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blindmagdalena · 4 months ago

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Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter three)

18+ 3.8k. homelander x f!reader. pre-s1. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, forced relationship, slow burn, eventual smut. fic directory | AO3

Now that he's got you all to himself, it's clear that Homelander has no intention of letting you go. For the sake of your own survival, you have no choice but to adopt his madness and play along with his domestic fantasy.

Homelander is insane.

You don’t know how to reconcile the hero of Vought’s marketing with this man, whose very presence unnerves you. There’s something uncanny about the way he moves, speaks, even the way he smiles at you. It all feels simultaneously practiced, and yet like he’s never actually spoken one on one to another human being.

The sentiment spins in your mind like a record, the melody scratchy and discordant. It’s as though you’ve fallen into some kind of bizzaro dimension where up is down, the sky is green, and Vought’s golden hero is a delusional kidnapping maniac who premeditated your abduction to the point of filling his home with a perfectly curated wardrobe for you. Even the products in the bathroom mirror your own.

You are home.

The conviction with which he said it gives you goosebumps. In the moment you’d been numb, trapped somewhere between reality and dream. That feeling–some mixture of shock and whatever he drugged you with–lingers with you even now, like you’ll wake up from this nightmarish fantasy at any moment.

You smooth your hands down your body, now clad in unfamiliar silk that feels cool and expensive against your skin. The sleep wear fits you like a glove. It’s your favorite color. It could have been pulled straight from your own closet if not for the lack of wear and the undoubtedly exorbitant price tag. All for wearing to bed.

Bed.

Nerves flutter in your gut like caged birds. You give yourself one last lingering look in the mirror. Washed and lotioned with the menagerie of products left for you, you’re unable to stall in the bathroom any longer. You’re as “comfortable” as you’re going to get, and Homelander’s waiting for you.

The thought makes you shiver. You can still feel his hands on your wrists like phantom shackles. From the moment he snapped and grabbed you, shocking you with immeasurable inhuman strength, you knew you were going to have to proceed with extreme caution.

There’s something deeply wrong with him, and you’re terrified of what else he’s capable of.

What if you’re not the first person he’s done this to?

Worse than that thought, what if you’re not the last?

It’s a short walk back to the bedroom, the way lit by the dim spotlights that hang over the portraits that litter the walls. There’s an eeriness to the penthouse that makes you feel as though you’re walking through an empty museum after hours.

The glossy wood flooring is as cold as tile beneath your bare feet, every part of this place hard and manufactured. It feels more like an enclosure than a home.

Even more bizarre than the decor is the layout itself. You haven’t seen the whole place yet–he had insisted a tour was for daylight hours–but rounding the corner from the living room takes you to an open alcove that serves as his bedroom.

You hesitate in the open hall, struck by the sight of yourself reflected a dozen times over in the mirrors that make up his bedroom walls and ceiling, and Homelander himself already tucked into bed, his torso bare.

Your stomach flips. He smiles at you, beckoning you with a nod towards the empty side of the bed. Anxiety crawls up your spine like an insect with every step you take towards the bed, worsened by the open anticipation he watches you with. It goes against your every instinct to move closer to him.

Just as you reach the bed, he flips the blanket down for you. You tense, gaze dipping, but you’re relieved to find that he is not entirely nude.

He’s wearing sleep pants with a thin band that nicely hugs the sharp jut of his hip, following the slight curve of his stomach. He’s leaner than the chiseled exaggeration of his suit implies, but his strength is no illusion. His hand felt like a steel vice around your wrist, his pull like being guided by a freight train.

Homelander clears his throat and your eyes snap back up to his. You realize all at once you’ve been standing there in silence staring for far too long at his half-exposed body. Embarrassment hits in a hot rush and you mumble some kind of half formed apology, busying yourself with slipping into the bed, lingering at the edge.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, watching you settle on your back and tug the blanket over yourself.

“Like what you see?” he asks, smiling crookedly. Though he claims he has no intention of eating you, you wouldn’t know it by the look in his eyes. He has all the intensity of a bird of prey watching a rabbit skitter through an open field.

Not knowing how to respond, you stare wordlessly at him. You notice the asymmetry of his mouth for the first time, how it curves on one side.

Christ, why can’t you stop staring at him like this? Every time you try to formulate a response–something, anything–the words get jumbled up in your throat, threatening to choke you.

At a loss, you roll onto your side, putting your back to him and screwing your eyes shut. The bed dips suddenly and an arm slipping around your waist startles you into a jerk, your body going tense.

“Jeeze, so jumpy,” he laughs, breath hot on the nape of your neck. He pulls your body flush against his, your soft curves fitting seamlessly against his wrought iron edges.

His strength is impossible to ignore, inhuman and titanous. You can feel it in every part of him, but nowhere more keenly than in the flex of his arm as it encircles you, pinning you against him.

He sighs into the crook of your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

“I’ve really been looking forward to this,” he murmurs, his words nearly beneath the thunderous racket of your own heart in your ears. Your body is awash in heat, and not just from the flush rolling through you. He’s as hot as a furnace at your back, as if his skin conducts heat just as well as the steel he feels made from.

If there was any doubt before that you had no choice but to yield to him, it’s evaporated now. He could crush you without so much as a second thought if he decides you don’t fit whatever elaborate fantasy he’s created in his mind. He could make you disappear.

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging the shell of your ear with his nose. “I’m gonna take good care of you, okay?”

The pressure of a sob swells up in your throat, the reality of your situation folding in on you with the weight of the world, but you choke it back. Hesitantly, you place your hand over his forearm and squeeze, hoping it will be enough of an answer to appease him.

You feel his smile in the way he caresses the sensitive flesh of your neck with his mouth. In turn, he squeezes you against his chest like a child would his new favorite toy, covetous and possessive. It makes you wonder what sort of boy he’d been: was he the sort to be precious with his toys, or was he the sort who wore them threadbare before looking for the next new and shiny thing?

“��Atta girl.”

Although sleep doesn’t come easily, it does at least come eventually. The room is dark, but not pitch black, and the ambient sounds of high altitude winds spilling in from his open windows are surprisingly soothing, better than the scratchy ocean recordings you usually drift to.

The exhaustion you experience in the aftermath of your abduction overtakes you, pitching you into a deep slumber. You spend the night dreaming a tumultuous mix of reality and nightmare, some aspects exaggerated while others play out perfectly as they were. The truth of your situation is nightmarish enough without any theatrics from your imagination.

Waking up in Homelander’s bed for the second time is no less disorienting than it was the first time.

Last night returns to you in bits and pieces, but nothing grounds you in reality as swiftly as the heavy arm looped around your waist, and the steady warm breaths wafting over the back of your neck, giving you goosebumps. His other arm is stretched out under your pillow, his hand resting palm up by the edge of it.

Is he asleep…?

“G’morning,” Homelander purrs, giving a firm squeeze around your middle.

Not asleep, which leaves you wondering how long he’s been awake, assuming the man actually does sleep. There’s been no lack of speculation towards how human supes really are or aren’t, whether they need to eat or rest the way regular humans do.

Especially those as powerful as Homelander.

The sleepy slur and fray of his voice gives you hope that he does, though. On top of everything else, it would be too unsettling a horror to learn that he doesn’t.

“Morning,” you give back after a beat, hating how meek your voice is. The tension in your body makes everything sound tight and forced. You see his fingers flex just before he curls his arm inward, hand clutching your shoulder to embrace you.

“I don’t know about you,” he says in your ear, lips brushing the shell of it as he speaks. “But that was the best damn night of sleep I’ve ever had.”

That solves that, you suppose.

The silence that follows makes you realize he was prompting you.

“Same.” The lie hitches in your throat like a hiccup.

Another pause, and then Homelander is shifting, uncoiling his arms from around you and lifting up on his side. With a hand on your shoulder he turns you on to your back, bringing you to face him.

You meet his gaze, but something about the look in his eyes turns your gut cold. There’s no softness in the lines of his face, not even thinning tethers of patience. There’s simply… nothing.

“Don’t ever lie to me,” he says, his voice set low and strangely hollow. “You’re free to do whatever you want. Except for that. Understand?”

Your throat clicks on a dry swallow. The weight of his stare makes it hard to breathe. You nod.

“Tell me you understand,” he says slowly, each perfectly annunciated word dripping with malice. There’s no pleading in his voice the way there had been last night. He’s composed entirely of cold and hard lines that make you feel caged, the bars shrinking around you.

“I understand,” you choke out.

Just like that, the lines at the corners of his eyes soften, crinkling with his smile. He leans in to press a chaste kiss to your forehead. The abruptness of the shift is enough to give you whiplash, leaving you dazed. For just a moment, he was another person entirely.

“That’s my girl,” he says, seeming to savor every word on his tongue. Dumbstruck, you watch him climb out of bed, swinging his arms in a slow stretch.

“Uhm,” you start, clearing your voice of the faint tremor in it. “I should, uh… Call someone. Work. They’re going to be worried if–”

“Already taken care of,” he cuts in, lifting his suit from the suit rack next to the bed. Your eyes dart to the crumpled one he shed the night before, still in a pile.

How many of those does he have?

“Everyone you know is under the impression that you had a mild stress-induced nervous breakdown, and are currently on an impromptu vacation in Europe, totally off the grid,” he says with a smile, sliding his hand smoothly through the air.

You pale. Whenever work came to be too much, you’ve joked about disappearing like that, but would anyone actually believe you have? You suddenly regret the plethora of hyperbolic existential posts you’ve made.

“Oh,” is all you manage to say, feeling sick.

Homelander, on the other hand, looks as bright as the morning sun. “So! Who’s ready for breakfast?”

Regardless of whether or not cooking is enjoyable, it’s always a reliable routine. Breakfast perhaps most of all. Eggs, toast, bacon and whatever fruit is in season. You find all these things and more in dizzying variety and proportion in Homelander’s lavish kitchen.

The eggs are large and brown, the bacon wrapped in butcher's paper rather than plastic, and cut in thick strips. The artisanal loaf of bread has a perfectly crisp golden crust, soft on the inside as you slice it. It’s everything you know, but elevated.

The opulence feels weighted. It makes you wonder how you could ever be expected to pay for any of this. How you could be worth any of this. Every ounce of silky butter you swipe over the piece of artisan toast in your hand feels like another smattering of grave soil peppering you from above, burying you deeper than you already are.

You don’t owe him for any of this. You didn’t ask for it. Regardless, you lick an excess smear of jam from your thumb–the color of it as red and vibrant as fresh blood–and all at once you are Persephone taking the pomegranate seeds between her lips. There is a terrible feeling of complicitness in this, despite that you’re only trying to survive.

Homelander lurks behind you while you cook, observing from a slight distance with an idyllic smile, his hands clasped behind his back. While you’re still wearing your pajamas, he’s wearing his hero suit again, the bulk of it returning to him his larger than life silhouette.

The silence he observes you in is unnerving, making everything else too loud in comparison. It would be nice if he’d at least sit. Instead, you’re keenly aware of the oppressive weight of his expectant gaze the entire time you cook.

“Looks delicious,” he says, his voice suddenly so close that you startle, the butterknife slipping from your hand and clattering on the marble countertop. His gloved hands cup your elbows and squeeze, soothing and overly familiar. “Oops-a-daisy,” he laughs, as if you’re just clumsy. His hands stroke slowly up and down your arms.

You snatch the knife up from the countertop and dutifully wipe away the jam splatter with a dishtowel. “I hope you like it,” you say distractedly, heart racing.

“How could I not?” he asks in that same low, pleased tone. He gives your arms an excited little shimmy before releasing them, reaching around either side of you to grab each plate. You feel his chest against your back, where he lingers just a second too long. “You made it just for me, after all.”

He moves away from you, taking the plates with him to the small round table near the floor to ceiling windows. The view from his penthouse is stunning–overlooking the entire city, all the way out to the waterfront–but it’s also dizzying. It unsettles your stomach to sit so close to the window, the size of them making it feel as though there’s nothing between you and a hundred story fall.

“You’re not scared of heights, are you?” He asks, settling down across from you.

You look from the window to him. He wastes no time splaying a cloth napkin in his lap and picking up his utensils, though he never takes his eyes off of you. You’re not sure he ever does. “Uh…Not particularly. I just don’t think I’ve ever been up so high,” you say, draping your own napkin similarly in your lap. Never has breakfast felt like such a formal affair.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says confidently, jabbing his knife into the yolk of his egg to spread over his buttered toast. “I’ll take you flying again. You’ll be conscious this time around,” he chuckles, flipping a piece of bacon on top as well.

Your gut tightens, toast paused halfway to your parted lips. You gawk at him. It’s difficult to comprehend how someone can be so beyond reproach, so intensely cavalier about something like drugging you into unconsciousness and kidnapping you.

I saved you. That his voice already lives in your mind–correcting you–is sickening in and of itself. Your already tenuous appetite vanishes, but you take a bite of the toast out of spite. The jam’s farm fresh sweetness is tart, though it’s offset perfectly by the savory sea salt richness of the butter.

It’s as exquisite as it is repulsive.

A crisp snap brings your attention abruptly back to Homelander, whose hand is still poised in the air, his thumb and middle finger pressed together. His hand falls away once he has your attention, his smile returning. “That good, huh? Looked like you went a million miles away.”

If only, you seethe, taking another bite of the toast. You use the moment to chew, swallowing the anger over being snapped at alongside your mouthful of food.

“It’s delicious,” you say, curating your words carefully. Don’t ever lie to me, his words echo again, helping you to shape a mental survival guide. Feeling his eyes on you, you meet them. His smile widens a touch, though you don’t think it quite reaches his eyes. He’s appraising you like one might an exhibit at a museum.

Glancing down at his plate, you notice he hasn’t really eaten his breakfast so much as he’s toyed with it. It’s all just cut apart, yellow egg yolk oozing slowly across the pristine white plate. “Is there something wrong with yours?” you ask with a lurch of anxiety. He’s drugged you once already.

“Not at all,” he beams with clean white teeth, hands resting in loose fists on either side of his plate. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

The strange earnestness of the compliment stuns you. “Thank you,” you say uneasily, still not convinced there wasn’t something in the jam, or maybe the butter.

His smile broadens and this time it reaches all the way up, crinkling his eyes at their outer corners. There’s a sort of pride in his expression that makes you feel like a dog that’s finally learned the trick he’s been trying to teach you.

“Whelp,” he sighs, clapping his hands together as he stands. “As much as I hate to go, duty calls,” he says, sliding his chair back beneath the table. Rounding it, he holds his hand out to you. “Walk me out?” he asks, his smile gleaming with predator charm. You only hesitate briefly before slipping your hand into his, reminding yourself to choose your battles wisely.

He lifts you to your feet with such ease it makes your stomach flip, breath hitching in your throat. He doesn’t let go of your hand, choosing to keep it snug within his grasp as he walks you through the decorated halls of his penthouse. There’s scarcely a space untouched by decor, making even these spacious corridors feel claustrophobic, dozens of carved and painted eyes leering at you as you pass.

The tour of the penthouse had been brief, awkward. He hadn’t especially known what to say about each room, giving you more facts about the artwork than anything. The lack of personal effects only make the place feel even more like a museum than it had before.

The only pictures of him were Vought promotional material. Not a single photo of him outside of his suit. No trace of family or childhood. Just The Homelander.

He holds your hand all the way up to a set of double doors made from dark wood, where he stops and turns to face you. “Thanks for breakfast,” he says with a picture perfect pearly white smile. Not a speck of food to be found. Uncomfortable with how fixated you’ve become on the condition of his teeth, you force your attention back on his eyes and nod.

“You’re welcome.”

He leans closer, and you have to fight the urge to lean back.

“Will you kiss me goodbye?”

You blink, the question striking you in the same way his compliment had, but for a different reason. In the wake of asking, his smile has lost that razor sharp edge it usually carries. Like his eyes, it’s softer now. More boyish. There’s a level of nervous apprehension in it that’s a stark contrast from his usual smugness. Yet again it hardly feels like you’re even looking at the same person.

Swallowing dryly, you bring your hand to the underside of his strong jaw. His skin is warm under your fingers, and he leans readily into your touch. You can feel the tension in the muscle beneath his cleanly shaven face as you turn it away, simultaneously moving in to press your lips to his cheek.

When you pull away, he’s staring sidelong at you, his face still turned away, his thin lips parted. For a beat, you think he’s going to be upset, but you realize quickly that the heat you see rushing to his cheeks isn’t anger. It’s a blush. Of all the ways you expected him to react, bashful was not among them.

“Okie-dokie,” he says, suddenly sheepish, and the tension in your shoulders drains as he relinquishes your other hand, busying himself with slipping off one of his gloves. “Should be home around 4:00, but I might be able to squeeze out closer to 3:00,” he says, tossing you a conspiratory little wink. As if you should be as excited as he is at the thought.

You watch him reach for a black plate next to the door handle, which he slides up to reveal a sleek number pad with a glowing blue circle, which he presses his thumb to. The circle turns green, and you hear a mechanism unlatch. Your stomach drops. All at once you understand why he brought you all the way to the door. He wanted you to see this.

“Pretty nifty, huh?” he asks, sliding his glove back on. “State of the art,” he says with a grin, pulling the door open. Over his shoulder, you see nothing but a long, long hall and a distant elevator at the end of it. You consider screaming down it to see if anyone might hear you, but the noise gets stuck in your throat. Even if they heard you, no one would reach you in time.

Homelander steps through the threshold, lingering in the doorway, leaning partially inside. “Don’t you worry,” he says, taking in the stricken expression you wear. He looks pleased with himself. “You’ll be perfectly safe. No way anyone’s getting in or out–aside from me, that is.”

He offers a few parting words, but they distort into unintelligible static. The door closes. That green circle turns blue, and the locking mechanism echoes in your ears like the slam of a prison gate. Turning around, you stare down the lengthy corridor you came from, your ears buzzing with the eerie quietness of the penthouse.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

#this chapter ran a bit long but yay! reader pov!#homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #x reader #homelander #my writing #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere boyfriend

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writa-anon · 9 months ago

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"is that.. supposed to be me?"

francis mosses (the milkman) x artist!reader

a / n ~ boom! first fanfic :3 i was a little inspired by uh.. myself LOL when i started playing tnmn i realized i was horrible at memorizing faces so i started drawing the characters to help me remember and it works sooo much. but anyway, super cute oneshot where they first meet, hope u enjoy :D

content included ~ isaack mauss, francis mosses, reader is an artist and doorman, no pronouns mentioned for reader, use of (y/n), shy n wholesome first encounter

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 4.10.24 | 1.6k words

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Another slow day at work, huh?”

A enthusiatic-ridden voice boomed, instinctively making me look up to meet the gaze of a strong-jawlined man. I cleared my throat and placed my pencil on the scratchy sheet of paper, sitting up in my chair.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gauss.” I greeted, grinning that customer-service smile.

“Good afternoon, (y/n). I assume work is treating you well?” He said before sliding both his ID and request form through the letter hole. “Only your third day and you’re occupying yourself with side hobbies!” He exclaimed, squinting a little to see my doodle through the glass screen. I chuckled a little as I examined his ID.

“Eh, yeah..” I sighed. “But this actually helps with my job, believe it or not!” I said proudly, pulling out the floor 2 folder to compare his ID number. “I’ve been drawing neighbors in order to remember their features better. It’s especially helpful because of my terrible memory.” I said, shaking my head. Isaack simply chuckled as I placed the folder to the side as I went through his request form.

“That’s pretty smart.” He commented. “Who have you drawn so far?” He asked, curiously tilting his head. As I went through the checklist as I idly thought to myself.

“Umm..” I hummed. “The Schmitts and the Mikaelys are definitely in here.” I finished up the last check before rolling back to my sketchbook, using my finger to thumb through the pages.

“Unfortunate. I haven’t been drawn yet.” He faked pouted. I rolled my eyes before flipping one or two pages before presenting the portrait to him.

“I’m not necessarily finish. Your face is pretty hard to encapture.” I sighed, looking at the smears of led blended together. Isaack was something of a character: a big prominent smile that is not hard to catch a glimpse of in a room full of people. His hair perfectly styled each morning that still manages to maintain its shape by the end of the day. His voice had depth to it, almost like he was born to be the daily news reporter for radios and TVs of all kind. He stared at the drawing in satisfied awe before leaning back.

“Wow, it surely is accurate!” He beamed. I smiled proudly before placing my sketchbook down.

“Thank you,” I politely nodded. I slid his ID back through the letter box. “Everything seems to be good to go. You’re allowed in, Mr. Gauss.” He nodded in his head in gratitude, but however, did not my window just yet. He took a minute to ponder, as if contemplating his next move, before beaming his teeth once again.

“Ah, before I go,” he quickly inputed. “is there by chance Francis Mosses is on today’s list? He’s the local milkman around here.”

I raised my eyebrow a little, not exactly sure as to why Isaack chose to bring up this person’s name. I shook my head gently before folding my arms in front of me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gauss, but I’m afraid I cannot disclose that information for you.”

“—Ah, of course.” Isaack quickly fixed himself, putting his hands up a little in defense. “I understand. I was just curious is all. I’m sure you know him though, no?” Thinking for a minute, I’ve realized that this is a neighbor I have not encountered yet.

“No, actually..” I pondered out loud. “Huh, that’s interesting. I guess he works a morning or night shift because the name doesn’t really ring a bell.” I noted out loud.

“Interesting.” He muttered. “Well, keep the name in mind. He’s a rather interesting person, and I think you would find him just as interesting.” Before I could say anything else, he gestured a quick wink before walking through the unlocked door. I quickly snapped out my thoughts before locking the door back up again.

Isaack never really mentioned other names— it wasn’t necessarily out of character, but it felt a little outlandish. I looked down to see my pencil in hand again and blank surface of paper. My eyes trailed over to the paper taped on to the wall next to my window, realizing that Frances was in fact on today’s check-in list. Out of curiousity, I located his room number before surfing through the folders. After locating folder 3 and apartment 02, I was able to find more about him.

He was a slim, tall man with a crooked nose and ruffled brown hair. His eye bags were prominent from what I assume to be lack of sleep. As I stared at his picture, my hand moved by itself across my sketchbook, forming a circle to start defining out the headshape. I squinted slightly, trying to feel for each detail in his face. From the way his eyebrows were rotated a little outward, defining more of his tired expression, to the bump in his nose bridge, making it a bit more interesting to draw. It was mesmerizing, almost wishing I could sit here and draw his face in perso—

tap, tap!

I nearly jumped out of my seat. The pencil flung out of my hand, rolling off of the desk. My eyes flickered up—

and there he was.

My breath near caught in my throat as I stared up in shock. The man behind the glass was barely shocked to see my reaction. His white “milkman” hat rested perfectly on top of his brown hair with small curls slightly peaking out. I was swift to regain my composure in my head as I folded my hands in front of me with my legs crossed under the desk.

“Good afternoon, sir.” I smiled. “I haven’t seen you before. ID and entry request?”

He let out a small hum, barricaded by his pink lips, as he took out his paper and ID. He politely slid them through the letter slot before I took the items to examine.

“Mr. Francis Mosses.. Lives on floor 03.. Room 02.. Coming from work as a milkman.” I glanced up to look at him, comparing the photo ID to his face. His expression was exactly alike: tired eyes, slight frown on the lips, crooked nose, and a clean shaven face. I double checked with his file already on my desk, making sure that the ID numbers and the description aligned with his ID. “Everything looks good.” I confirmed as I slid his ID back to him.

“Mmm.. Thank you.” He hummed. I turned around to place his request form in a folder, but once I sat back up, I realized he was still standing at the window, curiously staring through the glass. I raised my eyebrow a little, confused as to why he was still lingering.

“I’m sorry, did I forget something?” I asked. Francis shook his head before pointing down at my desk.

“Is that.. Supposed to be me?” He asked. A tiny bit of emotion seeped into his voice, dripping in interest and curiousity.

“I— oh—” I looked down to see the rough drawing of Francis sitting at my desk, drawn with sketch lines still lightly defining his features, while the harder drawn areas sculpted his prominent details. “Yeah..” I mumbled. “I-I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable!” I exclaimed. “It’s just a way to help me remember faces and I was going through the files and I realized I haven’t met you before so I—”

“You make me look so pretty.” He mumbled, almost breathlessly. A faint pink color brushed his cheeks as he was unable to take his gaze away from the paper.

“W-Well.. I do aim for accuracy.” I chuckled, complimenting the man right back. My nerves had calmed down after noticing his calm demeanor. “You could keep it, if you’d like that is.” I offered. It would be awkward if I kept the drawing rather than give it to him— I mean— this is his first time ever seeing me and it was an awkward first interaction right off the bat. It was the least I could do for him. Francis nodded his head and in response, I tore the piece of paper out of the scrapbook before sliding it through the letter slot.

“There you go.” I smiled.

“Thank you..” He replied, graciously taking the piece of paper and admiring it once again. “Oh— um,” He quickly looked up to me. “What is your name? I’m sorry, I’m not really good with.. Introductions.” He trailed off, but something about his shyness and reluctant voice made me grin even harder.

“My name is (y/n). I’m the doorman in training for this building.” I greeted.

“Ah, of course. I’m Francis— Mmm..Though you already know that.” He said, shaking his head a little by the end of his sentence.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Francis. I’ll be seeing you around, I assume?” I said, sitting at the edge of my chair as I looked up at him.

“More often than before.” He smiled. It was the widest he’d grin throughout our whole conversation. Something inside me told me that he doesn’t pass around smiles like that easily. It made me feel accomplished in some sort of way. But with that, he departed from my window. I made sure to unlock the door and listen for the door closing behind him before locking it again.

Francis Mosses.

I think I have someone to look forward to on tomorrow’s entry list.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

really hoped you enjoyed! replies, reblogs, and even likes are super appreciated! thank you so much for reading :]

#thats not my neighbour milkman #thats not my neighbor #milkman #tnmn #tnmn milkman #francis mosses x you #francis mosses x reader #francis mosses #isaack gauss #oneshot #fanfiction #milkman x reader

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kiwibongos · 1 month ago

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danganronpa DISCO STYLE

ive seen people put mouthwashing and persona over disco elysium portraits so now its my turn to get nerdy with it

finished it the other week and holy shit what a game. cant stop thinking of those silly old detectives. my favs are cuno, cindy, and those church lads as well. theyre found family. the art style was kinda tough to grasp but it was super fun to do! i locked the fuck in on sonia

also symbolism description:

the scratchy/smudged background behind hajime symbolizes his fragmented mind as izuru, along with his generally stressed state within the killing game, but the bright halo behind his head symbolizes determination and levelheadedness to match his serious expression, along with a light on the right side combatting the shade on the opposite end, representing hope versus despair.

fuyuhiko's portrait is murky and stained with what resembles blood, along with an ominous shadow to represent his general brooding and rude attitude, but the bright light behind him symbolizes change and the hidden kindness and bravery inside of him that he grows to find.

sonia's portrait is soft and pale, akin to her personality; the blue smudges represent serenity, the yellow & white smudges represent loyalty and kindness, while the red panel sticks out the most to symbolize authority & strength above all else, to reflect not just her duties as a princess but her bold and bright personality.

akane's portrait is dusty/gloomy to symbolize her traumatic childhood along with the black rectangle to match it, but the blood-red tendrils also symbolize her brutal strength to spite that fact. along with that, she is not entirely casted in a dark shadow but a more neutral light, with brighter highlights to represent her high spirits, dominance and confidence on top of it. plus, she's still smiling! which may be because of total obliviousness and denial, or just because she's that positive lol

kazuichi's portrait holds his signature colors (magenta+yellow) but is smudged with what resembles oil melting over his body, and despite the fact that he's smiling, his expression is awkward and forced, his eyebrows permanently furrowed, lacking any confidence to show that he's clearly breaking. these factors represent his cowardly personality, how easily his composure cracks under any kind of pressure, even though he always tries to play it off cool.

and yes i did take inspiration from harry du bois on that one. the ... expression ...

#bongo art #art #digital art #illustration #danganronpa #sdr2 #super danganronpa 2 #danganronpa 2 #danganronpa 2 goodbye despair #fuyuhiko kuzuryu #hajime hinata #sonia nevermind #kazuichi soda #kazuichi souda #akane owari

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daily-hyosatsu · 1 year ago

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Adorable kid handwriting at a restaurant in Nishiogi. It says おとうさんのお店 Otōsan No Omise (Daddy's Shop), and it includes a sweetly funny minimalist portrait, drawn by a little kid, of a man with a lumpy head, tiny eyes, glasses, a scratchy beard, and possibly no hair.

The word おとうさん is usually written お父さん (and this place has been around at least a few years, so I bet the kid has learned the kanji by now). 父 means father, and it's read ちち or フ.

店 means store or shop, and it’s read みせ, だな, or テン. We’ve covered it once before, in a very interesting name.

#learning japanese #kanji #japanese langblr #父 #店

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hephaestiions · 9 months ago

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author reclist: toomuchplor

a few months ago, when i was coming back to fandom in earnest, i came across this post from @sitp-recs. explorations of faith, divinity and worship are some of the tropes i find most furiously compelling, so i had to jump into o come, all ye faithful as soon as possible. i did, only to fall headfirst in obsessive, wide-eyed, awe-inspired love. @toomuchplor writes a desire that's both slow and heady, relentless and gentle, all-consuming and a rest stop to breathe easy. i couldn't help but read through (most of) their catalogue in a matter of days. this author's thematic range is astonishing, their characterisations lead to delicious stories where two headstrong, wilful and perennially longing men crash, fumble and rush into achingly sweet love and burning lust.

what always spools me in with plor, though, is their use of circumstance, especially in longer fics. every fic has a premise iron-clad in its fascinating, inventive, raw and exciting potential. more often than not, i've found them doing something i haven't encountered before in fandom at all, or reworking a popular trope in ways that make you go, 'oh. oh, i never thought about that happening, how did i never think of that happening?'

i've loved everything i've read from them, but here's a selection of some of my absolute favourites that i'll be going back to, over and over:

i've got a beautiful feeling (everything's going my way) (E, 3.5k)

“I’ve got such a boner,” Harry says, voice scratchy, just slitting his eyes open now, turning his head on his pillow to face Draco. “Oh, lovely, good morning to you, too,” Draco says.

a slice of life like the plush inside of a ripe mango— a love that's mature, constant, beating like a strong heart. the filthy, hilarious, gorgeous portrait of harry and draco's married life— the familiarity of sex, the rush of wanting each other as much as ever.

o come, all ye faithful & all the angels cry amen (E, ~22k total)

In which Draco finds faith in the church, and Harry finds faith in Draco.

an achingly tender rumination on faith as love, and love as worship. one of the most heartbreaking and realistic depictions of the reckoning it would take for harry potter to accept he has found refuge and rest in draco malfoy's arms. i loved the non-chronological, dual timeline storytelling— that particular form works so well when there's a taut, twinging thread holding both narratives together, and harry and draco's gravitational attraction to each other, fraught in parts and at peace in others was the perfect anchor.

time and too much don't belong together (E, 23k)

A Malfoy family heirloom gets triggered in a raid, binding Draco Malfoy to Ron Weasley; neither of them is too chuffed about this.

a masterclass in revelations. the reader can tell, from the outset, there's more here than meets the eye. the reader can also guess, from the beginning, what the dynamic in the shadows is. tense and breathtaking writing, you know what's coming, but every time you're fed a morsel you cling to it with both hands. one of the most inventive takes i've seen on the lust potion/spell trope in this fandom, and done in a way that makes you want to see it over and over and over again.

polar night/midnight sun (E, 54k)

Harry travels to arctic Norway on the trail of dragon egg poachers, only to find he's been assigned to work alongside the only NorMagPol Auror north of sixty: one Draco Malfoy. It's been ten years since they crossed paths, and Malfoy isn't exactly what Harry expected or remembered. For one thing, he wears a lot more hand-knits? When a sudden winter storm strands the pair, unable to use magic to rescue themselves, they take shelter in a one-room Norwegian hytte.

exquisitely atmospheric. uses extenuating circumstances in some of the most delicious ways. builds character and interpersonal dynamics through those small little elements of storytelling (draco in knitwear! brynjar the dog! the mundane pillowtalk! the quirks of their miscommunication!) that go the longest way in having characters leap off the screen into your personal space. also the sex in this is absolutely mind-blowing, i was hooked on every glorious word.

truth to materials (co-written by lately) (E, 58k)

In which Harry learns to appreciate art and other pleasures of the flesh.

decadent. in premise, in language, in characterisation, just absolutely decadent. this version of harry, bewildered and captivated by draco's out-there artistry is one of the funniest and most endearing i've encountered in fic, ever. his head, so full of determination and good intentions and terribly flawed and completely believable thinking, was such a brilliant place to set this fic. and draco— lord. you know that moment of transition, that click, when a piece of art goes from something untouchable and distant to a soulful thing you keep close because you recognise it as a cultural, emotional response? this fic felt like a literary project trying to capture that click, except it's a shift in perspective about a person. draco— the cool, untouchable, subversive artist who becomes irrevocably, warmly, achingly human.

probationary action (E, 63k)

As part of the terms of the probationary contract, DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY shall submit for inspection his WAND on the last day of every month, such inspection to be carried out by a duly registered and fully qualified AUROR in the employ of the MINISTRY OF MAGIC, and such inspection to include a PRIORI INCANTATEM spell to ensure that no PROHIBITED MAGICS as heretofore described have been practised by the aforementioned probationer.

*incoherent screaming*. a fic that starts with a premise so lighthearted and filthy that you think it's going to be a long, kinky fic about two rather hilariously perverted men getting it on, except it also gets into some of the most resonant discussions of post-war revenge tactics and human rights neglect i've ever read. the dynamic between harry and draco is simultaneously so light and so weighted, this is a fic that holds you down and keeps you there till you're done.

in conclusion: an entrancing author, a gift of a writer. i can't wait to see what else they have in store for this fandom.

#drarry #drarry fic rec #drarry fic #drarry fanfic #geets recs #hpdm fanfic #hpdm #draco x harry #toomuchplor #haven't stopped thinking about this author since i first read them #so i thought i'd do something with that #also WHY has tumblr ruined the quality of my header #i am not a reccer forgive me the fact that i have no clue how to rec #i tried

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ravenclawwitchc · 1 month ago

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Photo

translation from weibo@烟光薄

Shinichi knew Ran had a habit of taking photos. Not just any photos, though—she loved snapping pictures of the two of them together. Most of the time, they weren’t even full-on portraits. Maybe their sneakers, side by side, or her fingers curling around his arm. Occasionally, she'd record a quick video. The sound would come out all scratchy on the tiny screen, and yet it felt cozy—like something you'd watch all afternoon with a hot cocoa in hand. Ran always took a bunch in one go, worried the first few wouldn’t turn out right, pressing the shutter two or three times for the same angle. And she never deleted any of them. If memory cards could explode, hers would’ve gone up in flames ages ago.

He’d long accepted his role in this hobby of hers. Back when they were kids, it meant slipping her a spare battery at just the right time—casually, like it had been sitting in his pocket all along. She was still using that clunky CCD camera Agasa-hakase had given her for her birthday, and she’d be thrilled, her shy smile lighting up the room. The same night, Agasa got treated to an adorable dinner: an omurice with Chibi Maruko-chan’s face drawn in ketchup. Shinichi cracked the eggs; Ran did everything else. And, of course, Shinichi had to steady the little stool for her, making sure she didn’t topple over while cooking.

When she got older, she upgraded to a Polaroid. The film was expensive, but that didn’t stop her from taking photos with Sonoko. She’d scrimp and save, skipping butter cookies (which she’d been feeding him just a day ago, by the way) and canceling weekend outings. The reason? “Out of funds,” she’d shrug In the end. It was always up to him to dip into his own allowance, treating this little princess to a downstairs café trip just to snag a chance to see her. By the second canceled date, Shinichi had had enough. That’s the beauty of online shopping: the next day, a giant package landed at the Mouri Detective Agency. Inside? Stacks and stacks of film—white-bordered, blue-bordered, floral-patterned...

Timing it just right, Shinichi appeared outside the café downstairs, striking what he thought was a dashing pose. He waited for her to come out, expecting a compliment at the very least. Instead, she stared at the box of film like it was some bizarre art installation. "Shinichi," she said finally, “Why’d you buy so much film? You didn’t even buy the camera to go with it. This is so wasteful!”

His heart sank. So much for playing the knight in shining armor. It’s for you, he wanted to say. So you can take as many pictures as you want without scrimping on cookies or canceling plans. But saying that would only make her insist on paying him back—or worse, buying him something equally expensive in return. And that would ruin the whole point. He just wanted her to be happy, not stuck in some endless cycle of "you bought me this, so I’ll buy you that."

He didn’t need fancy gifts from her. A fridge magnet from a trip, a postcard from a workshop, a detective game from Shibuya, even an old edition of Sherlock Holmes she happened to spot—anything she genuinely wanted him to have, anything that made her think, This is perfect for Shinichi, was more than enough. Sure, he knew she didn’t see it that way. For her, it was about fairness, about not owing anyone. But that habit of hers, always evening the scales, felt too… formal. When would she finally just take what he offered, no strings attached?

So there he stood, outside Poirot, trying to salvage the moment.

"Hey... We've known each other for so long, the three of us, and yet you only take pictures with Sonoko? That’s just not fair, Ran! Listen up, these Polaroid films aren’t a gift, okay? They’re for a special rule: if I ever feel like taking a picture with you, you have to say yes, right away. Even if Sonoko’s waiting for her turn, I get priority—no arguments! Of course, I know that’s a little selfish, so on regular days, you can use the films however you like… just make sure I still get first dibs, alright?"

He paused for dramatic effect, then added, "And another thing! You’re not allowed to say you’re out of film anymore, or use saving up for film as an excuse to cancel on me. Got it? Ran—Hey, stop laughing! Are you even listening to me?"

#shinran #kudo shinichi #mouri ran #dcmk

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the-scandalorian · 2 years ago

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two

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 5.1k Warnings: sort of dubcon due to intoxication; alcohol and drug use (by both reader and Joel); mention of reader’s hair being long enough to tangle his fingers in (no details otherwise); smut (fingering, oral, spitting on her pussy, p-in-v); grief and angst Note: There's no part one out yet; this is the second of a potential series of loosely tied oneshots that are coming to me out of order.

The living room is blue. All the surfaces, the shelves and the antique piano, are coated in a thick layer of dust. It feels wrong to disturb anything in this house—in this perfectly preserved resting place—so you tuck yourself into the corner of Bill and Frank’s old couch, out of the way, toe off your boots, and pull your knees up to your chest.

Ellie thunders up the stairs and shuts herself in one of the rooms, gone at the first opportunity for privacy.

Joel doesn’t disappear. You expect him to take the other bedroom and close the door. Instead, he watches you settle onto the couch and drops heavily into the seat beside you. He leans over the armrest and opens a cabinet, retrieving a bottle of dark liquid.

His casual knowledge of the space speaks to how much time he’s spent here, to the depth of his friendship with Bill and Frank. It makes you sad; it makes the room dark. It makes jealousy sour your stomach. Joel has people: a place to fit in this fractured world.

Had. He had people.

There are paintings on the walls: landscapes, still lifes, portraits. Mostly of Bill, you think. With that glower? Definitely Bill. Joel did say Frank was the nice one.

The likenesses vary in style. There’s a gradient from careful, detailed studies to less refined renderings with loose, painterly brushwork. All of them, in their own unique way, capture the same steely gaze—the spiteful tenacity that must have fueled their survival for decades.

You ignore the many versions of stern eyes watching you.

The worn fabric under your fingers is scratchy, the upholstery splashed with roses, the hard back of the couch draped in crocheted blankets. It’s dated, the whole place frozen in time while the world fell—falls—apart around it, chaos kept out by a chain link fence and Bill’s gritted teeth. A bell jar in a hurricane.

You wonder if Joel and Tess ever considered leaving the QZ permanently for this place. If that was ever offered. You imagine it would have been almost…idyllic.

You look up at Joel. He’s holding the unopened bottle in his lap. His sharp profile is limned by the soft moonlight filtering through the window behind him. It catches on the silver flecked in his hair and beard.

He knows you’re watching him. He says nothing. He’s thinking about the letter.

About Tess.

You’re trying to think about anything else.

You study his face. Even like this, anguished and lined, filthy from the road, with a half-healed slash across his cheek, he’s handsome. He has rugged good looks, with those brown eyes and that granite-cut jaw. The natural pout of his bottom lip. In a different time, a different universe, he could have been an actor, a model—the face of an ad campaign for a devastatingly masculine cologne. Those big, veined hands modeling watches on the pages of a fashion magazine.

He wouldn’t have. It wouldn’t suit. But he could have.

It’s strange to think about what he could have been.

Instead, he’s here. The peaks of his knuckles are split and scabbed, the valleys a mottled black and blue, their edges fading to a sickly yellow. His skin is rough and dry—it snags when he runs his hands absentmindedly over the denim of his jeans. His palms are calloused. You know because when shit gets serious, he grabs your wrist or your forearm or your bicep—never your hand—and shoves you behind the wall of his body or pulls you along as he takes off at a run. His middle is thick and soft, his shoulders broad and strong. He’s going gray, and fuck, it looks good on him.

You study him because it feels inconsequential. Your presence feels inconsequential. To him, you think, you’re just another ghost in this house.

Or maybe he is.

A small part of you is braced for him to break, to buckle under the weight of Bill’s last words—the words that are hanging over this house like a storm cloud. Anyone else would.

Joel won’t, though. You watched him stalk away from the burning capitol building with white-knuckled stoicism, and you felt sure that he was already too utterly broken to break again.

Like molten metal, bent and hammered and folded over on itself, again and again and again. Until it’s shatterproof.

He’s leaning forward, his elbows braced on his spread knees. Even on a soft couch, he doesn’t fully relax. He drops his head into his hands and scrubs one over his face. Then he reaches into the pack by his feet and rummages for something. A little plastic baggie. He just holds it for a minute. You watch him decide.

It’s safe here. As safe as anywhere can be. And Joel hasn’t slept in days.

He shakes two white pills out of the bag and chases them with a swig of whiskey, knocking the liquor back with a quick tip of his head, squinting against the slight after-burn. You extend your open palm. He shakes out a couple pills for you without question, without even looking up.

He passes you the bottle, and you down them. One harsh gulp.

It’s real whiskey, with a label and everything, not something homemade. Not top-shelf quality by any means, but it’s better than anything you’ve had in a long time. It should be sipped and savored. Back in the QZ, you could have gotten a hefty stack of ration cards for this one bottle—even half empty. It doesn’t matter now.

You take another drink and hand it back.

You watch as a glazed calm gradually slips over Joel’s troubled expression and he finally sinks into the give of the couch cushions, letting his head drop back. You watch as the pills soften his edges. Just barely. They erode a little of the hard, calcified layer he must have started building the day of the outbreak. It grants you a fuzzy peek into the Joel before. His shoulders lose their tension; his fists unclench. If you squint, you might be able to see the Joel who drank with his buddies and winked at women at the bar. The one who drove a pickup truck with the windows rolled down in the summertime.

You sit in silence as the haze takes you too, creeping up the back of your neck like a warm tide until you feel just numb enough. Any and all troubling thoughts are caught and trapped, restrained like moths in amber, so all that’s left in this blue room is pleasant quiet.

You’re just starting to feel drowsy and loose when he turns to you, wanting. Joel shifts in his seat and fixes you with a look—the first time he’s looked directly at you in an hour or more. The usual bite of his penetrating gaze is muted, the crease between his brows deep with feeling; his brown eyes are big with a question. A need.

It’s the tiniest chink in his armor, a momentary blip of him without a mask. A second of vulnerability, so foreign on his stoic face that the urge to soothe him is visceral. It jumps up the back of your throat.

This is Joel breaking.

He’s asking you for something—for distraction, for comfort. To be put back together.

You unfold your limbs and climb directly into his lap.

He makes a low, approving sound when you straddle his spread thighs and drops his head to your chest to inhale deeply against your shirt. If you weren’t buzzed, you might flinch away. You’re filthy, sweaty and dirty from days on the road. Neither of you have taken advantage of the shower yet. You can’t smell nice.

Joel does it again, though, chasing the comfort by burying his face between your tits, his hands tightening on your hips, his long fingers slipping inside the back pockets of your jeans to grip your ass. He pulls you down against his lap. Hard.

He’s hungry for it this time, watching the place where your body meets his, denim against rough denim. Like he’s imagining the way your naked body will fit against his.

He remembers himself for a moment, looking up at your face. “This okay?”

“Yeah, Joel,” you say. “I want it.”

“Good.”

His forehead drops lightly against your sternum as he moves you against him. He guides your hips into a slow grind. Your knees sink into the plush of the old sofa cushions, your hands braced on his shoulders.

If he were anyone else, you’d have kissed him already. You settle for pressing your face against the side of his neck, dragging your nose up the column of his bared throat. He smells like sun and sweat and pine, like the dry, dusty road and something else...something distinctly him. It's subtle. It makes your mouth water.

He holds you tight, a strong arm wrapped around your back. You run your hands over his biceps, over the hard lines of his muscles, his shoulders—feeling what often distracts you when he crosses his arms over his chest and the fabric of his shirt pulls taut.

Joel is content, for now, to lift his hips, just barely, into the steady roll of your hips. You think about last time—his clinical, efficient approach. It was all deliberate movements and quick work. He'd made a growled promise that it would only ever happen once.

And yet.

This time, he seems to be letting himself enjoy something, reveling in the pleasure. That alone feels like an unaffordable indulgence, like if you drew attention to it, you’d scare it away.

His big hand slides heavily up the curve of your spine, a needy drag, and back down again, settling on your lower back, urging you harder. Faster.

More.

It feels good. You rock your hips, grinding yourself into his lap, where he’s full and hard now, thick and straining against his fly, and you groan together when he adjusts his legs wider and pushes his hips up to meet you, letting you get at his clothed erection a little easier. The metal button on your jeans clicks against his belt buckle as you move.

He turns his head to set his teeth against your shoulder, biting with no pressure, and breathes hot against the fabric as you ride him, his chest expanding on a sharp inhale as you drag your core over the stiff arch of his cock and chase the embers of pleasure sparking low in your belly.

All at once, it’s not enough.

Joel grunts and grips your ass, fingers digging into your soft flesh, and he half-shoves, half-lifts you backwards as he straightens, setting you on your feet in front of him. You make a squeaked sound of surprise at the sudden movement, clutching his biceps for balance as you find your footing, and the corner of his mouth twitches up into the barest beginning of a smile. You smile back at him, radiant.

Smiles.

The pills are hitting. It’s all a little delirious.

The moment feels surreal, like this dated living room has been snatched from the current of time and set down on solid ground. Just for a moment. Just to let you both breathe.

It evaporates quickly. His stern expression returns.

“Bedroom,” Joel says with a bossy little jerk of his chin.

You snatch the half-empty whiskey bottle from the coffee table and head down the hall.

There are two spare bedrooms in this big, white house—the one upstairs that Ellie disappeared into and a second down here on the first floor. It’s situated down the hall from the locked door. You try not to think about that room. Try not to wonder if Joel and Tess shared this same spare room when they used to visit.

There are too many ghosts here tonight.

You pop open the bottle and drink deep, and Joel shuts the door behind him with a quiet click. He stoops to switch on the lamp on the bedside table.

You drop the corked whiskey onto an armchair and reach for the top button of your shirt, eager to avoid an awkward interlude, eager to please him.

There’s something about Joel that makes you desperate to be wanted by him—something more than just his gruff appeal or the situation you’re in together or the fact that his care promises some measure of safety in this world of scarcity. It has everything to do with how he acts around the people that are his. More than just protective. Possessive.

This want is practical. And it’s not.

It’s animal too.

He rounds the bed and stands close, stopping your hand with his. You look up, and he inclines his head toward the bed.

“Lie down.”

You move to listen, but he stops you.

“Wait.”

He bends to grip the bottom edge of the bed frame, and Joel grunts as he slides the whole thing a few inches away from the wall. The feet squeak along the hardwood floor.

He straightens and nods. “Alright, go on.”

The image of him arched over your body, fucking you so hard and deep that the headboard knocks against the wall—thump, thump, thump—sets your heart racing. You scramble up the bed, and he takes his time unlacing his boots then follows with a slow crawl, watching you with dark eyes. With intent so potent it makes you want to look away.

You don’t.

He’s here this time.

As present as either of you can be when you’re a little high. Just the barest edge of sedated. You imagine your own eyes are glassy, lacquered in the low light of the shaded lamp. Joel’s don’t seem to be, though. He’s alert.

He crowds you further up the bed, and you scoot back until your head hits the pillow. He makes space for himself between your legs and reaches for your collar. You watch his deft fingers work quickly down the line of buttons on your shirt.

His eyes flick from his hands to your face and back. There’s naked want there—desire etched into his hard features. You’ve never seen him like this. You’ve only seen him two ways: serious or furious.

This is something else. This is intoxicating.

Your head is starting to spin.

He gets your shirt open, helps you shuck it off, and pulls your bra off with a practiced ease. His large, warm hands palm your breasts as soon as they’re free. He’s immediately fixated, and the attention sends a flush of heat over your bare skin. He tests the weight of each, kneading lightly, his mouth parted in muted awe as his fingertips sink into the give. He tweaks your nipple between two fingers, one and then the other, and watches, satisfied, as they pebble for him. He studies your reactions to his touch, eyes lingering on your face as he plays with you, as if your response is as important to him as the feel of you.

He takes his time. Unhurried. Like you have all the time in the world.

Joel leans down suddenly and licks a warm stripe up the line of your sternum, through the valley of your breasts, and your body reacts to him: you arch your back into the heat, your hand automatically burying itself in his thick hair, your lips parting around a moan.

His tongue.

You must taste like salt and sweat, and yet, he looks a little smug when he pulls back, his lips quirked in a half smile.

“You like that?”

He looks young when he smiles. You can see thirty-year-old Joel in that look. Unburdened Joel. Fifty-year-old Joel without the trauma.

The margins of your vision start to smudge as you look at him; colors bleed freely in the dim light, his features running like wet ink. His smile melts away. You feel off-kilter, like you’ll slip off the solid plane of this mattress and drop into nothingness if you don’t hold on. You fist your hands in the comforter.

A hand frames your cheek. You can’t focus your eyes. Your lashes flutter.

Joel says your name, concern woven between each syllable.

Once. Again.

He drops his weight onto you. The spinning stops, and your hands release. You meet his eyes.

“Joel—”

You remember last time—the first time you fucked, the smothering weight of his hand on your mouth when you said his name—and you bite your lip before you can say anything else. But he doesn’t react to it this time. He’s too lost in it.

It feels good to be lost together.

“You alright?” he asks, his brow pinched not in anger or distress, for once, but in naked concern. “Too much?”

You're not sure if he's asking about the pills and the booze or the pace or just...him.

“No, no.” You shake your head. “I’m good now.”

There’s so much care in his eyes that it feels like he’d give you anything you want in this moment. Like he’d lie down and hold you if you asked him to. You’re seeing him without his hardened front, and it makes you shiver. You slip your fingers around the back of his neck and pull his face down to yours, taking the thing you want most. He bends for you willingly.

His lips are a little chapped, his facial hair scratchy. You’re expecting a light kiss and a retreat, a concession. You’re not expecting his whole body to respond—the press of his chest against yours and an arm slipping under your shoulders to force you closer. You’re not expecting to be enveloped by his wide frame, for your back to be lifted a couple inches off the mattress in his urgency to hold you tight. You’re not expecting his tongue to slip between your lips first—to lick across the roof of your mouth in an utterly invasive, possessive way that makes you gasp.

He coaxes your shocked body into a response with careful waves of his tongue, consuming you with hungry lips and searching, grasping hands. Gentle teeth worry your bottom lip, soothed by the pass of his tongue. His nose nudges tenderly against yours as he kiss kiss kisses his way across your cheek.

He pulls back, fixing you with a serious look.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You can see him so perfectly in the before for a second. How he might have asked you the same question in some mundane situation, helping you to your feet after a stumble with a steadying hand on your shoulder. The dip of his accent and the color of his eyes would have spelled the end for you. You would have been a goner.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m good.”

“You wanna stop?”

You tighten your fingers in his shirt and shake your head. “No.”

He nods, sweeping light fingers across your cheek, and leans back in.

You fumble blindly with the buttons of his shirt as he kisses you, working as quickly as you can in the tight, shifting space between your bodies. When you have it almost all the way open, he sits back on his heels and yanks it off the rest of the way, tossing it off the bed. You tug impatiently at the hem of the white t-shirt he has on underneath, but he goes right for the button on your jeans, popping it open and ignoring the zipper completely. It comes down on its own when he hooks his fingers in your belt loops and jerks the denim off your body. Your underwear goes with it.

You reach for his belt buckle, but he stops you.

“No,” he says, stern, not unkind, “I’m gonna make you come first.”

He waits for your nod, then slides down the mattress and situates himself between your legs, spreading them open with a decisive push.

You’re naked under his gaze.

You watch, tense with anticipation, as he leans down to part you with the v of his fingers, one forearm hooked over the top of your thigh. He takes his time admiring the natural gloss of your arousal, his face situated so close that you can feel the warmth of each individual exhale on your skin, and then he looks up at you from his position between your thighs.

Without breaking eye contact, he adds to your slick by pouting his lips and letting a line of his spit drip slowly onto your pussy.

When he did that the first time you fucked, you chalked it up to efficiency, necessity—a way to bypass intimacy by cutting down on foreplay. Now, watching him track the slow seep of his saliva over your glistening cunt with hungry eyes, you realize he just likes it. He’s just nasty.

Joel dips his head and licks through the mess.

Your knees start to close reflexively around his ears at the first direct stimulation against your clit, but he forces your legs open with one hand and the width of his shoulders.

He looks up at your face.

“You gonna keep these open for me or do I need to do it for you?”

He says it in his usual deadpan, but there’s a challenge there, a hint of provocation behind his expression, the buried hope that you might want to fight him in the way he’d like. You tuck that away for later.

For now, he takes your look of surprise as an affirmative and dips his head again, satisfied.

He works his tongue over the aching pearl of your clit with a gentle, targeted flick—up and back, the bridge of his nose pressed hard against your mound—and your mind goes blank. You arch into him, fucking yourself against his face in a languid rhythm, as the tension begins to build in your body.

He likes it. His throat vibrates with an approving hum.

You grip the comforter as your muscles pull taut, as your thighs tense in his tight hold. You can hear the flick of his tongue and the suck of his lips. The low, wet sounds.

He exhales sharply through his nose and readjusts, his hands forcing your thighs open and up, so he can taste you how he wants—where he wants. Where you’re dripping for him.

The rough pad of one finger rocks steadily over your clit while he fucks you with his tongue, moaning into the heat of your body as he pushes in as deep as he can. His other hand is gripped around the back of your thigh. Bruises will blossom there by morning, a shadow of his hold on you.

You crook an elbow and drop your arm over your face, turning into it to muffle the noises he’s dragging out of you. A whine. A choked moan.

His mouth moves back up, and a finger takes its place, eased inside you with little resistance. He slides it out, and a second joins the first when he presses them back in. They’re thick, and he pushes them deep.

Joel builds your pleasure to a peak—with his hand, with his tongue, with the low sounds grunted in his throat—and it climbs steadily until it breaks. He climbs with you, the cadence of his breath picking up as yours does, his body rocking gently into yours in time with his fingers' movements inside you, his shoulders pressed against the backs of your thighs. The bed is shifting, the mattress springs whining quietly as you writhe.

You clench tight around his thrusting fingers, their tips curled repeatedly against the spot that makes your heels slip down the bed, and he closes his eyes as he works you through it with the hot lick of his tongue on your clit.

Through the shock, the tremors, and the slow fade. Until you’re limp.

His voice is a husky drawl, his breath humid on your hip. “Fuck, baby, you feel good.”

It’s barely anything. From him, it feels like a revelation, like a fucking love poem. You reach for him.

“Please, Joel—”

He sits up, kneeling between your legs, and rips his shirt over his head. His heaving chest is flushed. He opens his belt buckle with one hand, the clink of metal and slip of leather loud in the quiet room as it slithers out of his belt loops, and he drops it to the floor. He moves from the bed to kick off his jeans, and when he settles his body over yours again, the only thing left between you is the thin fabric of his boxer briefs.

You can feel the heft of him through them. The strain and the heat. The body-warm fabric pressed against your wet cunt.

He’s heavy on top of you, his hips caught between your thighs, his chest warm against yours, knuckles ghosting over your cheek. You shove the elastic waistband over his ass, impatiently searching for skin.

“Need you to fuck me,” you breathe.

He helps you push the fabric down, gets them off, and holds himself over you with a hand braced by your ear, gripping the base of his cock to tease the head through your folds. He meets your eyes as he catches the tip on the notch of your entrance and starts to sink inside you, dropping his hips forward in a slow, purposeful movement as he drinks in your reaction. You’re wet and aching to be filled, but he’s still a stretch, so he thrusts shallowly against the resistance until the crease in your brow smoothes and your body welcomes him deep.

He drops to his forearms and lets you feel each other. He’s thick inside you, sharp and vital in a way that feels incredible, hugged tight in your heat. Joel dips his head, your foreheads brushing, and he presses his mouth to yours in a light kiss. Sweet and quick. Almost chaste.

He tastes like you.

Then he circles his hips, a slow grind that ends in a controlled thrust—powerful and targeted.

You get to collect little pieces of him while he moves inside you, as his cock kisses the deepest parts of you, as you cling to him. Gray hairs are threaded among the dark brown ones on his chest. His neck is dusted with faint freckles, only visible this close. There’s a shiny pink scar on his left shoulder—a deep cut, old and healed. A much newer one puckers the skin of his bicep. A bullet graze.

He likes to kiss your neck and suck on the supple skin of your breasts while he fucks you.

He gives you a second orgasm before searching for his own, reaching between your bodies to take you over the edge with the practiced ease of his fingers.

He was right to move the bed away from the wall.

He works his way up from a slow, deep rhythm to a pace that has each punch of his hips threatening to drive you up the silky fabric of the comforter. He slips a hand under your back and curls his fingers over the top of your shoulder, keeping you in place as he impales you on his cock, pulling you back down to meet him each time. The pleasure has you pressing your head back into the pillow, your eyes closed tight.

He doesn’t like that tonight.

“Look at me.”

Joel shoves a hand under your skull, tangles his fingers in your hair, and holds you fast. He’s panting as his eyes flick between yours. Searching. Almost…frantic as he starts to fuck you harder, with less control. The mattress complains under your shifting bodies.

You watch him unravel.

One hand still caught in your hair, he pulls out and jerks himself over you, chasing his orgasm as he watches your face. He bares his teeth when he comes across your stomach in warm pulses, pearly lines dripped over your skin. The pleasure punches a grunt and a hiss from him, his hand squeezing tight around the base of his cock as his whole body tenses and releases, the tug of his fist slowing to a stop as he milks the last drop.

He’s breathing hard as his gaze traces over the spots where you’re painted with him, and something flickers behind his veiled eyes. Before you can really catch it, he scrubs a hand down his tired face and reaches for his discarded shirt. He uses it to wipe the sticky mess off your skin and tosses the crumpled thing back onto the floor.

He settles on the edge of the bed, sitting with his back to you, and you slip underneath the blankets. Now that you’re sated, sleep is starting to weigh at the edges of your consciousness. Insistent.

Joel pulls on his jeans and leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. You hear water running.

You lie there—torn between feeling sure he’s coming back, especially seeing as the rest of his clothes are here, and the creeping thought that he’d probably rather sleep on the too-short couch then blur an already murky line by sharing this bed for something other than sex.

It would be so nice, for once, not to sleep alone.

But you’re used to sleeping alone.

His steps creak on the hardwood outside the door. Too much relief blooms in your gut.

Joel shuts the door behind him and stands at the end of the bed, scratching a hand through his tousled hair. Something about his rumpled appearance, his uncertainty, his half-dressed state is endearing. It’s so rare to see him…undone. He’s studying you, like he doesn’t quite know how to bridge the gap between your bodies now that the lust has dulled. Now that it’s just you and him and a bed.

“You want me to find another room?” you ask, knowing full well that the Texas gentleman buried somewhere inside him would never allow that. He’d leave if he wanted to be alone.

“No,” he says, making a decision and reaching for the light. He shuts it off with a click. There’s a shuffling of clothes, off and on, and he slips under the blankets.

In the dark, it’s easier for him. He gets close. He doesn’t reach for you, but in the quiet black, you can hear him angle his body toward you, settling on his side. He doesn’t resist when you slide closer; his hand rests on your waist when you press your nose into the soft, worn cotton of his t-shirt.

In the morning, he’ll be gone again.

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