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amorgansgal · 3 months

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Such Sweet Sorrow

So here is part 3 to my Fat Female Reader x Gale fic! This is a follow up to A Bitter Pill to Swallow and Practice Makes Perfect. This idea was suggested by @viluftic so thank you very much for that! Is everyone ready to suffer?

Gale drummed his fingers on the desk, he was thinking, thinking very hard. The whole thing was a rather difficult conundrum. He rolled the smooth part of the quill he was holding back and forth between his fingers. ‘Come on, Gale,’ he thought to himself. ‘Think, think, think!’

“If you don’t stop doing that, I’m going to bite your fingers off!” Tara muttered from the other chair she had taken a seat in.

“Sorry,” Gale said, dropping the pen on the desk and leaning forward. “I just need to figure out what I should do next.”

“Is this concerning your conjuration work or a certain Miss Y/N?”

“Yes, it concerns her. I want to prove I’m worthy of her, that I won’t look at anyone else but her and she has nothing to worry about, I will devote myself to her entirely.”

“Hmm,” Tara said, rather scathingly he thought, as though he was in the habit of devoting himself to others entirely and that didn’t go well for him. “I don’t see why you’re so obsessed with the lady, if she has turned down your advances.”

“I just… she is… well… it’s complicated,” he said and the tressym gave a rather snooty sniff in response. “She’s lovely and kind and I like her.”

“Though certainly not the best in her class at most magic. Surely you should find someone who can match your ability?”

“No!” he cried, though raised his hands in appeasement when Tara gave him a stern look at his outcry. “I think she’s perfectly well gifted at magic, she wouldn’t be here otherwise. And besides, I’m not just going to look for someone who can match me perfectly. Otherwise I might as well court my simulacrum and I think that would be a bit odd even for me! I like her more than just the magic she can do.”

“Well, my kind still believe that bringing some form of vanquished foe is the highest compliment one can bestow-” Tara said.

“I don’t think bringing her a dead pigeon or mouse is probably going to impress her much, it might have the opposite effect!”

Tara scowled, at least he thought she did. “I didn’t mean something like that! But perhaps she has some foe - a beast or hag or villain - in her life that you could vanquish, then bring her the head as proof.”

“Hmm, much as I appreciate the suggestion Tara, I’m not sure if bringing her a butchered head would go down well! I’m going to have a look in the library for ideas.”

Tara hopped up onto his bed, stretched out luxuriously and then settled down for a nap while he was gone. Gale gave her head a little scritch, which even though she let out a small yowl of contempt he could tell she still enjoyed it, and then he dashed out his room and down the corridor. There was no time to waste and he had already spent most of his day off pacing back and forth, going through all the usual romantic notions that would work. Flowers - bit cliche and predictable, plus probably not nearly enough of a gesture to convince you. Some item of jewellery or nice clothes or a magical item for a gift - it could work, but it felt a little transactional. Gale didn’t exactly want to buy your affection. A display of magic - While it might have impressed someone who was unfamiliar with the weave, you knew it very well and doubtless had created your own visions and wonders, so while he was sure you’d be polite about it, it likely wouldn’t impress you much!

Perhaps he could find every book on romance and love in the library and peruse them all. There must be some story about an adventurer or paladin knight or some such person with a lady love who did not necessarily wish to be with him at first, but he had won her over with his valour and deeds and so on and so forth. He almost skid past the librarian’s desk who barely raised her eyes as he did, all too used to students dashing in and hunting around for a book when they had an assignment to complete. But Gale stopped by the desk and slammed his hands on it.

“I need every book on romance and love under the sun!” he said.

The librarian, a halfling with her grey hair neatly scraped back in a small bun, gave him a withering look. “Well a good many books in this hall deal with matters of the heart, Master Dekarios. It would take most of the day to find every single one.”

“Well… can you point me in the right direction at least!”

“I suppose the second aisle would be your best bet, it concerns courtly romances, most of them are fictional of course. Is this for a project, Master Dekarios?”

“Of sorts,” he said, already eager to head over to the second aisle and see if anything was of use.

“Why on earth are you wanting books on romance and love?” a voice behind him said and he whirled around to see Nira there, a few books tucked under her arm. Gale beamed. Ah! This was a bit of luck. Nira was your friend, a very good close friend to you. She would doubtless know exactly what was needed to persuade you.

“Never mind!” he said to the librarian. “Thank you for your help!” He grabbed Nira’s free arm and practically dragged her from the library while she squawked and demanded to know where they were going. Once they were outside, away from prying ears and eyes, he released her.

“What on earth has gotten into you?” Nira said.

“Your friend, Y/N.”

“What about her?” Nira asked, brow raised in suspicion.

“I… Well… I really, really like her and I said I would like to do more with her than… well just be someone she can call upon to see to her needs, that I wanted to be with her entirely and not see anyone else…”

“Wait, wait, wait, slow down. Am I understanding that you wanted to court Y/N?”

“Yes.”

“She didn’t tell me that!” Nira looked outraged.

“She said no that she didn’t want me to woo her at this time...”

“Oh… well I guess that just sucks for you then.”

“No, she said she’d think about it. That she’d think on me courting her.”

“Well then there’s your answer Gale, I still don’t see why I needed to be dragged out here…”

“Because I like her, so much, and I don’t want to wait around forever. What if someone else sweeps her off her feet?”

“Again, sucks to be you.”

“But you’re her friend, you could tell me what she likes, what would make a good impression, what declaration I could do-”

“Look, if you like her so much then you should already know what she likes and if you’re serious then stop having other girls come up to your room to enjoy your tongue. Otherwise, I don’t think there’s much you could do other than be respectful, polite and wait for her answer.”

“But I can’t just leave it to-”

“Gale,” Nira rounded on him, her brow furrowed with fury and her eyes glaring at him. “Look, the more you respect her wishes and back off a little, the more likely she is to consider you as a lover. But calm down, stop being so needy and wait for her to come to you! Gods above!” And with that she marched off down the corridor.

“At least put in a good word for me!” he called after her.

It was a strange few weeks for you, Gale had certainly been treating you differently. You felt his eyes upon you when you were in class, which made you feel flustered and distracted. But at least you could hide away in your room when you were working on essays or assignments, until the gifts started showing up. Little boxes of sweetmeats, an admittedly beautiful purple scarf with strands of silver running through it, an absurdly large bouquet of flowers with pink roses, frothy white queen anne’s lace and fuchsia carnations.

And that was when others started to notice. Oh you’d had the occasional cruel comment, but you’d mostly gone ignored. Now though the whole school had picked up on you being the object of Gale’s desire and devotion, especially as apparently he’d stopped accepting the other girls’ invitations or offering himself to them. It had not made you popular!

“I don’t get it,” you once heard Lucia say as you were busy searching a bookshelf in the library for a particular book on selunite magic. “Why her? She’s so fat and dumpy and dull, and she barely says anything in class. I don’t get why Gale is so obsessed with her. Did you see the flowers he sent to her?”

You froze on the spot and felt your heart beating loudly in your chest, your hand was still holding a book as you both longed to run away from Lucia’s unkind words and yet could not compel your feet to move.

“I know. I heard it only happened when he ate her out. I’m surprised he even managed to find her pussy!” another girl whispered and the girls stifled their laughter in the quiet library.

“I know, how did he get through all the gross folds to reach it!”

“Eww, stop it! I don’t want to think about that!” Lucia shrieked.

Your hand trembled and you quietly pushed the book back on the shelf. You debated about trying to leave quietly, but then before you could even move one foot in front of the other, the girls had already rounded the shelves and came to a halt on seeing you. Some of them had the decency to look embarrassed, others giggled again, Lucia wrinkled up her nose.

“Oh look who it is! Maybe we can find the answers from the horse’s mouth. Or should that be pig’s?”

You quickly pulled the selunite book back from the shelf, determined to not let her pathetic bullying get under your skin. “If you don’t mind Lucia, I have work to be getting on with.”

“Oh we’ll leave you be, but first please explain why Gale Dekarios is so obsessed with you?”

You swallowed uncomfortably. Gods, you didn’t know why! It didn’t make much sense to you given you had told him you needed time to think it over and you weren’t sure about it. But now everyone at the academy had assumed you were a thing because of all the gifts!

“I don’t know… you’d have to ask Gale.”

Her smile put you in mind of a harpy who had lured in its prey. “Like it doesn’t make any sense to me. We were wondering if he’s just joking, just messing with you or something. I think his friends would find it funny.”

Her clever little arrow found its target. You were sure he wouldn’t do something like that, would he? Was he and his friends laughing before they went to bed? Hysterical at the idea he was sending you all these little gifts and poems because it would be funny for you to think anyone would find you desirable. You remembered years ago when a group of boys had dared another kid to ask you out and how much they had laughed at your innocent, hopeful smile and how awful you felt, how you’d hidden yourself away to cry and how you had to pretend that it hadn’t hurt, that you could brush off a cruel joke like that.

But Gale… could Gale do something like that? You remembered the way he was so sweet and gentle when he first kissed you, how Nira told you he’d never done that with anyone else, how much he looked at you with outright burning desire and surely he could not pretend to do that! How he had kissed you passionately when you saw him again, how he said he wanted you. A little whisper of desire danced through your blood and you could almost imagine his hands on you again, his lips on your throat… You shook your head, Gale was kind and good. He would never willingly hurt someone as a joke.

“Gale’s not like that,” you insisted. “He’d never do something so cruel.”

“Mm-hm,” Lucia said, it was playful, but her tone was still sharp, still malicious and she gave you a patronising little smirk. “Well if you think so!”

It was a culmination of things. A culmination of teasing and pointed remarks from people like Lucia, whispered comments and rumours from other classmates, Nira getting fed up of being hounded by Gale for advice and just everything felt overwhelming. The gifts had thankfully stopped after a very firm talking to from Nira, but you felt terrible for rejecting them and rejecting Gale.

“He’s a big boy,” Nira had said while she read Waterdeep’s local newspaper and lounged on your bed, while you tried to work at your desk. “He’ll get over it. I’m sure he’ll fuck someone else to heal his wounded heart!”

The idea that he might fuck someone else didn’t make you feel any better though. It felt like a jagged piece of ice had splintered your heart in two. You had considered it beforehand, but now your mind was made up and so you nervously stood outside Gale’s room, dreading the thought of knocking but also not wanting to leave without saying goodbye properly. You quickly knocked on the door and prayed to all the gods that he wasn’t in.

But the door was yanked open before you could even draw in your next breath and Gale stood there, his smile widening excitedly when he saw you. “Y/N! You’re here. I never thought… come in, come in!”

You stayed where you were though and saw the slightest flicker of disappointment in his soft brown eyes. Gods, that killed you. You looked away so you could get through what you had to say next.

“Um… Gale… I’m joining Professor Yinpeiros on their expedition to Neverwinter. I thought you should know rather than find out through someone else…” you tailed off when you caught a glimpse of how utterly disappointed he looked. You pressed your lips tightly together. “I’m really sorry, I do like you. I just…”

“If you like me, why are you leaving?” he asked, his voice breaking at the end of his question and you felt terrible.

“Because… this has all been so overwhelming. Your gifts, the attention everyone has given me, some people have been… cruel.”

“Who?” his voice darkened and you glanced up at him, seeing the anger blazing hot in his eyes and you were caught between flattery that he would be enraged if someone was nasty to you and a little bit fearful as to what he might do to them.

“It doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m going, for a year or two. So I wanted to do the decent thing and say goodbye.”

Gale’s face fell and he leaned heavily on the doorframe, his fist clenched tightly against the wood. “So I fucked up.”

“You didn’t fuck up, the gifts were beautiful, it just felt a bit… much to be given a lot of attention, both good and bad. I know you meant well.”

He inhaled deeply, then managed to look up and give you a grim smile. “Nira was right then, I should’ve just let you be and let you make your own decision on the matter. I’m sorry. I just… I care about you so much, I desire you so much, I lo-”

You pressed your fingers against his lips, stopping him from speaking. “Please don’t do that, don’t say that. You don’t Gale, not really.”

He opened his mouth, eyes bright with outrage and looking like he might argue with you, but instead he let out a sigh and carefully removed your hand from his lips. “I know what I feel, Y/N, but I won’t burden you with it anymore. I’m sorry. Would you… would you gift me with something before you go?”

You frown, puzzled by what he could have in mind. You don’t have much you can give him. Maybe a potted plant, but you had already promised them to Nira. “What is it?”

“Can I kiss you one last time?”

You hesitate. You should say no. Nira told you to make this quick and painless and easy. But it doesn’t feel like any of those things. Your heart feels like it has already shattered and you’re barely holding onto the pieces. “Yes,” you finally said.

He let go of the doorframe and gently cupped your face in his warm hands, his thumbs stroked your cheeks, his eyes watched you intently as though memorising every detail of your face. “You really are so beautiful,” he said, before he lowered his head and pressed a kiss to your lips. You closed your eyes, your hand met his on your face, and you felt his other one easily move down your back, curl around your waist and he brought you closer to him.

Nira no doubt would be shaking her head in exasperation and giving you a withering look, and it would be all too easy to blame Gale for his tight hold on you, for his tongue slipping into your mouth, for the way his hands stroked down your back to your waist and hips and teasingly close to your butt but never actually land there, but you are breathing the same air and tasting his mouth too and have wrapped your arms around his shoulders, enjoying how surprisingly broad he is. It’s not a short, simple, sweet kiss goodbye. It’s a kiss lovers give to one another when they have all the time in the world and have the ability to crash into the bedroom, to tumble into bed and take pleasure in one another’s body.

When you break apart, he doesn’t let go. His arms are still wrapped around your waist, his forehead is pressed against yours, his eyes are closed, his lips parted, his cheeks flushed. He finally blinked open his eyes and smiled at you, a proper, soft, intimate smile that sends your heart racing and makes you want to stay.

“Would you…?” he stopped himself. “I want to ask you to come to my bed.”

You untangled yourself from him and pulled back. “No, Gale.” You took another step back. “But I will see you again, I’m sure. Goodbye, Gale.”

You turned around so he can’t see your eyes filled with tears and you hurried down the corridor, not wanting to linger and hear his own goodbye.

#gale x fat female reader #gale x female reader #gale x fat f!reader #gale x fat f/reader #gale of waterdeep x fat female reader #gale of waterdeep x fat f!reader #gale of waterdeep x fat f/reader #gale dekarios x fat f!reader #gale dekarios x fat f/reader #gale dekarios x fat female reader #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale

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androgynealienfemme · 1 year

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"What is butch? Rebellion against women's lot, against gender-role imperatives that pit boyness against girlness and then assign you-know-who the short straw. Butch is a giant fuck YOU! to compulsory femininity, just as lesbianism says the same to compulsory heterosexuality. I do not associate respect for compulsory anything with butchness, though perhaps some butch bottoms will disagree. I first gravitated toward butch women because they were the easiest female allies to recognize in my war against the compulsory world.

In the 1970s, when I came out in the dyke community, butch was dead and androgyny was practically an imperative. I didn't mind at first; girliness as a way of life hadn't worked out for me, and though I had always exhibited distinctly femme sexuality, I wasn't presenting myself to the world that way: I hadn't really grown into the image. I was young; the men I had fucked played "Me Tarzan, You Jane." I couldn't figure out how to get them to play the game by different rules. As soon as sex with them was over (or even while it was still going on) the whole thing felt stupid. Men who didn't play Tarzan were fine, but I couldn't figure out how to get them to fuck me. No doubt they were contending with their own straight (or not-so-straight) boy version of femme sexuality and were waiting for me to make the first move. Some men don't play Tarzan so as not to appear sexist; others just want you to do it-- grab their neckties and out them where you want them -- but I didn't know that at the time.

With some relief then, I retired the Jane I never wanted to be, reconstructed myself as an androgyne, and forsook my vain attempt to present my femininity to the world. The Uniform, actually, was Butch Lite. Jeans or chinos, flannel shirts or tees, sensible shoes-- either boots, athletic shoes, or Birkenstocks (it turns out the latter were incredibly subversive if you wore them with scarlet toenail polish, but that's another story). Almost the whole dyke community dressed this way: if a woman didn't, her politics and her sexual orientation were automatically up for debate.

The butches who were left over from the era before the purge also dressed this way. We had renamed the identity, it seemed, but kept the look. That way we could say we'd vanquished it, even as we kept it around to turn us on.

The unschooled eye couldn't tell the two sorts of women -- butches and androgynes-- apart. Butchness had been so thoroughly declared passe that an entire generation of dykes could dress in what was essentially butch-woman drag and evoke defensive responses only from conservative straight people (and very straight-identified "gay women").

At first I believed the mythos of the Vanished Butch (and her symbiotic sister-species, the Vanished Femme). But certain women wearing the Uniform made my nostrils flare, my tongue tie, my skin prickle like an electrical storm had passed. They filled the clothes differently. It took me some years to begin to understand why I wanted to chew on some women's thick brown leather belts and not on others.

Non-butch women wore the Uniform like librarians who had just come in from gardening. It was not clothes that made the woman. It was stance. It was attitude-- it was impossible to picture one of the librarians wearing a tux, or myself dressing in silk or lace to present myself to her. It was impossible to think of presenting myself to her at all, to offer her that mixture of allure and willingness that I desired to give a butch woman."

“Why I Love Butch Women” by Carol A. Queen, On Butch and Femme: Compiled Readings, (edited by I.M. Epstein) (2017)

#why I love butch women #dagger: on butch women #on butch and femme: compiled readings #on butch and femme #Carol queen #lesbian lit #lesbian #butch lesbian #butch #lesbian history #butch history #queer history #lgbtq+ history

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astroboots · 2 years

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RED FLAGS ║ PART 6

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector

Summary: You and Marc grow closer, but it’s a little more complicated than that. Or alternatively: Marc refuses to let dead fish lie.

Word Count: 7,800

Series Masterlist | Astroboot's Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss' Masterlist

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Autumn is right around the corner for London. With it, the leaves are starting to turn, specks of bright orange and canary yellow dotted along the sidewalk. The old drab stone buildings in the city are washed in a pink amber from the morning sun. Suddenly every street, nook and cranny of the city is transformed into a gorgeous postcard for you to enjoy as you walk into your office in the mornings, sipping burning tea from your travel mug.

It’s a season of cosiness. The autumn sun eases off mercifully, meaning no more unbearable heat waves. The smell of hot melted rubbish that permeates the summer months dissipates. Even the Thames River doesn’t look quite as mucky when the reflection of evening sunsets bounces off its ordinarily grimy grey surface.

Best of all, the tourists start to thin out, no longer blocking every tube entrance while trying to figure out if it’s the Central line or Bakerloo line that will take them to Big Ben (neither will, of course).

With the city deserted of tourists, there are fewer visitors at the museum and barely any people in the gift shop, all of which means more free time for Steven. No matter how much Donna might want to lock him up in the storeroom and be done with him, there’s only so much inventory work to be done when the museum is decreasing its stock of historically inaccurate kitschy trinkets for the season.

It also means that by the time the working day ends for you, Steven will usually already be downstairs waiting for you at the reception in your office building.

He and Susan have gotten quite chummy now that she no longer thinks he’s some random vagrant. More often than not, he’ll be there, bent over the reception desk as she shows him the latest photo of her grandchildren or shares cooking tips (which never quite seem to stick) as you exit the lift. Failing that, you’ll find him leaning against the wall, worn messenger bag slung across his shoulder, head lolling to the side trying to catch a few opportune minutes of sleep as he waits for you to walk home together.

Watching his eyes light up when he looks up and catches sight of you never gets old. Nor does the way that Steven slips his hand into yours as you walk to the tube station.

Weekday evenings are spent at his, simply for the unbeatable convenience of the central location. Steven’s flat is in zone 1 of London, just a quick hop away by tube versus the fifty minute commute to yours, practically in the outer rims of the galaxy out in zone 4. The close proximity means you have more time with each other in the evenings, and you often spend it heating up easy-to-cook meals (for Steven’s benefit) or finding new Attenborough-narrated documentaries to watch.

But your favourite part of the evening is cuddling up in bed while he reads to you wearing his ridiculously outdated and thick-rimmed librarian glasses. It’s a look which, for some reason even you cannot fathom, you find completely irresistible, and you inevitably wind up climbing into Steven’s lap, book discarded somewhere on the floor as you show him just how irresistible you find him.

Then there is the other half of your Autumn days: the mornings you spend with Marc.

Those days start with you waking to an empty bed and the gentle white noise of yesterday’s dishes being taken care of in the kitchen. That’s how you know Marc is there before you even open your eyes to find your clothes neatly folded beside you. It used to make your stomach clench with unease, but that’s no longer the case.

To say that you and Marc are besties is a bit of an overstatement. Even "friends" would be a stretch, but you've definitely grown more comfortable with each other over time.

Stirring awake to the sound of Marc pottering around has become another piece of your life. As has having breakfast together across the kitchen counter.

Breakfasts that Marc cooks for you.

In the early days, his efforts had been commendable but hardly first class (bless his cotton socks). But you’d seen the soggy eggs and limp sausages as the peace offering they were, and you were only too happy to accept the proffered olive branch.

The first time he’d made you tea had tested that resolve. He’d popped it in the microwave, and it came out a lukewarm, watered down, milky mess. You'd struggled to keep a smile on your face as you choked it down, until, by the last few sips, it felt like it had slipped into something closer to a Wallace and Grommit style grimace. He must’ve picked up on your not-so-subtle struggle, because the next cup of tea had been a bit better, and so had the next. A steady improvement until he was serving you a perfectly prepared cuppa every morning.

It’s become your ritual now. You’ll sip the tea he prepares for you each morning he’s there, watching over the brim of your cup as he prepares his own cup of coffee, then plates up your breakfast and it’s... nice.

As endearing as Steven’s exuberant culinary efforts are, you secretly prefer Marc’s cooking to your boyfriend’s (perpetually burnt) marmite toast. There’s no risk of accidental arson for one. And, like the tea he makes for you, Marc’s food seems to get marginally better every time you eat it. The omelettes have gotten fluffier, the sausages crispier. Whether your palette is being won over by your increasing comfort around him, or it’s an actual improvement in technique, you don’t know, but his repertoire has expanded as well.

Marc now has a regimented rotation of breakfast dishes for the weekdays. You’ve memorised the order to the point that it’s become your internal calendar. You begin to look forward to waking up at Steven’s on Mondays, because Monday is French toast day.

It’s strangely domestic.

Marc cooks with mechanical precision, movements sparse and controlled, in comparison to Steven’s wild chaos. He’ll clean up after himself right away as well, even going so far as to wipe the crumbs off the counter before sitting down with a plate of his own. Because that’s another thing you’ve learned about Marc: absolute neat freak. Whereas Steven… not so much. In fact, you’d say your boyfriend thrives on the messy chaos. He seems to feel at home ensconced in piles and piles of books like it’s his own personal cocoon of safety.

To Marc though, the mess is an eyesore. You can almost see the thick veins in his neck protruding in irritation whenever his eyes roam the cluttered space. Every nerve in him screaming as he fights his A-type instincts to make drastic cleaning efforts lest Steven become suspicious that someone else (or at least some kind of friendly cleaning poltergeist) has been in his flat.

Every morning you spend together, Marc gets more verbal in his disdain for the mess. It’s hard not to laugh at some of the comments he makes because he sounds more like a cantankerous 70-year-old than the man in his prime years that stands before you.

“You should tell Steven you hate the mess. He’d clean it for you, you know.”

So Marc’s said, and more than once. It’s a running theme, and the wry comments make you snort into your tea with laughter every time.

“You could always tell him yourself, you know,” you like to rejoin, mimicking his delivery.

“Funny. Hilarious,” Marc will shoot back flatly, rolling his eyes at you as he wipes the counter clean. But for all his sarcasm, one corner of his mouth remains tipped up in an almost-smile.

You’re still not quite friends, but you wouldn’t say that you’re far from it.

It’s Sunday. You know it must be from the warm, lightly sweet smell of pancakes in the room and the gentle sound of butter sizzling in the frying pan. Marc makes pancakes with maple syrup on Sundays.

Sitting up in bed, your eyes follow the sounds to see Marc standing before the stove. Bundling the quilt up around you, you make sure your naked torso is completely covered before gathering your neatly folded clothes from next to you on the bed and heading to the loo to get dressed. When you come out, your cuppa is sitting piping hot on the kitchen counter, steam gently rising as it waits for you.

Marc’s just reaching up to grab the ground coffee from the cupboard, and it occurs to you that this is an opportunity to repay the favour.

“I can make it for you,” you chime in.

He freezes and shoots you a startled look, staring like a deer in the headlights for a moment before he sets the coffee grounds down on the counter and retreats to the side, making space for you to slide in between him and the coffee maker.

Stepping up to the counter and unravelling the paper bag of ground beans, you realise that you’re not sure you remember how to do this. You’re not much of a coffee aficionado, so it’s been ages since you made coffee from scratch, but with Marc standing behind you, you can’t exactly pull up your phone and google instructions. You’ll just have to improvise as best as you can.

From your observations, Marc takes his coffee black and strong. So adding one spoon of grounds for each ounce of water Marc’s added to the coffee maker should be enough… right? Grabbing the spoon, you sneak a glance at Marc as you start to measure it out, but he’s watching you stone-faced. If you’re doing anything wrong (or right for that matter), his facial expression isn’t giving you any hints.

After counting out the rest of the heaping scoops—plus one more for the pot—into the filter, you close the lid and turn the machine on. Watching anxiously as the pure black substance begins to drip down into the glass carafe. Tapping your fingers, you wait drop by drop until the machine is finally done squeezing out the very last of your efforts, and then grab a mug.

As soon as you pour, you know something isn’t right. It smells off—acrid—to your nose, and there’s some sort of sediment at the bottom of the pot that looks like dirty sand.

You stare at the noxious substance in the mug in dismay.

Clearly you’ve made an error somewhere, because this doesn’t look safe for human consumption. From the way it smells, it might very well be poisonous. Regretfully, you step over to the sink with the pot and mug, resigned to pouring the whole sorry mess down the drain, but before you can do so, Marc intercepts you.

He wraps his fingers around the handle of the mug and takes it from you without so much as a word. Then he raises it to his mouth, and you’re so surprised by it that you don’t even have the time to warn him of the Chernobyl situation happening inside that mug before he tips it up and takes a sip. And swallows.

There’s no reaction beyond a brief nod and a quiet “thanks.”

You watch in disbelief as he continues to drink from the mug straight-faced. How long would it take for food poisoning to take, minutes, hours? Should you try to convince him to go to the hospital to get his stomach pumped?

“Breakfast is going to get cold,” he tells you as he sets down the breakfast he’s already plated up for you on the kitchen counter and gestures for you to sit.

Drawing your eyes away from the coffee mug in Marc’s hand, you take in the food in front of you.

The pancakes look glorious, three of them piled on top of each other to make a fluffy stack several inches thick and glistening with maple syrup. You eagerly stab your fork into them and shove a large chunk into your mouth letting the perfect mix of sweet savouriness melt on your tongue.

“This is so good,” you moan, eyes nearly rolling back in your head. You're still chewing open-mouthed as you compliment him, refusing to stop scarfing down this delicious food. (Your grade school teacher would be appalled at your table manners.) From the corner of your eye, you can see the way Marc’s lips tilt, not quite a smile, but the hint of one.

“God, how do these pancakes keep getting better every time. Is this a Ratatouille situation?”

Marc lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. “Never seen it.”

“The one with the rat chef? He hides in his human friend’s hat and tugs his hair to marionette him to cook?”

“That sounds unsanitary,” Marc remarks, not answering your question, then makes a show of running a hand through his thick curls and tugging them between his fingers, deadpanning “No rats.”

He turns back to his food, but you’re left staring, struggling with the sense-memory of running your own hands through those soft locks while Steven buried his face between your legs and made you see stars.

You shake your head and will the intrusive thought away, quickly scooping up another bite of pancake. Doing your best to focus on the near heavenly taste and texture, you shovel it into your mouth as fast as you can chew.

Marc eats in a much more dignified manner, cutting his stack of pancakes into neat squares. He looks up occasionally to watch you massacre yours with wry amusement. You continue to eat and neither of you say much, only the tiny clang of your cutlery scraping against the plate sounding out.

Picking up the mug next to him, Marc finished off the coffee inside down to the last drop. Either the man has a terrible taste in coffee, or your efforts weren’t that bad after all.

“It might take longer this time,” Marc says. For once, he is the one to break up the silence instead of you.

You look up from your plate, mouth crammed full of syrup-soaked pancake, which you have to chew furiously before you’re able to swallow and speak again.

“Oh, all right.” You don’t have to ask to know he’s talking about leaving again. “How long will you be gone? Have you called in sick to work for Steven so he doesn’t get into trouble?”

Marc hums an affirmative, which you assume is an answer to the second question, not the first.

“Marc,” you begin again, fully intending on repeating yourself like a parrot until he gives you an answer, “How long will you be gone ?”

“Don’t know yet. Might be a few days. Probably a few weeks.”

That’s not too bad then. You’ll miss Steven, of course. And you make an unenthusiastic mental note to pick up more granola from Sainsburys for breakfast while they’re gone—Marc’s food has spoiled you.

“What do you do on these trips anyway? Is it for work?”

“Something like that.”

“How do you not know how long you’ll be out of town then? What kind of company doesn’t give you an itinerary?”

He merely shrugs, and you know you’ll get nothing more down that line of questioning.

You look out over the flat as you finish up the last of the pancake on your plate, and your eyes land on Gus swimming away in his gigantic fish tank by himself.

“Do you want me to pop ‘round and feed Gus?”

Marc shakes his head, already taking away your plate, cleaning up after you. “No, I got it handled.”

Of course he’d turn you down. It’s no big surprise. Knowing Marc, he doesn't want you in Steven’s flat unsupervised for fear you’ll get funny ideas or start prying into his and Steven’s things. You imagine that’s why he’s always here, busying himself with something or the other in the flat when you wake up with him instead of Steven. The thought stings a bit, though you can't quite put your finger on why.

Collecting your things, you head towards the door, taking one last glance at Gus’ fish tank before you go. “Don’t forget to feed him.”

Marc turns towards you, the corner of his lips quirking up, “I won’t.”

It’s another Thursday night.

Steven and Marc have been gone for a fortnight, and you’re tucked up on the sofa with a cosy blanket and some wine watching The Great British Bake Off on the BBC. Paul Hollywood is in the middle of critiquing a subpar cranberry tart when you get the usual head’s up text from Marc:

Marc Safe. Back tomorrow.

Loquacious as always, but you've got his number now. Marc's not nearly so taciturn as his initial attitude would imply.

Maybe it’s the buzz from the two fishbowl-sized glasses of wine you’ve had (your cheeks already feel a little warmer the way they do when you’re tipsy). Maybe it’s because nowadays you’re comfortable enough with Marc that expressing curiosity no longer feels like you’re wading into something dangerous. Or maybe you’re just lonely and want to keep the connection going a few minutes longer.

Whatever the reason, you decide to text him back.

You So what exactly is it that you do while you’re away?

Marc I can’t tell you.

You Or what? You’ll have to kill me, Mr Bond?

You grin at your own joke, feeling quite clever and very chuffed with yourself. When several moments tick by with no response, you seize the moment to continue teasing him, messaging him again (and again) with a growing sort of giddiness.

You Marc… Marc! Surely you’re joking You’re not! You can’t be!! Get back here, Marc!! Please tell me you are not actually a secret agent.

Marc I’m not a secret agent.

Ha! You knew it was only a matter of time before he took the bait! You chortle gleefully to yourself as your fingers fly over your phone screen, spelling out the obvious response.

You That sounds like something a secret agent would say

Marc It’s a little more complicated than that.

You That’s not a no...

Marc Good night.

You shake your head at his non answer and sign off, still chuckling quietly to yourself as you settle back onto the sofa to watch Paul Hollywood eat another slice of crumble rhubarb pie.

Glued to your sofa, you get through three episodes in a row, and barely manage to curb your envy of the man’s metabolism. How he’s managed to last so many seasons without seemingly gaining a pound is beyond you. When the third episode ends, a rerun of Top Gear comes on, and as much as you cannot stand Jeremy Clarkson, the sound of motors rumbling on the telly in your empty flat is soothing, and you let it stay on to keep you company as you clean up your dishes and wander back to the couch to check your email.

Your doorbell buzzes, and you jump about half a foot at the sudden intrusion of sound. It continues loudly and without interruption, as if whoever was ringing at your door is determined to exhaust the buzzer into silence. You quickly scramble up and around the ottoman, trying to get to the door before one of your neighbours starts pounding on the wall.

Putting your eye against the peephole, you’re greeted by a familiar sight. You’d recognize that sharp nose and floppy dark curls anywhere. Except, his stance is a bit too impatient, militant.

Marc then, not Steven.

Unlocking the door, you barely have a chance to say so much as hello.

“I killed his fish,” he announces.

“Wha– Gus?”

“The stores are closed.” He rakes a frustrated hand through his hair, neatly combed waves coming apart into slightly messier curls that remind you of Steven. “I tried five pet shops on the way here. None of ‘em were open.”

“So, wait. Your grand master plan is to find a lookalike fish, and then… what? Hope Steven won’t notice? That’s ridiculous, Marc. Steven’s not a five year old child. Just leave Gus where you found him.”

Marc seems to consider that for a moment, jaw flexing as he stares off into space, but then he shakes his head. "Yeah, I can't do that. He'll be upset. I need to get him another one."

That gives you pause. As much of a sour old grouch as Marc usually is, every now and then, there are moments like this. Moments that hint at something softer and caring within. You catch glimpses of it in his misguided attempts to protect Steven’s happiness. You don’t agree with the way Marc chooses to do these things, but the intention is there all the same. The postcards from their mum that are really from him. His insistence on keeping his very existence a secret from Steven. Only Marc would resort to gaslighting as a form of affection.

“Why didn’t you text me? I could’ve swung by and fed him.”

Marc’s eyes flicker, then he turns his face to the side, away from you. For a brief moment you think you see a line of bruising on the side of his neck, but in the dimly lit darkness of the hallway you can't tell if it's just a shadow or your eyes playing tricks on you.

“Things got… complicated,” Marc says.

You sigh, opening the door wide enough to make room for him to come in.

He doesn’t take the hint, remaining firmly planted in the hall, with no indication that he means to cross your threshold.

It occurs to you that Steven’s spent quite a bit of time here, but Marc hasn’t been back to your flat since that first night he interrupted your Blue Planet marathon and rudely shoved his hand over your mouth. How far you’ve come.

You stand back, even farther, gesturing him in, and Marc leans forward and peers hesitantly into your flat. Yet, instead of going inside, he takes a step back, and you really want to roll your eyes and just shove him inside already. It’s been raining all day, and it's cold in the hallway. Keeping the door ajar is letting out all the warmth, and your gas bills are already through the roof as it is.

“I shouldn’t be here. I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea–”

“Come inside, Marc,” you interrupt.

Like a vampire being granted permission, Marc finally relents and follows you into your flat.

Walking to the couch to retrieve your phone, you pick it up and pull up Google Maps. “So Amazing Fins down the street from my office opens at 11am on Fridays. Want me to meet you there on my lunch break?”

“No, I might not be able to stay awake that long. We need to get something now.”

Stubborn as always.

You grumble to yourself as you go back to poking at your phone. You don’t know why you’ve let this man into your house, much less why you’re letting him rope you into a futile mission of procuring a goldfish when all pet shops across the whole of London are closed.

Yet somehow you find yourself texting every local friend in your contacts about the possibility of “borrowing a goldfish for a day or two” because there’s been a petmergency.

“Not borrowing. We’re keeping it,” Marc says from behind you, but you pointedly ignore his unhelpful commentary.

Now here’s the wonderful thing about London. You’re pretty sure that in any other city, a mad text like this, sent out late on a Thursday night, would be met with a slew of offended texts back like “get stuffed” or “are you on drugs?”—if it got any responses at all. Instead there’s only a handful of those (and one asking if it’s code for “sex stuff,” which you do not respond to).

It’s truly only in London that you would get a reply from an old uni mate you haven’t seen for almost half a decade with a casual, no questions asked:

Sam sure fam! how many u need?

Good old Sam. Sam was the friend you’d call at uni whenever your evening plans fell through, and he’d take you to this unlicensed club in the middle of Clapham or a secret party held in a closed down tube station. Apparently not much has changed. Sam’s still that lad—the one who’s never said no to anything in his life and always seems to have a contact or twelve for everything—so you don’t even raise an eyebrow when he tells you that he knows a bloke with a huge collection of fish in his cellar.

Marc however, does raise an eyebrow.

You tell him, as you’re putting on your coat, that you have a lead and are going over to Docklands to get a fish. Before you even finish the sentence, his arms are already locked across his chest, and he’s wearing that pinched expression that you’ve learned by now means he’s unhappy.

“How well do you know this guy?” he asks.

“Well enough. I told you, he’s an old mate of mine from uni.”

“It’s not safe,” he mutters under his breath. “Who keeps a bunch of fish in their basement and then just gives them away? You sure it’s not a trap?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Marc. Besides, what kind of person would come up with an evil master plan to lure women into their cellar with fish?”

“A serial killer,” Marc answers with a straight face.

You scoff as you wrap a thick scarf around your shoulders. It’s about all you can do to not laugh in his face, because Marc seems completely oblivious to the irony that he is the sketchiest bloke you know. “Are you serious right now?”

Apparently he is, because his eyes narrow, demeanour as serious as ever, when he announces, “You’re not going alone. I’m coming with you.”

You hate the DLR.

The above-ground railway is always so bloody slow compared to the tube, and it coils its way clumsily around office buildings and industrial estates like some discount Tory rollercoaster. This is what happens when you build public transport as an afterthought. If it wasn’t for the Thames river being in the way, you could probably get there faster simply by walking.

On top of that, it’s crowded. It always is on weeknights, but tonight is worse than anything you’ve experienced before. You’re all packed in like sardines, and it isn’t until the third congregation of rowdy men enters your car and begins chanting football anthems that it occurs to you why: there was a football game tonight.

In the crowd of sports enthusiasts, you’re unable to find a seat, nor can you reach any of poles or straphangers to steady yourself. The carriage sways over a bridge like a slithering snake, and between that, the wine from earlier, and the smell of rancid beer and drunk blokes sweating through their polo shirts, motion sickness kicks in with a fury.

Oh fuck, you really don’t want to be sick all over the floor.

You close your eyes tightly, breathing deeply through your nose. You’re distracted, not ready when the carriage lurches forward, and your footing fails. You start to tumble backwards, absolutely sure that you’re about to go arse over tits when you feel someone’s arm lock behind your waist. In an impressive display of strength, they arrest your fall, reeling you forward until you’re steady on your feet again.

Opening your eyes, you look up to find Marc watching you, his mouth set in a worried frown.

“You okay?” he asks, and you open your mouth to answer him, but the sudden countermotion of the carriage correcting its course slams you forward, and you collide with him, nose to chest.

Blistering heat burns your cheeks, and you nod into his shirt. All of a sudden, your legs seem to have become gelatine, and you're pretty sure it’s not just from the motion sickness.

It’s silly really. Your proximity to this man should not get you this flustered. You’ve done far more physically intimate acts than be pressed up against his fully clothed body, crammed around a sea of sweating strangers.

You’re about to remove yourself, stutter out some polite apology to avoid any awkwardness between you. But his arm tightens around you, locking behind the small of your back to steady you again. Then he keeps it there.

“It’s fine,” he says.

You’ve never heard his voice like this, pleasantly low and soft for your ears only. Even through the pandemonium of football fans arguing about who was really offside in the background, you hear it piercingly clear and your ears tingle.

“Just hold onto me until we get there.”

Your eyes linger on the side of his neck. There’s no sign of the dark bruises you thought you saw on him in your hallway earlier this evening. It must’ve been the trick of light.

Marc tips his face until he can meet your eyes, and– Fuck, you’re staring.

With a quick nod, you quietly murmur, “thanks,” then duck your head, pressing your face further into his chest in the hopes that it will help to hide any physical signs of the burning sensation that is spreading across your face.

The buzzing noise of the carriage fades away, and you can barely feel the unsteady sway or the stops and starts anymore as Marc continues to hold you steady. He smells like clean linens, and there's a hint of coffee that reminds you of sitting at the breakfast table with him on your mornings together.

Inertia tugs at you as the train slows to stop again, and this time Marc gently taps you on the shoulder, pointing to the doors as they slide open.

You look up to see the sign on the platform that reads, ‘Canning Town.’ It’s your stop.

Stepping back out of Marc’s arms and then out of the train into the much colder air on the platform, you can’t help the invading thought that it’s a shame your journey on the DLR wasn’t longer.

As you leave the station, Marc stays stuck to your side and the two of you walk down the empty streets of the Dock area, shoulder to shoulder, until you reach the small residential area where Sam’s friend lives, part of an old rundown council estate.

Sam and his friend are already standing outside, and he waves you in with a cheery smile. Before you’ve even reached the front door steps, he pulls you into a hug, and then leads you down to the cellar. Energetic as always, he's stopping every two steps to show you a cool exotic fish in one of the tanks lining the hall, the stairs and just about every spare inch of space while his friend enthusiastically regales you with the origin of each.

Marc spends the whole time staring down Sam with suspicion.

“Is he always so… intense?” Sam whispers over his shoulder to you. “Your boyfriend is more intimidating than I imagined.”

Your first instinct is to rebut with “he’s not my boyfriend,” but thankfully you catch yourself in time. Marc may not be your boyfriend, but Steven is, and Sam has seen your corny couple photos on Instagram.

How do you explain to an old friend that this is not your boyfriend but your boyfriend’s alter, particularly when your boyfriend doesn’t even know he has one?

You turn to look at Marc, who is standing next to Sam’s friend. His lips are pressed together in concentration as he regards the goldfishes in the tank studiously. You overhear him asking if any of them have only one fin (they don’t), and you can’t help but smile.

“He’s not as bad as he first seems,” you tell Sam. “It’s a bit of a secret, but he’s actually a big softie.”

It’s after midnight by the time you get back to Steven’s flat, and you find yourself with a plastic bag in hand, scooping an unfortunately two-finned goldfish out into the large fish tank in a sad attempt at tricking your boyfriend into believing it’s his old goldfish.

The imposter lands in the tank with a wet plop, and you and Marc stay standing in front of it, watching as he explores his new home. You’re shoulder to shoulder, hunched over so close to the glass that a patch of fog forms then dissipates with each exhale.

From where you are, if fake Gus doesn’t turn, he can pass for the original Gus. Marc took extraordinary care to make sure that the golden colouring was the same hue, that the marks were the same and even the fat plumpness of the two was as close to identical as possible.

There’s something incredibly ironic about this. You’re standing next to a man physically identical to your boyfriend, while staring down a dupe goldfish that you’re both trying to pawn off as the original. It seems like some big metaphor that the universe is using to try to tell you something. Now if only you were clever enough to figure out what.

Or perhaps, you think, watching fake Gus turn and flash you his superfluous fin, the cosmic universe has a really bizarre sense of humour.

“Shit,” Marc curses, turning away to pace the room. His feet thud loudly against the wooden floor with each step, and you wonder how Steven doesn’t get more complaints from his neighbours than he already does. “He’s going to notice.”

“Well, why don’t you just manually remove one fin then?”

Marc stares at you with a look of horror, the kind usually reserved for war criminals. “Rip his fin off?!”

"God, no. I'm not a barbarian. We'd use scissors.” You hold up your index and middle finger, mimicking a scissor to show him. “Snip snip. The fish won't feel a thing."

For a purported man of mystery, Mr. ‘my-line-of-work-is-dangerous’ seems appalled by the very notion of violence, his whole body shuddering in disgust.

“Yeah, we’re not doing that.”

“It’s either that or hope Steven doesn’t notice.”

Marc’s teeth clamp down on his lower lip, worrying the flesh, and your heart skips a beat at the familiar sight. Those two are so unlike each other, but this little habit is problematically similar.

“I’ll take my chances,” he murmurs, then approaches the tank again as if looking at it a third or fourth time will magically make the extra fin less noticeable.

You follow suit, walking forward to stare at the imposter goldfish again as well. Despite the large size of the tank, the two of you are huddled closely together, the firm line of Marc’s shoulder pressing against yours. You don’t pull away, and the pleasantness of the touch lingers and spreads until the back of your neck is tingling.

This is Marc, not Steven, but it’s like your body doesn’t know any better, a kaleidoscope of butterflies skittering through your veins at the innocent touch.

Shifting your weight to your heels, you try to distract yourself from the inappropriate sensation. “Oh, um... By the way, why did you come to me for help?”

“You and the fish seemed close.”

The statement stuns you. You don’t know why he would think that. What indication have you ever shown him that you and a goldfish missing a fin would be close? You cycle through your memory and the only thing that comes to mind is that one time months ago when Marc had thought you were leaving a post-it note to Gus.

“You know I don’t actually write to Gus right?”

He doesn’t reply, but there's a small teasing smile on his face and he looks entirely too pleased with himself.

Oh. It’s a joke. Marc is joking.

You can’t help but smile back at him, entranced by the difference that little bit of a smile makes. It feels like a rare treasure that no one but you has been privy to. God help you, he’s one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen.

Steven is attractive in an adorable, puppyish sort of way, and quite fit actually, once you get past the too big clothes and nervous mannerisms. (Gorgeous once you have him all fucked out underneath you and he finally relaxes). Somehow, despite sharing the same body, Marc is cut from a different cloth. Confident and self-contained to Steven’s awkward flailing; overly serious where Steven is cheery. But when they smile? Both are breathtaking.

The smile doesn’t last long, but Marc’s face stays open and relaxed. He holds your gaze for a long moment before looking away, giving his full attention to the imposter fish.

“You’re the only one I could think of to ask.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that you miss the significance at first.

The only one…

You’re the only one he has.

You had thought, with all their differences in personality and mannerisms, that Steven and Marc were nothing alike. Simply considered Marc as an ill-tempered twin brother of sorts. But you see more clearly now. As different as they are in temperament, there are similarities too that go beyond the physical details. There is a loneliness there, etched into the strands of their very DNA and enforced by their unusual situation. Marc is no more able to live a whole and full life than Steven is.

For all his lone wolf attitude, at the end of the day, a lone wolf is also just that… lonely.

It’s all so stupid. If Marc wasn’t so stubborn and insistent on keeping his own existence separate from and unknown to Steven, then he’d have the only one person in this whole wide world that could possibly understand this loneliness beside him.

You find yourself openly staring at him. This man who looks exactly like the man you love. Knows the same loneliness as the man you love. Physically, is the very same man that you love, and your body responds to him all the same.

You don’t know when the two of you got quite this close. When your foreheads became inches from touching. So close that you can’t look away even if you tried.

He’s not Steven, you remind yourself. But every line of his face is identical to Steven. Not Steven, but he smells like Steven. Not Steven, but every vein and fibre of your body is singing out in want of him all the same.

You already know what it’s like to kiss this man. Know intimately how soft and pliant those full lips feel against yours. It doesn’t help that your body craves the familiar touch. It wouldn’t take much, just a slight tilt of your head upwards, and you’d be there.

His nose drags against yours until the tips of your noses brush up and it sends a shiver through you. He’s so close. Close enough that his eyelashes tickle against your cheekbones. Close enough that you can almost taste his lips, and God help you, you want to.

His breath ghosts over your lips, a barely there touch, and you find yourself, despite all common sense, closing your eyes and leaning into it. Waiting for that perfect press of his mouth brushing against yours.

It doesn’t come.

Your eyes flutter open just in time to see Marc pull back, eyeing you warily, like you’re something dangerous. He takes a step back away from you, that ever present scowl firmly back in place, and that’s all it takes to break the spell.

What the fuck are you doing!?

“It’s late,” Marc murmurs, “You should go home. I’ll walk you down.”

Your cheeks are suddenly on fire. Whether it’s want or embarrassment or pure shock, you don’t know. Possibly a combination of all three. You don’t know how long that moment lasts, but you stand there rooted to the spot, your eyes are barely able to meet Marc’s, and he seems intent on avoiding your gaze as well.

Then finally, you’re able to swallow down the remains of your wounded pride. “Yeah, that... um... that sounds good.”

Neither of you speak again as you quickly collect your things and follow Marc out the door and down the poorly lit corridor to the lift. The silence between you is deafening.

Mercifully the lift door opens almost immediately, but stepping into the enclosed space is not an improvement. Not even a square metre in total, metal on all sides around you with a gigantic mirror that, instead of creating the illusion that the space is larger, only serves as a reminder of how little space there is between you and Marc as you stare at the reflection.

You don’t ever remember it feeling this claustrophobic during the countless times you’ve stood inside it with Steven. But the weight of your near-almost mistake weighs oppressively on you with each passing second, and the lift seems to be taking its sweet time making its way down through the floors. The silence between you is so potent, that you can hear the hum of the lift, can practically see the heavy weight of the cables running above the metal box you’re trapped inside of together.

Your skin crawls inside your jumper like someone’s poured a jar of ants inside your collar.

You can’t take the silence.

But you don't know how to make it stop. Don’t know what to say to him. So you resort to the one conversational topic that all British people fall back on in the face of any awkward situation.

“Uhm so, the weather is getting nippier now with Autumn coming on, isn’t it?”

The only response you get from Marc is a gruff sounding noise in the back of his throat, eyes fixed on his feet at the ground, brows scrunched tightly together.

It’s quite possibly the most effective conversation ender known to man, and it makes your stomach sink until you’re sure it must have descended through the floor of the lift to land somewhere wedged into the concrete floor of the basement. You resign yourself to silence after that, because you can’t bring yourself to try again.

Five floors down has never felt this long. Aeons later, the elevator pings, announcing your arrival, and the stiff metal doors slide to the side to let you out.

Shortly after, you make it outside, finally free from the confines of the tiny lift and the narrowness of the corridor, only to discover that at some point the humid air polluted by London congestion had betrayed you and tipped over into pouring rain.

You can’t even walk out into the open street like this. Instead, you have to stay under the flimsy shelter of the rooftop above the entrance so you don’t get soaked, and the feeling of being trapped remains. Leaning out, you try to get a peek at the clouds to see if there’s any chance the rain is going to let off, but in the murky darkness of the night, there’s no way of telling.

The rasp of a separating zipper cuts your concentration. You turn your head to your left to see Marc taking off his jacket. He walks towards you then settles it over your shoulders.

“It’s raining. And cold,” he mutters in response to your questioning look.

Nodding dumbly at him, you try to ignore the way the residual heat from his body still lingers in the lining of his jacket and how it is boiling your skin. Cold? Right now it feels like you’re being burned at the stake.

You’re about to pull up Uber on your phone, but, as if he cannot wait to get rid of you, Marc steps out to the street and flags down an old fashioned black taxi that pulls up to the curb under a lonely streetlight.

You step cautiously out into the rain, and Marc opens the door for you as you approach the taxi. Standing by the open door, you pause to look up into his face, half expecting him to look impatient, like he can’t wait for you to be gone.

He doesn’t. Instead, there’s a pained expression that meets you there, and he can barely meet your eyes. He looks so unsure of himself that it almost breaks your heart. His shoulders are rounded in, slumped posture made all the more obvious as the rain plasters his unprotected shirt to his skin.

“Oh!” Grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket, you start to slide it off to return it, but Marc shakes his head. His hands cover yours, trapping them and tugging the jacket back up around your shoulders until the collar is pulled securely up to your chin.

“Keep it.”

You stare up at him, momentarily distracted by the rogue curls starting to fall down over his face as the light from the streetlight glitters off stray droplets of water caught in his hair. Your breath catches in your chest, and you can’t move. You search his face, but his expression has turned inscrutable, and you’re not even sure why you’re still standing there. You feel like you’re waiting for something, but for what, you don’t know.

Some sign from him, perhaps. Or for something to crack.

“Where to, sweetheart?” the Croydon accent of the taxi driver cuts into the space between you, startling you. You jump slightly, sucking in a deep breath like you’re surfacing from underwater, and Marc’s hands fall away from yours. That feels wrong.

Stepping back, you turn away from him, and that feels wrong too, like your shoes are weighed down with concrete as you step towards the taxi. Ducking your head, you climb in and give the driver your address. Before you’ve even had time to scoot properly into your seat, the door closes gently behind you.

Looking up through the windowpane, Marc is still there. Fixed in place in the pool of light under the streetlamp right where you left him, watching you with a look you can’t decipher in his eyes. The sight of him makes your chest ache.

You twist around as the taxi pulls away, peering through the back window so you can keep your eyes on him as he recedes into the misty city background. London’s never looked so dark and dismal as it does now, watching as the growing distance makes Marc look smaller and smaller until he is no longer visible to you.

And even then, you keep staring for a few minutes longer, as if he might somehow reappear. He doesn’t of course, and eventually you force yourself to turn back around and sink down into the seat. You’re still wrapped up in Marc’s jacket, and you snuggle in, pulling the collar up far enough that it covers the tip of your nose. The thick canvas fabric is coarse but worn soft with wear and washing and still almost uncomfortably warm. A faint scent lingers in the material, reminiscent of the way your pillow smells when you wake up after spending a night with Steven.

The heat in your cheeks is scorching, but you tell yourself it’s just from being in the warm taxi after standing in the cold rain. That's all it is…

~ CONTINUE ~

A/N: This is one of my favourite chapters to date. When I first started Red Flags, I had two scenes in mind that I absolutely wanted to explore: one was Steven calling you after you'd been stood up and how I would absolutely still show up because have you seen him!??! He's gorgeous! The second was Marc asking you to help covering up the dead Gus-- and being appalled at the suggestion of snipping of the fin (come on Marc, you're a mercenary!! This is where you draw the line?) Thank you all for coming on this journey with me. I've never written anything this long before. Thanks to everyone who has taken the time out of their day to read this.

We all have busy lives and the fact that you would choose to take the time out of your day to sit down (or lie or stand) with me and read my writing gives me a lot of joy. Whether you're a lurker, a liker, reblogger, or a commenter, thank you so much for reading and I appreciate you all very much.

Dedications:

To @thirstworldproblemss whom I adore and love more than 🍆 & 🍤. I hit the fucking tumblr lottery with your friendship, and am so glad everyday that I jumped into your DM to strike up a conversation for funsies, and then made fun of you for your (amazingly-panty-meltingly-hot) milk-titty stories. Because look at where we are now, more than a year and a half later and all the fun I have with you daily. Writing this story with you has been such a great source of joy and comfort to me in an incredibly tumultuous. I'm so proud of this baby that we've created together, communist bugs bunny style. I love you the absolute m🐭st.

To @radiowallet and her sage advice and for being my sounding board on all things Marvel.

To @jazzelsaur and her micro ☕ without her amazing wealth of coffee knowledge I would be lost in this chapter. Her gorgeous avocado hair is a source of endless inspiration to me and she is my muse.

1K notes · View notes

hauntedhowlett-writes · 1 year

Text

seven - a joel miller story

pairing: post-outbreak jackson!joel miller x female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 5k

summary:

Joel Miller has spent twenty years pushing the grief and guilt surrounding the death of his daughter, Sarah, to the darkest recesses of his brain in favor of survival. And I've been meaning to tell you I think your house is haunted Your dad is always mad and that must be why

Living a more quiet life in Jackson means the ghosts of his past have returned to haunt him. He finds his solace in you, the town librarian.

author's note:

another work for the folklore anthology! i'd really love to hear your thoughts on this one, so please drop a comment or slide into my inbox if you're so inclined.

content warnings/tags:

explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), no use of y/n, ANGST, themes of grief and loss, feelings of guilt, discussions of child loss and sibling loss (unnamed brother of reader), descriptions of panic attacks, nightmares, alcohol use, unprotected p in v, vaginal fingering, pet names, a reference to the harry potter series. let me know if any are missing!

“Look at me, daddy!”

Joel watches as Sarah pumps her legs, soaring high into the cloudless blue sky. He has to shield his eyes against the painfully bright sun. He smiles as she laughs, the sound blanketing him in joy.

As she swings down back towards the ground, Joel hears a panicked shout. He turns, a man running toward him over the hill, arms waving. He can’t hear what the man is saying, he’s too far away.

A shot rings out and the man drops to the ground in a heap of limbs. Joel can see a line of soldiers, guns trained toward him.

“Sarah, we have to go!” He shouts, turning back to the swing set. The swing is empty. He searches frantically for his daughter but the little girl is nowhere to be found. “Sarah!”

He’s running, putting space between him and the soldiers. He begs and prays to a God he’s always had trouble believing in that he finds his baby.

He sees her, finally. She’s standing in the middle of a field, her back to him. It’s dark now, he’s not sure when that happened.

“Sarah! Sarah, we gotta go, come on, baby,” he shouts. She turns, slowly, her arm braced around her stomach and a horrified expression on her face. Joel drops to his knees in front of her, taking her face between his hands. “Baby? What’s wrong?”

She lowers her arm, bright red blood smeared on her tan skin and a blossoming stain on her shirt. Her voice shakes as she whispers, “Daddy?”

Joel wakes with a shout, sitting up in bed as he struggles to catch his breath. His sweat damp skin erupts with goosebumps in the cold air of his bedroom. He presses a hand to his chest, the tight grip of panic around his heart easing incrementally as he fights for breath.

The brief glimpse of darkness between the curtains covering the window tells him it’s still early and a glance at the clock on the nightstand confirms as much. He groans, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing. The floor is frigid against his bare feet and he shivers with the unexpected chill.

In the kitchen, he makes himself coffee before slipping his leather jacket on and heading to the back porch. The dark sky has lightened the slightest bit, the encroaching dawn painting the inky sky a faded purple as the sun creeps up from its slumber.

From his porch, Joel can see one of the side entrances to the cemetery. He watches as a figure emerges from beyond the concrete walls and it takes him a moment to realize it’s just you again.

You, the curious woman that runs the town library. He’s seen you on other occasions like this morning, where he’s trying to shake off the remaining webs of discomfort that have been spun in his mind. You shut the wrought iron gate and like you can feel his gaze on you, your head turns, keen eyes regarding him.

You approach his house, stopping at the bottom of the porch. You stand with your hands stuffed in your coat pockets, head tilted slightly and a smile on your lips as you say, “Up a bit early, aren't you?”

Joel takes a sip of his coffee. “Could say the same about you.”

“Early bird catches the worm,” you reply, smiling at him. He swallows. You make him nervous. Despite the few interactions he’s had with you, he feels like you know him to his very marrow, and that scares a man like Joel.

“More like a night owl.”

You chuckle. “A bird is a bird. I’ll see you around, Joel Miller.”

He stares after your retreating figure for so long his coffee has gone cold. With a sigh, he returns inside, thoughts no less tangled than when he first stepped outside.

________

You survey the rose bushes you’ve cultivated, rows of different varietals beginning to blossom or in full bloom. The peony buds have gotten larger and any day now they should blossom as spring really begins to show her colors. The mornings and evenings are still cold, but the afternoons give way to hotter temperatures and thankfully you’ve been spared one last late winter snowfall.

You prune some of the faded blooms from the bushes, collecting them for composting. When you’re done, you return inside to wash up and change before heading to the library. As you scrub beneath your fingernails, your mind drifts to the specter of Jackson, Joel Miller.

There’s something about him that draws you in, despite the arms length of distance he tries to keep from everyone. You saw him the other morning after you made your way through the cemetery long before it officially opened, laying extra flowers around some of the less tended graves. It’s not the first time, and based on what you know about the older man, it won’t be the last.

________

Since Joel isn’t scheduled for a patrol for a few days, he decides to visit the library. Too much idleness is dangerous for a man like Joel, who is in constant search of something to keep his mind and body occupied so that his thoughts don’t drift to darker places.

You’re sitting at the circulation desk when he enters, bent over a book as you read off the log number on it and write it in a journal under your hand. You look up, flashing him a smile that briefly suffuses him with warmth.

“Hey,” you say in greeting. He nods, intending to just walk past you, but you continue to ask, “You need help finding anything?”

“No,” he replies shortly. You nod, smile faltering the slightest bit. Joel feels a flash of guilt before he tamps it down and walks deeper into the library.

He explores the tidy shelves until he finds himself in the fiction section, reading cracked spines and faded letters until one catches his eye. It’s a small paperback sandwiched between two larger books, a pink spine etched with white lines and faded blue lettering. He wiggles it free, turning it over in his hands.

A Wrinkle In Time.

The blue cover with a snowy mountain scene, three children carried in an egg over a town by a flying white creature used to stare up at him from Sarah’s nightstand. It was her favorite book, one she had him read to her at bedtime when she was five. It was the same book he’d caught her reading under the covers with a flashlight past her bedtime when she was eight, the same one she carried everywhere until it fell apart and he had to replace it when she was ten.

Joel’s hand shakes and he has to steady himself by holding the bookshelf. His chest feels tight, too small of a space for his rapidly pounding heart. The words printed on the books in front of him all blur together as he tries to focus, tries to breathe, tries to stay in the present.

There’s a hand on top of his. Delicate, soft. A voice he knows he recognizes but can’t place is saying his name, but it sounds like it’s coming through layers of cotton in his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut.

After a long moment, that vise grip around his chest eases and he swallows around the lump in his throat. He blinks, spots dancing in his vision as his eyes adjust to the light once more.

“Joel?” You ask, voice quiet. It makes his muscles tense, coiled tight like he’s ready to run. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he replies roughly. He slips his hand out from beneath yours. “‘M fine.”

You’re silent for a moment, keen eyes making him feel flayed open and exposed as you watch him. Finally you ask, “Was it about your daughter?”

“No,” he snaps. Rage blinds him, white hot in his vision as he moves past you.

“Wait,” you call out. Joel pauses but doesn’t turn. “It’s okay, you know. To still carry that pain. Did you ever even allow yourself a chance to mourn?”

He turns, looking at you incredulously. “What the hell do you mean? I mourn every fuckin’ day.”

“No, you grieve. You let the thoughts of Sarah—“

“Don’t. Don’t you say her name,” he hisses, stepping closer in his anger. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”

“—haunt you to the point of pain. You think I don’t know why you’re out there on your porch so early some mornings? It’s the same reason I’m out in the cemetery,” you confess. You take a deep breath. “You’ve been fighting for survival since the outbreak and you never gave yourself the chance to mourn. You owe it to yourself and to Sarah to try.”

Joel’s chest heaves, a venomous retort on the tip of his tongue when a voice calls out your name from the front of the building. With one last look that speaks volumes with no words, you disappear from the stacks.

Joel leaves the library and heads straight for the Tipsy Bison. A young man is polishing glassware when he storms in, door slamming shut behind him.

“What can I get you?” The man asks as Joel slides onto a stool.

“Whiskey,” he demands. A glass is set in front of him, amber liquid poured until it's halfway full. He brings the glass to his lips and lets the alcohol burn its way down his throat and erase the taste of guilt on his tongue. Setting the glass on the bar he says, “Another.”

He drinks two more glasses in the same fashion, glaring at the boy when he hesitates to pour his third drink. He sips his fourth pour slowly, letting time pass as it always cruelly will.

Finally, when the light beyond the window panes starts to fade, he heads home, hands shoved in his pockets as he wills one foot in front of the other, gaze fixed on the pavement. It’s not a long walk but it feels like it as he cuts between buildings to avoid having to make conversation with people.

When he reaches his house, he stomps up the steps as he digs in his pockets for his key. His boot knocks into something on the ground by the door. He bends over to pick up the object.

A Wrinkle In Time.

Joel opens his front door and collapses on the couch, book pressed to his chest as a dreamless, whiskey tinged sleep consumes him.

________

“Stop running! Put your hands up!”

Joel sets Sarah on the ground, raising his hands above his head. “We’re not sick! My daughter, she hurt her ankle,” he shouts.

The soldier keeps his gun trained on them as a staticky voice over the radio says something he can’t make out. His finger moves from rest to poised over the trigger, the barrel of his gun braced against his shoulder as he takes aim.

“No!” Joel shouts as the gun goes off. He launches himself in front of Sarah, wrapping his arms around her and bracing for the impact and the shocking pain.

The pain doesn’t come. He slowly opens his eyes, expecting to see the soldier and his gun but instead he sees Sarah, a shocked look on her face as she clutches her stomach, dark blood staining her fingers. She’s far away, not right behind him like she had been.

That’s when Joel notices the weight in his hands, the cold press of metal to his palms. He looks down at the black rifle in his hands, then back up at Sarah.

“No!”

Joel wakes tangled in his sheets, panic coursing through his veins and a hoarse shout of Sarah’s name fading in the dark. As he chokes on the air his lungs are desperate for, he glances at the clock. It’s early again, too early for the rest of the town to be awake save for the people scheduled to return from patrol in a couple hours.

He runs a hand over his face with a sigh before getting up. It’s been a couple weeks since he last had a nightmare, the product of back to back patrol shifts and helping with a building repair that left him so blissfully exhausted his traitorous brain couldn’t torture him, but it seems they’ve returned with a vengeance.

Joel gets dressed and heads downstairs, making himself coffee that he brings out to the porch. He watches the cemetery gate, part of him hoping he sees you and a larger part hoping whatever haunts you has left your peace intact for the night.

Like his thoughts have conjured you from the ether, you step outside the cemetery gates. He sees the brief moment of hesitation when you notice him sitting on his porch, but a forgiving part of you must urge you closer. When you reach the porch, you regard him with that same look that makes him feel like you can see right through to his wretched soul.

“You’re up early,” you comment knowingly.

“So are you.”

“So I am.” You take a deep breath. “Come with me. I wanna show you something.”

You don’t wait for his response before you’re turning, heading for the gate and back towards the cemetery. Despite his better judgment, Joel follows, taking wide steps to catch up with your quick stride.

You walk the winding dirt paths between the headstones with sure steps that Joel follows with uncertainty. He’s never been in the cemetery, has never had a reason, so he appraises the headstones with a morbid curiosity, reading the names of people he’s never met. He notes that a number of the sites have flowers in various stages of freshness.

After a few minutes, you stop and Joel glances at the headstone you’ve paused in front of.

“Tommy had it put in a few years after he got to town,” you say quietly. “He told me about her…about what happened.” Joel takes a step closer, dropping to his knees. The damp earth cushions the fall, early morning dew seeping into his jeans as he reaches out to trace the carved letters of his baby’s name.

“I’ll…I’ll give you some privacy. I just thought you should know she’s here.”

As you turn to leave, Joel reaches out and wraps a tentative hand around your knee. You look at him in surprise as he murmurs, “Stay with me?”

You lower yourself to the ground, settling in beside him as the sun rises and the world around you wakes from its slumber.

________

You sit together in front of Sarah’s headstone for about an hour before Joel stands with a groan and mumbled curse. He holds a hand out to you to help you up, the gesture leaving you nearly pressed together. You search his brown eyes, hoping for a glimpse of relief but it’s still too soon to tell.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, stepping back and clearing his throat. “For snappin’ at you in the library.”

“I understand. I made a lot of assumptions that day,” you reply. He laughs, though it’s strained.

“Yeah, well, if there were still a lottery around I’d tell you to buy a ticket. You were right on the money.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Thought I was gettin’ better. After all that time with Ellie…I felt like I had a purpose again.”

“Maybe that’s the issue. Thinking your purpose is tied to someone else.”

His brow furrows. “How do you keep doin’ that?”

“Doing what?” You ask.

“Seein’ right through me.”

You smile at him.

“Like attracts like, Joel. Remember that.”

________

Joel starts visiting Sarah’s grave regularly. Sometimes it’s early, the result of another nightmare or returning from patrol, and sometimes it’s later in the evening, when fireflies begin to flicker in the grass as spring wears on. He takes the worn copy of A Wrinkle In Time that you left him, reading a chapter of it out loud each time as he sits with his back pressed to the stone marker.

One thing he notes with growing intrigue is how there’s always flowers on a number of the headstones, including Sarah’s. It’s a reminder that he’s not the only victim of loss, even if his own still feels like a gaping wound some days.

He visits the library again, a bag full of books he found on his last patrol shift heavy on his back as he enters the building. You look up from a book you’re reading as the door shuts, smiling at him.

“Hey,” you say in greeting. “You need any help finding anything today?”

“No. Brought you somethin’, though,” he replies, hefting the bag onto the counter and opening it to reveal his bounty. “Found ‘em last patrol.”

You reach in and pull two of the books out, your grin downright ecstatic as you look at him. “The Lord of the Rings?”

“Complete set. You ever read it?”

“When I was younger,” you murmur, fingers tracing the cover of the book. “Thank you, Joel.”

His heart pounds as he looks at you, smile bright and eyes soft. You remove the other books from his bag, laying them out and checking them for damage. He likes watching you work, the gentle way that you flip through the time worn pages soothing to him as he stands there.

“What’s your favorite book?” You ask, glancing at him as you work.

“Not much of a reader. Sarah was, though. She would tell me about the books she was reading,” he says, voice catching on Sarah’s name. “She loved A Wrinkle In Time. Started the Harry Potter series, too. When the last one came out she made me take her to the bookstore at midnight just to get it.”

“My brother did the same,” you reply. “Dressed up and everything.”

“Your brother, huh?” Joel asks. You stack the books, avoiding Joel’s gaze.

“He was about Sarah’s age. Twelve. I was seventeen when…everything happened.” You pause. “The night that everything started happening, I had actually snuck out of the house. Went to a party in the woods. I made it back home just as the grid went out but when I got inside…”

“You don’t gotta tell me this,” Joel says.

“When I got inside, my brother was sitting at the table, covered in blood. Our parents had attacked him and he fought them off as best he could. He could feel the infection, you know? Knew something was wrong. He told me to leave.” You take a deep breath, your eyes returning to the present. A tear slides down your cheek and you brush it away quickly. “If I had been there—“

“Don’t,” Joel interrupts. “You can’t blame yourself.”

You laugh, looking at him incredulously. “Pot meet kettle!”

Joel laughs with you, a boisterous sound he hasn’t heard in years. It feels almost rusty in its disuse. “Thank you for tellin’ me,” he says when quiet descends once more.

“It’s only fair, right? A tragedy for a tragedy?”

“I don’t think that’s how the sayin’ goes.”

You shrug. “That’s how the world goes, though.”

________

As spring starts to fold into summer, Joel finds himself growing closer to you. It starts with visits to the library when he’s off from patrol, helping you shelve and catalog books. Soon, he’s spending so much time there that he’s still around when it’s time for you to lock up and he offers to walk you home or to the mess hall for dinner.

Dinner turns into the occasional drink at the Tipsy Bison. Those nights are his favorite, watching as you try to play darts after a few drinks and laughing when you pout after each missed shot.

Better days still give way to troubled nights, though. He wakes on one such night drenched in sweat, the nightmare just a haze of fear in his mind. It’s early, of course, so he takes a brief shower and dresses before grabbing his coffee and A Wrinkle In Time to make his way to the cemetery.

The ground is soft beneath his footsteps as he takes a now familiar path to Sarah’s headstone, seating himself on the damp dirt. He reads for a bit before the creak of hinges alerts him to someone’s arrival.

You enter through the front gate, a pile of flowers wrapped in butcher paper in your arms. He watches as you lay flowers around the graves with care, moving steadily among the rows until you’ve reached Joel.

“You do the flowers?” He asks. You take a seat beside him, gathering a wilted white rose from in front of the headstone and replacing it with a spray of yellow flowers.

“Some of them. Sometimes people come to me for arrangements to bring themselves,” you reply.

“Why?”

“Because I still believe in beautiful things,” you tell him with a shrug.

Joel watches you set the flower carefully on the ground in front of Sarah’s headstone and it feels like the final piece of a puzzle slotting into place. In the silence between you, his mind drifts to Tess, who he cared for but couldn’t give himself fully with the way he was when he knew her. He thinks about Bill and Frank and the kindness they showed him even when he didn’t show his gratitude. He thinks about Ellie, who stuck by his side despite everything he had to do to make it here.

Then there’s you, who’s planted roots in his heart like the flowers you grow and filled him with a light he hasn’t known in a long time and it leaves him feeling damn near winded. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, when a crack of thunder precedes the opening of the sky, heavy raindrops filtering through the tree branches.

“Shit!” He curses, shoving his book into the waistband of his jeans beneath his shirt to protect it from the rain. “Let’s go,” he says, tugging you up from the ground and keeping your hand gripped tightly in his as you both sprint for his porch.

You’re both drenched from the sudden summer downpour, rain dripping from your clothes and hair to the porch as you race up the steps. Another crack of thunder has you jumping, laughter spilling from your lips that joins the melody of the rain on the roof.

As your laughter fades, Joel pulls you closer by the hand still held tight in his. He searches your face for any sign that you might not want this, might not want him, but to his relief he finds none. He wraps an arm around your low back, pressing your rain soaked body to his as he tilts his head to capture your lips in a gentle kiss.

The kiss remains soft, gentle, a smooth glide of his slightly chapped lips against yours. You taste like rainwater but feel like sunshine, a perfect dichotomy. Joel pulls away slowly, not wanting to lose the connection but starting to feel uncomfortable in his soaked clothing.

“Come on,” he says, “let’s get some dry clothes.”

He leads you inside the dark house and upstairs to his bedroom. He finds a shirt and boxers for you, turning to give you the privacy to change as he does the same, setting the damp book on his nightstand and leaving his wet clothes in a heap on the floor.

“I’m decent,” you announce. He turns, breath catching at the vision you make wearing his clothes, your nipples pressing against the worn cotton shirt. He reaches for you, wrapping an arm around your waist and a hand behind your neck to pull you into another kiss.

You pull away first this time, stepping back and crawling into his bed. You burrow beneath the covers before lifting the edge, an eyebrow raised at him in invitation. He slides in beside you, blankets settling over your bodies as you rest your head against his bare chest.

“I’m scared,” Joel says, a whisper in the dark.

“About what?” You ask, lifting yourself up to look at him. He swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Losin’ you. Losin’ Ellie. Losin’ Tommy.” A pause. “Like I lost Sarah. And Tess.”

“Fear doesn’t stop death, Joel. It just stops you from living.”

________

Something changes in Joel with your words. He lifts his head from the pillow to kiss you, his body shifting beneath yours to push you onto your back so he can hover over you. This kiss is different, more desperate as his tongue slides against yours and his teeth dig into your bottom lip.

You slide your fingers into his hair, nails scratching against his scalp and making him moan into your kiss. He trails his lips across your jaw and down your neck as he urges your legs apart and fits himself in the space between your thighs.

His hips rock against yours, the friction making you gasp and pull on his hair. He chuckles against the skin of your neck before sinking his teeth against your pulse point, sucking a mark into your skin to match the one he’s left on your heart.

One of his warm hands lifts your borrowed shirt, bunching the material beneath your armpits and exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. Joel dips his head to pull one nipple between his lips and he swirls his tongue over the hard bud, looking up at your face as he does. He does the same to your other breast, the delicious sensation of his mouth almost enough to distract you from the slow drag of his calloused fingers across your tummy and beneath the elastic of the boxers he’s leant to you.

He groans as his fingers circle your clit, gathering your wetness and spreading it over your folds with his movements. He leans up to kiss you again, deep swipes of his tongue exploring your mouth as your hips chase his hand with increasing fervor.

“You’re so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs. There’s a bright flash of lightning that illuminates the room, giving you a clearer view of the adoration simmering in his eyes.

You press a hand to his cheek. “You deserve good things, Joel Miller.”

He drops his head, forehead pressed to your collarbone. He slips two fingers inside of you as thunder rattles the windows, the storm overhead matching the one in your body as he works his digits with slow, methodical movements, curling them with each pull from inside of you.

“Need you,” you whimper, “please, Joel, need you.”

“You got me,” he says, sitting up to tug the boxers down your thighs and pull the waistband of his down, freeing his cock that he takes on his fist, rubbing it through your folds.

He notches the thick head of his cock at your entrance, pressing inside of you with a single deep thrust that has you gasping his name. There’s another crack of lightning as he bottoms out, hips pressed flush to yours.

Joel starts to move, setting a leisurely pace, notably unhurried as you relish in the weight of him against you. His forehead drops to yours and he peppers your face with soft kisses, from your forehead to your nose to your chin. You smile at him and to your surprise and delight, he grins back.

He sits up, gripping your hips for leverage as his rhythm changes to something more carnal, more desperate, sharp thrusts that drag against something inside of you that makes stars dance across your vision. You’re moaning his name with each collision of his hips to yours and his head drops back with his own deep groan as you tighten around him with your release.

“Fuck,” he shouts, withdrawing quickly and taking himself in hand, hot splashes of cum hitting your stomach as you gasp for air. Joel leaves the bed for a moment and returns with a damp cloth he uses to wipe you clean before tossing it to the pile of wet clothes and climbing back into bed beside you.

He pulls you close and with your head on his chest, you let the pounding rhythm of his heart lull you back to sleep.

________

“Look how high I got, daddy!”

Joel watches a young Sarah deftly climb the limbs of a tree she found on their hike. He laughs as she straddles the last branch she can reach, waving down at him with a bright grin on her face.

“That’s mighty impressive, baby girl, but can you get back down?” He shouts up at her.

“Of course I can!” She insists, slowly working her way back down the branches. She makes it to a lower branch but she can’t reach a foothold from where she hangs by her arms. “Daddy!”

“I gotcha,” Joel says, moving to stand below her. “Just let go, I’ll catch ya.”

“Promise?”

“Always.”

Joel’s eyes flutter open. The first thing he notices is the sunlight streaming through the open window. You must have woken up before him and opened it. The room is warm from the late summer sun, but there’s a breeze that rustles the curtains as he stands and stretches.

He can hear the clink of pans downstairs and he follows the noise, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen as he finds you whisking something in a bowl. It’s been weeks since that early morning together in bed and every day since you continue to help put him together piece by jagged piece.

You must feel him there, attuned to him as you always are, because you turn and grin brightly at him.

“There you are,” you say, crossing the kitchen to kiss him. “Was wondering when you’d finally wake up.”

“Can’t a man sleep in once and a while?” He asks, pulling you in for a second and third kiss. “What are you workin’ on?”

“A cake. It’s July 20th.”

Sarah’s birthday.

Joel’s breath leaves him in a rush. He wraps his arms around your shoulders and holds you tightly to him, your arms wrapped around his waist as you squeeze back.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Always.”

Want more Joel Miller? Check out my masterlist.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel tlou #no use of y/n #joel x reader #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #tlou hbo

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wongyuseokie · 1 year

Text

Super Shy | j.w.w

Summary: Your boyfriend gets super shy when showered with affection, and it’s really adorable, so you won’t stop.

☆ 18+ minors dni |☀︎fluff | ♕ implied smut | ♥ completed works

Word Count: 361 words

Pairings: Jeon Wonwoo x Female Reader

Genre/Trope(s)/AUs: Fluff and fluff Content Warnings: Kissing and adorableness, just Wonwoo being the cutest human ever and me simping. One smutty comment. Wonwoo is like a little kitty.

Smut Warnings: One smutty comment and the use of the pet name kitten. Authors Note 1: This is all @seungkwansphd fault. Always enabling me.

Authors Note 2: There’s not much to this. It’s just me being a massive simp over Wonwoo. Here’s the TikTok that inspired this fic. Authors Note 3: This is just me babbling on. There's not much coherence. It's just me being in love. It's also his birthday month, so why not give him an unplanned fic. 💕

“Muah!” You said animatedly as you placed another kiss on your boyfriend’s cheek, making him smile fondly as he tried to hide his now very red face behind his adorable sweater paws.

“Babe?”

“Yes?”

“Any reason why you’ve been attacking me with kisses for the last half hour?” Wonwoo asked.

“I need a reason to smother you with love?” You teased.

“Well, no, it just does things to me,” Wonwoo mumbled.

“Like what?” You asked as you curled into his embrace further and started to play with the fabric of his sweater.

“It flusters me,” Wonwoo sighed.

“Baby,” you cooed, “we’ve been together for so long, and I still fluster you?”

“Yes, you do,” Wonwoo answered with a pout.

“You’re so cute,” you complimented as you placed another kiss on his cheek, making him giggle as he tightened his grip around you.

“It’s not fair,” Wonwoo mumbled.

“What’s not fair?” You asked as you ran your hands through his hair, making him almost purr in your lap.

“That you still can make me so super shy after so long,” Wonwoo whined, making you laugh.

“Baby,” you said, making him look up at you.

“You make me super shy at times, too, you know?”

“Yeah? When?” Wonwoo asked as he leaned forward to place a kiss on your jaw.

“Wonwoo,” you said with a soft sigh.

“When, kitten?” Wonwoo asked.

“Wonwoo!” You gasped.

“Ah, I see, I make you super shy when I’m like this, or is it just the word kitten?” Wonwoo teased, making you pout.

“You’re mean,” you whined, making him laugh.

“Come here, I just wanted to make you just as shy,” Wonwoo said as he pulled you in closer and placed his lips on yours. You melted into the kiss as he moved his soft lips against yours, his hands wrapped around you, making you moan into the kiss, allowing Wonwoo to slip his tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss.

You pulled away to catch your breath and smiled at him.

“Bedroom,” you mumbled.

“Oh?” Wonwoo said with a knowing smirk.

“I figured you’d want to show me how you’re not super shy?” You teased.

“Gladly, kitten.”

#wonwoo #seventeen #seventeen smut #seventeen fic #svthub #kvanity #indigo writes: wonwoo #super shy: j.w.w

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luciftixs · 1 year

Text

the yi sangela post

I’m having autistic zoomies right now

I want to talk about Yi Sang and Angela because I like them both A Lot and I just think it’s fun to do comparisons. My partner made this lovely checklist with a few similarities I jotted down in a notesapp on my phone before I passed out and I will be cooking a meal thats geared solely to me but ur welcome to try and eat it if u want

Let’s get into it. There is no structure here but maybe we will find it as we go along!

I wanna start w a disclaimer that this is FOR FUN its not actually that serious and ALSO its obviously not a 1-to-1 comparison because these two are also so starkly different in not only their circumstances but also their overall personality when it comes to having deal with said Issues. I feel like tumblr users are more chill these days but after some shit ive seen on projmoon twitter I am covering my bases this is just a Post by a Stranger Online LOL

Let’s take a look at our first point on this silly little chart. That point is:

Bird

Angela’s black dress heavily resembles the feathers of a bird; specifically that of a corvid like a raven or even crow.

Even her head librarian outfit has some bird motifs to it. I’m going to get into corvid symbolism in a second but first

Yi Sang also leans heavily into the bird motifs. His base EGO is named Crow’s Eye View after a poem by the RL Yi Sang, and the narrative draws some inspo from the short story The Wings by the same author.

Wings show up often in some of his EGOS and CGs

Now, it’s not simply generic birds either of them are inspired by; Angela’s black feathers, Yi Sang’s EGO title, they are specifically invoking corvids. Corvidae include many different species of birds, such as magpies and jays, but the most commonly thought of corvids would be the ones with black feathers; ravens and crows. Corvids are incredibly intelligent birds, and they are rich in symbolism and meaning.

Specifically, crows have a heavy association with death and the afterlife. Both Angela and Yi Sang are impacted by heavy losses; Angela is made from a woman who took her own life and is forced to oversee countless loops of people suffering and dying; Yi Sang witnessed his friends being driven apart in a violent manner. His two childhood friends die before him, he wishes he could kill himself and die, and is trapped in a purgatory state with his current coworkers where bloodshed is as common as breathing. Death has marked both of them.

But! That is not the only thing corvids symbolize! In more modern times the birds are said to also symbolize transformation. In a way, that ties into death, as what is death if not the final transformation in life? But neither of their final growths end in their deaths; rather, both learn to find a way to free themselves from the shackles of their past, and to push forward.

THEN WE HAVE

Book as weapon

This one is just silly.

*beats you to death with a book beats you to death with a book beats you to death with a book*

Next point

Narrative haunted by a female figure

This one is in that “not a one-to-one comparison” territory, but it’s still just fun to poke at imo. In Angela’s case, she can never truly escape Carmen’s influence over her. For Yi Sang, Dongbaek is a ghost from his past. Both these women are integral to the overall narrative at hand.

Not only do these women haunt the narrative, but they also mirror the person they haunt. Angela’s desire for life is so strong because, in the end, Carmen wished to live. Dongbaek admired Yi Sang and his dream of flying. She yearned to bloom in a way not dissimilar to a bird spreading it’s wings for the first time. Angela’s Lobcorp design invokes Carmen- her hair color is Carmen’s inverted. She wears the hair time Carmen wore. Dongbaek’s hair has become white from the trauma- the inverse of Yi Sang’s black hair. Yi Sang takes up a Dongbaek identity in a mirror world to further drive home the similarities. These women play a major role in the overall identity of these two characters.

And this is just my brain going “hehe neat” but Carmen’s whole like. Brain stem mimicking a tree and its roots. Dongbaek becoming flowers. Visually very similar vibes.

Onto the next point

Loomed over and controlled by a male figure

This one probably seems second most self explanatory. Ayin meet Gubo Gubo meet Ayin ect.

The deal is simple: you do what we want you to do, and we have employed dubious methods to ensure that you do what we want you to do! Both Ayin and Gubo are self serving when it comes to the end goals. The levels of agency at play here are different; Angela truly had no choice, but Yi Sang’s mental state is not Great and that is being capitalized on him to help perpetuate his isolation and dependency.

Another thing: Ayin and Gubo are just really fucking mean to Angela and Yi Sang. Ayin actively dehumanizes her and neglects her; Gubo verbally and mentally abuses Yi Sang. Fun stuff.

Now, the penultimate point:

Yearning for freedom

This naturally comes with the territory of being a bird. Angela longs to not be confined to a place (Lobcorp or the Library). She wants to experience the world and be free. Yi Sang is similar; that desire to spread his wings and fly. For both to accomplish this, they have a talk with the ‘self’. It’s only by confronting their pasts, and themselves, that they can finally get that push to live life on their own terms.

MY FINAL TALKING POINT

SEXY

Like wow hot a what? And yes I chose fourth match flame because it ties into the whole post like they’re sharing an EGO that’s basically having your hopes burnt to a cinder and also an intense longing for a better life whoa thats crazy

Concluding thoughts

I just like them both a lot. My little caged birds getting out of the cage and mending their broken wings in order to take flight. Very kino. I love them.

If u actually read this thanks ur pog

#project moon #library of ruina #limbus company #not spoiler free #yi sang #angela #long post #perhaps they should... no i shant say it

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sydneysholylight · 3 months

Text

— a ѕιnnerѕ ιndυlgence [ SERIES ]

╰⪼ heed the warnings: MALE PC/LI, Religious themed, coercion, implied switch!Sydney , nsfw, unfortunate grinding, implied harassment, implied corruption kink, implied stalking, groping, public sex (?), slightly proof-read, 2k words.

╰⪼ heed the note: this will be based on my au of my PC but with major changes, headcannons may appear however but I'll keep things that is canon for this one. I can make a female version of this if you kindly ask, let me know if I missed anything.

╰⪼ You were a new student attending a local school in a town with an odd feel in the air, something sinister mixed with a tinge of scarce purity. You couldn't remember anything when you woke up in the hospital, you woke up frantic and ran away. your memories remained a blur and the temple nearby took you in as one of their own, much to their delight as those prying eyes hovered to the halo glowing above your head and their hands brushing against the feathers of your wings, you were what they called and honored, an angel, a holy being, a divine messenger of god and a protector of humankind.

However, you felt far from an angel and how they portrayed an angel should be, strong willed, protective, god-fearing and so on and so on — on another note, you ponder, who exactly is god? What does a god exactly do? And why have they not contacted you since you've woken up? You brought this concern to your peers, Jordan to be specific, he told you in a soft voice “Patience is virtue, holy one,” he took a bow down “They will seek time with you.” He finished his message before apologizing he had to go attend his duties. Your mind was filled with questions that were yet to unfold, you felt lost and started questioning your purpose.

Over the past few days since you've started residing in the temple, Jordan noticed you were having trouble socializing with the initiates, unable to follow up with their social cues and norms, Jordan ought to himself he would help you fit in once more, thus reached out to Sydney to help you — whose reputation precedes himself to be an “innocent” boy, he was the librarians assistant, he was eager to help you out, the thought of helping out someone, especially an angel, he couldn't help but feel honored and nervous to be near such holy presence however he felt tempted to prey around you and capture you, as to lure you in the dark and the joy of living as a sinner. The ecstasy it gives, the pleasure it comes with. Perhaps if he gave you his world, then will the temple realize, the fun temptation and lust have is worth it, you just have to pray and pray, pray and pray, pray and pray — pray.

You sighed, perhaps it's best for time to pass through and enjoy your life as it is in the moment, patience is truly a virtue after all, you have enough time to figure out the rest later on, walking over to your bed, picking up your bad on the soft mattress, you looked up to the right and at the clock ‘ 6:23 pm ‘ you have enough time to walk to the temple, pray for awhile and walk to school with Sydney. You went downstairs, relishing in your surroundings, it made you feel alive. The older orphans were discussing with each other what to do after school as the younger ones played around with one another, the sight of life in such joyous motion was a sight to behold..

Putting the thought aside, you made your way to the temple but without peace, you've always felt a pair of eyes watching every step you take, it was suffocating. It started after saving a poor boy that was being harassed by the other students, of course you don't believe it was him who was watching you, you don't even have proof and it goes against your morality — and your beliefs, perhaps it's the gang of students who were harassing him? You shudder at the thought, as much you'd like to deny it, the possibility is high. Perhaps it's the best time now to make friends and work on your reputation, as you think of who to befriend, you were in front of the temple. You walked inside, bowing and greeting the older and high ranking members of the temple, giving humble blessings before going to the pew of the far left side. You smiled and greeted Sydney “Good morning.” You whispered, he moved to give you space to join him.

You noticed his hair was down as you laid your bag aside and kneeled down on the cushion, you closed your eyes and clasped your hands together, praying for the remaining time.

You felt a tap on your shoulder, startling you slightly as you looked up to Sydney, who was smiling at you “It's time to go, wanna walk together?” He asked before hesitantly holding his hand to you, you nodded and took his hand, as he helped you get up, he blushed, looking at his hand you held for a brief moment, before you could notice, he turned his back away “Thank you Sydney and yes, of course. You make a great companion.” You smiled as the two of you walked to school together, you appreciated how he was a sweet boy who was willing to help you, defending you from the students probing and harassment in the library and kept you company while Robin was gone for a week.

You looked up to his hair “May I ask why you changed your usual look? Not like it looks bad, it looks good just like you with a ponytail.” You said, your hand aching to touch his hair, painted with color that fit him well, you were surprised to learn it was his natural color. Sydney noticed that you wanted to touch his hair, grabbing it with surprising strength, making you gasp in shock “Sydney?” he widened his eyes “Sorry! Sorry! I was startled.” He mumbled and grabbed your hand softly this time, brushing it against his hair “you're one of the few I'd let touch my hair..” he murmured “Do you like my hair down? You mentioned you were curious after I caught you drawing me with my hair down, I think you drew it accurately.” He smiled, a tinge of red on his cheeks, you looked away, embarrassed at the mention of that incident “I.. thank you.” You mumbled “We should hurry up, I need to study and you need to work.” You said as the two of you head to the entrance.

The both of you departed, you head to an exclusive table of the library, far from the entrance as you noticed it's more silent compared to the tables near the entrance, as you sat down, you grabbed your science textbook you rented and dived into the lesson Sirris mentioned yesterday, unaware of a familiar boy with strawberry blonde hair watching you from the very corner of his eyes, hovering over your figure.

After school finished, you decided to stay with Sydney for the remaining time in school, you had an appointment with Harper today, the temple advised you to meet him every appointment to ensure your health is in good condition, they mentioned your body works differently from a human, hence why they insist you go to the hospital however, something about him felt off, you don't know why but the way he looks and talks to you, it feels like he's hiding something. Perhaps you haven't completely adjusted to human society, perhaps it's normal after all, humans are different from one another.

“Hello Sydney, where were you during lunch?” You asked, you were hoping to have lunch together with him as you noticed Robin wasn't here today and you didn't see him in the library either, Sydney looked at you, something in his gaze felt unusual “I decided to have lunch in the library.” A lie, you knew and it is also a sin, you frowned, he was strong in his faith and joined the temple at an early age, did something happen for him to sin like this? You walk towards the counter “Really? Why?” You stared at him, who stared back “Can I ask you a question?” He suddenly asked, you nodded in response “Have you wondered to yourself what it feels to be a sinner?”....... what?

He looked around, seemingly nervous before walking closer “have you?” He whispered, the distance between you and him and the question made you increasingly nervous “Sydney, the temple advises all of us not to think and delve into such iniquitous thoughts!” You said, biting your lip as Sydney stares down “But that's what the temple thinks, how about you? What do you personally think being a sinner feels like?” He said, his response getting you off guard, he held your hand in a gentle manner, seemingly persuasive in getting your answer.

“I.. I.. I don't know Sydney.” You responded, you averted your gaze away from him, your breath hitched as you could feel his breath on your neck, whispering to your ear “It's fun, really.” He whispered, you widen your eyes please don't tell me— “what do you mean..?” You asked in a hushed voice, refusing to meet his gaze “..To tell you the truth, before your arrival, I indulged myself into…things the students talk about,” he said, taking a slight step back before continuing “It felt freeing.” He finished, cupping your face softly “Would it not hurt to try?” He whispered “See things in my perspective?”

“I.. The temple—” “The temple hides nothing but what we can do.” He cut you off “And we will be careful, you just have to trust me, okay?” he said, you nodded nervously as you let Sydney take the lead, taking you and him to the school's changing room, he pushed you gently to the dressing room “Let's hope nobody finds us.” He chuckled before taking your hand together with his, kissing it “Feeling comfortable?” He asked, checking for your consent, you nodded “I..I feel rather nervous, actually, I feel very nervous.” You mumbled. He chuckled in response.

“It's okay, it'll be fine. I was too.” He whispered before kissing you, taking advantage of your surprise as he inserted his tongue inside your mouth, reveling the sight of your reaction before taking a step back, he let go of your hand as he focused on unbuttoning your shirt, he took a good look of your chest, you resisted the urge to cover up as you look at him “Cute.” He smirked, caressing your cheeks “I..” “Don't be ashamed of your body, you're a beauty.” He whispered, earning a chuckle from you “than- ugh-” your breath hitched as he circles his thumbs around your nipples, he pushed you against a wall “Sensitive?” He teased, kissing you on the forehead “how does it feel?”

“It… It feels good.” You responded hesitantly, muffling a moan as he puts his knee against your groan “Sydney…” you panted, he moved on to removing your pants, placing his leg away, you tried not to make it obvious you wanted him to keep going “I forgot I still have my chastity cage on.” He groaned before kneeling down and removing your underwear and sighed at the sight of the familiar device “It's okay, there are other ways to make people orgasm.” He whispered before making you lay on your back, he unzipped his pants, you noticed he wasn't wearing any underwear “Isn't that against the school rules..?” You asked, biting your lip “Who cares if they don't know?” He responded.

He leaned in, kissing you on the neck as he shifted his hips upwards, making sure his chastity cage was above yours — fondling with your balls with his right hand as the other went on circling your nipples “So gorgeous..” he panted, sucking in your neck as he continues grinding against you, making sure to press against you hard as he could, the metal head of the cage could be felt on the visible parts of your penis, sending sparks up your spine due to how cold it felt, Sydney groaned, clearly frustrated “I wanna be inside you so bad..” he whined, pressing you against him harder, putting your legs on his shoulder, aligning his penis against your hole, trying to insert himself in “I swear I'll get the keys for these stupid things..” he mumbled, fastening his pace, you moaned slightly as he build up friction “Have I ever told you I've always admired you?” He panted, resting his head on your shoulder, relishing the warmth of your naked body.

“I'm close..” he panted, kissing your neck as you gripped on his shoulder, his lips felt warm against your skin, you muffled a moan as you felt his hands intruding their way to your balls once more, squeezing and rubbing it — the sensation was unfamiliar, strange but welcome, an unfamiliar wave of pleasure went through your body, your cock spurting out cum as you moaned against his neck, you could feel cum dripping down where your chastity cage was “You already came- oh-” he gasped as you kissed his neck, making him come immediately after “I..” he blushed, you stared at him with reddened cheek “Did I do good..?” You asked meekly, bitting the inside of your mouth as he nodded “Of course! That.. that felt amazing… it's quite the bummer though I wasn't able to be inside of you..and you inside of me.” He blushed, laying his head on your chest “how'd it feel?” He asked, smiling at you “It felt unfamiliar… but at the same time good.” He grinned “I knew you'd like it.” He said before helping you stand up, he insisted on helping you dress up, taking advantage of the opportunity to occasionally grope you. He cupped your cheeks “We should do this more, it's fun right? To see the perspective of a sinner?” He leaned in, and you looked away “The temple..” you said quietly, he sighed, leaning his forehead against yours “They won't find out, we'll try to keep it as a secret. They don't have to find out, we can still continue as we are as normal publicly.” He said “and you mentioned you can't remember anything in the past, right? Perhaps in a way, this might help you.” You couldn't help but feel tempted at the thought, you were getting tired of the same answers from the temple anyways. “Fine… just… be careful, I don't wanna get you hurt.” You said, he chuckled “Of course, of course, welcome to my world.”

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