#jelly shoes for women | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

soullumii · 2 years ago

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stranded | joel miller x f!reader

pairing: joel miller x afab!fem!reader

summary: you get stranded in the middle of a blizzard. joel comes to your rescue. you share a bed for warmth. things escalate from there...

warnings/tags: 18+ content, MDNI!, smutttttt yurrrr (vaginal fingering, unprotected piv sex, dubious consent, lil bit of somnophilia, joel is packinggg), no outbreak!joel, modern au, implied age gap, soft!joel, pet names (peach, baby, darlin', sweet girl, sweetheart), lil bit of joel being jelly, cuddling to keep the cold at bay, fluff, NO USE OF Y/N

word count: 7.6k (idk what the fuck happened)

“Damn it!”

You press down hard on the gas pedal, grimacing when your engine revs but the car doesn’t move an inch.

Your tires skid uselessly over the snow and your headlights reflect into a white wall of nothing—the snowfall so thick you can’t see anything in front of or around you, as if you’re trapped in a snow globe. The road is practically gone from existence.

The only thing you can hear is the wind whistling and the staticky sound of Carrie Underwood’s ‘Jesus Take the Wheel’ going in and out on the radio.

Yeah, you wish he would right about now.

“Fuuuck,” you whine, eyes stinging with unshed tears. You hit your wheel in frustration, dropping your forehead onto the horn. It honks pityingly.

Of course, the one time you were actually going out, you had forgotten to check the weather.

You’re probably going to die out here on this back road through the woods. There’s no one around, not that you can tell, and you’re low on gas. You were going to fill up once you got out of the woods and back into civilization, but the blizzard had other plans.

Your stomach rumbles, crying out for the dinner you had skipped in hopes of having a hearty, post-sex meal with the hook-up you are—or were—on the way to see. Though, that’s certainly not happening, and the snacks you usually had stuffed into the glovebox are gone, your sister having stolen them last week after you dropped her off at school.

(Darn that growing goober!)

You don’t have anything that might prove useful in this situation besides the long, slim heels on your pumps (which could be used in defense), and the thin peacoat wrapped around your shoulders. You check your phone to see if you can call a towing company, but of course, it has zero bars.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you whimper, pressing the heel of your palm to your watering eyes.

“It’s gonna be fine,” you say to yourself, picking your head up and rubbing away the tears in your eyes. You take deep breaths and put the car into park. “You’ll be fine.”

The sudden sound of a knock on your window startles you so bad you yelp, jumping in place as ice cold terror rises up your spine.

You can hardly see who had knocked, only their gray silhouette in the white blizzard.

The stranger knocks again.

“You alright in there?” The shadow asks, a hint of a Texan accent curling their vowels. Shit. It’s a man.

You slowly grab your shoe from your foot, holding it so the heel faces the window, and snow blows into your face as you carefully roll it down an inch or two for precaution, because who knows if it’s a fucking cannibal-axe-murderer who preys on unsuspecting women stranded in the snow. Maybe he does this every year—maybe this is his prime harvesting place and time.

Your eyes are wide as you peer through the opening warily, heel at the ready.

He’s close enough now that you can make out a prominent scowl, hard brown eyes, salt and pepper hair…

…wait a minute. You’d recognize that glower anywhere.

“Joel?”

Your lungs suddenly remember how to work again, and you inhale on a shaky breath. The hand holding your shoe drops to your thigh in relief.

His brown eyes narrow. “Peach…? The hell are you doin’ out here?” He asks, and Jesus you forgot about that stupid nickname he gave you. It sends butterflies loose in your stomach. “It’s a goddamn blizzard.”

You scowl in exasperation, though, at his obvious observation. “Yeah, I think I know that, Joel. What are you doing here?”

“I heard a honk, figured someone needed help.” He looks you up and down, his gaze lingering on the circles of mascara around your eyes. “Guess I’m right.”

You straighten in your seat, the gratitude you feel at his presence is overshadowed by the need to look self sufficient and capable, because you are. You’re a grown ass woman! So…

“I don’t need your help,” you huff.

He arches a brow. “Really.” It’s not a question.

You glower. “Maybe.”

Joel leans an arm on the frame of your car, and taps your window once more. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

God, this is so embarrassing!

“Fine.” You roll up the window and turn off the car. Joel tugs the car door open as far as it can go and offers a gloved hand to help you out. You wobble a bit when you step out in your heels, grateful that Joel is there to steady you. Though, the feeling sours a bit when he huffs in disbelief at your shoes.

You send him a glare, “I had plans for tonight, okay?”

“In the middle of a blizzard?” He deadpans.

“It wasn’t that bad when I first started driving.”

“Riiiight,” he drawls, “Well, I’m sorry to say, peach, but you ain’t driving in this mess anymore. You can stay with me tonight.” He says, closing the car door behind you.

Stay? With him?

“Joel, I couldn’t bother you with—“

“I wouldn’t offer if it was a bother.”

Joel’s as stubborn as a bull, more so than Ellie. And she is stubborn. You don’t argue, because it’s fruitless to argue with a brick wall like him. And, faced with freezing to death out here or staying in a well-insulated building, choosing the latter is obviously the right thing to do.

“Okay,” you relent and point to your trunk. “I have a bag back there.”

He raises a brow. “Heels and a bag…What kind of plans were we talkin’ about here?”

A hook up, Joel, you mentally drawl. Because…that’s exactly why you were out.

Like hell you’ll tell Joel that, though, he’d disapprove. He’s always been the protective type. You’ve known him since your junior year in college, after your families practically merged. But you’ve never seen Joel as another dad. He’s always been…something else to you.

“A trip to Nunya.” You supply instead of the truth, crossing your arms over your chest to try and conserve some heat.

“Nunya?” Joel’s brows furrow.

“Yeah. Nunya business, Joel.” You give him a sardonic smile.

He shakes his head and sends you a look you’re quite familiar with, the one that makes you feel inches smaller. And ten degrees hotter.

Joel sighs in exasperation and wordlessly wrenches the trunk open. He slings your bag over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing.

(It weighs a lot. You’d know, you shoved five different erotica books in there, just in case your date failed to make you orgasm.)

(Though thinking about Joel probably would’ve been enough.)

You lock your vehicle with a bemused glance. “What are we gonna do about my car?”

“I’ll tow it out tomorrow,” Joel says. “Roads are a fuckin’ mess right now.”

You trudge behind Joel to his quaint cottage sleeping cozily between tall pine trees and chubby evergreens. The porch light is on, and the windows glow a comforting orange. Puffs of smoke drift up from the chimney. It looks warm and inviting, like straight out of a Christmas movie.

You’re impressed at how close you managed to strand yourself to his house. Maybe Jesus really did take the wheel.

Joel kicks the snow off his boots on his front porch, then opens the door, gesturing for you to enter first.

When you breach the doorway with Joel at your heels, warmth settles over your cold-bitten cheeks along with an alluring aroma of meat and tomato and spices that hits you in a wave. You’ve never seen Joel cook anything other than Chef Boyardee Beefaroni, or burgers on Tommy’s rusting grill before, so this is certainly a surprise. It could be Sarah or Ellie’s cooking, but last time you checked, Sarah could cook eggs and Ellie could cook, well, nothing.

“So did you hire a personal chef to make whatever smells so good?”

He sets your bag down in the foyer with a grunt and shrugs out of his coat. “I made it.”

You can’t help the disbelieving laugh that bursts out of you, and the slightly offended look on Joel’s face only makes it harder to stop. You cover your mouth with your hand, but you’re absolutely positive he can see the mirth lighting in your eyes.

Though he’s offended, there’s a twitch to his lip, as if he’s trying not to laugh. “I’m perfectly capable of cooking.”

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry,” you try to stamp down your giggles. “Yes, you’re capable but… is it edible?”

Your stomach decides in that moment to start rumbling, and he smirks.

“Guess you’ll have to find out.”

You take your coat off and follow Joel towards the kitchen. As you follow, you take in his aggressively Texan decor and furniture. Paintings of cowboys and horses and mountains are hung artfully on cozy, beige walls. The Eagles’ discography drifts merrily in the air from an old record player. There’s a guitar stationed in practically every corner. It’s all so very Joel, though the random space ornamentals and butterfly drawings sprinkled about are so very Ellie and Sarah. It makes you smile.

“Where are the girls?” You ask, because usually those little stinkers would be stationed at the dining room table, bickering over the answer to a ridiculously difficult math problem.

“At Dina’s,” he answers, taking off his gloves and dropping them on the table. “They wanted to play in the snow.”

Oh. So you’re here alone with him. Anxiety prickles at the edges of your mind, sinking in your stomach.

“I guess I was the only one that didn’t know about the blizzard, then.”

“You must be livin’ under a rock to not know about it.”

You grumble in protest, but your grievances disintegrate on your tongue as you enter the kitchen and near the simmering pot. You breathe in the aroma, the smell so powerful it's almost like you’re actually tasting it.

You look over your shoulder at him. “Is this chili?”

He nods. “Want some?”

“Absolutely.”

He comes up beside you to open a cabinet. “Go ‘head make yourself comfortable on the couch. I’ll bring it out to you.” Your mouth dries at the sliver of skin that peeks out beneath his flannel as he reaches up.

You force yourself to turn around. “Wow. Such a gentleman, didn’t realize you were capable,” you say, your saccharine sweet tone doing well to mask how flustered you feel. You can breathe easier the second you exit the kitchen and enter the living room.

His voice follows you. “A simple ‘thank you’ ‘stead'a this attitude would do you some good, y'know?"

"I know," you sing-song, grinning as you settle yourself down onto his couch, grabbing a blanket from a basket on the way. A fire crackles in the hearth and you study the flames with fascination as warmth spreads across your skin. You tug the blanket around you, pulling it up to your chin.

Joel emerges a minute later and your gaze darts from the fire to the bowl he holds out to you. “Here.”

“Thank you, Joel,” you say emphatically, accepting the bowl and cradling it in your hands.

He smiles, “There we go. Guess you do have some manners.”

You give him a half-bow. Joel just smiles in that familiar way, like you’re just so ridiculous he can’t believe it. It makes your stomach curl giddily.

Having rolled up the sleeves of his flannel to his elbows, Joel’s forearms are on display, muscles flexing as he tosses another log into the hearth, and you drop your gaze to your chili, as to not get caught staring. He sits down in the armchair adjacent to you with his own bowl.

You blow on the steaming chili before taking a bite, an involuntary moan releasing from you the moment it hits your tongue—paprika, peppers, tomato, cumin. It warms your stomach pleasantly. Who knew Joel could cook so well?

“This is so good,” you mumble around your bite.

He swallows his own chili down, pupils large as he watches you. “Edible enough for ya?”

You nod enthusiastically, “I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

“Mmhmm,” he hums, unconvinced, but he’s smiling at you again, and you can’t help but return it.

Comfortable silence lapses between the both of you as you eat your meals. Joel finishes first, of course, setting his bowl on the coffee table and leaning into his chair with a satisfied groan. He throws an arm over the back, spreading his legs. You watch him while he watches the fire, heat licking through you.

Eventually, after you slow down, you speak again.

“Thank you, Joel, seriously, for letting me stay.”

His eyes find yours and he nods. “‘Course, peach. Wouldn’t’ve let you freeze out there.”

You nod and glance around, taking in his cabin. A large, stone fireplace is set in the wall, a tree trunk coffee table stationed in the center of the living room, some handmade wood carvings of horses and other animals scattered about. There’s a drawing of himself sitting on the mantel, “To: Joel, From: Ellie” signed at the bottom. Your heart swells.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve been here,” you remark.

“I know,” Joel says. “You should come around more often. The girls miss you.”

Your smile turns shy and you feel a spike of bravery. “What about you? Do you miss me?”

He takes a moment to answer, a veiny hand coming up to rub at his beard as he leans on the arm of the chair. Onyx eyes drag down your figure. “‘Course I do, darlin’”

Heat pools hot and thick between your thighs at that look, and you’re about to press him about how much he really misses you when a buzzing in your pocket captures your attention. Your phone. Guess you have some bars now.

marcus: where r u?

Oh right, the hookup!

you: blizzard blocked the roads. won’t make it tonight.

marcus: ok.

You scoff at the lack of depth in his response. Not even a “stay safe out there”? Jesus. You settle into the couch with a frustrated sigh, head thumping against the cushions, eyes falling shut as exhaustion creeps into you.

Boys always thinking with their dicks. Why do you even bother?

“What’s that about?” Joel asks. You peek an eye open at him. Firelight dances across his tan skin. He gestures to your phone. “That gotta do with the real reason for your trip tonight?”

You rub your temple, “Yeah.”

He hums. "...Listen, I know it's none of my business but—“

"It was a hookup, Joel," you interrupt, already knowing where he was going with that. He tends to do that, beat around the bush so much until you’re desperate to just say it. More desperate than he was to know it. You’d rather just skip that whole process.

"Oh,” his brows furrow.

"Yeah," you repeat dumbly, fiddling with the blanket.

"There, uh, ain't no shame in that, darlin'."

You quirk a skeptical brow, "I know."

"Alright," he mumbles, avoiding eye contact with you. Awkwardness settles between you.

"Things are just a bit dry," you supply, though you have no idea why you're still talking, or why you described yourself and the state of your love-life like that because Joel doesn't need to know that. Nobody needs to know that

But it captures his attention, because he's looking at you again, though this time annoyance is written on his features, along with something else you can’t name, his eyes practically black. Damnit, you knew he’d disapprove, even if he claims there’s no shame in it.

“And you went to some random boy for that?"

You straighten on the couch. "Who else am I supposed to go to, Joel? You?” Sarcasm drips from your words.

What the hell is he implying?

His gaze jumps to the fire, the muscles in his jaw clenching, his fingers flexing on the arm of his chair. "Never mind I said anythin'."

Your arms cross defensively over your chest. "I don't need your judgment, Joel.”

"I ain't judgin'."

"Sure sounds like it."

He stands abruptly, running a hand through his peppered locks. "I'm not, I just—listen, it's gettin' late. You should sleep. I didn’t have time to get the girls’ room ready, do you want my bed?”

You shake your head, "Couch is perfectly fine, Joel. Thanks."

“You sure?”

“Yes, Joel. I’m a grown woman who can handle her decisions.”

"I know that.” Frustration laces his words. He sighs, hand coming up to rest on his belt. “Just... let me know if you need anythin'."

“You got it.”

He turns the living room light off on the way to his bedroom down the hall. You don’t watch him leave.

Once he's gone, you change into your pajamas and settle yourself on the couch beneath a blanket or two. The crackling of the fire and the howling wind outside lulls you to sleep faster than you expect.

-----

“Fuck.”

The aggressive shivers that wrack your body are what wake you up in the middle of the night.

Your blanket is wrapped tightly around you, but it’s a thin, furry thing. Nothing like the down comforter you have at home. The fire has also gone out in the hearth, low flames flickering in the ash.

You pull the blanket up to your chin, curling in on yourself as the cold permeates your skin.

Aside from the chattering of your teeth and the squall outside, it’s eerily silent in the house. You realize, now, that the whooshes from the heating system you had grown accustomed to before are gone

Shit.

You reach for the lamp on the side table, pulling down on the chain. It doesn’t turn on.

“Shit.”

You sit up, blanket wrapped around your waist. The power is out. The snow storm must’ve knocked out a power line. It’s too cold to stay out here with only your thin blanket and the clothes on your back. And Joel had said…

Let me know if you need anythin’.

You really don’t want to bother him, but the goose flesh rippling across your skin and the pathetic way your lips are quivering, along with the shudders that wrack your body as it attempts to maintain homeostasis are not something you can just sleep through.

You tightly wrap your blanket around your shoulders and tiptoe down the hall. You can see a warm light from Joel’s bedroom, the flicker of a flame on the cream walls.

You slowly push the door open but hesitate at the sight of Joel buried comfortably beneath his comforter. You don’t want to wake him… but his room is awfully toasty from the fire crackling away in his own hearth. And his bed looks absolutely heavenly.

You steel yourself and pad to the side he sleeps on.

“Joel?” You whisper. He doesn’t respond.

You lean over to gently push his shoulder. “Joel.”

“Mm—“ His brows furrow, and he scrunches further into the blankets, reminiscent of a cat curling its paws over its head when woken up.

You push his shoulder again, a bit harder this time. “Joel. Wake up.”

He swats at the air, as if your hand is a fly buzzing around his ear. “‘M awake,” he mumbles against the pillow.

“Joel—the power went out. I’m freezing.”

He’s silent for a moment, eyes still shut. He’s no doubt rolling the words around in his head, trying to make sense of them through a sleepy haze.

Then, when he does, he wordlessly scoots back and reaches for the comforter. He lifts it, offering the space next to him to you.

“C’mere.”

You splutter, taken off guard by the invitation. “What? Joel—“

“‘M not askin’, peach. C’mere.” The last word leaves his lips like a command, and you straighten reflexively, apprehension holding your limbs hostage as want curls dangerously low in your abdomen at his tone of voice. That should be enough warning to not climb into bed with him.

You debate telling him to get his ass up and give you another blanket along with a couple more logs in the hearth so you can avoid any kind of proximity between you (lest you feel those capital-f Feelings), but you can practically feel the heat radiating from the bed and his body beckoning you in.

Oh fuck it.

You let loose a shaky breath and hesitantly slip beneath the covers, facing away from him. You stay glued to the edge of the bed, careful not to let any part of you touch him. Your legs curl into your chest for extra measure. Immediately, it’s so much better. So warm. So comfortable.

And it smells like Joel.

You inhale the earthy and spicy scent of him that lingers on the linen as your head sinks into the soft pillow, but your inhale chokes off as Joel’s strong arm snakes around your waist beneath the comforter, his large hand burning like a brand when it settles hot over your stomach.

He pulls you into him, the sheets swishing as he tucks you into his body. Your back slots against his warm, broad naked chest. His bare legs intertwine with yours, his pelvis almost flush against your ass, only covered by a thin pair of briefs.

Holy shit.

You can feel everything.

“Joel?” You question, voice quivering at the sudden closeness. “What are you doing?”

“Keepin’ you warm,” he mumbles against the nape of your neck.

You do feel warmer, though it might not be entirely because he’s holding you, but rather because of how he’s holding you. He’s curled around you, like a koala around a tree, thighs bracketing yours.

You can feel his beard scraping at the nape of your neck, breaths puffing against your feverish skin.

His thumb is rubbing softly along the pudge of your tummy, palm branding your skin, his fingers dipping innocently beneath the hem of your shorts.

You can barely breathe, or even think, heartbeat stuttering as arousal pools liquid hot and heavy between your legs. Every unknowing twitch from Joel’s fingers makes it worse. Every touch of his calloused fingertips against your skin is pure agony. Every brush of your ass against his pelvis has you throbbing. You stare wide-eyed into the darkness, gaze roaming the pitch black, as if something out there could make you forget about the ever-growing desire you feel for Joel.

You can’t sleep like this.

It seems like Joel can though, appearing to already be deep in slumber. He hasn’t moved in a few minutes, his exhales even and slow against you.

You try to ignore the wetness between your legs, ignore the instinctual urge to roll your hips back against him. You should just go to sleep. But this ache you feel, pounding and deep and relentless…You have to do something about it, even with Joel holding you close.

He won’t mind…right?

But how are you supposed to touch yourself with Joel’s hand in the way?

You could just move it. That’s the right thing to do, but it feels too good, so hot and heavy on you that you just don’t want to, and as a result, an idea so absolutely fucked worms its way into your mind, lust and desperation destroying any last semblance of rational thought. You could…

No. No. You can’t do that. He’s a human fucking being, not a hand shaped vibrator.

But… you really want to, and he’s asleep so…he won’t even know…right?

You make up your mind and slowly curl your fingers around Joel’s deadweight palm, biting your lip in concentration and shame as you carefully urge his hand further into your shorts. After each nudge of his palm, you wait to see if Joel gives you any sign of him being awake. But he’s dead asleep. After a moment, you keep going.

This is so fucked, but you can’t bring yourself to care when you finally feel his thick fingers brush over your clothed folds.

“Shit,” you whisper, breathlessly, holding back a whimper. You manipulate his hand so that his palm is resting large and warm over your aching clit, while his index and middle finger are placed heavily above your heat.

And then, you really say fuck you to your morals.

You give an experimental thrust of your hips into his palm, shuddering at the contact against your clit. Then you wait to see if Joel reacts, your head tilting a bit to look over your shoulder. But Joel hasn’t moved, hasn’t said a word. Good.

Confident he won’t wake, you rock your hips again and again, holding onto his hand with your own, pressing it down with each thrust of your hips to get that sweet contact. The heel of his palm bumps your aching clit with each thrust, and you bite back moans and whimpers well enough, but you can’t hide the deepening of your breaths as you climb closer and closer to your climax.

Everything else fades away as you just focus on that one goal. On crawling over the edge. You hardly feel the growing smirk pressed to the back of your neck, or the way Joel’s cock is now hard against your ass as you grind against his palm.

“F-fuck,” you huff, eyes tightly shut as you ground yourself in his presence behind you, the beat of his heart thudding against your spine, the rise and fall of his chest, the light, unconscious brush of his lips on your neck. Closure is on the horizon as you imagine him lifting up on his arm and leaning over to actually get you off, his teeth biting down on your shoulder as he thrusts his fingers into your aching cunt.

“Joel—“ you quietly moan.

The moment his name slips from your lips, his hand suddenly pulls back, and you let out a frustrated groan (he can’t do that!), which quickly turns into a squeak of mortification (oh yes, he absolutely can!).

Because Joel is awake.

He. Is. Awake.

And he knows what you were doing, his chest rumbling against your spine as he—is he fucking laughing at you?

“Needy girl, aren’t you, peach?”

Mortification ignites in your cheeks, nausea pooling in your stomach. “Joel, oh my god, I’m so sorry—“

His hand gravitates to your thigh, curling around it. He pulls it up, inserting his knee in between your legs and he griiiinds it into your clothed cunt. Your desperate apology is cut off by a reflexive wanton moan, your back arching as pleasure reverberates inside you.

“‘S okay, baby, I understand. So fuckin’ desperate you had to use me while I was sleepin’, huh? Didn’t get what you wanted earlier so now you’re searchin’ for somethin’ else, hm?”

His large hand finds your waist again, sliding down your stomach to inch beneath both your shorts and your panties now. You gasp as his fingertips find your clit easily.

“I’m just a ‘lil offended I wasn’t your first choice,” he chides, fingers slipping through your soaking folds. “But I like this much better than you findin’ some boy to get you off. You need’a be fucked by a man, darlin’. Ain’t that right?”

His words send heat straight to your core, thighs clenching around his knee as he ruts it against you while simultaneously stimulating your clit with his fingers.

“Yes, Joel,” you moan. “Need you.”

His teeth scrape against your throat when he growls, “Goddamn right you do.”

You can’t believe this is happening.

Joel slides his hand further into your panties, his middle finger curling in to sink into your soaked cunt. You choke on a gasp.

“Who’s the guy?” He asks, randomly, while his finger rocks into you.

You can’t think as Joel inserts his ring finger alongside the other, stretching you so deliciously. “W-what?”

“The boy you were gonna see tonight. Who is he?”

Who was it? Mark? Matt? And why does he care? You don’t know, you don’t care, only thoughts of Joel Joel Joel consume your waking being.

“I—I don’t know, Joel. Please, oh my god.”

He hums pityingly. “Poor thing can't even remember his name.” His other hand comes up to slide through your hair, gripping the locks at the nape of your neck. He tugs, and you melt. “I’ll make sure you don’t forget mine.”

He doesn’t need to worry about that.

Joel moves his thumb to circle your clit as he thrusts his thick, long fingers up and into you, curling them to hit that spot that has your heartbeat dropping between your thighs, desperate and loud and begging for release.

“Hhhoh— Joel!”

“Tha’s right, baby. So goddamn wet. You’ve been dealin’ with this for awhile now, huh?”

You nod into the pillow on a broken moan as his fingers withdraw and sink into you at a steady pace, his thumb circling and circling and circling.

“Words, baby.”

You cry out, hands gripping the pillow. “Yes, yes. Joel. Been wanting this f’so long.”

“Should’a come to me first. Would’a helped you out a long time ago,” he drawls.

Yes you absolutely should have, based on how quickly you’re approaching your orgasm.

Your cries are so loud, but you don’t care, focusing only on your pleasure and the feel of Joel’s mouth on your throat.

You’re finally getting what you want. And fuck, is it amazing.

Your eyes roll back as it all builds up inside you, Joel’s hand unrelenting as he fucks you closer and closer to the edge.

You’re scorching, everything hot and intense, your stomach tightening, your legs stretching out as the pleasure builds and builds.

Fuck, you’re gonna cum—

It rips through you violently, eyes prickling with tears, your thighs clenching as your walls bare down repeatedly around Joel’s fingers, making him groan.

“Good girl,” Joel murmurs, hand eventually inching out of you and your shorts to squeeze your thigh appreciatively as aftershocks run through you, thighs quaking and clit throbbing. “That’s what you needed, huh? S’it feel good, cummin’ all over my fingers?”

His fucking voice!

“Mhmm,” you hum in agreement, sinking into the sheets, eyes drooping shut as pleasure lulls you to sleep.

He tsks, “Wake up, darlin’ I ain’t done with you yet.”

His beard scrapes against your neck as he moves to your ear.

“It’s my turn to use you.”

Your eyes shoot open. Fuck.

Joel pulls your panties down your legs as far as he can, and you squirm to wriggle them off of you.

He pulls away for a moment, but when he’s back, the bare, hot, thick length of him is pressed between your ass cheeks, and a full body shudder runs through you.

Holy shit, he’s big.

He grips your thigh again, but this time he throws it over his own. And then you feel it, the slick head of his cock as he guides it through your folds.

Oh fuck.

“You okay, peach?” He asks, laying a gentle kiss on your shoulder. Now you have tears in your eyes for an entirely different reason. His hand slides across your waist and up beneath the hem of your shirt, palming your breast. Your nipples tighten.

Your mouth feels dry and you swallow down a lump of lava. “Y-yes, Joel.”

“Good. Wanna give you all of me, how’s that sound, darlin’?”

You will take whatever, anything you can get from Joel.

“Good, Joel. Yes, please, oh my god.”

“There are those manners.”

A desperate whine slips from your lips as he directs the head of his cock into you, slowly and carefully, his hand running up and down your thigh in comforting strokes. God, he’s stretching you so much, hot and thick and pulsing inside you. It’s almost painful, but it’s a welcome pain.

“Jesus, Joel,” you moan when he stops to let you breathe, “You’re so big.”

“I ain’t even halfway in yet, darlin’.”

“W-what?” How is that even possible?

“You can take it.” He says, sliding in some more and fuck you don’t have much of a choice. but you can, and you will because he feels too fucking good, and you’re ready for him to make you feel it into next week.

“Is…is it all the way in yet?” You ask, thoroughly stretched and filled.

“Almost, sweet girl,” he breathes. “Goddamn, you’re tight.”

That makes you clench down even more, and he releases a pained groan behind you. “Relax, darlin’, c’mon.”

You do your best and let yourself sink into the bed, taking deep breaths and concentrating on the crackling of the fire.

And then, he thrusts fully into you, filling you up completely, and your mind is right back to him, a soft cry slipping from your lips into the pillow.

“There we go, tha’s it. Good job. Taking me so well,” he croons, stroking your side.

“F-fuck me, Joel, please move.”

He squeezes your ass in his large palm in retaliation to your command. “You use me, I use you, remember?”

But he listens anyway, likely desperate to move himself, because then he’s gripping your hip with a large hand and pulling back just to sheath himself fully into you once more, his cock head bumping against your cervix, and holy fucking shit.

“Joel!” You cry, and he leans over to kiss you, teeth biting at your plump lower lip as he thrusts into you again.

And again.

He rolls into you at a steady, bruising pace, and you’re practically boneless as you just take it. Cries and whimpers and moans spilling out of you like a gas leak as he mouths down your throat, sucking and biting and oh my god this is way better than just getting yourself off on his hand.

Then Joel shifts, pushing at your side to press your stomach into the mattress. You whine as he pulls out of you to situate himself behind you. He grabs your hips with both hands and pulls them up and backwards, easing himself back into you until your ass meets his skin, then he rolls his hips, driving his cock deep from a brand new angle.

All you can do is sob into the pillow.

He’s so fucking big, so fucking deep you can’t think of anything else besides him and his wonderful cock, or the filthy things he’s whispering into your shoulder blades.

His large hand plants itself on your spine, and your hands scramble for purchase on a pillow.

“Sweet girl, taking me so fuckin’ well,” he purrs. “You were desperate for this cock, huh? God, I wish you could see yourself. Split open on me like this. Your little boy toy wouldn’t be able to fuck you like this, ain’t that right?"

You shake your head. God, why did you even make that dick appointment in the first place?

You hadn’t even realized what being fucked by a “real man” meant until now.

Joel knows how to fucking deliver, you guess that’s why he’s so successful in his contracting business. He’s delivering you straight to that blessed release.

You clench around the girth of him, the filthy sounds of your arousal echoing in his room along with the cracks and snaps from the fire burning steadily in the hearth.

If you couldn’t sleep before, you definitely will be able to after this because you’re mindless as he fucks you into oblivion.

“Joel, fuck—mmph—!”

“Yeah, that’s right. Can’t say anythin’ but my name.”

His breathing has become more labored, desperate grunts escaping his lips as his cock twitches inside of you. He’s getting close, deep and gravely moans falling out of him as his thrusts become harder and more sporadic.

His hand sneaks around your front, spanning your entire stomach as he slides down to your soaking folds, his middle and ring finger finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and giving them a gentle tap before circling, using that same method from before that had you squirming.

You writhe on his length, legs falling out beneath you as your orgasm swells within you.

“Please Joel,” you whimper into the pillow.

“I’ve got you,” he promises.

It’s there, filling your body, building and cresting and searing white-hot through your limbs.

And then he thrusts a certain way, hitting that spot within you, and his fingers are circling and—

Yeah.

You fall boneless to the mattress as you come apart, your arousal coating Joel’s cock as he continues to fuck you through your release, stroking your spine. Pleasure floods through your body as the tension releases, and tears freely fall as you cry into the pillow.

Because goddamn it!

How can something feel so good?

And then Joel’s pulling out of you and letting loose a long, satisfied moan as he comes all over your back, hot stripes painting you.

He collapses next to you, groaning something about his back.

And you can’t help but laugh, delirious and soft, and Joel’s laughing too, brown eyes sparkling. His calloused hand comes up, runs his thumb along your jaw, and he’s smiling at you, soft and unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.

“You alright, peach?”

“Ohhh yeah,” you giggle, sighing with contentment.

You’re gonna be feeling this for days, just like you wanted.

Joel’s lips brush against your forehead gently, and you’re too tired to acknowledge it, slumber pulling you under far too quickly. You think you can feel the gentle swipe of a wet washcloth on your back before you pass out.

-----

“Fuck…”

The bed is empty when you wake, and a spike of anxiety shoots through you as you sit up. A fire still crackles in the hearth, a fresh log dropped in the ash. On the night stand is a note, beneath it, one of Joel’s t-shirts, your jeans, and a pair of your underwear.

Mortification climbs through you as you read:

Peach,

My bathroom’s on the left if you’d like to shower. I hope you don’t mind, I went through your bag to get you some panties underwear. Lot of books in there. You sure like to read.

Oh god, he found your erotica stack. The covers are not misleading, either, he definitely knows what kind of books they are. You force yourself to keep reading through the humiliation.

I’m out picking up Sarah and Ellie, I’ll be home soon. There’s pancakes on the counter. We’ll tow your car when I get back.

Also–about last night…we don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to. But, I want you to know that if you ever need something like that again, I’m here. And for anything else. I’m here. Always.

See you soon.

Warmth fills your body and you reread those last sentences over and over.

Always. Does he really mean that?

You check the alarm clock on his nightstand–it’s eleven fucking a.m. Holy shit, you haven’t slept that late in a long time.

When you stand, an ache radiates through you, and memories of last night flit in your mind and along with them, a fresh new wave of arousal. You scramble for the shower.

You emerge fresh and clean twenty minutes later, smelling like Joel, having only his body wash and shampoo to use. Each inhale is practically torture, and the ache between your legs is just another reminder. Seeing yourself in his shirt makes it worse. You try and push it away.

You descend the steps, halting when you hear the sound of Ellie’s voice from the kitchen.

“And I was like, pew pew! And I got both of them out!”

Sarah’s scoff of disbelief follows. “Nuh-uh! You didn’t even hit me!”

You creep down the steps, smiling a bit at Ellie’s outcry of “Yes I fucking did!”, and then you hear it–Joel’s low laugh, the Texan drawl.

“You kiddos are gonna drive me crazy. Just eat your damn pancakes.”

“Why’d you make these in the first place? You don’t even like pancakes,” Sarah teases.

“Uh…”

You decide you should probably help him out. “Hey girls.”

Three heads snap in your direction. The eyes of one skirting down your body, a blush creeping across his cheeks. The other two brighten in shock.

“What are you doing here!” Ellie gasps.

“We haven’t seen you in forever!” Sarah adds.

You enter the kitchen and come up behind them to pull them in for a hug, your arms hooking around their necks. You smush their cheeks against yours. Ellie grumbles, Sarah laughs.

“I know! I’ve missed you guys so much. I’m just super busy with being an adult and all that shit,” you say, letting them go so they can breathe. You round the island, grabbing a plate and stacking two pancakes on it.

“Well, stop being busy. We miss you,” Ellie says.

“If I could, I would.”

“Why are you wearing Dad’s shirt?” Sarah asks, eyes narrowing, a mischievous smile pulling at her lips.

“I–um–” the question catches you off guard, and you scramble for an excuse, eyes flicking to Joel desperately. He clears his throat and crosses his arms over his broad chest, now covered in yet another, dark flannel. How many does he own?

“Snowstorm stranded her here last night, and she didn’t have any clean clothes,” Joel says, definitively.

It’s not a lie at all, and yet, it feels like one.

Sarah and Ellie exchange a look that says, yeah fucking right. You shovel pancake into your mouth to try and cool down the blush in your cheeks.

“Speakin’ of,” he continues, “I’ve got the tow dolly all hooked up so when you’re done, we can tow your car out.”

“Great. Thank you, Joel.”

His brown eyes flick between yours, his hand coming up to rest large and warm on your shoulder. “‘Course, sweetheart.”

You finish your pancakes without any more embarrassing questions from the girls, thank God, and then you’re out in the snow wearing a pair of Joel’s boots stuffed with socks (they’re too big, but they’re better than heels) and bundled up in one of his coats, watching Joel tow your tiny car out of the snowbank.

It’s just as cold as yesterday, though the dreary sky has cleared into a baby blue, the sun bright and high above the clouds. The roads are clearer, the snow plows having come by not too long ago.

You grimace as you hear your car groan and creak as Joel pulls it out of the snow, big puffs of it falling off the roof in clumps. Eventually, it’s on solid ground once more, and he tows it back toward his cabin.

Back in the driveway, Joel hops out of his truck and double checks your car. He pats the roof of it when he deems it accetable. “All good to go, sweetheart.”

You sigh in relief, “Thank you so much Joel, seriously.”

He nods, though he looks…nervous for some reason. “‘Course, darlin’. Glad I could help.”

You don’t really want to leave, but you’ve bothered him long enough, so you stroll to the driver's side and go to open it, but suddenly Joel’s hand comes down to keep it closed. You look up at him confused.

His expression is hard, serious as he looks down at you. “Do you regret last night?”

Well. You were not expecting that. You thought that, maybe, it would just remain undiscussed. A blip. Something you both shared, but never spoke of again. You know your answer, though.

“No. I don’t.”

“Good,” he says, eyes dark, “me either.”

He opens the door for you, pauses for a second then shuts it, voice desperate. “I just need to say this, before you go.”

You nod, encouraging him to go on.

He takes a deep breath, rakes a hand through his graying locks. Pinches the bridge of his nose, and shuts his eyes tight. When he opens them again, there's a hard determination in them. Your pulse quickens, your legs turn to jelly.

“I like you, peach,” he says. “I understand if you don’t want to be with me because of the whole single father thing. And, also because I’m me. But I just thought I’d tell you how I felt, because,” he huffs out a laugh, shakes his head, “I’m thinkin’ you might like me, too.”

Your hands are shaking, and not because of the cold. Maybe you should buy a lottery ticket with how lucky you've been these past fifteen hours.

“I’ve liked you since the moment I met you, Joel," you confess.

“Oh,” he says, breathless, and a smile pulls at his lips.

“Yeah,” you breathe, your own grin forming to match his.

The breeze shakes the evergreens, drifting flakes of snow onto Joel’s graying hair. His nose is reddened by the biting cold, but his eyes are warm as he smiles down at you.

“Not gonna lie to you sweetheart, I’m kind of glad you got stranded here.”

"Yeah, me too," you laugh, and then you pull him down to you, pressing your lips against his, smiling into the kiss.

This kiss is the exact opposite of the one he gave you last night. It’s careful, sweet, tentative. He reveres your mouth, rather than ravishes it. You’re both bundled in multiple layers, standing in the freezing cold rather than lying naked in a warm bed.

And yet, it’s just as perfect, if not more.

Eventually Joel pulls back, hands heavy on your waist. He’s still grinning. His hands frame your face, his thumb running softly along your cheekbone.

“Peach,” he says. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #tlou #tlou fic #pedro pascal #joel miller smut #joel miller

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liesonmytongues · 2 months ago

Text

Whoo- sorry this one took a while 🙏

Hornet Hybrids x FTM Reader

Summary- What happens when you mix a weird fungal disease, a curious reader, and somewhat obsessive hornets? Don't let the smell deter you, it's just a little mold.

Warnings- Trans male reader written by trans male author, body horror, apt descriptions of said body horror, mold and fungus, hornet/wasp hybrids, abduction turned willing relocation, reader is referred to as 'she' and 'queen' by the hornets at first, but that changes, mild yandere

Word count- 3,400

There’s been news recently, of a strange sickness going around in the hives of insectoids and killing off queens and princesses. It was sudden, started out with just a couple of hives–and obviously even just a couple was still a tragedy, any unexpected death is, but there wasn’t any reason to panic. A couple of deaths when the weather got bad or food was scarce was normal, the hives would be able to birth a new queen just fine so long as they’d stored some royal jelly. Really, truly, absolutely no reason to panic.

Not until 4 more queens dropped dead over a week, and 6 more the week after that, and then they just…kept happening. It took a total of 15 over the month before people started taking it seriously, and by then the hives–every single one of them, not just the affected–were in a frenzy. If they still had their queens, they were pumping out stores of royal jelly taking up nearly a quarter of the reserves. Not much of a problem as long as the expansion didn’t mess with the surrounding architecture. No, the problem came with the hives that lost theirs–their stores weren’t working. Their stores weren’t working, their larvae weren’t taking, and they were dying.

That's what most news stations are reporting, at least. It’s hard to get real, definitive information when so few people have been inside, but that isn’t stopping anyone from speculating. Between headlines like ‘Is it zoonotic?’ ‘Should families evacuate?’ and ‘Women and children advised to keep distance.’, some might be tempted to go full apocalyptic bomb shelter. Hell, trying to watch a TV show or scroll online without the bombardment of conspiracy theories and half-baked ‘scientific’ journals has become something of an Olympic event, so you’ve stopped bothering most days…

Turning off the TV for the third time in an hour, you huff and fall back into your couch, vaguely hoping the cushions would swallow you up and lull you off somewhere you don’t have to think about disease and death and stress and not succumbing to disease and death and stress…maybe going outside would be a good idea. Immediately your brain starts trying to make excuses for why you should stay inside–

I’m so tired, work was so stressful this week, what if I come across someone and they act like a dick, did I even listen to the news? Zoonotic, they said, it might be zoonotic! Disease, death, stress, disease, death, stress, disease, death, stress, disease, death, stress, disease, death, stre–

…

…Yeah. Outside sounds good.

The fresh air actually feels…really nice–once you manage to slip your shoes on and leave. It’s been longer than you’d like to admit since you were able to get outside and enjoy yourself–way too long since you’ve felt the sun without the barrier of glass or in the stints to and from your car–and getting to take deep breaths that don’t smell like stale dust or dirty clothes is…y’know, a breath of fresh air. Refreshing. Uplifting.

It’s almost frustrating to know that seeing flowers and trees blow in the wind, hearing dogs excitedly bark and scurry along, that feeling the wind on your face was all you needed to stop your slump–or at least pause it. Sitting inside for so long, miserable, and all you had to do to stop feeling crazy was to…leave? What type of bullshit is that? You shake off that thought before it can depress you again, choosing to ignore an uncollected newspaper flittering on your neighbor's lawn for the same reason- but not before you caught a glimpse of the title. ‘5 women disappear…’ and then you hurry your eyes away. That type of thing was exactly why you stopped watching TV, no point in switching it out for an older alternative.

The walk is, by all means, quite pleasant–especially once you get the lingering curiosity of the papers out of your head–but it’s hard to shake the feeling that something is a little off. Not pit-in-your-stomach disaster off, but the kind of off that makes your feet slow just a smidge as little whispers drawl be alert, be cautious. Looking back, that’s the point you should have turned around–listened to the desire telling you to walk back home and dwell in its bleakness. Your desire for anything but was stronger.

As a thin thread of unease tightens around your chest, you move past the usual stretches of the neighborhood–where the trees line the sidewalk, breaking up slabs of concrete with their roots, little flowers poking out of cracks in the ground, all the positive things you meant for this stretch to be about–without really noticing them. You just want to keep moving, not wanting to feel confined. It’s the same impulse that had you pacing through rooms at home, to avoid the stillness of it all. The wind shifts, colder now, ruffling your hair almost deliberately, but you’re still only half-present.

The reason for your unease brings you back.

The first thing you really noticed was the smell–shocking, considering the behemoth of the structure it came from. Stale and stagnant, with a sickly sweet quality reminiscent of fruit gone to rot. Mold and mildew, decay and putrefaction, fungus and– It’s honey. Curdled, tainted honey. It hits you all at once, making your stomach turn and your eyes water in its intensity. The origin isn’t far behind–faded bronze, gold, chocolate, peeking above the treeline in thick spindles and crests–any other time, such a display of natural architecture would be awe-inspiring–for a moment it is–then the smell hits you again. That thought is tossed as quickly as it came.

“What…the hell?” It’s hard to make out at first, the trickling of greyish blooms causing instability in the foundation, comb dipping just slightly to one side as connective tissues feed growing clusters of fungus. It’s foul.

And you can’t look away.

It’s almost like a car crash. Such– God, what can you even call this? A travesty? A horror? The most disgusting thing you’ve ever seen? Either way, you can’t stop yourself from moving a little bit closer, aching to get a better look at what you’ve been hearing about online for the better part of a month–and you knew this hive was here, you’d seen it plenty of times on your way to work, you’ve interacted with some of the hornet-looking creatures buzzing around- how didn’t you know they were like this? That itching feeling crawls back up your spine, and suddenly, in its entirety, you’re slapped across the face with the knowledge that you need to leave.

It was a mistake to get a better view, to let yourself be drawn in. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to take a step back, then another. The unease crawling up your spine grows stronger with every second you linger. Everything about this feels wrong– something is wrong. There’s no way in hell anything in there is alive–not without being eaten up by gangrene or horribly infected with mold–but the sensation of eyes boring into your skin presses your logical mind to question otherwise.

You don’t need any more reason to go.

Your breath is shallow as you turn away, forcing yourself to move despite the heavy weight of dread pressing against your ribs. Each step feels sluggish, like wading through knee-deep water, but you push forward, eyes fixed on the path ahead. The air is thick, damp with the scent of decay, and the silence behind you is somehow louder than any noise could be.

The farther you get, the more your heartbeat settles–though the unease never quite leaves. By the time you reach familiar streets, the world around you has returned to something resembling normal. The trees rustle gently in the breeze, distant laughter floats from an open window, and the scent of someone's dinner cooking fills the air. You try to let these things ground you, to remind yourself that the world hasn't completely fallen apart.

Your house comes into view, its familiarity a welcome sight. You step onto the porch and hesitate before unlocking the door, glancing over your shoulder one last time. The street is quiet, the sky beginning to darken with the onset of evening. Nothing seems out of place, yet you can't shake the feeling that you've brought something back with you.

Shaking your head, you step inside and lock the door behind you. The quietness of your home is comforting, even as the faintest trace of that sickly sweet rot seems to cling–a whiff of it still lingering in the air. You tell yourself it's just in your head. That everything is fine.

Tomorrow, you'll go to work, and the world will keep moving. Everything will be fine.

You don't know when you fell asleep–Christ, you still have your clothes on, did the walk really mess you up that bad?–just that you're not anymore, it’s still dark, and a comforting weight on your chest is attempting to lull you off again. You try to turn, to pull the blanket up a little higher and drift back to sleep, but it's…a lot heavier than usual. A few more tugs should do the trick, it's probably just stuck in the corner of the mattress.

…Or not. Another tug maybe, it's just–

“My Queen?” A hoarse, feminine voice interjects your thoughts and everything goes out the window. What you'd figured was a weighted blanket was immediately realized to be the legs and lower torso of a hornet, her carapace locking you into your position. Not that you’d have had any more of a chance at getting away if she wasn’t straddling you–her body is nearly twice your size, it would only take a moment to be caught–and you really don’t care to find out what would happen if you tried.

“My Queen, you're awake- We've been waiting for you, you must…and you…it's…!” It’s hard to focus on whatever speech she's clearly giving when her abdomen is pulsating excitedly so close to your thighs, stinger just barely grazing your leg as it slides in and out of its sheath like it has a mind of its own. Queen? Queen? The mild sickness and blanket confusion at being referred to as such just makes the whole situation harder on your psyche. Forcing your eyes away from the terrifying sight, you try to pay attention–hoping to make sense of what’s happening–but it’s hard to think clearly. The weight of her body presses down on you, and the way she speaks–so reverently, so devout, so worshipful–scrambles your brain just as much as the fear.

“W-what are you talking about?” You manage to croak, the hornet’s stinger twitching in elation at the sound of your voice–she doesn’t seem to realize the airiness in your tone is horror, not awe or intrigue.

“We saw you- we smelled you, the pheromones you sent us so clearly displaying your care! We understood, we understood-” Her wings start to buzz as her excitement grows, puffing little gusts up air into your face.

“No- no! That wasn’t- I wasn’t trying to-” She cuts you off.

“Oh so humble-! Our Queen is so humble in her saviorship, denying her own benevolence! Worry not, My Queen, we are here to serve, to rebuild what has been lost!”

Her mandibles click together in what you can only assume is some sort of giddy anticipation, and all four of her arms grip your own—possessive, firm, unwavering. The weight of her is suffocating, pressing you deeper into the mattress, pinning you beneath her with ease.

Your heart is hammering.

This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening.

Your mind races, flipping through every possible way to get out of this situation—none of them good. Struggling might get you stung. Talking might make things worse. The wrong reaction could send this creature into some kind of fervor, and considering the way her abdomen is twitching against your legs, you really don’t want to find out what that entails.

“Listen- you don’t really want me! I’m not even a wom-,” Again she cuts you off, too absorbed in her dutiful mania to hear you out.

“No no no! You mustn’t doubt yourself–my Queen, the hive already yearns for you! We’ve tasted your kindness, you’re everything we want- everything we need.” It seems like talking isn’t going to work–her brain is too occupied with the sole task of getting you back to that putrid colony.

In your desperation to think of an escape, you find yourself absently nodding along to whatever she says–If fight or flight aren’t an option, and freeze might make things worse, you might as well fawn. Anything to keep her docile, right? God, maybe it’s for the best that she interrupted you–no hornet species, and no hybrids either, have ever been known or seen taking males as their leaders. What if the hive found out you’re a man and flew into a fit of rage or hysteria? What if they killed you for some sort of perceived deception? Part of you wants to dwell on how quickly they regarded you as a woman, but the more rational part of your brain knows it’s not the time. Oh god this is bad, they’re gonna find out eventually- they’ll kill you!

The hornet doesn’t notice your internal battle, taking your nods to mean you accept the role, and she takes action. She moves suddenly, her weight shifting off of you just enough for her arms—her strong, chitinous arms—to wrap around your torso. Before you can even process what’s happening, your body is hoisted into the air, pressed tightly against her abdomen.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait—

Your stomach lurches as she lifts off the ground, powerful wings carrying you both skyward, and you struggle. Legs kicking as your hands scrabble against her carapace, attempting to grasp at her chest as your body is thrust into the air–eventually settling on wrapping your arms around her neck–it’s all instinct. This close you can see it now–little specks of mold on the softer, vulnerable parts of her body, between her carapace–and the smell hits again. You hadn’t noticed in your room, not when she’d been there long enough for your unconscious brain to register the scent as normal, but with the night air whipping across your face, it’s clear that the rot lingers to her as much as the hive itself. Your head spins, and the rapid, eager clicking of her mandibles sets your nerves on fire.

“You must be so tired, My Queen. The hive will care for you, you’ll never have to suffer alone again!” She croons, her wings buzzing with unrestrained excitement as your neighborhood is quickly exchanged with the slightly, then fully abandoned ones, until the hive–just as rotten as it was a few hours ago–looms underneath. Your carrier doesn’t bother warning you before she makes the move to dive bomb one of the entrances, plummeting through the air and into a section of comb with surprising ease for something so large.

The air is immeditely thicker, and the little bit of sickly sweet that clung to the hornet–you should really have gotten her name–is suddenly permeating everything. Don’t puke don’t puke don’t puke don’t puke. When you land, the grip she has around your torso loosens just enough for you to scramble away the moment your feet hit the ground–not far, it’s too dark for that, but just enough that you can actually breathe. Through your nose. And with hesitation about what kinds of microbes you’re definitely breathing in. It’s then that you hear the buzzing–slow at first, a few pairs of wings just barely flittering to life as your apparent pheromones start filling the immediate space. Then louder, accompanied by footsteps in varying degrees of excitement–some with trepidation, others with clear enthusiasm.

They’re everywhere.

Dozens of insectoid figures crowd the tunnels, their multifaceted eyes glinting in the low light, bodies shifting and clicking in eager anticipation. As your eyes adjust to the dim glow of some unseen lightsource, you get a look at them. Some are grotesquely thin, their carapaces dull and pitted, signs of malnutrition evident even through their exoskeletons–others are swollen with spores, their limbs moving with an unnatural stiffness, and it’s clear- it was already clear -that they’ve been focusing on anyything but the health of the colony.

Every single one of them is staring with the same piousness–the same love.

“The Queen-”

“She came- she came, we’re saved-”

“She’ll give us fresh eggs-”

“We have to prepare-”

A multitude of feminine voices start chattering amongst themselves, clacking their mandibles together, scrambling to get a look at their supposed new ruler.

And it hits you, all at once, that you’re not scared of them–not like you thought you were at least, they still might kill you if you can’t save them–you’re just burdened with a crushing, biting, lingering guilt.

Your original attendant is still right behind you when you turn around–easy to make out from the way she stand a head taller than her sisters. The look on her face breaks you.

“I-I can’t. Be your queen, that is.” A hush falls over the entirely of your accumulated audience–so all of them heard that…

“What are you saying my Queen? You already accepted, you’ll bring us salvation!” Her insistence is as frustrating as it is hurtful, but it fuels you to keep talking–it’s clear she won’t drop the ‘queen’ thing until you do anyway.

“No I-” You hesitate again–Christ, is this where you die? Are you gonna die because you feel bad for a bunch of dying bugs? Yes, apparently. God, this mold is making you crazy.

“I’m not…a woman- I can’t be a queen.” The hornets all stop their quiet staring to look at each other. It would be almost comical–the way they glanced around, then back to you, then back to each other–if it didn’t also feel like you just dropped the worst news imaginable.

“But your scent- your pheromones, they’re that of a queen! An able female!” You cringe at her terminology, shrinking in on yourself a little like that’ll make the situation any better–make the discomfort and self-consciousness just go away. It doesn’t. Being called a woman this many times in a day is exhausting–it’s hard to remember the last time you had to explain your identity to another person like they were a child. At least it’s not in bad faith? Nah, doesn’t make it much better…

“I…know that I smell that way to you, and I can explain why, but the point stands that I’m not a woman.” You had to talk slow, choose your words carefully so you didn’t upset them any more than they already are. “I was born a female, and…that’s how my body was formed- but when I got older I didn’t feel like a woman- a female, I guess -anymore. My body might still kinda look female, and I might smell like one, but I’m not one. I’m a man.”

They’re staring again. They never really stopped, but it feels stronger–more like when you felt their eyes boring into you during your walk. It’s hard to describe the feeling now that you can actually see said eyes–not quite like prey, not quite like a god. Weariful subjugation.

“But…you can still rule, yes?” You blinked a couple times, caught off guard by her bluntness.

“I…I guess?” You hesitate, looking around at the sea of pleading, exhausted faces. “But wouldn’t that be, uh, weird? For you all, I mean?”

The hornets exchange glances, their mandibles clicking softly in hushed conversation. A few look uneasy, others confused, but none of them seem outright hostile. Your original captor steps closer, her massive body lowering slightly as if in deference.

“We have no queen,” she says solemnly. “No eggs. Without a ruler, we’ll die.” She tilts her head. “If you are strong enough to rule, if you are willing to care for us… does it matter?”

Does it? Do you really have anything to lose? Your life outside of work had been dull, monotonous–there was only so much to look forward to, and you’re sure you could argue the ability to leave and enjoy yourself so long as the colony is healthy. Christ, you’re fucking insane…

“I guess it doesn’t.” And they erupt. A cacophony of chitters and fluttering and buzzing while they seem to celebrate the change of leadership–words that you can’t understand over everything else until your attendant barks,

“Prepare for the King!”

#monster fucker #monster x human #monster x reader #teratophillia #bee hybrid #monster lover #Accurate wasp hives (They're all ladies)#For now #Until I post the smut part #ftm reader #trans reader #trans male reader

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hwsforeignrelations · 8 months ago

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on the importance of rest

Word Count: 2,814 // AO3 Link

Summary: Following a long meeting between American and English naval leaders, Arthur notices the nation across the table appears unwell and resolves to help. Massages, flirting and tenderness ensues. ********

1910

“Thank you for finding the time, Admiral Wilson. It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” smiled U.S. navy’s Admiral Fredrick Dent Grant, extending his hand to the British Admiral of the Fleet Sir Arthur Wilson.

“Good afternoon, Admiral Grant. The pleasure is mine,” the two men exchanged hands and dove into discussion, behind them a brunette secretary recording away on her glossy typewriter.

Alfred F. Jones, seated amongst other present American navy officers, took a moment to appreciate both men’s impressive mustaches. Beams of light from the wide window caught the shine of petroleum jelly holding Grant’s delicately curved handlebar. The observation was enough to distract him from the fatigue of travel and the sore knots in his shoulder and back that forced his body into a rightward slant.

An enormous portrait of Lord Horatio Nelson watched over the proceedings from his place on the wall. Every so often, Alfred watched Arthur’s gaze return to the painting, a look on the Englishman’s sharp face Alfred couldn’t name.

The nation looked very well, glowing with the health and energy of his absurdly massive empire. His perfect posture, steely green gaze, and sharp angles made him the most interesting man in the room (in Alfred’s opinion), and he had to avoid staring too long else the other took notice.

Arthur didn’t need any grander of an ego.

The Admirality’s House in London was always a sight. Artifacts from Arthur’s prized naval victories; every room bathed in abundant natural light from tall, glittering windows shielded by artfully pleated curtains, warm wood tones, intricate engravings, expensive carpets and furniture and, most importantly, the feeling of great importance.

Everyone in that room, uniforms fresh and starched, buttons and shoes polished to a shine, chin high, felt very important.

Alfred would too, if he didn’t feel like he’d been run over by an ocean liner and backed over by a tugboat. A twinge in his lower back jolted Alfred straight, and Alfred forced himself to pay attention, trying to ignore what felt like an oncoming spasm,

“... prudent cooperation, Germany’s (amongst others) naval expansion shifts the strategic landscape…” Wilson’s rounded accent droned on, and Alfred soon gave up. How did anyone pay attention to these things?

It astounded Alfred, that so much intel, responsible for the functioning of militaries, could be so unengaging. Much as he liked to imagine otherwise, it was difficult not hanging onto every word spoken in that crisp London accent. Yet these meetings, unless an argument broke out, managed the impossible.

Rather than listening, he instead decided to address the issue, subtly stretching out the tight muscles. Grabbing his left upper arm, mindful of the stiff stitches in his brand new uniform, Alfred pulled it forward, breathing through the screaming of his deltoid. Conversation droned on and on, after ten minutes of very small tugs the pull no longer made him want to scream. God was he tired. The trip across the Atlantic had been very last minute.

After receiving the telegram from his cabin in Minnesota, during a brief rest of the week’s non-stop days firewood chopping for the nearby town, the American had made a hurried drive to DC, scrambled for two all-nighters over a desk to complete overdue work, then staggered onto the RMS Olympic amongst other Navy personnel.

Four days of continuous elbow-rubbing, formal dancing, excellent evening company from the young women aboard, smoke-room chatter and very little sleep in between was enough to sap even Alfred’s infinite extroversion.

He was about ready to drop, and could feel the exhaustion making his neck and face hot beneath the starched uniform, causing his glasses to fog.

_____________________

Arthur listened idly to the admirals waxing diplomacy, looking between Nelson’s proud portrait, the speakers, and Alfred’s worrying behavior. The lad looked half dead, making feverish motions at his arm, albeit subtle.

But oh, the way the honey-blond hair refused to remain in its gelled prison, the handsome curves of his cheekbones and jaw, the touch of maturity from the lenses balanced over his nose, the broadness of his shoulders beneath the stiff uniform… It would be ridiculous to deny the American his good looks, and Arthur didn’t try.

“... sensible approach. Joint exercises certainly foster strong interoperability. Now, I wanted to address our shared maritime trade routes. Maurtin, share the numbers from last October, if you would…”

The Naval Arms Race of recent years had British and American representatives interacting with increasing frequency, meaning Arthur and Alfred saw one another more often than the last few decades.

They were mostly past the War of 1812, and Arthur’s sympathies for Alfred’s physical condition during his Civil War had forced the stoic Englishman to admit a singular… fondness (no matter how darling Matthew near scoffed at the admittance. That insolence had won the Canadian a proper talking to.)

“I extend my sincerest thanks, gentleman,” Arthur watched Alfred jump at Wilson’s change in tone. “Your attendance and contributions benefited a discussion making great strides in outlining how we proceed in future collaborations.”

“To the health and prosperity of King Geroge and President Taft,” Grant said, standing to shake hands in farewell, the mustache beneath his nose still perfectly shaped after five hours of discussion. Impressive, thought Arthur with slight jealousy, thinking of his own unruly hair.

In ones and pairs, people collected their belongings and filtered out of the room, discussing evening plans and the contents of their visit amongst themselves. The secretary’s heels clipped at the floor on her way out, arms filled with confidential papers.

Finally, only Arthur and Alfred remained. Concern mounted when Alfred didn’t seem to notice Arthur’s presence, instead rubbing at his eyes and tapping Texas against the table in a slow rhythm. Arthur waited in the silence to be acknowledged, and soon realized he waited for nothing. The American startled when Arthur rolled his chair back and stood, rounding the table to stand beside him. Alfred wiped his glasses and slid them up his nose, tilting his head in Arthur's direction. “How do you do, Arthur?” The Englishman’s white gloves pulled back the chair beside the American and sat, crossing one leg over the other and leaning over it to peer at Alfred’s warm face, sweat having revealed eyebags previously powdered over.

“Splendid, actually. You, however, look like death warmed up and rolled into a suit.” Alfred scoffed, leaning back and immediately wincing. “And, if I may be so forward, powder under the eyes? Really, Alfred, starch paste couldn’t conceal those hideous bags.”

No matter how exhausted the American was, unless he was permanently and wholly one with the dirt, Alfred F. Jones was never so incapacitated that he wouldn’t return fire.

“Starch, huh? So thaaaaat’s how you’ve achieved such a pasty complexion,” Alfred smiled, and held up his white starched cuffs against Arthur’s frowning face and ooh-ed with amazement at the apparent color match.

“Marvelous,” Arthur deadpanned, slapping aside the hand and immediately regretting it when Alfred hissed, then laughed it off. “You’re delightful as always, Arthur. But I’m afraid I’ll have to cut our time short.” Arthur didn’t take his green eyes away from Alfred’s slow accent to standing, watched how the American bit his lip through the tight smile breaking his hot face. Arthur didn’t move as Alfred clapped him on the shoulder in passing and forced his pace into something natural towards the door (obviously he failed, lilting to the side).

Arthur disliked the physical discomfort in his own chest at the sight of Alfred struggling. Even if they weren’t on the absolute best of terms, he was still the host country. Arthur reasoned it would be horrible of him not to look after his guest.

Arthur stood to follow.

“Oh please, allow me the courtesy of walking you back to your hotel. Or were you staying at the Palace?” Arthur asked, ambling up to Alfred’s side and following him in an intentionally straight-postured, even pace. The juxtaposition only emphasized Alfred’s odd gait.

Alfred stopped and turned around, annoyed behind his pearly smile, “That’s alright, thanks though. I’m really not in the mood for company.”

Alfred returned to walking and was almost through the door. Arthur momentarily floundered for another excuse. “W-Well it’s just not proper to be walking alone at night.”

“I can take care of myself,” Alfred replied pointedly and Arthur frowned. He knew that! The lad had shown he could look after himself, and had been doing so long enough that it shouldn’t be a sore spot.

“Oh for the love of- you look awful , Alfred. Truly awful. Worse than death. Despite your insistence otherwise. Pray, let me walk you to your room to see that you are right and I will leave.”

Alfred looked as though the idea were unappealing and Arthur relented the formality, grasping Alfred’s arm and turning him around. “As a favor. I’ll hail a cab, see you to your accommodations. Then I’ll leave.”

“...Fine,” sighed the American, allowing the fatigue to slow his pace.

Arthur called a cab and they both got in, Alfred relying his lodging’s address to the driver. They both settled into the backseat.

“You’re not sick from something back home, are you?” Arthur asked offhandedly,

“Nothing like that, thankfully,” said Alfred, ready to pass out. “Just a hectic few weeks leading up. I’m gonna need to find a massage therapist tomorrow, though.”

Alfred rolled his shoulders experimentally and flinched.

“Did you tear something?” Arthur asked, putting aside his papers and feeling his fingers, gently, against the spot. Alfred shook his head in the negative, staring out the window with his eyes closed, and the Englishman pressed into the spot.

“Argh-” Alfred immediately cried and the cab driver swerved in surprise, but when Arthur persisted he slowly relaxed, sighing with relief and slumped into his seat like a sack of potatoes.

Arthur kept at the spot, and after a minute Alfred cracked a smile, “That was cruel, you know.”

“Does it still feel that way?,” Arthur already knew the answer.

“... Not if you keep that up for another minute. Can you go up a bit?”

“Here?” Arthur moved to the tip the trapezius muscle, and again Alfred yelped before relaxing.

“Yeah. There.”

“We’ve arrived,” said the cab driver, waiting expectantly for his compensation. Arthur handed over a few quid and ushered Alfred out.

As they took the elevator up and Alfred unlocked the door, he asked, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Bringing that up… would you like me to be otherwise?” Arthur asked pointedly, not waiting for a response before helping himself to a glass of whiskey from the room’s minibar. It was an elegant hotel with a luxurious four-poster bed. Behind the curtains, a full moon stood out against London’s foggy night sky.

Staff had turned on a few warm-toned lamps, bathing the room in calm.

Alfred wasted no time in kicking off his shoes and shrugging out of his uniforms, leaving articles of clothing scattered over the carpet in his wake to his bed before plopping face-first onto the sheets.

“Hermph. Definitely not… thank you,” Alfred said, muffled against the sheets. “Otherwise I might‘ve fallen asleep at that conference table,” he admitted.

Arthur nursed his whiskey in a reading chair, watching Alfred half hang off the bed, lower legs dangling. “Are you getting under the blankets?” Arthur asked, inwardly surprised by the acceptable quality of the alcohol and Alfred’s sheer, visible tiredness.

It was a rarity that Alfred exposed anything vulnerable, anything that didn’t conform to his overconfident, tireless American persona.

“M’too sore,” Alfred muttered sleepily. “Thanks for the escort, I’ll be sure to return the favor next time you’re drunk off your ass.”

“Low blow,” Arthur grumbled, getting up and laying a palm over Alfred's back. The taller nation lurched at the motion but relaxed when he sensed the others' intentions.

After working at a small spot at the base of America’s neck for a moment with one hand, Arthur finished his drink and placed the glass on the side table. “Will you lay properly? I can’t get any leverage like this.”

Alfred groaned but shifted, laying in the middle of the bed face down, still in his underwear, socks and garters.

From the bed, Alfred sleepily watched Arthur strip his blue uniform jacket and lay it over the abandoned chair, along with his shoes and watch. “Is that this season’s Newsome?” Alfred asked, catching the dial in the light.

“A gift from an acquaintance,” said Arthur, hoisting himself on the bed and straddling Alfred’s waist. The maneuver was smooth and the bed hardly shifted at the added occupant.

Alfred was tense beneath him, and Arthur took a moment to appreciate the sculpted geography of the American’s back. Taking a breath and willing his own anatomy not to betray him, Arthur pressed down with both hands. “Ah-ah ah-ow, ow, ow, ow!” Alfred cried, burying his face in the sheets and biting down to silence himself. Arthur stayed in that position a moment until Alfred relaxed, and began a smooth back and forth motion against his lower trapezius.

“Uhhuhu…uhgh..” America sobbed quietly and Arthur fought against the sympathy constricting his throat, and the arousal tightening his groin at the delicate sounds.

Blimey , thought England, surprised at his own body. His hands found their rhythm against the smooth skin.

“What on Earth did you do?” Arthur asked, feeling tight knots everywhere he touched.

“Uggh- Ah! … Uhm, I was chopping wood for a week or two for the town,” Alfred said, producing a screech when Arthur jammed his thumb into a tender spot. However, after a moment of rubbing the pain subsided and made room for relief and Alfred slumped. “Might’ve overdone it.”

“And?”

“And- Opfgdhp! And a few nights sleeping over a desk- Christ almighty!” Alfred punched the sheets and looked over his shoulder, “Crank it down a notch, yeah?”

Arthur stopped completely and glared down at the prone American.

Alfred couldn’t see him but obviously felt its intensity when he relented, “Sorry, I do appreciate this, Arthur. Feels… fantastic - AHHPHrgh,” he yelped, legs jolting off the bed.

Arthur smirked, working down the back where it was less painful and applying even pressure to the latissimus dorsi. Arthur pressed dexterous fingers alongside the spine, had to lean over the spot to properly address the powerful muscles, and was rewarded with eliciting a shaky, whistling breath out from Alfred’s muffled face. Slowly, the Englishman felt the tight knots fade under his efforts. Alfred moaned and Arthur looked up at the canopy, willing the heat to leave his face.

Alfred shifted beneath him and Arthur looked down, flush mostly gone. He raised an eyebrow, “What is it?”

“Err,” Alfred started, shifting again. “Could you do my shoulders again? They’re still pretty tight.” He rolled them as if to emphasize, and Arthur was inwardly pleased with the smoothness of the motion compared to twenty minutes ago.

“Were you raised by wolves, America? What do we say when we want something?” he asked in a patronizing tone, leaning in close to hear Alfred respond in a similar one:

“Oh, oh pretty please , Arthur?”

“Much better.” Arthur’s arms were slightly sore. Nevertheless he felt up to the outside of Alfred’s broad shoulders and used a crawling technique, pressing his thumbs down and inching them towards one another until they met at the spine.

From the side, Alfred’s eyes fluttered closed in relief. All discomfort in Arthur’s arms vanished in a flash and his heartbeat quickened, and he repeated the movement with renewed purpose while the clock ticked in the dim light.

“I’m gonna fall asleep, England. Thank you,” Alfred finally mumbled, a puddle of contentment beneath Arthur’s sweating form.

I’d forgotten how physically demanding massages were , Arthur panted, forehead bowed to Alfred’s warm back.

“A-hem,” The Englishman coughed, surprised by his own reaction, “Happy to be of service.”

He stepped off Alfred with less elegance than when he’d stepped on, and wasn’t surprised to see those blues hidden from view and the youthful face fast asleep by the time he’d cleaned his flushed face and thrown on his uniform jacket. Stepping closer he noted Texas quashed between his temple and the plush bed.

The American hadn’t bothered taking his glasses off and Arthur mused, gently tugging them off and folding them onto the nightstand beside his empty tumbler, how they remained straight and unscratched with such a neglectful owner.

Blowing on his eyelids to confirm he was fully asleep, Arthur pressed his lips against the sleeping man’s forehead, breathing in to savor the sensation, and was out of the room before his neck turned red enough to warrant a comment of concern from the hotel doorman.

—-------------------

The door shut and Alfred pried one eye open, casting a wink at Arthur’s empty glass and stretching his long limbs along the luxurious sheets with a sigh of bliss.

#usuk #hetalia #hws america #hws england #historical hetalia #my greatest self indulgence ever #fanfic

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notesfromthepalace · 9 months ago

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The Jelly Sister

Want to hear a funny story?

As I have said before, my written pieces are based off of my real life. So yes, in real life I am that girl, in love, and highly favored by our creator. And in real life there is a jelly sister, chilllllle.

But the real gag is I had started writing "The Jelly Sister" three years ago about the same person. Then I was like "no, stop being a mean girl".

She's the mean girl.

Mean spirited, at least.

Once upon a time, in a land far far away......

I'm going to be for real now, sorry sissy poohs, but this girl.

Essentially, her and I worked for the same organization and we bonded over cleanliness. She saw how utterly disgusted I was with the hygiene, better yet, lack there of, of our peers and had the same

nose-in-the-air-snark-brat-face that I did.

That's literally what started the first conversation. We became cool over a few other commonalities: we both graduated from HBCUs, majored in STEM, highly intelligent, love to read, and we were the only Black women at the time who had our positions.

Now, let me make something clear, we did not become friends on the basis of being skin folk, because as the saying goes: all skin folk ain't kin folk; this was not what you see in politics now, where you see people rallying behind the VP simply because we look alike.

She had mentioned that she was seeing someone, but the way she described it, I was under the assumption that they were friends who just have sex, with no desire of fully committing to one another and definitely not wanting to be married with children. I also thought she was okay with that because she was 32 when we met. I am bringing up her age because I could not possibly fathom someone being delusional at 32 - you're passed the age of plausible deniability sis.

I was 22 at the time; a little naive to how older women can be jealous of younger women and how easily they flip for the male gaze, especially when they are desperate. This is also where I learned my lesson of keeping my personal opinions to myself unless I am speaking to my personal gf's 4L, my man, or people of academia pertaining to academia. Public conversations with knuckle heads is where people try to trick you into saying things you either don't mean, or purposely misinterpret what you are saying.

Here's where I got tricked into embarrassing homegirl - on accident.

We were with our coworkers at dinner and this question arose: Do all women want to get married?

Some people, both men and women said "yes", some said "no".

Her name in here will be Jelly.

Now, me being the silly goose naive princess, answered, with the utmost confidence:

"I want to. But not all women do. Just look at Jelly".

Jelly turned red. And of course she asked me how I came to that conclusion. I explained, based on her explanation of what seems to be friends with benefits, that how would I possibly believe she wants to get married if this is what she's settling for.

I guess no one ever told her the tea but she was surprised that I would make such a statement. I was more surprised that she thought homie was going to wife her up.

I believe that was the night she swore a vendetta against me.

As time went on she still was friendly with me, but would make remarks that were kind of unsettling. I think there was one day she over heard me on the phone with my sister talking about girlie things because we're girls, hello?! Jelly waited until we were at lunch one day to say "I don't think I could be like Sarah, harping over fashion malls and shoes all day long".

Jelly did you expect me to cry?

Yes, my sister went to the mall to get a specific shoe that was not in stock and she was upset. I was comforting my sister.

Was I suppose to be talking about logs and cabins?

Fast forward to the beginning of last year, closer to my birthday, I received a Group FaceTime call from Jelly and a young man we used to work with who had a crush on me. I picked up, not thinking anything of it and the first thing out of Jelly's mouth was "Oh I was just telling him that you would have never dated him because he is not in the tax bracket of men you date."

I was embarrassed by her statement because I have never discussed my personal preferences when it comes to men with anyone. Further more, I would never say something like that, even if it was true; I don't believe in making people feel less than just because they don't meet my standards, nor would I ever say something like that anyway, so ugly so rude.

I didn't like him by the way - and that will be another story for another day.

I simply answered by saying, as softly and as eloquently as possible "I never said that. What I told him was he's too immature for me, and that we are not compatible". Now his ego was hurt and he asked if I had a boyfriend. And the answer was "Yes, we just came back from being on holiday for my birthday"

Both of them were speechless because no one knew I was seeing someone. Although I may post photos of my man and I on my blog, I don't post him on my page. Obviously the haters stay lurking.

A few months later, Jelly gives me a call to inform me that her sex wasn't enough to keep her Jamaican man - I could have told her that, but wait, I did, four years ago.

But as she was telling me about her escapades with him and I was listening, she then began to question me about my life to which I replied simply "We are great. I am making dinner, I'll call you later". She just wanted to hear that we broke up or things were not working in my favor so she could scream it to the masses. No, witch, my life is amazing, my God is better, and you still don't know what's going on over here.

Yesterday, funky toe Jelly sent me a message asking "Ms. Chanel are you engaged yet?"

She didn't ask to be happy for me. She asked simply to know and for that, you peasant, you won't know until God-willing him and I are married, expecting our third child living in Timbuktu.

We all have a Jelly sister. And some of us have more than one. She isn't the only person that I do not respond to anymore. I pay them all dust. They don't deserve to know what God has blessed me with.

I'm living my life, and they're questioning their life decisions.

Not my problem.

As always sissy poohs,

Stay prayed up

Love the people who love you

Enjoy the rest of the summer

More blog posts are coming because the stories are juicy chillllllle

P.S. I love Sheree!

With Love,

Sarah Chanel

#black women #black women in luxury #luxuriousbw #luxury #black femininity #black women in leisure #black women fashion #blackwomen #black beauty #black love

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surgeonssturgeon · 5 months ago

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Why don’t we shame men for being incompetent? “Women belong in the kitchen, they should be cooking and cleaning and looking after the kids!” Why? You can’t do it? Are your bones made of jelly or something? Do you need help tying your shoes too? You got them light up velcros? Like bro… you’re literally ridiculous 😭

#Go fetch me a boar carcass man #Men belong in the hunting fields #Male privilege #gender roles #Sexism #misogny #Feminism #Gender roles #abolish gender roles

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carmensolny · 1 year ago

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Step into Style: Trendy Wedge Shoes for Ultimate Comfort and Fashion

In the ever-evolving realm of fashion, one footwear trend that continues to make waves is the timeless and versatile wedge shoe. Specifically designed to marry style and comfort seamlessly, wedge shoes have become a staple in every fashion-forward woman's wardrobe. In this blog post, we'll explore the allure of wedge shoes, with a special focus on Carmen Sol, a brand that has redefined the game with its collection of women's jelly shoes.

Unlocking the Trend: The Appeal of Wedge Shoes

Wedge shoes are celebrated for their unique design, featuring a solid sole that extends under the heel and the arch of the foot. Unlike traditional high heels, wedges provide stability and support, making them a go-to choice for women who crave both fashion and comfort. The title of "Trendy Wedge Shoes" perfectly captures the essence of this enduring footwear trend.

Comfort Redefined with Carmen Sol's Women's Jelly Shoes

When it comes to blending style and comfort, Carmen Sol has emerged as a trailblazer in the world of wedge shoes. The brand's women's jelly shoes, a contemporary twist on the classic wedge, boast a remarkable combination of comfort and fashion. The use of high-quality materials and innovative design ensures that each step is not only stylish but also cushioned and comfortable.

Jelly Shoes for Women: A Playful Take on Fashion

Carmen Sol's collection of jelly shoes for women takes the wedge trend to a whole new level. The incorporation of playful and vibrant colors adds a touch of fun to these chic footwear choices. Whether you're heading to a summer brunch or a beachside soiree, these jelly shoes elevate your style while keeping you at ease. The keyword "jelly shoes for women" perfectly captures the essence of Carmen Sol's unique offerings in this category.

Why Choose Carmen Sol?

Fashion-forward Designs: Carmen Sol's wedge shoes are crafted with an acute sense of style, ensuring that you stay on-trend with each step.

Unparalleled Comfort: The brand's commitment to comfort is evident in the thoughtful design and choice of materials, providing a delightful walking experience.

Versatility at Its Best: From casual outings to formal events, Carmen Sol's wedge shoes effortlessly transition between various occasions, making them a versatile addition to your wardrobe.

Sustainable Choices: Carmen Sol is dedicated to sustainability, using eco-friendly materials in the creation of their women’s jelly shoes, contributing to a fashion landscape that cares for the planet.

In the world of fashion, Carmen Sol stands out as a beacon of style and comfort, especially when it comes to trendy wedge shoes and jelly shoes for women. The title "Step into Style: Trendy Wedge Shoes for Ultimate Comfort and Fashion" encapsulates the essence of this blog post, inviting women to embrace the perfect blend of style and comfort with Carmen Sol's remarkable collection. So, why settle for anything less? Step into the future of fashion with Carmen Sol's wedge shoes, where every step is a statement of style and unparalleled comfort.

#wedge shoes #women's jelly shoes #jelly shoes for women #jelly shoes

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nerdieforpedro · 1 year ago

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Movie Night

Part Three of Two Hearts by the Ocean

Javier Gutierrez x Abigail (plus size OFC)

This part is for teens and up - rating will depend on individual parts. Overall will be 18+ MDNI

Word Count: about 2.3k

Summary: Watching movies with Javier calms Abigail and they’re both able to enjoy each other’s company. However, a shadow looms on the horizon.

Warnings: two cinnamon rolls, possible Nic Cage movie overload, one kiss, mentions of harm to women and threats

Notes: We’re at chapter three and we got one kiss! 😘 They’re adorable. We’re setting a few things up also just having fun. Don’t worry too much about the tags yet. 👀 There’s a reason I’ve kept the overall rating 18+ and keep doing it individually. Special thanks to @angelofsmalldeath-codeine for helping with translations. I feel like I always pick the wrong version of the word. 🙃 It’s one of many goals this year.

Dividers are by the ever talented @saradika-graphics

If you’d told Abigail that she was going to meet a handsome man and be watching movies with him, she would have called you insane or told you that she’s watching movies in bed and those are the only handsome men she was seeing as of late. She also would have laughed very hard to hear that the same man had a compound and a private beach with his own movie theater inside his home. She sat on the couch with Javier, wearing yellow fuzzy socks that a maid had brought her in addition to some hot chocolate to go with her cake. She thanked the woman who gave her a quizzical look, and held her hand out. Javi explained it was to put their phones in a basket on the bookshelf so the blue light from the phones wouldn’t disturb the picture from the big screen. Abigail still wondered about the look the maid gave her and put it quickly out of her mind as the movie started. While watching, she laughed and pointed out that she recognized some of the actors and actresses from other shows. She became quiet again, realizing that it's a movie, you're not supposed to talk during a movie.

Javier was delighted to finally have someone else to watch movies with. It’s been months since Gabriella left and she had been his only friend in the home. Not that he didn’t have occasional lady friends over, but they were more interested in party boy Javier and not cinephile Javier. He answered Abby’s questions and listened to her comments which despite the movie playing, he didn’t mind because she was engaged and though her movie knowledge paled in comparison to his, it was fun hearing what she had to say. Slowly over the course of the first movie, he’d been able to inch closer to her. Javi even took a piece of her chocolate cake and she offered him a second one to which they split two more pieces. At the end of the first move, his knee was touching hers as they sat together and discussed if either of them had ever had a marmalade sandwich.

“I think it is only for Paddington, no? I may have some marmalade on toast or a roll but not just in a sandwich.” Javier chuckled. Abby nodded as she set the plate on the table before them next to her mug which she had finished quite a while ago.

“Yeah. I’ve only had jam or jelly and maybe some preserves on baked goods. Never marmalade. I enjoyed the movie a lot more than I thought I would. I wasn’t quite sure what I was expecting though.” She smiled and Javi returned it. He suggested that they could go for a short walk to stretch their legs before watching the second movie.

“Well if you enjoyed this one my dear Abigail, you will love Paddington two. I guarantee it.” Javier opened a patio door off the hallway just outside of the theater and they walked out together after putting their shoes back on. There was a small path next to the house that ran along a hill above the beach. The view was breathtaking. The water reflected the crimson, mustard and orange with dashes of pinks that dotted the sky. The pair stood as they watched the sky and Abby reached for Javier’s hand while looking at him, almost believing that he wouldn’t take it. He did not, opting to put an arm around her shoulders as they continued to watch the sun dip behind the ocean. It was a moment that she was content remaining in for hours. Javier’s arm around her as they watched the sun dip beyond the horizon. Her arm found its way around his back and settled on his hip. She was still nervous about touching the man and him touching her, but he was rather disarming. Or would one say inviting? His entire presence seemed to draw her in and whisper that it’s fine to touch, hold, and hug. More than even that aspect, was the sense of tranquility she sensed from him.

Javier was glad to note that Abigail appeared to feel safe in being in his home. He was concerned when he picked her up, but thankfully it worked out. She’s the first person in a while that he’s had a connection with over his interests. He wondered how he could make the most of her time here, in addition to figuring out the budget and such for the estate, he wanted to keep her close. His cousin wanted him to spend money to help wash ‘donations’ they received for their services. Things that Javier had a vague idea of what his cousin did but didn’t want to know the details. It was better he didn’t know. He couldn’t think of a better way to spend the money he’s supposed to then taking Abby out to see the island, he would ask if she wanted to. He was tempted to kiss her cheek, but decided against it as they hadn’t seen the second movie and he didn’t want her to think that it was the reason why he invited her to his home. Though her complement of his body had made him feel proud and fueled some other thoughts that would be pushed aside for now.

The pair went back inside and settled back onto the couch, only this time, Abigail sat right next to Javi and took hold of his hand. She liked the feeling of her small hand in his, plus it was warm like the rest of him. After they confirmed that they were comfortable, the second Paddington movie began. There were laughs, a few tears, several gasps and by the end after becoming fully engrossed in the film, both Javier and Abigail stood and cheered for the little bear coming out of his coma to be reunited with his family and his Aunt Lucy. Their palms were pressed together, swaying back and forth as they looked at the screen, the credits starting to roll. Abby and Javi were laughing, first at the movie’s ending and then at each other. It was a tad absurd that two adults were cheering this hard to a kids move some would say, but that’s what made it so much fun. To engage the part you may still have of yourself not jaded by the life lived. As their movements slowed to a stop, Abby didn’t let go of Javi’s hands as he expected.

“I take it you liked the movie Abby?” Javier asked with his trademark wide smile. He was well aware of the answer, but he wasn’t sure what else to say. Abby giggled and looked down at her yellow socks then back up at Javier. The day started out a bit tenuous but the afternoon and evening had been perfect. She tried something that had Javi’s lips form a small ‘o’ and lifted his left hand, kissing the back of it. Certainly not the kiss Javi had in mind, and it seemed more intimate as the warmth from her lips lingered on his skin.

“I did. Very much so. Thank you so much Javi. This is the most fun I’ve had in quite a long time.” Her smile had him move forward and close the short gap between them. Javier made sure to be wary of her body language for it seemed like she’d opened up to him a bit more. He thought of kissing her lips again, but finally kissed her cheek, his mustache and stubble from his beard grazed her skin and she released a quiet sigh. “I...um…should we…” Her voice was barely above a whisper, Abigail wasn’t exactly sure what she might say next. She was certain she didn’t come to his home just for such advances. They weren’t unwelcome, actually, much too welcome. She reminded herself that she’s supposed to be having fun and she’s going to see him later. Nothing needs to happen right now. Is she even wearing the right underwear for that?

Javier swallowed the thought first, pushing it back down. “We can watch one of Mr. Cage’s movies. I have all of them. I happen to be a very big fan of his. “ Their eyes met again and he knew he should sit back down, if he continued to stand with her, he would pull her over to the couch and that’s not been discussed at all, at least aloud. Via eyes and body language, however, they were loud and clear. Abigail walked to the couch first while still holding Javier’s hand and he followed her, though she didn’t pull him down. He sat next to her and they began watching ‘National Treasure,’ the frantic fun energy was replaced by a simmering heat between them.

The night rolled on as the movies continued. After ‘National Treasure’ the pair watched ‘Con Air,’ ‘Ghost Rider,’ and ‘The Sorcerer's Apprentice.”Though, by the last movie, both were nodding off on the couch, Javi’s head was on Abby’s shoulder and they were still holding hands as their eyes became heavier. By the time either of them woke up, they’d been asleep for a few hours, both with sore necks from the sleeping positions. Javi woke first and was worried that she was gone, except he felt his hand first and then looked up seeing her neutral sleeping face. They were still holding hands even while they slept, the wide grin on his face expressed his feelings on the matter.

“Mi diosa linda. Soy tan afortunado de despertarme a tu lado (My beautiful goddess. I am lucky to wake up to you).” He’s careful to move as he sits up and does not disturb her yet. He’s going to need to wake her but not yet. Just a little longer. If the moment could last a bit more.

“Ah-choo!” Abigail’s body jerks with her sneeze and she jolts awake. Her eyes blink as she looks around the room, her eyes adjusting to the light. She looks at Javi who’s holding in a laugh at her expense. She uses her shoulder and give him a gentle nudge to which he releases a roar of a laugh, she does as well and wonders how long they were asleep. There weren’t any clocks in the movie theater. No extra lights to allow for the best picture on the screen. “I’m glad I made you laugh, Javi. What time is it though?”

“I am not sure. I will go check, stay here and warm up a bit.” He stood and put a throw blanket over her legs, she pulled it closer and spread it out. “Did you want some tea? Um…” Javi thought carefully about how to ask, and decided it would be best to just say it. “Abigail. You don’t have to leave, You can stay the night. It is much too dark to drive the golf cart. We would not be staying in the same room. I can have a room made ready for you to use. Not just for tonight.” Javier placed a hand on the back of the couch and sat back down briefly, making sure to keep eye contact as he spoke. He was sincere and maybe she didn’t need to know that he already had a room ready. He could have also left out the part about it being not only for one night but he’s already said it. Not that he would ask her to stay longer if she didn’t want to. He would make sure she made it back to her resort safely.

Abigail was elated to hear that he wanted her to stay. She didn’t want to go, who would? If she can stay in whatever fever dream this was a little longer, she would take the opportunity. She pecked his cheek and nodded. “I’m happy you want me to stay, Javi. I kinda didn’t want to go. Not yet anyway. I should come with you. That way if you want tea or something else, you won't have to make trips or try carrying it by yourself.” Javier shook his head and insisted that she remain here, Abby sighed and agreed but did ask for her phone so she could text her friends and let them know that she’s alright, she’s just out for the night. She will be back tomorrow afternoon.

Javier happily made his way to the kitchen and proceeded to make some tea, though he’d forgotten to ask what tea Abby might like. He went with peppermint for the both of them and two spoons of honey in hers. She appeared to be a fan of sweets. The maid who’d brought the socks and snack entered the kitchen and greeted Javi. She asked if his lady friend was still here and he replied that she was. The maid nodded and informed him that his cousin may be back tomorrow or the following day. It depends when he finishes whatever business they had to take care of in Greece, for her safety, it would be best if she left tomorrow.

“For the record señor Gutierrez, she appears like a kind woman. Your cousin and his associates seem to like to harm such women. You’ll also need to increase your spending again. He’s been keeping watch. I… Lo siento, señor (I am sorry sir).” This particular maid was older and had been with Javier and his cousin Lucas since they bought the compound about five years ago. She’d trained many of the other maids that had come and gone, as such, Lucas had given his goons instructions to not bother her, though they did know where her son and daughter were and their families so she kept Lucas abreast of Javier’s activities when he was away.

“Tia Lupe, gracias cómo siempre (Thank you, always).” Javier said softly before kissing her a peck on the cheek and adding a spoon of honey to his tea as well. He’d need something sweet for the update he’d been given.

Part two. Part Four

Peeps who will watch the sunset 🌅 and a movie marathon:

@innerpersonunknown @trulybetty @tinytinymenace @maggiemayhemnj @megamindsecretlair @grogusmum @secretelephanttattoo @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @morallyinept @lady-bess @readingiskeepingmegoing @gwendibleywrites @avastrasposts @bitchwitch1981 @missladym1981 @anoverwhelmingdin

#pedro pascal characters #fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #javier gutierrez #Javier Gutierrez x ofc #Javier Gutierrez Fanfiction #Two hearts by the ocean #A Nerdie fic

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servants-hall · 8 months ago

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The TGA parts below:

DEADLINE: In the finale of The Gilded Age Season 2, the moment where the tables turn and Ada (Cynthia Nixon) becomes the one effectively in charge, since she has the money now and will be paying the staff, what a moment that was for Agnes. How will she handle that going forward?

BARANSKI: Agnes’s world from day one, the arrival of her niece, the earth, the world, the ground, was always moving underneath her feet in a way that she was never on solid ground from the first episode of the first season, because of the arrival of the neighbors across the street, and then the arrival of the niece. But with Ada, with the second season, you have the person closest to me and dearest to me falling in love, getting married, moving away, and then Agnes is having to somehow rise to the occasion because I love her so much and accept that. But then I lose all my money, and she inherits money. It’s just too delicious. It’s all in one season. I don’t know how Julian packed it all in, but it was a banquet for me as an actress, because when you have a character that’s that rigid and haughty, and has such a firm sense of herself and what her world is, and you just see so many cracks occurring in her world, it’s funny, and it’s sad, and it’s very dramatic.

DEADLINE: It made me think of Diane Lockhart a little bit, because they are both women who are utterly in control of themselves and they both lose their money and carry on pulling it together. You can’t knock these women down, and I love that.

BARANSKI: You can’t, no. It’s a study. It’s funny you say that because I was thinking of the similarities of Diane and Agnes. The world around them, the world that they know, that they respect, that they’ve adhered to, with Diane it was the legal world, the rule of law. And the political world, the world that she believed in. You watch her struggle to keep her balance in a world where the guardrails are coming off, and it is true of Agnes. The society in which she is living is changing so rapidly, and inside her own house with the arrival of her niece, who’s this young feisty woman, and her own sister. That’s inside her house domestically, but then her outer world, the people across the street are changing her world. And how do people like that, women like that, keep their integrity and keep their sense? How do they survive that? It’s been wonderful to play both roles for that reason.

DEADLINE: It’s such an accolade to women throughout history because you see these characters, regardless of the period, who are essentially the steel spine of their society and their families, or the company where they work, and they are these unsung heroes that women have so often been.

BARANSKI: Yeah. I often say that I’m playing a lot of Agnes as my mother. My mother grew up in the Depression, and she actually told me they did stuff newspapers in their shoes and walked to school in Buffalo, New York, if you know Buffalo winters. And she had to walk home for lunch and eat jelly sandwiches every day for years. And she fell in love and married a man who went off to fight World War II. And when he came home, she wanted to be a homemaker and a mother, and my father died when I was eight years old. She had two kids to raise. She didn’t even know how to drive a car. She had to look for work. She had to begin her life again, like Diane, and she was one of the strongest women. She survived three different bouts of cancer. Lung cancer, breast cancer, and lymphoma, and she just went through whatever treatments she had to go through. She lived to 85, and she just played the hand she was dealt. And she was strong, and she had a great sense of humor. She was a tough old broad, and Julian loves tough old broads. He writes those women and he respects them.

[...]

DEADLINE: I know that you met Julian at an awards show and got talking about the Gilded Age as an era before this show came about.

BARANSKI: Well, I so love Downton Abbey, and I had heard somewhere in the ether of showbiz gossip that Julian wanted to do an American version. And after one of my many Emmy losses, at an HBO party, he was sitting there and I approached him. And I spoke to him about it, and I said, “I’m married to a man, my late husband, was a Drexel from the Drexel family, and that was, of course, one of the New York aristocratic Gilded Age families. I began talking to him about it, and we had the longest conversation. And I didn’t know Julian then. Talk about manifestation! All those years later I get a call saying, “Julian has written this show for HBO, and they’re offering you this.” I was the first person to be offered a role, and at the time, I was committed to The Good Fight. So, I was working for another company. I was working for CBS and Paramount Plus, and they didn’t want to share me because it meant possible overlapping. You couldn’t be the lead in one show for one network and a lead in another. They just didn’t allow that. I wrote to the head of Paramount Plus, and I said, “This is an opportunity of a lifetime. I’ve spent years of my life as an actress training to do that kind of a role and because of the nature of only filming a half a year with The Good Fight, that means I have a lot of time off. And what do I do with that time? Now I’m in the prime of my career.” Anyway, it was a very heartfelt letter and two days later they let it happen. He let me go to do both… It was just back-to-back, but it’s what I call a champagne problem. Oh my gosh, I’ve got two shows, not one.

DEADLINE: You’re shooting The Gilded Age Season 3 right now. Can you hint at all where Agnes is going?

BARANSKI: Well, she has to cope, doesn’t she? She’s suddenly not the head of the household, which you can tell from the way Season 2 ended, that this proud haughty lady who was used to being number one is suddenly not that. So that fall from grace and that fall from power, that’s always such a delicious thing to play, and the fall of a King is just as exciting as the rise. So it makes for a lot of humor, I think, her having to eat humble pie. It’s as eventful as Season 2, because Season 1 was largely establishing all those characters. It was a lot of exposition, but I think the reason Season 2 was so exciting to people is they were already invested in these characters, they knew the world of The Gilded Age and they were ready to go with the high drama. So that’s pretty much continuing into Season 3. It’s amazing to me how popular and how invested the public is since the second season. If you think about it, really, you could do this show for 10 years because it’s all American history and how this world was. America was changing so rapidly during these years. I mean, it could take you into the beginning of the 20th century. It’s just thrilling.

DEADLINE: So you would, in theory, do this for as long as Julian wants to make it?

BARANSKI: In a word, yes. It shoots in Brooklyn. She’s a magnificent character. There are all kinds of places you could take her. As I said, there’s so many narratives he could spin because it’s these characters living through a turbulent and transformative time in American history. And I love my colleagues. I adore Cynthia. I mean, she’s just the best acting pal.

DEADLINE: Right, you’ve known her forever, since you played mother and daughter on stage in The Real Thing in 1984.

BARANSKI: Yes, and all of us are all these great theater actors. I mean, you walk in the hair and makeup trailer and it’s like everybody’s won a Tony Award, or two or three. It’s delicious stuff.

#the gilded age #tga spoilers #tga s3 #tga interviews #christine baranski #agnes van rhijn

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the-fiction-witch · 2 years ago

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Take My Hand P11

Media Irl x 1910

Character Thomas Brodie Sangster

Couple Thomas X Reader

Rating Adorable

Concept Take My Hand Series

|Y/n|

I had a nice hot shower luckily not many others were showering around this time so lots of hot water making sure to wash my hair and make myself smell nice. I sat on my rooms sofa curling my hair while I got my best dress on, my little blue dress I was bringing with me for after we arrived I hadn't planned to wear it onboard but this felt right, it was such a sweet dress not impressed by any means but such a sweet color with beautiful embroidery I did very little make up just a lip and some eye work as I didn't want to seem too overdressed using my little white shoes and my gloves in the hope it would bring it all together I let my hair from the curls and plaited It. I grabbed my journal and a small bag doing a final spin to check myself over.

The door to my room then knocked to I hid some mess away and opened It seeing Thomas stood rather well dressed seeming at first confused and worried but relieved when he saw me

"Thank goodness I got lost for a while there" he laughed making me giggle too "you- you look so beautiful" he smiled looking me over

"Thank you I did my best, you look handsome'

"Ohh thank you, may I?' he asks offering his hand I nodded and he took my hand giving it a gentle kiss "I got really lost for a while. I didn't realize quiet how far down it was"

"That's okay, so shall we go? If you still want to, of course?"

"Of course I do" He smiled

I held his arm as he lead me up though the ships many decks each getting more impressive the higher we went, until we reached this beautiful deck of marble floors, mahogany fixings, electronic lights hung in beautiful chandeliers I stopped short as we arrived at a stairwell, a bustling lobby below of women dressed in diamonds and men in fine suits, I felt immediately out of place stopping short letting his arm leave my grip. He stopped half way down the stairs as he noticed I wasn't with him and he turned back to me

"I uhh I shouldn't be here"

"You're fine your on my invitation." He smiled

"I think I'm uhh a little underdressed'

"You look beautiful, take my hand I promise I'll look after you" he smiled offering his and I was nervous but I took it letting him lead me down the stairs and thought a corridor or two until we reached the glass plane doors of the restaurant, we had to show our documents to the host and immediately he pulled a face

"This is a third class passenger Sir"

"Yes, I invited her to dinner I have it all sorted if you continue with the paperwork"

"Sir I-"

"It should be shorted. she's here by invitation"

"Have a pleasant evening" He says handing back our paperwork and we were lead inside this beautiful well decorated dinning room with a fireplace and tables all around the room, we were given a table on our own near the fireplace there were so many sets of cutlery and a menu long enough it took up the whole page

"Holy toad." I muttered looking at the menu "How many courses?"

"Ten" He smiled "it's my treat. get whatever you like" He smiled

"Uhhhh okay" I nodded "anything you recommend?"

"The Fillet was nice last night" he smiled eventfully we ordered even if I needed a lot of help and they took our menu's, it wasn't long till the first small soup arrived "Start at the edge work your way in" He told me

"Right" I giggled "sorry"

"It's fine, it's always sweet to see people learn it" He laughs

we ate and chatted for a good while about everything and nothing and it was so much fun the two of us laughing and joking between the two of us the courses luckily were small so it wasn't too hard to have something from all of them even if we mostly shared what we got

"Ahh my favourite course" He smiled as our desert arrived I got peaches in jelly and he got some eclairs but we got ice cream between us "Ummm that's good. One thing I will say about the first class kitchen's they make good pudding"

"Umm it is really nice, never had peach jelly before"

"How is it?"

"Here" I smiled offering him a spoonful

"oohh? that is good." He smiled "Ohh here." He smiled giving me half of his éclair

"Thank you" I giggled "Umm very nice"

"Ice cream's good too."

"I've had better"

"Ohh? enlighten me?"

"There is this little farm close to where I use to live they make the best ice cream,"

"You'll have to take me someday"

"I'd Love too"

Once dinner was done with we went for a walk across the deck in the darkness

"I had a lovely time Thomas"

"I had an amazing time with you too"

"Ohh I stole this from the hosts cart before we left" he smiled grabbing a menu from his pocket "for your journal"

"aww thank you so much" I smiled adding it to my journal for tonight

"May I say something that might sound rather insane?"

"...Of course."

"I really like you y/n"

"Ohh" I blushed hard "I uhh I really like you too Thomas."

"do you think I could come see you again tomorrow?"

"I'd like that"

"You would?"

"I would" I nodded

"Okay...Did you want me to walk you back?"

"If you wouldn't mind"

"not at all, I want to make sure you get back to your cabin safe" He reassured

"Okay"

#tbs smut #tbs imagine #tbs imagines #thomas sangster imagine #thomas brodie sangster imagine #thomasbrodiesangster #thomas brodie sangster smut #tbs #thomas brodie sangster #thomas sangster

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leafened · 1 year ago

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i had sandals like this but white and i loved them so much they were cute and nostalgic but i (somehow??) lost them

i have put in hours of online shopping.. literally not available except in jelly shoe material. the only ones I've found have mysteriously been womens size 12. the others have straps all the way up past the midsole so they look like mules, or theyr'e gladiator sandals with an open toe (not at all what i want), or they have a giant chunky plastic platform (defeats the whole purpose)

i originally found them at a thrift store after hoping to find the perfect sandals so maybe the law of attraction is punishing me for losing what it gifted me

#there are similar ones but they have

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kimberly40 · 2 years ago

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My People:

I come from a people who lived an isolated existence for more than a century. No phones. No automobiles. No televisions, No indoor plumbing, electricity or running water in many cases. My people were poor, looked down upon, laughed at, made fun of, were feared, misunderstood, pitied and ridiculed.

But My people were something most today are not — my people were resilient. They were strong. They were survivors and Innovators. They were fierce. They knew how to persevere.

My people knew how to work. How to scratch food from the side of a mountain. How to use the bounty God provided. They knew how to pick berries and make jams and jellies. They could make soap; hunt, fish, and dry and preserve food. They knew how to can and store up food for the winter. They knew how to dry meat and cure it and how to use ever single part of the animal so that none was wasted.

My people knew how to log, and mine coal, plant crops, read the signs, divine water, dig wells, clean a gun, shoe a horse, make quilts, make butter and sourgum molasses, make medicine and make moonshine...they knew how to make a life with their own bare hands.

And my people knew how to pray. They knew who to pray to and they knew to whom to give thanks. My people were often dirty, tired and beaten down from the raw cruelty of life, but they knew how to praise. They knew how to lift their hands to heaven and how to bow their head to God- and they knew how to hope for a new life some sweet day.

My people knew how to sing. They knew how to dance. They knew how to make their fingers fly as if by magic as they claw picked a banjo or slid a bow across a fiddle.

My people knew who they were. They knew who they came from. They knew where they came from. My people were proudly American, but remembered the old ways and the old songs and the old paths.

My people were craftsmen and women. They could sew a fine seam, whittle a child’s whistle, make furniture and gun stocks, tan leather, and carve their own pipes.

My people were soldiers. They fought and died for our country and represented the mountain area from which they came in disproportioned numbers. All gave some. Some gave all.

My people were their own doctors and nurses. They looked to their own for medicine and cures. They had to. No one could have reached them in time anyway.

These were my people. It is their blood that flows within my veins. Strong. Fiercely independent. Largely still undiluted from years of keeping to ourselves and not trusting those who come round with smiles and promises.

So when you ask me what makes me think the way that I do, the answer is simple. I learned it from my people.

Proud. Independent. Appalachian—And you’re not likely to change me now.

- Geneva Coleman, 2020

God bless.

*Pictured is a Carpenter Reunion in North Cove, North Carolina in 1935. My Great Great Grandparents and Family-My People

#appalachian #appalachian mountains #north carolina #appalachian culture #appalachia #western north carolina #the south #nc mountains #mcdowell county #mcdowellcounty

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h0llywoodsbleeding · 29 days ago

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chapter six

Mair wiped her face one last time, her fingertips brushing the tears that had stained her cheeks. She was done with letting herself spiral, at least for now. She needed to pull herself together. She had to figure out what to do. The world outside her phone was still spinning, but she couldn’t stay stuck in that moment forever. Not with Austin still asleep in the other room, oblivious to everything going on in her mind.

She took one final, shaky breath before pushing herself upright, her legs feeling like jelly beneath her. She couldn’t just stay there on the kitchen floor, letting her world fall apart. There was a time for this, for the pain and confusion, but it wasn’t right now. Not when she had to figure out what to do, and most importantly, how to approach him.

Mair moved slowly toward the hallway, the weight of the moment settling into her shoulders. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. Her hand lingered on the doorknob of their bedroom, the warmth of the door radiating under her palm. She needed to change out of her pajamas, get out of the emotional haze, even if just for a little while.

When she stepped into the bedroom, the soft morning light filtered in through the windows, casting a warm glow on the room they had shared for so long. It was supposed to be a safe space, her sanctuary. But now it felt unfamiliar, like a place she wasn’t sure she belonged. The thought was unsettling.

She moved quietly to the closet, trying to focus on the task of picking out clothes rather than the mess of thoughts racing through her mind. Moving quietly, Mair slipped off her pajamas and pulled on a pair of black leggings, the kind that hugged her legs comfortably but still allowed her to move freely. She grabbed her favorite oversized hoodie, the one she always wore when she wanted to feel like herself, and slid it over her head. The fabric was soft against her skin, the familiar scent of the laundry detergent they both used clinging to it.

She glanced at Austin, still sleeping peacefully, sprawled out on his side of the bed. The sight of him made her heart ache. How could this be happening? She had to approach him. She couldn’t avoid it forever. But for now, she needed space. She needed to think.

Nymeria was laying down by her, eyes half-closed but alert, as always. Mair knelt down beside her, stroking the dog’s fur gently. “Come on, girl. Let’s go for a walk,” she whispered, her voice barely above a murmur.

The dog looked up at her with curiosity, then slowly stood and padded toward the door, tail wagging. Mair opened the door, stepping into the cool morning air. The fresh breeze was a welcome relief to the suffocating weight she had been feeling in the house.

She closed the door behind her, and as soon as they stepped outside, the world felt a little less heavy. The air was crisp, the kind of chilly morning that felt refreshing against her skin. Nymeria trotted ahead, pulling on the leash, eager for her morning walk. Mair followed, her footsteps slow and deliberate, the gravel crunching beneath her shoes as she walked in silence.

The rhythmic sound of her steps, the quiet of the neighborhood, was oddly calming. With each step, Mair tried to clear her mind. But the thoughts kept rushing back, demanding attention.

What was she supposed to do?

The rumors, the pictures, the questions that people were asking on social media, Where is Mair? Does he have a girlfriend? Is she okay? The questions seemed endless, each one a sharp reminder of the doubt that had crept into her heart. She wasn’t used to feeling this way, and she hated it.

But those damn pictures. The backstage shots with other women, the whispers of him bringing people back to his hotel. How could she ignore that?

Nymeria stopped suddenly, her ears perked up at the sound of a bird flapping overhead. Mair snapped out of her spiral and tugged the leash lightly, urging the dog to keep moving. They walked for a while, the silence stretching between them, before Mair found herself sitting on a nearby bench, the dog settling down next to her.

She buried her face in her hands, trying to push away the storm of emotions threatening to consume her.

Why would he do this? The question kept circling in her head. Why didn’t he tell me? Why is he acting this way?

But as much as she wanted answers, Mair knew she couldn’t keep obsessing over it. The only person who could explain this was Austin. She just didn’t know if she was ready to face him, to confront him about everything that was eating at her.

Her fingers tightened around the leash as Nymeria lay beside her, and she finally allowed herself to exhale. It was time to stop avoiding it.

She had to talk to him. She couldn’t let the questions linger in her heart, making her feel like she was drowning.

Mair stood up slowly, her legs still heavy with the weight of uncertainty. “Come on, Nym,” she muttered to Nymeria, who got to her feet, tail wagging.

The walk back to the house felt longer than it had earlier, but she knew she couldn’t avoid it any longer. When she got back to their front door, she hesitated for a moment before pushing it open.

The house was still quiet. Austin was still asleep, but she knew that peace wouldn’t last for long.

Taking another deep breath, Mair stepped inside, ready to face whatever came next.

Austin woke up slowly, stretching under the covers as the morning light streamed through the blinds. He reached for Mair out of instinct, his hand patting at empty sheets. She was usually in bed when he woke up, curled into his side, tangled up in him.

Frowning, he rubbed his face, trying to shake off the grogginess. He could hear Nymeria’s nails clicking against the hardwood in the other room. The scent of coffee drifted faintly through the air, but it wasn’t strong enough for her to have just made it—it had probably been sitting there for a while.

He sat up, ruffling his hair, before dragging himself out of bed and pulling on a t-shirt over his bare chest. As he walked down the hall toward the kitchen, he caught sight of Mair standing by the sink, her back to him. She was still in her athleisure from her walk—leggings and his hoodie she stole a long time ago, her hair pulled up into a sleek ponytail.

She looked tense.

Normally, when she noticed him in the morning, she’d turn with that small, sleepy smile of hers, mumbling, “Morning, cowboy,” or something else teasing. But today, she stayed stiff, barely acknowledging him as he approached.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, coming up behind her. He wrapped his arms loosely around her waist, pressing a kiss against her temple. She let him, but she didn’t melt into him the way she always did.

Austin pulled back just enough to get a look at her face. “Everything okay?”

Mair nodded, too quick, too dismissive. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She reached for her coffee and took a sip, not looking at him.

He wasn’t buying it.

He leaned against the counter, watching her. “You sure? You seem… off.”

“I’m just tired.”

Austin narrowed his eyes slightly. “You weren’t in bed when I woke up.”

She shrugged. “I woke up early. Took Nymeria for a walk.”

She still wasn’t meeting his gaze.

His stomach twisted.

Austin moved around the kitchen with a quiet ease, grabbing a glass of water from the sink and taking slow sips as he leaned against the counter. He kept stealing glances at Mair, trying to figure out what was going on.

Mair, on the other hand, was just focused on keeping her hands steady as she wrapped them around her coffee cup. She was breathing slowly, deliberately, trying to keep the rising pressure in her chest at bay. But no matter how hard she tried, it wasn’t working.

Her mind was racing.

The images, the comments, the rumors—each one kept flashing behind her eyes, sinking its hooks deeper into her. And Austin—standing there, completely unaware of the storm brewing inside her—made it all the more suffocating.

She felt like she was going to break.

Austin set his glass down and turned toward her. “Mair.” His voice was soft, cautious. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

She swallowed hard and exhaled shakily. No, she wasn’t.

Mair took another sip of coffee, willing herself to get the words out. She needed to say something. She couldn’t sit here and act normal—not when she felt like she was unraveling.

Her voice felt tight in her throat, but she forced herself to speak.

“I’ve…” She stopped, her breath catching slightly. She clenched her jaw and tried again. “I’ve been seeing some stuff for a while.”

Austin frowned. “Stuff?”

She swallowed. “Rumors. People saying things. About you.”

His expression didn’t change much, but his body stiffened just slightly. “Mair-”

“This morning,” she cut him off, her voice breaking just slightly. She pressed her lips together, inhaling sharply through her nose before continuing. “This morning, I found more stuff.”

She forced herself to look at him then. Her chest felt tight, her heart pounding against her ribs.

Austin was just staring at her now, lips parted like he wanted to say something but hadn’t figured out what yet. His hands were braced against the counter, and she could see the way his fingers curled just slightly, like he was bracing himself.

Mair took a shaky breath.

Austin stayed quiet for a moment, his eyes locked onto hers. He wasn’t panicking—not visibly—but Mair knew him too well. She could see the shift in his expression, the way he was thinking through his next words carefully.

She hated that.

She wanted him to immediately shut it down, to scoff and tell her it was ridiculous, that he’d never do that to her. Instead, he just stood there, unreadable, too quiet.

And that silence was unbearable.

“Austin.” Her voice was firmer this time, though her hands were still trembling slightly around her coffee cup.

He finally exhaled and ran a hand over his face before speaking.

“What exactly did you see?” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, like he was already on defense.

Mair’s stomach twisted.

She set her coffee down carefully, afraid that if she held onto it any longer, she might actually drop it.

“People claiming they saw you with girls. That you were bringing them back to your hotel,” she started, forcing the words out, even though they made her sick. “At first, it was just talk, people making things up. I didn’t believe it.”

Austin took a breath, like he was about to respond, but she wasn’t done.

“But then I saw pictures.” Her voice wavered, but she kept going. “Not of that—but of you. Backstage. With different girls at almost every stop.”

Austin’s brows pulled together. “Mair—”

She shook her head. “People are asking where I am. If we broke up. If I even exist anymore.”

He opened his mouth again, but she kept talking, the words spilling out now, her emotions unraveling too fast for her to stop them.

“And I—” she swallowed hard, pressing a hand to her temple. “Austin, I don’t know how to ignore this anymore. I don’t know what to believe. I don’t want to believe any of it, but—”

Mair’s stomach twisted violently. The room felt too warm, too suffocating, and suddenly, she couldn’t hold it back anymore.

Her voice was barely above a whisper when she finally asked,

“Have you been cheating on me?”

The question hung in the air between them, heavy and awful, like the weight of it could crush her if he took too long to answer.

Austin just stood there.

He wasn’t quick to deny it. He didn’t scoff or get defensive or tell her that she was being ridiculous.

He just—

Stood there.

And in that moment, Mair already knew the answer.

Still, she prayed. For a laugh, for a shake of his head, for something—anything but what came next.

Austin’s shoulders dropped slightly, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Almost a whisper.

“Yes.”

It was just one word.

One syllable.

And it shattered her.

Mair’s breath left her in a quiet, shaky exhale. Her limbs felt cold, her fingers numb, her ears ringing like she’d just been hit by something full force.

Her whole body swayed before she forced herself to go still.

She swallowed, clenched her jaw, and willed herself not to cry.

Austin’s eyes were on her, cautious, hesitant, like he wanted to say something else, like he was waiting for her to react, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

Because this was Austin.

Her Austin.

And now, all she could think was—

She wasn’t enough.

Not for him. Not anymore.

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