rosé pushes it into his arms. “If my parents see me in it I don’t know what they’ll do to it, and I’d rather you see it again. But thanks for letting me borrow it.”

Tina nods in acceptance as he throws it over his shoulder. “Do you need a lift or anything?” he offers, nodding to the truck he leans on.

“Nah, I’m good. Gonna hitch a ride with Nali” Rosé says, walking backward and crossing her arms tightly against the cold.

Tina nods again, but before Rosé can’t turn around, he calls out to her, “hope you find your jackets!”

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

She couldn’t. She’d been as subtle as she could looking through all the cupboards in the house, and pretending to need something she might have left in the family car, only for her search to end empty handed. Apart from with the conclusion that her jackets are all in her parents’ room: the one place she won’t snoop.

“Still no luck?” Tina asks when he finds Rosé at her locker without her usual leather jacket the next day.

Rosé shakes her head. “But Nali let me borrow this.” She pulls at the sleeves of a thick hoodie.

“It doesn’t really suit you, does it?” Tina takes in the soft purple colour.

“It does the job” Rosé dismisses.

“You actually look nice in it… more approachable, I mean” Tina amends.

“Do I scare you, normally?” Rosé smirks a little.

“Sometimes” Tina admits before he shifts his footing. “Hey, come with me. I want to show you something.”

“Why?” Rosé challenges lowly but follows him all the same.

“Just come” Tina doesn’t answer, and Rosé’s confusion only grows as she is led through the hallways and into the sports department.

“Hey, I know you said that I look more approachable in this or whatever” Rosé begins firmly, “but that doesn’t mean I want to join you in the hookup spot behind the P.E sheds.”

“That’s not where we’re going.” Tina continues walking ahead of her.

Taking a left turn, Rosé recognises the hallway toward the changing rooms. “You’re taking me to the locker rooms? That’s fucking sick.” Her footsteps falter and she starts to hang back.

“I’m not taking you there. We’re going in here” Tina dismisses, moving along to an office door which he holds open for her.

Rosé frowns but steps through it. “Why here?”

“Because…” Tina draws out as he moves to the back of the room and over to a chest pressed against a wall. “I heard you say yesterday how you’ve qualified for a letterman jacket but can’t afford one.”

Rosé hums as she sits herself on the edge of a desk. This whole thing no clearer to her.

“And I was thinking, seeing that the sports department has so many extras because people outgrow them, that you should have one.”

“No.” Rosé shakes her head as Tina pulls one out from the chest. “They’re clearly kept for a reason.”

“Well yeah” Tina admits, “new players sometimes need to borrow them for interschool games… but the smaller sizes barely get worn anyway.”

Rosé only blinks at him sceptically.

“How many twig figures do you see on a football team?” Tina points out. “You’re taller than average, Rosé, but you’re not exactly broad-shouldered.”

Rosé stays silent.

“Are you really going to look a gift horse in the mouth?” Tina levels with her.

“I’ve never even seen a real horse” Rosé deadpans.

“… h-have you not?” Tina falters.

“Of course I have, you dumbass.” Rosé runs a hand down her face before gesturing to the jacket he had pulled out for her. “But I can’t take it. It’s basically stealing school property.”

“Oh, come on.” Tina rolls his eyes. “Like you’ve never stollen something from school before.”

“Only a couple of pencils, and maybe a ruler once” the pitch of Rosé’s voice raises in defence.

“Will you stop trying to fight with me for once?” Tina begs. “These have all been outgrown and donated. People take from here all the time, it’s basically a charity box.”

Rosé pulls in a deep breath that she huffs out. “Well maybe if you’d led with that!”

Tina scoffs a sound of dismissal. “Just try it on.”

Rosé smirks as she hops off the desk and fits herself into it.

Then Tina steps back, seeming to admire his single attempt at guessing the correct size which would fit her. “I know you probably wouldn’t be caught dead wearing this outside of school, but I figured that you’d at least be able to keep it here if your jackets get taken away again.”

Rosé nods, her jaw shifting as she examines her arms in the sleeves and rolls her shoulders. Then as she tugs at the hem down by her hips she pulls in a breath. “Look, I know I give you shit all the time, but I do appreciate this… really.”

“Oh gees, McCorkell, don’t go getting all emotional on me. You’re not supposed to have any” Tina dismisses awkwardly.

“You’re a teenage boy, you’re not supposed to recognise they exist” Rosé counters.

“I’m an emotionally intuitive guy” Tina defends.

Rosé pulls a face and makes a sound of disgust. “Right, you made it weird. I’m leaving” she says before turning on her heel and heading for the door.

“Yep” Tina agrees, shoving his hands in his pockets and following her out into the hallway where he suddenly scoffs a laugh.

“What?” Rosé asks lowly.

“Can you promise me something?”

“No.”

“Just promise me” Tina tries again.

“Fine” Rosé gives in.

“You won’t take the jacket off?”

“I won’t take the jacket off” Rosé repeats.

Tina smirks, just holding back from laughing again as he looks at the jackets they both wear. “I hate to break it to you, McCorkell, but right now we’re matching.”

[turkeysandwich]

HRT

Ian Duncan x Original Male Character

Read here on ao3

Chapter 2/?

Read chapter 1 here

“Fuck.. it’s monday right?” Alex groaned out, his voice groggy and clouded with sleepiness, he knew it was monday but he just needed confirmation.

“That it is, you want coffee?” Ian replied confusingly chipper compared to Alex.

“No, I hate coffee.” Alex got up, it was a monday, his usual testosterone injection day, so he grabbed the small black box that held his clean needles, alcohol wipes, and bottle of testosterone.

He walked over to the small end table and inched up his shorts to a clean space on his middle thigh, ripping open a packet of alcohol wipes and rubbing his planned injection sight. He opened a fresh needle and inserted it into the testosterone, getting his perfect amount.

Alex looked over and realized he forgot to grab the colorful bandaids he threw into a cabinet in the kitchen.

“Hey, would you grab the bandaids? I think they’re in the cabinet above the oven.” Alex said almost the second he pricked himself with the needle, cringing a bit at the spike of pain.

“Sure, would you want any…” Ian stopped, seeing a very much out of context scene that first struck confusion, then fear. “Dear lord! What the fuck do you think your doing!? You’re a teacher for Christ's sake!”

“I’m taking testosterone? … Because I’m trans? Did you think I was doing fucking heroin!?” Alex could almost laugh at the absurdity of this situation, but he quickly got back to trying to explain the situation, of course he forgot he wasn’t yet out to Ian.

“Well, evidently yeah!” Ian almost shouted, heart still racing from the initial shock “Why didn’t you warn me about this?”

“I’ll be honest I forgot to warn you, I’m just that tired.” Alex took the needle out and winced. “Those bandages?”

Ian threw him the pack of bandaids and went back to brewing his coffee, Alex stepped into the bathroom with a bundle of clothes and got ready for the day ahead. He stepped back out with a simple outfit of converse, jeans, and a button up shirt over a black long-sleeve shirt, he had left the majority of his very few hoodies and sweaters in texas.

“Well.” Ian broke the silence that filled the apartment. “I guess since we’re both coming out I figure I should say I’m bisexual.”

“Oh, cool.” He stuttered a bit over his words. “I’m pan myself.”

Another few seconds of silence where they simply stood doing whatever they were preoccupied with. “You wanna help me put up my flags later?”

“Sure.”

He noticed it had been just before the time he regularly left so all he did was grab a protein bar and figured he would dip into the stash of snacks he kept in his classroom. He met Ian at the door, apparently the two had classes and lunch break at about the same time, the only reason they hadn’t met before was that Alex ate lunch in his classroom with a group of students and a few teachers he was friends with.

Alex opened the door, stepped out, and was met with a surprise, see, the apartment complex had been built so it had an open hallway, meaning it was open to the outdoors almost entirely. Thing is it was almost freezing that day, two celsius to be exact.

“Fucking christ.” he cussed, slamming the door back in and turned over to Ian. “Damn, it is cold out there.” 

“Oh yeah, Isn’t it about two or three degrees?” Ian replied, being met with a very confused face from Alex. “Right, America, That would be about 35 fahrenheit?” 

“I think, it's just way too cold for me, Left all my warm clothes in texas.” He groaned, looking down at his pathetic excuse for winter clothing. “Well the walk to fine arts hall is going to be hell.”

“Here.” Ian grabbed a tan trenchcoat off a hanger by the door, he was already wearing a sweater over his button up with a tie, over that was a simple windbreaker. “Take this until you get a new jacket.”

“Thanks.” Alex blushed a bit and threw the jacket on, the sleeves hung just over his hands and it felt roomy on his chest. “Let's go, I think the fine arts hall is fairly close to the psych hall.”

The two stepped out the door together, keeping up easy conversation while they tried their very hardest to not look at each other too much. 

“You know, I think I just realized something.” Ian said. “You’re the only person I know who actually calls me Ian, everyone else calls me Duncan.”

“Why do they call you Duncan?” Alex asked, somewhat confused, why would they call him by his last name?

“I think it’s because I started calling Jeff Winger ‘Winger’ and he called me ‘Duncan’ and it stuck I guess.” He explained.

“Well.” Alex shrugged. “I think Ian suits you well.”

“Then Alex suits you well too,” Ian smirked. “Luna.” Alex looked over and rolled his eyes at the stupid nickname.

“Don't call me Luna and I won't call you Duncan.” He retorted. “Do we have a deal?”

“I can’t make any promises.” Ian laughed as Alex shook his head. “But I’ll restrain myself from nicknaming you.” 

“Cheeky British fuck.” Alex held himself from pushing the taller man into a puddle of slush and dirt.

They eventually parted ways and Alex reached the classroom, the second he entered, he turned on the heater. He set up a few easels and pallets, it was more of a painting class after all, the first few students arrived at around eight thirty, and the last arrived just after the bell rang at nine.

His first period was always the most popular, he put his own music on shuffle and most of the students at Greendale liked starting their day in a relaxing atmosphere. His favorite few students walked in, all trailing behind each other; Abed, Troy, and Annie, to be exact. He liked all of them for different reasons though.

Annie, he liked for the fact she always turned in assignments on time, and would sometimes stay and help Alex clean the messy art room. Troy had a great sense of humor, and was a funny addition to the class. Abed was definitely the best artist of the friend group, mainly focusing his abstract skills into his paintings, although any time Alex quoted a movie, Abed took it as an invitation to reenact the whole scene.

He started the class easy and he ended the class easy, he started with a short lecture about lighting and an instruction, the rest was spent painting and totally not Alex passing the time by playing solitaire on his computer.

The bell rang and all students started walking out the classroom, all except for three, his three favorites.

“Hey Mr. Luna, me, Annie and Troy have been talking, and we’ve come to the conclusion that we all recognize that jacket.” Abed pointed at what Alex was wearing as Alex looked down and back up again. “Ian Duncan right? I would say that's a tv trope and we’ve entered a romantic arc but I think we’ve got a fanfic on our hands.”

Alex paused, and turned to Troy and Annie, apparently Abed’s best friends. “Is there maybe a therapist of his I should be calling?”

“Last time he did this, we got Duncan but it didn’t go very well.” Annie explained.

“Professor Duncan to you Annie, you're still a student.” Alex corrected. “And Ian and I are not dating, sorry to let you down, now get to class.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sir” Abed said, already half out the door. “But just know, if I did predict you two, you owe me.” 

Alex shrugged and chuckled at Abed’s antics, he grabbed one of the bags of chips he kept in a hidden compartment under his desk and started munching, and thinking.

Maybe Ian wasn't so hard on the eyes anyways.

[indelibletraces]

Chicago PD 10x9 “Proof of Burden”

Random thoughts:

I like that there is no dialogue between Voight and the Chief when he first arrives. I get the sense that Voight hates that he is having to put his friend through this and that nothing he says will make it better. As for the Chief, his reluctance to be there is clearly written on his face. It’s almost like he hopes if he doesn’t say anything none of this will be real. He even stops at one point as they walk to the bunker.

Torres’ winter wear - a long sleeve white shirt! I love that the writers are continuing with Torres and his “plain white Ts” even in winter. I know he has worn dark jackets in a couple of episodes, but after less than half a season he has become so synonymous with the white shirt that when he does finally wear patterns or something else it better have some significant meaning behind it.

Loved the scene in Voight’s office. It was great to see Hank explode with emotion; something we haven’t seen a lot of this season, and Jason Beghe is great at portraying those explosive, raw moments. Despite all he did to protect Justin and his mistakes, he knows that there are some things that are truly unforgivable and he can’t understand how O’Neil can keep trying to deny that there is something wrong with his son.

It was interesting to watch the parallel scenes between Voight/O’Neil and Hailey/Sean play out against each other. In their last ditch efforts to make the case Voight and Hailey each go to the person they understand most in this situation. Voight tries to get O’Neil to quit burying his head in the sand and actually look at what Sean has done square in the face. Hailey tries to appeal to the decency that she thinks is still inside Sean - the decency she hopes is still inside herself?

It was great to have Voight calmly calling Hailey out: “So you want to do that now? Make cases any way you can.” He saw what the Roy situation did to Hailey and yet here she is again willing to go down the same unscrupulous path she did with Darius Walker. Is her fixation on this case just simply a result of Jay leaving or are the writers trying to make us think that this a pattern of her brokenness from her childhood?

I thought it was really smart to use all the obstacles Hailey has to break through and climb over to get to the truck as a literal manifestation of the figurative hurdles she has had to overcome these past weeks while trying to find the missing girls. The fact that her radio doesn’t work and she has to do it all on her own to me represents how alone and abandoned she’s felt since Jay left. But then Voight shows up and helps her get through the last gate - she is not alone in her struggles with this case or in her personal life. She has the team to support her if she will let them. Even with Voight’s help it was a struggle for them both to get through the gate - even with support Hailey’s journey back to stability in her personal life will have its challenges.

Side note: Running in the warehouse and manipulating that gate is the most physical exertion we’ve seen Hank go through this season, and I thought it was a lot of fun to watch. However, I’ve read in interviews that Jason Beghe is not a fan of running, so during this scene I kept thinking “I bet he’s hating this.” 😊

This episode had some amazing scenes with Hank and Hailey, but the best was the one in the Chief’s house. By calling in the emergency over Hailey’s objection, Voight is trying to save Hailey from a decision that he knows she will come to regret. He repeatedly keeps calling to her to help him save Sean - it’s like he has to break through the fog that is clouding her judgement. When she does eventually help there is a noticeable softening of her face from the hardened expression she wore while just standing there watching Sean die. Hailey doesn’t say anything in the final scene at the hospital and to me she appears conflicted as she watches them work on Sean - is she conflicted about what she feels or by what she thinks she should feel? Especially when the doctor tells them that they saved his life. What are her feelings toward Voight going to be saving Sean’s life? It’s going to be so hard to wait 4 weeks til the next episode!

The hospital scene was excellent in the way it called back to the season 9 finale and the season 10 premiere. As soon as they entered the hospital I immediately noticed the blood stain on Voight’s shirt right where his gunshot wound is. This was exactly like when he carried the little boy into the ER in the premiere. I loved the reminder that physically and emotionally he still has not healed from Anna’s death. He almost seems to be having a flashback as he watches the monitor and Sean being shocked; the same things he watched when Anna was in the same position.

I have loved the first half of this season and can’t wait to see what they have in store for the rest of the season!

[angelic-marzzz]

WIP Wednesday

It was a freezing cold night in Duckburg.The sun was in the process of setting and soon the night was going to be coming. There was so much white snow on the ground outside. Unfortunately, the indoors wasn't much better. At least, not at Gyro’s house according to his boyfriend.

“Ughhh, i'm so coooooold! Gyro, your house feels like Antarctica!” The Mad Ducktor whined. He was currently wrapped up in 5 blankets and a whole winter coat under his pink leather jacket and long sleeved sweater, clearly trying to emphasize his point. He flopped onto his and Gyro’s shared bed.

Gyro grumbles, rolling his eyes at his boyfriend as he rolls over to face him. Gyro was also wearing a few layers, but it wasn't nearly as much as Mads. he wore a red sweater, fluffy black pajama pants, and some comfy socks on his feet. He was also covered in a blanket, but that was solely due to the fact he was planning on going to sleep. He didn't have many inventions to work on these last few weeks so he was trying to get more rest for once.

“Didn’t you hear me? Ducktor asked. “I said i’m cold”

“Yes, Mads. I know, I heard you the last twenty-five times you told me” Gyro said, sighing. He snuggled up to him. “The heat isn't working right now, though. So we’re gonna suffer through this for awhile”

“Can we fix the heat? We ARE inventors after all” Ducktor asked.

“Hm. We could but i don't really feel like doing that right now” Gyro admitted.

Ducktor groaned, digging his beak into Gyro’s shoulder, which surprised the blonde chicken. “M-Mads! That tickles!” he said, giggling softly. Despite his giggly little complaint, he couldn't help but lean closer against him.

“Aww, is my darling feeling ticklish today~” Ducktor teased, breaking away so he could give his darling a flirty grin. “Do you want me to keep going?”