#scribbly bulb

[daily-lightbulbii]

[citrussillies]

Huzzle mug I love you you’re getting a fun little design. Its shape reminds me of like a chandelier type thing so what if it. what if it was a lightbulb. Bc. God of innovation. Rattles cage can anyone hear me

[cityoftheangelllls]

My versions of Gyro Gearloose and Little Bulb/Helper!! I borrowed mainly from the original comics/DT87 designs. This has been on my "to draw" list for a looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong time!

Commissions info

[suksatoru]

𝝑𝑒 katsuki finds out what you've been drawing in your sketchbook all the time...and to say he's surprised is an understatement.

"y/n."

"hmm?"

your boyfriend lets out a sharp growl, his hands practically itching to reach out and snatch the sketchbook out of your hands

"let me see."

you don't respond, brows pinched together in concentration as you alternate between looking at the charcoal in your hands to katsuki's adorable pout

"you need to wait a little longer...not my fault you're so pretty."

he lets out an embarrassed groan, dragging his calloused palm down his face as he flops face first onto your bed. you let out a whine in protest, slapping his arm

"ow!" you huff, silently scolding yourself for hitting the hard, packed muscle beneath his shirt. he smirks a little bit at your reaction, rolling onto his back and making a show of flexing his muscles as he stretches his arms with a loud yawn

"ya took forever. now, show me what you made." he demands, sitting up expectedly with narrowed eyes

katsuki had been dragged from the common room all the way up to your dorm in a matter of minutes. he'd gladly be dragged by you to the ends of the earth, but he was beyond confused when you ordered him to sit down on your bed and stay still. all until you pulled out your sketchbook.

the light bulb in his mind switched on, and with a quiet "ah", he complied, listening to you quietly chat about anything and everything that came to your mind as you scribbled away in your sketchbook

katsuki has seen you carrying it around a lot. you always kept it tucked under your arm even as you travelled from class to class—never apart. it had, simply put, become an extension to your body at this point

of course he's wanted to take a peak in there. and about a dozen times katsuki tried to—but each time ended with him getting beat with your pillows and plushies as you shoved him out of your dorm, slamming the door on him as he laid in the hall, rubbing his head and silently cursing himself for getting caught once again.

he had kept still and quiet for you while you drew because this was....out of the ordinary. you never really did open your sketchbook in front of him—but here you were now, fingers smudging the paper as you smile sheepishly

"promise you won't laugh?"

he rolls his eyes, trying to keep his usual facade up so you don't detect even a hint of the nervousness he felt

"course i won't. now, either you show me—or i'm taking that damned book from your hands and—"

he's cut off when you suddenly raise it from your lap. pages rustle together as you flip it towards him, hands gripping the edges of your most prized possession as you squeeze your eyes shut and await his reaction

katsuki, was for once, stunned into silence. his eyes trailed over the strokes and marks on the paper, your finger imprints pressed all over the paper from the charcoal—

but what you've drawn is undeniably him.

it's not what he'd expected at all. it's him but...it's not from katsuki's view. it's not the mean face he saw in the mirror everyday. the usual scowl that seemed to be a permanent resident on his face was replaced with a soft smile in your drawing

his eyes were lighter, softer. his cheeks were round and full of boyish youth as he smiled. it was beautiful. he was. he feels his heart stutter in his chest as he slowly takes the sketchbook from your hands, eyes glued to page

"hold on suki—"

he begins flipping. flipping and flipping and flipping and it's all him. katsuki sleeping, katsuki yelling and a frightened little izuku scribbled into the corner of the page—katsuki cooking, katsuki in his hero suit, katsuki—

you suddenly tackle him, and with a yelp—both of you tumble off of your bed and onto the floor. unfortunately, his grip on the book loosens for a mere instant, and you're able to snatch it out of his grip and throw it onto your bed from where the two of you laid on the floor

his lips are parted, but not a sound comes out. his eyes are like the drawing you had just made—soft and gentle and round as he stares up at you.

you're so embarrassed you can barely stand to look him in the eye, resorting to tucking your face into the space between his neck and shoulder with an embarrassed groan

"asshole...you weren't supposed to flip..." you murmur, and katsuki thinks you look pretty with your cheeks flushed and tinted like this. his chest falls and rises slowly, and he made no move to get up off the floor as you caged him there—refusing to let him get up.

"i....gah say something you jerk! you can't humiliate me like that and then get all quiet!" you whine, your voice embarrassed and pitched and katsuki can't even stop himself from grabbing hold of the back of your neck and crashing his lips into yours

he pulls your entire body against him, wrapping a single arm around your waist before he rolls the two of you over and flipping your positions—he hovers over you, pulling away from the kiss just to press another one onto your forehead

"you fucking dumbass...why'd you go and waste so many pages on me..." he mumbles, grabbing your charcoal covered hands as he presses a soft kiss onto your finger tips. you smile bashfully at the smeared streaks of color on his face

"you're my muse." you state simply

his eyes are lined with tears, and his grin is wide and toothy—you want to capture this moment in your pages, the shine in his eyes and the way his lips curled, all of it.

you decide you'll have to draw this particular katsuki later, because he's suddenly launching an attack on you—a flurry of kisses being pressed all over your face and neck and just about any bit of skin he could find as he laughs at the sound of your sweet squeals—music to his ears.

[salsakiyoomi]

“just ditch it already.”

sukuna practically whines, watching you hunched over your desk that was covered with various papers and textbooks, and you were scribbling away in a notebook, eyes darting back and forth between the words.

you groan, “i told you, i have a final in two days.”

“so? you still have two whole days to study,” he says, crossing his arms as he lounges on your bed.

you turn to look at him, a scowl on your face, “fuck off.” you huff and he smirks.

“come on baby, i haven’t spent time with you for nearly two weeks.” he says and you roll your eyes, “jeez, who knew you were so clingy?”

he frowns, “i’m not clingy.”

“sure.” you hum, still focused at the work in hand.

a few moments pass and silence before he's calling out your name in a quiet murmur, “are you done yet?” he asks.

“no, i'm not even halfway done.” you sigh, “listen, i promise i'll spend time with you as soon as i'm done with this chapter, okay?”

he grumbles something incoherent under his breath and slumps back on your bed — thirty minutes pass and he watches as you let put a sigh of relief.

“you're done?” he asks, a bit enthusiastic.

“yep, made some flashcards.” you say, holding a stack of flashcards in your hand, “will you help me?”

he rolls his eyes, “fine.” he says as you join him on the bed, “bur you owe me.”

“yeah yeah,” you huff, handing him the flashcards for him to read the questions out for you.

a few cards and minutes later he lets out a loud sigh, “can we take a break?” he asks, and you frown at him, “ryo, there are only a few cards left.”

“yeah, but this is getting so boring. how are you not tired yet?” he says, sighing dramatically once more.

wow, he could really be a drama queen if he wanted to.

you suppress a giggle and he shoots you a nasty glare before you watch his eyes light up as if having a light bulb moment.

“tell you what,” he begins, “for every question you get right, i get a kiss, yeah?”

“no.” you deadpan, and before he could whine about why, you continue, “you know damn well it won't end at just kisses.”

“how low do you think of me?” he asks, feigning offense.

“i don't think low of you, i’m just being realistic.” you say.

“come on, it won't hurt for you to try.” he says, “besides, it'll make this so much less boring.”

after a bit more convincing, you finally gave in, opting to give him a soft peck for every question you got right.

of course, it didn't end there.

that's how you found yourself under him on your bed, with his lips latched on to the soft skin of your neck, your flashcards discarded somewhere and the only thing you can focus on is the way his hands wander all over your body, caressing and pinching at the soft skin.

“fuck you, ryomen.” you murmur breathlessly and you feel him smirk against your skin.

“anytime.”

taglist : @samaraxmorgan @call-memissbrightside @axryl @matsugumisou + send an ask to be added!

[elixirfromthestars]

Tangled Up In You

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader

Summary: When you and Steve get tasked with decorating the living room of the Avengers Compound, it seems like the perfect opportunity to spend some time with your crush. However, a certain tangled mess of lights would prove to make decorating a bit more difficult than you had anticipated.

Word Count: 1.5k

Warning(s): none. pure fluff. established nickname -> angel

Prompt/Event: @the-slumberparty december daze -> putting up christmas lights isn't as easy as it looks

a/n: And the secret is out! ₊˚⊹☆ This little winter drabble event was started because I wanted to do some gift giving for the holiday season. ˚୨୧⋆｡ So this fluffy fic is my holiday gift to you my dear Jo!! @neverthatsirius-jo ♡ I know how much you adore Steve, so I knew I had to write something for him just for you!! Thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

main masterlist ♡ || fluffy winter drabbles masterlist ❆

You grumble an incoherence under your breath, stepping back and looking at the piles of cardboard boxes littering the living room of the Avengers Compound. Each one is filled with various holiday decorations you and Steve have been “tasked” adorning the living room with. 

Last night, during the team’s weekly game night, it was decided that the two people who lost the most games by the end of the night would be stuck with the responsibility of decorating the only undecorated room left in the Compound—the living room. 

Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately for you—you and Steve were the two losers of the night. You didn’t mind having to decorate on your day off, and you certainly didn’t mind spending the afternoon with Steve. He was one of your closest friends—a friend you have been secretly crushing on for months. You were hoping that this time together could help you muster up the courage to finally ask him out on a date.

Fingers crossed that, unlike last night, luck would be on your side when asking him. 

While Steve brought in the remaining boxes from the storage room, you were going through each of the cardboard boxes to try and get an idea of what you had to work with. This was your first holiday season at the Compound, so you didn’t have last year's decor to reference back on.

You make your way over to one of the larger cardboard boxes, one whose height goes up to your waist. You notice the word lights scribbled on the side of it in black permanent marker before you open it. Inside, as you expected, are an abundance of Christmas lights. All an extensive tangled web of cords and bulbs. You couldn’t tell how many sets of lights were inside, but you did know whoever stored them previously did so without a care in the world. Now, they were left in a mangled knot you’d have to find the patience to undo.

Maybe luck wasn’t on your side today…

You huff as you begin pulling the strands of lights out of the box. Your eyes go wider by the second as they appear to be never-ending. Almost as if you were pulling the lights from a magician’s hat, yards upon yards of string poured out. It made you wonder if Wanda had enchanted the box for it to have been able to fit so much.

By the time the box was empty, you were in the midst of the pile of lights, carefully trying to make a path by sweeping the cords on the ground with your foot. This backfires on you quickly as the cords end up around your ankles. When you try to free them, your wrists somehow end up joining in on the vine-like restriction.

The pattern of you trying to free yourself from the web of lights only to end up getting more entrapped by them continues until you can no longer discern where you start and where the lights end. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry at the ridiculous situation you have gotten yourself into.

“I think there’s only—” Steve's words freeze in midair along with himself as he walks into the living room and sees the predicament you’re in. The Christmas lights cover you from head to toe as if you had been decorating yourself in them. His eyes sparkle with amusement, but he keeps his lips in a tight line to stop himself from laughing. 

“Y/n, how did you…?”

“Please help.” 

Embarrassment bubbles within every ounce of you—to say the least—and with no dignified explanation of how you got like this, you look everywhere but at Steve. Staring intently at the ground when he sets down the boxes in his arms and carefully makes his way over to you. 

“I think you took out the lights Tony used last year to outline the roof. That’s why there’s so many of them,” Steve explains kindly as a way to make you feel better, delicately pulling at the lights around your body to find the ones easiest to take off of you first. Your eyes slowly make their way to meet his baby blue ones. Your embarrassment melts away at the gentle way he’s staring at you—no judgment in sight. However, you don’t miss the way the corners of his lips twitch as he holds back a smile.

“You can laugh, it's okay. This is pretty funny.”

“I’m not going to laugh at you, angel.” 

“Laugh with me then.”

The nickname he uses only for you is enough to bring a smile to your face, but when a few light chuckles leave his lips at your permission—your smile widens until your soft laughter joins his.

What happens next will forever be unexplainable to both of you. Somehow, in the midst of trying to untangle you, the string of lights find themselves around Steve’s chest constricting his movement. You try to help him, but you’re not in the best position to. So from here on out, you go back and forth trying to help one another only to end up enveloped further by the lights. 

You both laugh it off until you realize how close the lights have tangled you to each other. If you step any closer you’d be pressed up against Steve, the mere possibility sends your heart racing. Your nerves get the better of you, attempting to step back only to almost slip backward if it weren’t for Steve reaching out to catch you before you did. 

Ultimately, pressing you up against him so you wouldn’t fall. 

“You alright, angel?” He asks you tentatively, scanning you over as if you had fallen. 

You nod slowly, the words getting caught in your throat at his proximity. The scent of his cologne, an earthy spice that is mixed with something that is entirely him fills your senses, causing the butterflies in your stomach to flutter dreamily.

Your eyes gravitate to his lips and when they do his breath hitches. Your gaze shoots up to meet his and in his pretty blues you swear you see the same desire you hold. 

You’re dying to kiss him, and you think he is too.

Steve’s eyes lock on your lips, and that’s all the confirmation you need to gather the courage to pull him in for a kiss. It starts hesitant, yet sweet, both of you testing the waters of what it feels like to kiss one another. It doesn’t take long for Steve to deepen the kiss, wanting to pour his feelings for you out in the open. The dilemma of the lights is long forgotten as the kiss consumes all of your thoughts. 

The snapping sound of a phone camera isn’t enough to break the kiss, but the flash that follows it is. You look over to see Bucky smirking proudly at the sight of his best friend kissing you and Sam making fun of Bucky for not knowing how to take a photo without the flash on. 

“Seriously, you two?” Steve shakes his head at his friends, his cheeks rosy with a hint of bashfulness at the way his best friends are acting. You can feel your face getting hot as well, knowing there was no way you were ever going to live down getting tangled up in Christmas lights with Steve. 

As for the picture of the kiss…you were definitely going to ask Bucky for a copy later.

When you tune back into their conversation, Sam has a shit-eating grin on his face, “You should make that this year's Christmas card.” 

“Sam!”

You giggle at Sam’s teasing and at Steve’s attempt at scolding him. Steve seems mortified until he notices the way you don’t seem to mind the teasing. He stares at you with a fond expression, wanting more than anything to be alone with you again.

“Don’t you two have chores to do? Y/n and I are kind of busy here,” Steve motions to the web of lights that cover you and him from head to toe. Despite that, the twinkle of mischief in Sam’s eyes tells you he’s not done with either of you yet. 

“Kissing or decorating?”

“Sam!”

After a few more rounds of teasing that leave Steve wondering when the earth will swallow him whole, Sam and Bucky finally retreat—leaving him alone with you once more.

“I’m sorry about that. I’ll make it up to you angel—I promise,” Steve apologizes to you, an endearing embarrassment on his features. You shake your head with a soft smile, intending to tell him not to worry about it until an idea pops into your head. 

“How about you make it up to me tomorrow? We can check out that new coffee place down on Orchard if you’d like,” you suggest, your heart beating wildly in your chest as you await his answer. He lights up at your suggestion, “I’d love to. It’s a date then?” That last part comes out as a whispered question, wondering if you’d see it the same way he did. 

“It’s a date,” you confirm, moving against the restricting lights enough to place a soft kiss on his cheek. 

So it seems luck was on your side all along after all.

[thecordelialetters]

The Art of Science

Viktor x artist!fem!reader

WC: 1.4k

An unlikely meeting of a lonely scientist and a student of the arts finding the beauty in themselves and each other.

Viktor never considered himself beautiful. His dimly lit room contained the basic human needs, a bed, a desk, and a sofa, all provided by the academy. There were no big mirrors besides the foggy one that sat above his bathroom sink. He barely glanced at it other than to fix his bedhead. The bags under his eyes and paling skin were hard to look at. Viktor believed in his work; he couldn't care less about vanity when he poured his energy into the lab daily. In the same way, he cared about his looks he gave the same effort into cultivating relationships. Like the mirror, Viktor didn't spare a glance at someone who wasn't interested in conversing about his projects or his vision for a better world. You were the complete opposite. You took life one step at a time, a personification of stopping to smell the roses come to life. As an artist, you look to beauty in the everyday. Perhaps it was fate your paths crossed, usually, you never dared enter the science wing of the academy but you had finished your painting early and wanted to go on a stroll to clear your mind. It was intimidating being around the brightest minds in Piltover. Most of them looked down on your profession. What was art compared to science? They'd mock you as you passed them, believing their work was revolutionary and way more important than a simple painting. It unnerved you but you'd never show it. A string of curses left Viktor's lips at another failed attempt at the Hexcore. Progress day was just a few weeks away and he had nothing to show for. As he hit his hand on the table in frustration, the vibration pushed the lab door open. The light from the small room shone on your face as you passed. Hearing a man's frustration you cautiously peaked your head through the door. You couldn't see exactly who was in the room but you could make out his back. The man was slender but had broader shoulders clad in a maroon button-up and white vest. His hair was a deep brown that flitted out over his ears. The room was messy, not as messy as your studio. You could see the genius behind the papers strewn over the desks and the many machines being worked on with the smell of oil in the air. Feeling the unusual sensation of being watched, Viktor turned his head to the side finding the door had been breached open. With a cramped hand, smeared graphite from all the writing he had been doing, he grabbed his cane and made his way to close the door. He pushed the opening gently finding the scene of you sitting on the floor, scribbling furiously in your notebook. His amber eyes drifted over your, messy locks tied in a ponytail, paired with gentle features that harmoniously made your face look perfect if it wasn't for the paint smudges on your cheek. He took a peak at your sketchbook finding familiar figures on the page of him in the lab. "What are you doing here little mouse?" He spoke in his soft accent. You stopped sketching and looked up, eyes widening at his presence. "I um...I was just passing by. I'm (y/n) part of the arts department." You looked down at your drawing, cheeks flushed with embarrassment at being caught. The handsome inventor crouched in front of you to sit. He held out one hand, "May I see?" You nodded and pushed your book into his hands, eyes boring into his face. Even under the dimly lit hallway of the academy, he was much more attractive. The flicker from the bulbs danced on his high cheekbones and you swore you could see the specks of brown in his amber eyes. Viktor scanned the page in detail. It was fascinating how you were able to so accurately portray his figure and inventions. Every nutt and bolt and every curve of his body you conveyed beautifully. "This is amazing (y/n)." He gave you a small smile. You beamed shyly in response. Tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear you spoke up, "May I? Sit with you and draw you?" Albeit shocked at your request his eyes widened.

Frighted you might have scared him off you waved your hands, "If not its okay, I should be getting back anyways." You grabbed the book from his hand and shoved your supplies in your bag.

Before you could bolt away a firm grasp held onto your wrist. "You did not give me a chance to answer little mouse." He smiled gently looking down at you. "Come, sit next to me, I would love to be your muse." You smiled giddly and hopped up dashing into the lab. Viktor chuckled at your antics. He had not experienced meeting someone as sparkling as you. It was as if someone had collected a burst of a newborn star and embodied it into a girl. You carefully danced your way around the lab not wanting to knock anything over but also letting your curiosity draw you in. You turned to the sound of a chair scraping the floor. Viktor had sat down and began writing his research again. Dragging a chair next to him you position yourself at his side with enough space to give you the perfect angle of his face and upper body. The almost burnt-out candle on Viktor's desk cleared the way of the darkness while the two of you worked on your delicate craft in silence. The sounds of scratching pencils battled each other as your furious ideas filled the page. Feeling the way your eyes bore into his skin Viktor couldn't help but feel nervous. What if you actually wanted to leave and were staying here out of pity. Why would you want to stay anyways? He wasn't conversing with you nor was he doing anything worth viewing.

Unable to resist his interest any longer he turned to look at you. Your eyes met paired with the warmest smile he's received in a long time. Your smile made his heart flutter in a way that was concerning. Perhaps it was his condition acting up again. Silently you held up your notebook to his face. The breath in his lungs had dissipated. It was...stunning. Was that really him? The page contained 3 versions of himself. Every wrinkle on his face, the curve of his jaw, and even the bags under his eyes were present. Somehow you had made him look...decent, attractive even. "You flatter me too much little mouse, this looks far better than I do in person." You leaned forward pushing your book on the table. "No this is you. This is exactly what you look like." You brought up a slender finger and traced his features. "See this here? Is also here." One had felt his face the other pointed to different places in your picture. "You are beautiful Viktor." With a soft smile, the light flickered on your face showing the freckles that danced on your skin. "Well, thank you little mouse I like your drawings very much." You nodded and flipped the page to continue. The two of you worked in silence for hours. Neither of you spoke a word but the atmosphere felt like a home on a Christmas night. Quiet but comfortable, filled with some kind of magic. "I wish I had my watercolors." Viktor paused at your honey-smooth voice. "Why is that?" He questioned. His eyes fluttered back and forth over your figure. Fresh laundry, paint, and lavender filled his lungs as you let your hair down from your ponytail. "You have these gorgeous amber eyes that I just want to paint but I can't" You pout. Viktor laughed heartily at your confession. "Well, why don't you come tomorrow night. I will be here again and you can paint me." He took an insecure pause. "If you want of course." You nodded before looking at the time. "Oh my it's so late, I'm so sorry for keeping you. I should head back now." Viktor gently held your hand that laid on his shoulder.

"Do not worry, I was going to be here regardless. Actually, I would like to thank you, your presence was most enjoyable." You blushed and brushed a few locks of hair from Viktor's face. "Well, then I'm glad I could be of good company." Packing up your supplies you couldn't help but notice Viktor's disappointed face. With a smooth tear, you ripped the drawing from your sketchbook. Surprised he jumped up thinking you tore the picture.

"Here! Have it. It will be a promise I'll come tomorrow." Realizing you were giving the drawing to him, he gingerly held the drawing staring at the multitude of strokes that somehow compiled into his likeliness. He swore the room was growing warming, what else could excuse the heat filling his chest. "I'll hold you to that, little mouse."

Authors Note: This is currently unedited and a short but maybe Ill come back to it. I just got a burst of energy to write again.

[peach-top]

boo! miss me! can i get a shadow milk cookie and yn cookie who's a faerie, (gn reader) yn cookie is researching dark moon magic which catches shadow milk cookies attention and he finds them amusing!! :3c

❝ TRICKSTER'S FAVORITE RESEARCHER ❞

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: fluff

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗: gender neutral

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: shadow milk cookie x gn!reader

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌: none

𝖘𝖚���𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: you somehow captured the interest of shadow milk cookie

everyone knows. ALMOST everyone knows that dark moon magic is forbidden. pure vanilla and white lily are one of the few cookies who use such dangerous magic when they were students and there's you. a faerie here at the faerie kingdom, secretly doing research on forbidden magic. the reasoning for this is unknown or you wish to learn dark magic?

you have books and strolls scattered around your desk in your room for your research, scribbling notes about some spells, “Interesting…This magic is truly fascinating. I can see why it's forbidden.”

unbeknownst to you, a figure floated above you, watching you with an amusing look in his eyes. he has been watching you for a while the moment you start researching dark moon magic.

“They truly are fascinating, huh?” a voice snickered. you jumped and stumbled back against your desk, knocking over some books. the figure laughed, “Did I scare ya?”

“Huh?”

“I won't harm ya. It'll be a pity…or maybe not~” shadow milk cookie chuckled. “Anywayyyyy~ What a little faerie like you are researching dark moon magic for, hmmm?”

you adjusted your glasses (sucker for glasses) and responded, “That's nothing you need to know. Who are you?”

shadow milk cookie dramatically gasps, “Whattt?! It breaks my heart to know that you've never heard of Shadow Milk Cookie!”

you rub your chin, trying to recognize the name. you heard this name from somewhere, but where. shadow milk knocks on your head, “Knock, knock~ Anyone home?”

shadow milk cookie then click on a light bulb from above your head when you finally figure it out, “Shadow Milk Cookie, one of the beast cookies.”

“Ding-a-ling! Correct!” the beast cookie beamed, but he was expecting something from you. fear. he thought you might tattle on him like a tattletale, but nah. as much as he despises bravery and hope, but something about you seems different which interests him more. he's not gonna question it.

shadow milk cookie take a seat on the desk and pick up one of the books, “Let me ask again: What a little faerie like you are researching dark moon magic for, hmmm?”

���...I want to test it. I would like to understand why it's so dangerous, so I wanted to see for myself.” you responded. shadow milk cookie grabbed your glasses from your face and placed it on himself, ignoring a protest from you, “Nerd, but I like your guts, my little faerie. I've heard you've been doing some dark secret behind the fool king's back. Unlike that annoying White Lily Cookie, you're not as twice as annoying as she is.”

you grabbed a back-up glasses from your cabinet, “...Not like I wish to do something bad, just doing this because of curiosity.”

“Curiousity, of course. It's pretty risky, ya know~” the beast cookie grinned as he lie on the desk while kicking his feet.

“I'm a researcher faerie. I did plenty of risky shit around here. I don't need anyone's approval, not even Elder Faerie.” you huffed.

“Oh-ho~ I like you~” shadow milk cookie snickered, leaning closer face-to-face with you, “All bite and bark~”

“Don't you mean, “All bite and no bite”?” you raised your eyebrows.

shadow milk cookie pouted, “Don't correct me. I know what I'm saying!”

“Might as well need to go or you'll get caught.” you told the beast cookie. shadow milk cookie sulked, “Awwwwww~ I wanna stay a little longer. I know how to myself hidden.”

“...” you sighed. it's not like you can get him to leave, so you just let him stay, “Fine, but don't cause trouble for me.”

shadow milk cookie beamed, “Ok, pookie~”

“Don't call me that…” you cringed.

╰┈➤ author note: please note that this is a slow update. i will still accept your request, but it will take a while since i'll be working on other stories, too.

rules

crk masterlist

[lordprettyflackotara]

betrayed || masky

tw: SMUT MINORS DNI 18+. abuse? masky beats the shit out of you, gun play for like five seconds, choking, hate sex, breeding, size kink

a/n: everyone do me a favor and pretend the plot to this isn’t kinda all over the place

“You fucking bitch!”

Masky’s voice was hoarse, his fist colliding with your nose once more. You had lost track of time of how long you’d been here, your head hanging as you gasped for air. The beating was one you could handle, Slenderman having trained you well, but the guilt Masky was attempting to make you feel was something you couldn’t have prepared for. “After all these years, you’re going to betray us? You’re going to leave? To do what? Work for Trenderman?!” He hissed. He stomped before you, gripping the handles of your wooden chair with his gloved hands. His eyes were cold and merciless, peering at you from behind the mask he refused to take off. Your hands were bound behind you, the chains rattling as you attempted to breath with them wrapped around your ribcage.

Trenderman had offered you a position at his mansion. You’d continue being a proxy, but you’d be under his management instead of Slender’s. The Trenderman mansion was a more poised and mindful group of creeps, his proxies the same way. Cat Hunter and Kate had been assigned to him first, them being gifts from Slender. However they lacked leadership. That’s where you came in. Slender had four proxies including you, Trenderman had two. You were the newest member. It only made sense to formally invite you to lead the duo. Trenderman was classy like that, he wasn’t going to force you to do anything. Plus it would make him even with his brother, something he knew Slenderman would understand.

However, Masky did not understand.

Masky had discovered your invitation, as well as your agreement scribbled on it. It enraged him, leading him to drag you into his hellish chambers. The proxies were not afraid to torture someone and you were no exception. Toby and Hoodie were unaware of your choice, but Masky’s interpretation was betrayal. “After everything i’ve done for you, you leave to go be an uppity proxy for the goddamn Trender mansion?!” Masky snarled. The brunette had saved you time and time again. Being a female proxy with some sanity left meant you were a target, constantly. On missions, to the creeps. He fought off all of them for you. “What’s he offering you huh? To be the group leader?” He questioned. You briefly managed to meet his gaze, before looking back down as you panted.

You were sure one of your ribs was cracked, if not at the very least bruised to hell. Masky didn’t know how to control his anger, you knew that. Thats why you didn’t tell him or anyone except for Slender. You knew Slenderman let his mansion residents do pretty much whatever they wanted, but he was bound to his word. You knew he wouldn’t talk. What you hadn’t accounted for was Masky’s snooping. He had gone into your room, searching for you to join him for training. An ominous red envelope sat on your dresser and Masky will admit it, he couldn’t resist the temptation to open it. His lack of will power landed you covered in sweat and blood, the light bulb that dimly illuminated the room flickering. “So that’s it. None of us matter, as long as you’re in a position of power,” He concluded. He swiftly turned around, grabbing his small wooden chair and chucking it against the concrete wall.

The wood shattered into chips, causing you to cringe at the loud noise. “After everything i’ve done for you. Do you think taking a stab wound from Candypop was easy? Huh? All because he looked at you funny?” Masky rambled. You managed to clear your throat, swallowing the remaining saliva and blood that occupied your mouth. “You’re a shit leader Masky. You handle all of your problems just like this. Hot headed and without logic,” You hissed. Masky glared at the floor below, bracing himself against the concrete wall. “Let’s face it. Without Hoodie you wouldn’t know how to do shit. You may be the muscle but he’s the brains. You’re not the leader, you’re the fucking puppet for the puppeteer!” You yelled, venom lacing your words. Masky turned toward you suddenly, grabbing you by the collar of your shirt. “Dont forget what you are princess. You’re a proxy just like the rest of us. This isn’t a promotion. You’re still going to be a filthy slave just like the rest of us. Do you really think it’s smart to burn bridges with the people you’re going to spend entirety with?” Masky seethed.

You shuddered under the feeling of his gloves, the material rough as you boldly stared back at him. He noticed the slight shift in your facial expression, the way your willpower was cracking. He chuckled darkly, a sadistic grin spreading across his lips under his mask. “Cmon princess I thought you were smart. Don’t tell me you really thought you were climbing up the corporate ladder,” Masky said. You wanted better. You wanted something better for yourself. Trenderman’s mansion seemed like a way out. A way to have some sort of structure and honor, even if your freedom was stripped away. “Fuck you Masky. You’re just pissed your hard work hasn’t paid off,” You growled. The brunette stood up, glaring down at you. You could feel blood droplets still trickling down your nose, threatening to spill over your lips. Masky grabbed your face, wiping his gloved thumb over the crimson paint.

You hated how flustered his touch made you, his large hands for once demonstrating some form of compassion. You snapped out of your trance, cringing at his tough. “Dont touch me,” You snapped, jerking your head away from him. Masky gritted his teeth, before smacking you across the face. This time you could taste blood, the metallic flavor dancing across your tastebuds. You choked, gasping for air as you spat onto the floor. “You call yourself a proxy? Unchain me and fight me like a man you bastard!” You hissed. Truthfully you didn’t know how much damage you could inflict in your position. You expected your nose to be broken somehow, blunt force trauma causing your nose to become a faucet. Your ribs were fucked, your jaw was popped just almost out of its socket. You were also sweaty, tired, and hungry. However you knew without a shadow of a doubt Masky was taking it easy on you. You had been tasked to torture people together. You knew what the sick fuck could do.

“You wanna fight? Fine. Prove to me you deserve to be a leader,” Masky grumbled. He huffed behind you, undoing your shackles. The chain clanked to the floor, immediately relief washing over your bruised wrist. The minute you were free, you caught Masky off guard. You swiped around him, grabbing his gun that was tucked into his back waistband. You knew exactly where he kept it, you didn’t need any other attack. You pointed the gun directly at his temple, backing him against the wall. He slowly raised his hands, scrawling at you from behind the mask. “Pathetic. I expected more from you,” You spat. Forcefully you grabbed his mask off his face, revealing the hateful expression he wore proudly. “You betrayed us. You betrayed me,” Masky argued. You took the end of the gun, removing it from his temple and shoving it past his lips. “Open your mouth or i’ll break your teeth in,” You threatened. In an odd way you liked this, humiliating him like this. After how much he had put you through, putting the end of a gun in his mouth was the least you could get away with.

Masky stared wide eyed as he loosened his jaw, allowing the gun to go inside of his mouth. There was something about it, something erotic he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it was the danger that he knew his gun brought. Or the amount of blood that the weapon had produced. Or maybe it was the determined stare you were giving him, your eyebrows furrowed and face hardened. You were so cute like this, so angry. You were always feisty, Masky knew that was a character trait of yours long before you joined his little band of misfits. And honestly, with the blood dripping down your face and messy hair, he had never been more turned on his life. You picked up on the subtle body language changes Masky was making, the sight causing you to raise your furrowed eyebrows. His face was turning a light tint of pink. “What’s your problem?” You asked, genuinely confused. You glanced down, Masky’s boner visible through his jeans. “What the fuck-” You whispered. Masky used your shock to his advantage, swiftly flipping you both around.

He disarmed his gun from you, pinning you against the wall. Lazily he tossed the weapon aside, using his hands to corner you. “Enough games princess. Let’s face it. We’ve always had tension. It’s always been you and me. The late night car rides when we’re the only ones awake. The way we make each other coffee. I see the way you look at me. You can’t lie,” Masky hissed. He wedged his knee in between your thighs, rubbing up against your clothed cunt. “You wanna up and leave? You wanna leave me?” He asked. For a brief moment he looked upset, insulted even. “The real betrayal is not you trying to leave, it’s you trying to leave and act like there’s nothing between us princess,” He snarled. His face hardened once more, your core beginning to throb from the pressure his knee was providing. “Please, just let me have a taste of heaven once,” He mumbled lowly. You stared up at him, grabbing handfuls of his jacket. You pulled him towards you, pressing your blood stained lips against his. His lips were rough against yours, desperate and hungry.

How long had he waited for this? To grab your waist, tugging at the hem of your shirt. You both were like feral animals, tearing at each other clothes. “Someone’s eager, hmm?” Masky teased, relieved to see you match his energy. You pushed him, forcing to sit down in the chair you once sat in. You straddled his hips, rolling them against his aching cock. “Fucking hell princess, you’re killing me here,” Masky groaned. His large hands gripped your ass, squeezing it harshly. Your shirt was long discarded, your hands beginning to fiddle with the clip of your bra. “Please, allow me,” Masky grinned, reaching around and unclipping your bra in a swift motion. He began peppering kisses against your chest, your hips continuing to roll against his. “I didn’t think you’d even know what a bra was, you’re such a virgin,” You smirked, tilting your head back. Masky began sucking at your breast, purposefully missing your exposed hardened nipples. He was littering your skin with marks, his chocolate eyes never straying from yours. He released your skin with a pop, his lips a darker pink. “I don’t fuck like one, but you’ll find that out first hand,” He argued.

Finally he brought your left nipple to his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. He had waited so long to hear that mouth of yours moan his name, your head tilted back and his name falling off of your tongue. You were soaking through your panties, the dampness forming a wet spot through your shorts and onto Masky’s jeans. “Fuck, Masky,” You whined, his tongue swirling around your nipple. He grunted as he grabbed you, throwing you onto the hard concrete floor before crawling on top of you. “You’re such an inconsiderate asshole,” You gritted through your teeth, lifting your hips to help him remove your shorts. Masky tossed them aside carelessly, before undoing his belt. The sound of clinking metal sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. “Funny, coming from the traitor,” He huffed. He shoved down his jeans and boxers, his hard cock visibly twitching as Masky eyed your cunt. He leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear as the concrete pricked at your bare back. “In all my fantasies i’ve eaten you out for hours, made you squirm beneath me and beg for more. But if i’m being honest with myself, your betrayal has never made me want to fuck you more. I’m not going to wait,” Masky whispered.

His teeth grazed your earlobe, causing you to shiver as you felt the tip of his cock brush against your swollen sex. You whimpered, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Brace yourself princess,” He grumbled, before abruptly shoving himself inside of you. You gasped, your eyes wide and staring at the flickering lightbulb above as he split you in half. Your nails dug into his back, the sharp pain making him grit his teeth. “You can take it. I know you can,” He grunted, pushing himself in further. Your gummy walls were clinging to him, milking his cock in further even as you struggled to take him. Your body was screaming in an odd mixture of pain and pleasure, Masky’s lips pecking sloppy kisses against your ear and down to your neck. “I fucking hate you Masky. I always have. I hate the way you make me feel,” You confessed. You screwed your eyes shut as your body began to relax, Masky’s lips not letting up for a second. “You wanna know why i’m transferring to Trender’s? I refuse to fall in love with you. You sick twisted fuck,” You admitted, your last insult turning into a groan as Masky bottomed out inside of you. He lifted himself, just enough to where he was hovering over you. “I hate you too princess. But don’t lie to yourself. I feel the way you’re squeezing me. It’s a little too late for that,” Masky barked, before slowly moving his hips.

You moaned as he began to snap his hips into yours, your legs wrapping around his waist. His gloved hand came to your throat, viscously beginning to choke you. You gasped, your moans becoming restricted as he fucked you. “You’re such a fucking whore. You know that? Those little shorts you wear on missions. You think i’m the only one who noticed?” Masky rambled. His anger fueled his thrust, his cock abusing your g spot with each thrust. He choked you harder, your groans becoming choked sounds as he plowed into you. “Toby jerks off to you behind closed doors. Did you know that? And Hoodie has secretly recorded you showering so many times I can’t recall how many of those shitty cameras i’ve destroyed,” Masky continued, His eyes were full of darkness and rage, staring down at you intimidatingly. Your nails sank deeper into his back, Masky’s cock twitching at the sensation. He began to fuck you harder, releasing your throat and relishing in the sight of you gasping for air. “You’re never gonna forget me, i’m not going to let you,” Masky grumbled. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, listening to you mercilessly moan his name. It was the sweetest mantra he had ever heard and he attempted to ingrain it into his memory as he fucked you.

“I’m gonna fill you to the fuckin brim with my cum. You wanna play games? You’ll never get rid of me. I’ll leave you with a kid that looks just like me,” Masky groaned. Your walls squeezed his tighter, a sadistic smirk forming across his lips. “Oh you like that you sick little slut? Being bred by me? Why didn’t you just say so?” He questioned mockingly. You could feel your own orgasm approaching quickly, his filthy words making you come closer and closer to the edge of euphoria. “Masky, please, so close,” You whined, your fingers now entangling themselves with his thick brown hair. Masky rewrapped his fingers around your throat, pushing you down further against the pavement as he grunted into your neck. This was humiliating and borderline disgusting, yet you were on a high not even Slenderman himself could ruin. Your orgasm was sudden, Masky’s thrust not halting for a second as he fucked you through your orgasm. Your brain didn’t have time to process anything, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as your walls milked Masky to his own high. Your name fell off of his lips as he came buried inside of you, both of you panting messes as his seed painted your inner walls.

“I think I may stay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

[farmerstarter]

Hi!! Could you do Sam HCs? It can be literally anything. I just love him so much :)

ʚ🛹ɞ ˚ · . Random Sam Headcanons

Tags: Sam from SDV x gn! reader

Hi! I'm so sorry for the super super super late response. Life has been pretty busy for the past few months and I haven't had the time to get on Tumblr. But, I'm slowly coming back to it! Anyway, likes and reblogs are appreciated. Hope you enjoy, loves! 🌷🫶

🎸 He was absolutely thrilled when you asked him to teach you how to skateboard. He immediately came knocking on your door the first thing in the morning the day after you brought it up, carrying his skateboard and some gear. You two spent the whole day going over the basics, with Sam holding your hands and trying not to laugh when you would scream over the tiniest things (“I’m going to die, Sam!” “It’s just a pebble!”). A cute add-on: Vincent and your pet would tag along sometimes, and they took it upon themselves to be your personal cheerleaders. After some time and a few bumps and bruises, you and Sam would often skateboard all around the town, trying to impress each other with tricks. Sam has your name etched on his skateboard, and you have his name on yours.

🎸 Personal HC where Sam and Vincent stumbled inside the fruit bat cave while they were visiting. Sam got bit by a bat, nothing too serious. Vincent is horrified, and Sam decided to mess with him by pretending to be a vampire. Suspiciously, you find yourself missing a jar of your homemade jam. Turns out, Sam “borrowed” it (And by that, I mean he scribbled a little note on the place where your jam used to be), and covered it all over his face pretending it’s blood. He got a big scolding from Jodi right after though.

🎸 Sam and Krobus friendship, Sam and Krobus friendship, Sam and Krobus friendship! It all started when Sam looked into the sewer to show Vincent that no, there is no monster in the sewage canal. He was soon face to face with a shadow man and it was over. Krobus has a knack for beating the hard levels on Sam's video game and their friendship budded from there. Sometimes, Sam would disguise Krobus with his clothes so they can watch movies in the cinema together. You found out about them when you walked in on Sam trying to teach Krobus how to play the drums in the greenhouse.

🎸 Sam asked Jodi to teach him how to bake after he had the bright idea to ask you out on a picnic when you two started dating. It all started when Penny showed him those fancy little cakes that she ordered from Zuzu City as a treat for Vincent after the kid passed his math exam. Penny mentioned how you saw those cakes when she bumped into you by the bus stop and thought they were cute. Cue a light bulb in Sam’s head. Sam’s not the best cook, but he’s got the enthusiasm. He ended up with a lopsided two-tier cake with a little blob of fondant on top of it (Vincent’s lips pursed, “What’s with the brown rock?” Sam sputtered while Jodi’s laughter chittered in the air close by. “It’s a chicken!”). Sam would make up for it years later when he would remake the same cake for your wedding anniversary.

🎸 Sam would randomly call you in the middle of a rainy day and just play guitar riffs. No words exchanged. When he’s done, he will just hang up.

🎸 Sam gives you pretty seashells that he and Vincent dig up on the beach (sometimes with a little help from Elliott and Willy) instead of flower bouquets. He doesn’t want to risk sneezing all over you when the pollen would inevitably make his nose red.

🎸 Sam had a whole phase of wearing a cowboy hat when he’s working on the farm for the first few months.

[daily-lightbulbii]

[schemmentigfs]

Sweetening The Deal. (part 8.)

Summary: you officially move in to Melissa Schemmenti’s penthouse while waiting for your shared escape to Italy. Meanwhile, the redhead has a important conversation with a special someone.

tags: @lifeismomentsyoucannotunderstand @lisaannwaltersbra @italianaidiota @greencurlyhair @dopenightmaretyphoon @schmentisgf @pitstopsapphic @jeridandridge @aliensuperst4rr

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. Part 7.

The movers came right at noon, their hulking figures unloading the truck’s contents with practiced efficiency. Melissa Schemmenti stood near the entrance of her sleek penthouse, arms crossed and directing them like a general. Her dark, tailored pantsuit, sunglasses, ponytail and sharp heels added to the commanding air she carried so effortlessly. You trailed behind her, still adjusting to the surreal situation of moving into her home—her penthouse, no less. This wasn’t just a new address; it was a new life entirely.

Boxes of your belongings, marked with hasty scribbles in black marker, were placed carefully inside the massive space. It felt strange seeing your old things—a worn lamp, a stack of books with peeling covers, and even that rickety little chair you refused to part with—scattered against the pristine marble floors and towering glass windows that framed the Philadelphian city skyline.

As much as you were trying to hide your uneasiness and fear, the older woman noticed your distant gaze and turned to you, frowning slightly worried if anything seemed out of order or bothering you. “What’s wrong? Something is worrying you?”

You jumped and hid your hands behind your back, trying to find the right words. “It’s just… it’s weird seeing all my stuff here. Like it doesn’t actually belong to this world.”

Sharp features softened, green eyes meeting yours. “It belongs because you belong here, Y/N,” she said simply, as if that explained everything.

“I guess,” you couldn’t argue with her—not when she looked at you like that, her confidence in her decision was so unshakable. The movers worked efficiently, but one of them accidentally bumped a white vase with flowers that Melissa had on a side table—a gift from her Nonna before she passed away years ago. She hissed under her breath, muttering something in Italian that you didn’t quite catch, but it sounded pissed.

“You know,” she said suddenly, turning to you as if struck by an idea. “We should go back to your old place. Make sure we didn’t forget anything.”

“My crappy apartment? Schemmenti, we didn’t forget anything. That place doesn’t exactly scream sentimental value.”

Her lips curved into a smirk. “Even so. Let’s make sure.”

The apartment complex felt smaller than you remembered. The once spacious rooms now seemed tight and suffocating, the walls closing in as you walked through the space. The wallpaper was peeling in large, uneven patches, revealing the dull plaster underneath. It looked tired, worn-out—just like the rest of the apartment. The once bright paint had faded over time, and the broken, flickering light bulbs did little to push back the shadows that seemed to cling to every corner. A faint, persistent smell of mildew filled the air, a reminder that the place had been left to deteriorate for far too long.

The kitchen, though small, had once been full of life, but now the counters were cluttered with stale crumbs and old dishes. The floor had been scuffed by years of use, and the cabinets creaked in protest when you opened them. The apartment was a shell of what it had been, a far cry from the airy, modern luxury of Melissa’s place.

And still, she wasn’t fazed. She had already been here with you months ago, before the move was decided, before your life had started to shift. She had seen the cracks in the walls, the way the apartment had become a haven for forgotten things, the place where you’d lived alone after everything had fallen apart. Still, it was as if this was the last step in the process—one more goodbye before she could take you to where you truly belonged.

You didn’t need to say it aloud; she had seen it, too. The emptiness here. The way it felt smaller and smaller every time you came back. Still, she didn’t complain. She never did. Her olive eyes, sharp as ever, scanned the space with a strange combination of detachment and intent, as though she were inspecting a crime scene. You followed her through the living room and into the kitchen, where the dull hum of the fridge was the only sound filling the air.

She was already moving with purpose, as though the place were nothing but a task to be handled, a box to check off. When she reached the counter, her hand stopped on a half-eaten piece of pizza, still on the table from the last time you’d lived here and had a poor meal before a day at work. It had clearly been forgotten, the cheese now hardened and the crust brittle, a sad reminder of meals that hadn’t been finished.

You watched as the older woman picked it up, her face scrunching up in mild disgust. “Uh, you should have some manners, doll. Leave the mess behind. You won’t be eating like this in my home,” she muttered under her breath before tossing the pizza into the trash can. The sound of it hitting the bottom was almost jarring in the silence.

As she stood there for a moment, wiping her hands on her pants, you couldn’t help but notice how out of place she looked in this run-down apartment. She was a woman of sharp edges, of clean lines, and this space—this was not her world. Still, she didn’t flinch, didn’t complain. She simply moved on, moving through the space with a cool, controlled presence, trying her best to ignore how everything around her seemed to scream of a time when you hadn’t been with her yet.

The movers had arrived, and their footsteps echoed throughout the space as they began to carefully carry out what was left of your precious belongings. Their eyes darted toward Melissa from time to time, taking in her sharp presence, the way she stood at the center of everything, so sure of herself, of what she was doing. A few of them smiled shyly, though they quickly looked away when they saw her catching their gaze. She didn’t need to say a word for them to know they had overstepped.

The redheaded woman rolled her eyes, a quick, annoyed gesture that revealed just a flicker of the jealousy from you she couldn’t fully hide. The workers may have been just doing their job, but in her mind, they were eyeing what was hers—what she was taking from this place.

You noticed the way she stiffened, just for a second, as the movers continued with their work. She tried to focus on the task at hand, but you could see it—the subtle twitch of her jaw, the way her gaze flickered to the men as they worked. She didn’t want to let it show, but you knew. You knew how she felt, how protective she could be when it came to you.

Trying to focus on anything else, Melissa made her way to the bedroom, where a few old pieces of furniture remained. She didn’t even look at you as she moved, her attention fully absorbed by the task at hand. You followed her, a mix of apprehension and sorrow bubbling up in your chest as the space grew emptier with every passing minute.

In the bedroom, you caught sight of her rifling through a drawer, her fingers pausing on an old photograph—a relic from your past. It was a picture of you and an old friend from years ago. The friend had moved across the country long before you and Melissa Schemmenti had met, but the photo had stayed. You hadn’t been able to part with it, not yet.

Her gaze softened, but only for a moment. She held up the picture, her eyes scanning it as though deciding what to do with it. “This,” she said, her voice low but firm, “shouldn’t stay here.”

You swallowed, your throat tight. “It’s just a stupid photo,” you whispered, though you could tell it wasn’t just a photo. It was a piece of your past, a reminder of someone you used to be.

Eyebrows were raised, a small but knowing smirk tugging at pink lips. “It’s your photo, mia amore. That makes it important.”

Melissa folded it up carefully and slipped it into her bag, her fingers brushing the edge of the picture one last time before she put it away. Her actions were so final, so deliberate, that it almost felt like she was closing a door on something you hadn’t been ready to let go of.

The poor movers, oblivious to the emotional undercurrent, continued to haul your things out of the apartment. You could hear the hum of their voices as they worked, but everything felt distant. The room was growing emptier, and you were reminded of how much you were leaving behind. It was more than just stuff, and you knew it, but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to admit it.

“It’s just stuff,” you murmured under your breath, as though saying the words could somehow make them true.

But of course, your lover—if that was an appropriate title to call her and define the dynamic between you, caught the muttered words. She always did. Without hesitation, she rested her manicured hand on your shoulder, her touch firm and grounding. “It’s more than stuff,” she started, quieter, gentler. “But you don’t have to look back, cara mia. From now on, you’re with me.”

You didn’t need to say anything in response. The weight of her words, the certainty in her touch, was enough. You were leaving this place behind, but you weren’t leaving it alone.

The day had been exhausting, and by the time the two of you returned to Melissa Schemmenti’s penthouse, the weight of moving and memories had left a heavy quiet between you. Later that night, the faint aroma of freshly baked lasagna filled the minimalist kitchen that was two times larger than your old home. Melissa had insisted on cooking something decent on her own—she said it was her way of celebrating the move, of grounding you in your new home. You didn’t argue. After hours of packing, moving, and unpacking, you were too tired to do anything but sit back and let her take over. There were still a lot of things that needed packaging and organization but you didn't care about it now.

The lasagna, rich and comforting, was just the way you liked it—savory and hearty, with layers of cheese that melted perfectly against the meat sauce. It was a familiar dish, one of the first things your sugar mommy had ever made for you, and it brought with it a sense of home that was hard to ignore.

You took a bite, savoring the flavor as you leaned back in your chair, your legs stretched out lazily underneath the table. The beer bottles from the celebratory moment earlier sat empty on the counter, the buzz from the alcohol still humming in your veins. It was a bittersweet kind of celebration, both of excitement for the future and the sorrow of saying goodbye to so much of the past.

She sat across from you, her gaze sharp but soft, watching you intently. She had been unusually quiet, focused on you, on the way your lips curved with each bite of food, as though trying to keep you in the present moment, away from the ghosts of the past.

Speaking of her, Melissa was stunning tonight, though she didn’t seem to notice. Her auburn hair was swept back in a loose bun, strands escaping to frame her sharp features. She wore a casual button-up shirt, the top few buttons undone, revealing just a hint of skin that you tried not to stare at too much. But the more you tried not to look, the harder it became.

Green eyes lingered on you as you took another bite, her fork paused mid-air like she’d forgotten about her own meal. There was a softness in her eyes, a kind of raw intensity that made your cheeks flush even in the dim light.

“What?” you asked, smiling nervously, the beer loosening your tongue.

Melissa set her fork down and leaned forward, her lips curling into that half-smirk that always made your stomach flip. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’ how good you look tonight.”

You felt the heat rise to your face, and suddenly, the room felt too small, too warm. You reached for your glass, taking a sip to distract yourself, but her eyes stayed on you, unyielding and full of something deeper than admiration.

As the meal wound down, the silence between bites stretched into something heavier, something charged. At one point, you reached for your beer just as the older woman reached for her wine, your hands brushing briefly. It was nothing, just a simple touch, but it sent a spark through your veins, and you both froze for a moment, locked in place as if the whole air had been sucked out of the room.

“Uh. Lasagna’s good,” you said finally, your voice a little too loud, a little too shaky.

“Glad you think so. Made it special tonight.”

“For me?” you teased, but your voice came out softer, more vulnerable than you intended.

“For you,” she confirmed, her tone dropping just enough to make your pulse quicken.

And then, as if by some invisible force pulling you both together, she leaned over the table, her hand brushing against yours, her lips hovering just a breath away. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until she closed the distance, her mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was as soft as it was consuming.

The world melted away for a moment, the taste of her white wine and your beer mingling as her lips moved against yours, slow and hungry. There was a hesitation, though—an unspoken restraint that neither of you dared to break. She moaned softly when you bit her lower lip and in that fleeting second, something shifted in you. The desire swelled, overwhelming, but you held back, knowing how much you wanted this—needed this connection.

Your pulse raced, and you couldn't help but think how badly you wanted to make love to Melissa Ann Caterina Schemmenti right now, to let go of every lingering doubt, every hesitation. To feel her body pressed against yours in the way only she could make you feel—alive, consumed. But there was something else in the air tonight, something delicate that begged for patience, for a gentler pace.

Still, you couldn’t deny it. You wanted her. More than you could put into words.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless, your eyes searching hers for some kind of confirmation, some kind of permission to let go of the tension that had been building all night.

But the redheaded woman cleared her throat, her cheeks flushed, and reached for her napkin. “You’re drunk,” she signed, steadier than she felt.

“I’m not that drunk,” you protested, though the heat in your cheeks and the slight slur in your words betrayed you.

Instead, Melissa laughed, but it was tight, her sharp fingernails drumming lightly on the table as if trying to distract herself. “We still have a lot to do tomorrow. Don’t get ahead of yourself, hon.”

You smiled, but there was something in her tone, something in the way her gaze flickered away from yours, that made you realize she was fighting the same urge you were. The desire hung heavy between you, unspoken but clear, and it took every ounce of willpower for both of you to let it lie, untouched, for now.

Later, as she helped you to the spare bedroom, your steps unsteady from the beer, she caught you looking at her with that same heated gaze, the one that had been following her all night. She shook her head, more to herself than to you, and muttered. “You’re a pain in my fuckin’ ass, you know that?”

“A pain in the ass in a good way?” you quip, your voice sleepy but still playful.

Melissa didn’t answer, just pulled the covers over you and brushed a strand of hair from your face, her fingers lingering for a moment too long. “Sleep. We’ve got a long day tomorrow, baby.”

But as she lay beside you later that night for comfort, her thoughts refused to quiet. The kiss lingered in her mind, the taste of you, the feel of you so close but still just out of reach. She loved you—she was certain of that—but the weight of that realization was almost too much to bear.

Her heart raced as she stared at the ceiling, panic rising in her chest like a wave threatening to pull her under. Without thinking, she slipped out of bed, grabbing her coat and keys. She needed air. She needed clarity.

It wasn’t long before the Italian found herself standing outside Barbara Howard’s door, her hand hesitating before knocking. The quiet neighborhood seemed to hold its breath as she finally rapped her knuckles against the wood.

When her long time friend and confidant opened the wooden door, her kind eyes immediately softened. “Melissa?” she asked, gentle but curious. “It’s midnight. What on earth are you—”

“I—” She began, her voice cracking slightly. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “I need to talk to you, B. I’m losing my freakin’ mind over here.”

Barb stepped aside, motioning for her to come in. “Come on, then. Let’s figure this out, sweetheart.”

Melissa stepped inside, the weight of the night finally catching up to her as she sat down, her head in her hands. “I think I’m in over my head.” She sat on the worn but comfortable couch, her fingers gripping the edge of her coat. The familiar scent of lavender from Barbara’s diffuser filled the room, grounding her just enough to speak, though her voice came out strained and heavy.

“I don’t even know where to start,” she admitted, running a hand through her hair, which was messier than usual from the anxiety of the night.

Barbara, seated in her armchair with her legs crossed, leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped together. Her face was the picture of calm, a quiet invitation for her dear friend to take her time.

“I’m... I’m in this thing,” Melissa started, gesturing vaguely. “It started as a sugar mommy deal—an arrangement. She needed the money, I had the money. Simple, clean, no strings attached. But...” She paused, her throat tightening as she thought of your sweet, innocent face.

The brunette raised an eyebrow, her lips pursing slightly. “But?”

“But it didn’t stay that way. I thought I could keep it professional, y’know? Keep it about the money. But she’s... different. She’s smart, she’s funny, and she’s so damn stubborn sometimes it drives me nuts, but I can’t stop thinking about her. And suddenly I’m sitting, watching her eat lasagna, looking at me like I hung the moon, and I’m thinking, what the fuck am I doing?”

Barb let out a soft hum, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Melissa Schemmenti, I can’t say I’m surprised. You’ve got a soft heart under all that bravado. What’s really bothering you?”

Melissa swallowed hard, her fingers tightening their grip on her coat. “It’s not just her. It’s everything. My family, the business... my ma. She’s getting worse.”

“Teresa?” the tone shifted, laced with quiet concern.

The redhead nodded, her jaw tightening. “Yeah. The dementia’s really setting in. Some days, she doesn’t even know who I am. And when she does, it’s not good, B. She’s mean, like always, but it’s different now. She’s confused, and it’s like... she’s still trying to control everything, even when she can’t remember why.”

“That must be hard, dear. For all of you.”

“It is,” Melissa admitted, breaking slightly. “And then there’s the rest of the family. You know the Schemmentis—always in each other’s business, always about the food, the reputation, the legacy. They act like I owe them something just because I’m the one who’s ‘made it.’” She threw up her hands in frustration. “And now, with Ma the way she is, they’re all looking at me like I’m supposed to fix everything. Like I’m the one who has to hold it all together.”

The eldest sighed deeply, her head shaking slowly. “Mel, that’s a lot to carry on your own.”

“That’s the thing, Barb. I’m not sure I can carry it. I’ve been trying to keep it together for so long, but it’s like... it’s all slipping through my fingers. And then there’s her—” Melissa stopped, her voice catching as she thought of you. “I promised her an escape. Lake Como, Italy. She’s never been, and I thought... I thought maybe if I could just get us out of here, away from all this mess, we could start over. Maybe I could have a life that’s just ours. But now, I don’t know if I can even make it happen. The family’s got their claws in everything. They’re watching my every move. I can’t breathe without them knowing.”

Barbara sat back in her chair, her lips pursed as she absorbed everything. “Melissa,” she said finally, her tone even but firm, “it sounds like you’re trying to be everything to everyone. That’s not sustainable.”

“I don’t have a choice!” she shot back, her voice sharper than she intended. She immediately softened, sighing heavily. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to... It’s just—she’s the one good thing I’ve got right now, hun. And I’m terrified I’m gonna screw it up, just like everything else.”

The brunette leaned forward, resting a gentle hand on the poor woman’s knee. “You’re not screwing anything up. You’re human. But you can’t pour from an empty cup. If you’re going to make this work—with her, with your family, with yourself—you need to let someone help you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Melissa stared at her for a long moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not good at asking for help,” she sighed quietly.

“No, you’re not. But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Red lips twitched into a reluctant smile, though her olive eyes were still heavy with emotion. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Barbara squeezed her knee gently before standing. “Let me make you some tea. You’re staying here tonight. You can’t fix everything in one night, sweetheart. But you can start by getting some rest.”

The redhead opened her mouth to protest, but her friend shot her a look that silenced her immediately. She leaned back into the couch with a sigh, letting the weight of the night settle as Barb moved to the kitchen. For the first time in a long time, she felt like maybe—just maybe—she didn’t have to carry it all on her own.

Back to the penthouse as the first light of dawn streamed through the curtains, painting the room in hues of pale orange and gold, you stirred awake, groggy from the beers you’d indulged in the night before, your head heavy but your thoughts immediately searching for the precious redhead woman.

Rolling over in the massive bed, you frowned when you realized her side was empty. The sheets were cool to the touch, and a pang of unease prickled in your chest.

“Mel?” you called out, your voice raspy from sleep. No response.

Pulling yourself out of bed, you padded barefoot across the plush carpet, glancing around the penthouse. The space was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. You made your way to the living room just as the elevator chimed softly, and the doors slid open.

Melissa stepped out, still in the same coat she’d left in last night, her red hair slightly disheveled and dark circles under her eyes. She stopped short when she saw you standing there, her expression shifting into something tender.

“Hey, what are you doin’ up?” she askedp as she dropped her keys on the console table.

You crossed the room without hesitation, wrapping your arms around her tightly. She froze for a second, surprised by the intensity of your hug, before her arms came around you, pulling you close. Her hands rested firmly against your back, her cheek pressed against the top of your head.

“I woke up, and you weren’t here,” you whispered, muffled against her coat.

“I’m here now,” your sugar mommy said softly, her hand moving to stroke your messy hair. “Had some stuff to clear my head. That’s all.”

You pulled back just enough to look at her, your brows furrowed in concern. “Schemmenti..”

She silenced you with a small smile, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. “I’m fine. Promise. But how ‘bout we do somethin’ to start the day off right? What d’ya say we hit the pool?”

The suggestion made your lips curl into a faint smile. “The pool? Now?”

“Why not?” the older woman said, smirking slightly. “Sun’s comin’ up. It’s quiet. We’ll have it all to ourselves.”

The idea of floating in the serene water with her sounded perfect, so you nodded. “Okay. Let me grab my bikini.”

As you turned to head upstairs, Melissa’s hand casually drifted down to rest on your lower back. She let it slide lower as you walked ahead, her fingers deliberately brushing against your ass.

You gasped, glancing over your shoulder at her with a deadly glare. “Really?”

She shrugged, her smirk growing. “Just checkin’ the goods. What? I’m your sugar mommy, remember?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you hurried upstairs to change. Behind you, the redhead stood there for a moment, shaking her head with a grin she couldn’t suppress.

“Impossible,” she muttered fondly to herself before heading to the kitchen to grab towels for the two of you.

The pool glistened under the mid-morning sunlight, its surface a tranquil expanse of blue. You were sprawled out on a large inflatable float, lazily drifting across the water with a paperback in hand. The cover read The Price of Salt— the same book Melissa Schemmenti made fly on the floor like it was nothing and your voice carried softly across the quiet space as you read aloud.

“They were looking at each other, and it was as if someone had pulled a curtain back...” you trailed off, biting your lip as you processed the passage.

Melissa, lounging nearby with a glass of iced tea in hand, raised an eyebrow at you. “Let me guess,” she said dryly, “you’re gonna tell me this is like us.”

You smirked, lowering the book just enough to meet her gaze. “It is like us. Carol is sophisticated, gorgeous, a little intimidating... and Therese? She’s young, creative, figuring her life out. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

The forty-five year old snorted, taking a sip of her drink. “Yeah, except for one thing.”

“What’s that?” you asked, already knowing she had some jab lined up.

“Therese probably knows how to swim.”

You scowled, sitting up slightly on the float. “I can swim. Kind of.”

Melissa rolled her eyes, setting her glass down and standing. She sauntered over to the edge of the pool, her hands on her hips as she looked down at you. “You can’t even dog paddle, bambi. What’re you gonna do in Lake Como? Sit in the boat lookin’ pretty while I do all the work?”

Your cheeks flushed, but you refused to back down. “Maybe I’ll just stay on the shore. Ever think of that?”

“Not a chance. I’m not takin’ you all the way to Italy just for you to stay dry.” She stepped down into the water, wading over to you with a determined glint in her eye.

“What are you doing?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as she reached you.

“Teachin’ you how to float,” the redhead woman said simply, placing her hands on the float to steady it.

You groaned, setting your book aside. “Lis, I’m fine like this.”

“Nope. You’re not gettin’ outta this one,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. With a swift motion, she tipped the float just enough to slide you gently into the water. You shrieked, splashing as you flailed instinctively.

“What the—Fuck?! This is insane!” you screamed, your grip on the float tightening as your heart pounded faster. The unfamiliar sensation of the water surrounding you made your chest tighten with anxiety. “I swear, I’m gonna die from this. I’ll drown, and it’ll be your fault.”

“Relax!” Melissa was surprisingly calm, her hands immediately finding your waist to steady you. “I got you.”

You glared at her, water dripping down your face. “You tipped me on purpose!”

“Yeah, and you’re fine,” she said, her lips quirking into a smirk. “Now lean back.”

You hesitated, your body tense, but Melissa’s hands remained firm and reassuring on your waist. Slowly, you let her guide you, your back arching as you tried to relax against the water.

“There you go. See? The water’s holdin’ you up. Nothin’ to be scared of.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your body finally starting to trust the water. The woman’s hands lingered, one slipping to the small of your back while the other rested just beneath your shoulders.

“Good girl.”

The tension between you shifted, growing heavier as you became acutely aware of how close she was. Her hands, her gaze, the way her lips parted slightly as she watched you—it was overwhelming.

“You’re really close,” you whispered, though you made no move to pull away.

The smirk returned, softer this time. “I am.”

Before you could respond, she leaned in, her lips capturing yours in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, like she had all the time in the world. The coolness of the water contrasted with the heat of her mouth, sending a shiver down your spine. You reached up, your fingers tangling in her wet hair as you kissed her back, the float forgotten as you lost yourself in her touch.

The kiss lingered for a moment longer, your breaths mingling in the warm air above the cool water. When Melissa finally pulled back, you couldn’t help but let your eyes wander as you floated there, still half-cradled in her arms. The wet fabric of her sleek black one-piece clung to her in all the right places, leaving very little to the imagination.

It wasn’t until your gaze traveled upward that you noticed the way her nipples had hardened beneath the thin material, the chill of the water making itself known.

You bit your lip, your cheeks flushing despite the casual intimacy you shared with her. “You, uh…”

Melissa raised a brow, clearly catching your drift as her eyes followed yours downward. A subtle smirk crept across her face. “You starin’, principessa?”

You sputtered, turning your head away as a nervous laugh bubbled out of you. “No! I wasn’t—well, maybe a little. But it’s your fault for looking like that!”

She chuckles. “Oh, looking like that, huh? What’re you gonna do about it?”

You glanced back at her, your face warm but your bratty instincts kicking in. “Well, maybe I won’t let you teach me to swim after all,” you said with mock defiance, crossing your arms over your chest as best you could while floating.

Melissa’s dark expression deepened, her grip on your waist tightening just enough to pull you closer. “Oh, you’re not gettin’ outta this,” she murmured, her voice dipping into a husky tone that sent a warm sensation down your legs. “And don’t think I didn’t notice where your eyes were. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You laughed, your body relaxing in her hold despite the flutter of nerves and desire that coursed through you. “You’re the bitch teasing me,” you muttered, though your tone lacked any real annoyance.

“Teasing you?” she repeated, her lips brushing against your ear as she spoke. “I think you’ve got it backward, sweetheart.”

The way her voice dropped sent heat pooling low in your belly, and you had to fight the urge to wrap yourself around her right there in the water. But as her hands slid over your waist again, steadying you, you couldn’t help the way your body leaned into hers.

The tension between you crackled, but Melissa finally let out a soft sigh, pressing one last kiss to your temple. “Alright, brat. Let’s focus. Lake Como isn’t gonna wait forever, and I’m not lettin’ you drown when we get there.”

Her words brought you back to reality, though the warmth of her touch lingered. You nodded, trying to steady yourself, even as your heart raced. “Fine. But if I get this right, you owe me.”

“Trust me, you’ll get your reward soon enough.”

(Next Chapter.)

[city-tickles]

Hi!

Here a couple of new tickle stories from parties I have gone to in NYC. This one has trans ff/m tickling, m/ff tickling and ff/m tickling!

A few weeks ago, I went to another kink party, wearing this shirt in an attempt to get more attention.

It worked because a nice trans couple came up to me and asked if I wanted to session. I agreed and we went over to the rack that looks like this:

I always wanted to try that rack and it did not disappoint. The couple spent about 20 minutes scribbling and tickling all over, mostly my upper body. It was a nice contrast since one of them had sharper nails and the other had softer nails. So my body did not know what to do sometimes. The TicklingDuck device came out again as well, but this time it was used a lot on my neck. I have never been tickled on my neck to that degree so it was a lot of laughing and squirming but there was no place for me to go, so they just went for it. They were also great teasers, talking about how much I love this because I was laughing so much 😂

After that, I ran into them a couple more times and even watched their own couple tickling session but we never got a chance to play more that evening.

Story 2:

I went to a bi-weekly foot party that I last went to in the summer. During that time I met one of the models who absolutely loved tickling.

I got there late and it was very hot and crowded. To break some ice, I session with one girl who isn't super ticklish on her feet at all but is on her stomach so I did a lot of tummy and side tickles to her. After her, I ended up talking to another girl, a tall, blonde woman, about tickling and then my girl from last time came out. I told her that I was gonna session with the blonde and then we can play after. The summer girl asks if I want to do both at the same time and a light bulb just went off!

I decide to session with both at the same time. unfortunately it's real crowded tonight but we managed to find room. It’s a little awkward since we are on couches and behind protection, but right next to you is someone else playing. You just have to block it out and focus on your fun.

One awkward part that happened is that these parties have curtain setups to "protect you" and there was a pause because one of the curtains dropped, so I was def spotted just in stocks, being tickled. I also felt a little bad because we're next to other people playing and I'm sure the guy who is doing foot worship was not here to see my (well taken care of) feet haha but you just roll with it

Initially we take turns tickling each other tickle fight style. Summer tickles me then Blonde or I get her and Blonde gets us both. I was in the middle so they would gang up on me a bit tickling all over my sides.

I asked if I could use my stocks, which they were on board with. So BOTH of their feet are locked in the sticks while they lay back and I do my best to tickle both of them at the same time or switch off. It's the closest I ever felt to being in a video 😂.

I would tickle both of their feet if one person's legs and the other person's foot or stretch myself out as much as I could to get their upper bodies, or get one then go after the other. They would even tickle each other in the stocks. I also got to use the vibration device from tickling duck It was great! I did that for maybe 20 minutes then asked if I could lee

So they have me lay back, put my feet in the stocks, have me put on a blindfold I bought with me, then start to go to down. They're all over my feet with fingers or feathers or the device, or a mix of both. One moment it was a feather, while someone was using their fingers. While I'm laughing the whole time. Then they would switch off with one person on my feet and the other person on my sides and tummy. Later, they had me hold my arms up while one held my arms down and the other attacked my armpits or sides. The only drawback was sometime the nails were sharp and they hurt but it was more good than bad. That happened for about another 20 minutes until I actually gave up (partially cause I knew this would cost so much money)

The cherry on top was the teasing and also lack of teasing. One moment I can hear them having just a regular conversation while tickling me, which was almost worse because they can talk about tv and torture me at the same time 😂 Other times they would tease me saying he’s giggling so much and laughing so hard. They also would say things like “Aww. We could tell he needed this today” even though they were teasing, they were right. I was having a rough couple of days so I did need that laugh.

But overall, it was awesome and worth the money. I was like actually tired afterwards. It’s rare that I have get worn out from tickling but they made it happen lol

Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed these stories!

[prokaryotics]

warmth of doorways | joel miller x reader

pairing: no outbreak!contractor!joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel spends another late night at work. you pay him a visit.

warnings: MDNI. plot and porn. allusions to joel's unsavory youth. oral (fem receiving). mentions of violence, past arguments, and money insecurity. joel smokes one (1) cigarette. alcohol. fingering. unprotected p in v. no mention of reader characteristics other than wardrobe. overuse of commas and hyphens. proofread once. 5.8k

mildly inspired by it will come back / i'm on fire

The office clock ticks rhythmically with every second that passes, broken up by the muted whirling of the ceiling fans as they turn almost imperceptibly counterclockwise on the ceiling.  

Austin is quiet. Outside, orange streetlights glow in narrow cones on the sidewalks, humming, straining with electricity as the bulbs fight to keep the pavement lit. If he really listens, he can hear the faint footsteps of heels against the concrete, the soft sounds of giggling and the low baritone of the voice that follows. Somewhere further down the block, someone is closing their car door, almost swallowed by a dog barking. A breeze pushes against the building and flows through a draft near the window's ledge, pushes through the double-paned glass, and brings with it the smell of damp earth and wet asphalt, leftovers of an afternoon storm. The air is cool and calm as if waiting to be born again tomorrow morning into something more alive, more chaotic, as it simmers in the heat of the Texas sun. 

The other contractors have gone home, back to their wives or families or one bedroom apartments, leaving the office silent save for these sounds of a city reminding him that the hour is late, that the night will not wait for him. 

His chair creaks beneath his weight as he shifts, the leather uncomfortably warm from his body heat. 

Joel stares down at his work. Its contents blur together into a massive, nondescript monstrosity of a shape, small lines of scribbled pencil spilling over one another and morphing into a clump of meaningless letters. He tries to spread them out again into something he can read until a film gathers over his eyes. He’s forced to rub them with the heels of his hands, but even then they are still irritated, his tired gaze struggling to focus on anything other than the sting that radiates through his corneas from the strain of keeping them open and concentrated for so long. The paperwork never ends. It just seems to grow and grow in a pile of meeting briefings and documents requiring his signature, clipboards, a backlog of voicemails from clients to listen to, and notes to take. His palm and the space between his fingers are beginning to cramp with the pressure of the pen he’s holding, having gone through almost everything in one sitting, desperate to put even a tiny dent into the mountain that rests before him. 

The fluorescent lighting isn’t helping, blanketing his work space in a coat of sterile white, making everything around him feel sharp and cold and like he’d hurt himself on it, even the half-filled plastic water bottle sitting at the edge of the desk. 

He sighs, leans back, drags his carton of cigarettes against the wood then taps the bottom against its surface a few times, forcibly packing the tobacco tighter. You’ve been trying to get him to relax on his smoking, or at least cut back, but with shit storm after shit storm constantly coasting towards him with no remorse, the nicotine is the only thing keeping him from going entirely AWOL. He does his best not to feel guilty about it. It would be sad, and ironic, that if he managed to make something successful out of the fucking mess of building a business, his downfall would be lung cancer, and he knows you know that, too, but you never push. You’re never like that and he’s grateful for it. 

He lets his mind drift to you and what you must be doing as he lifts his lighter, a small, stainless steel zippo engraved with his initials, a gift from his parents when he graduated high school, and lights his cigarette before bringing his wristwatch to his face, squinting to read the time. 

Almost midnight. 

Hours spent studying schematic designs, imagining rooms, and the lives that might be led within them, has made him lose track of his own. The days blend together, hours passing as easily and fluidly as water does lapping up against sand, every one of his thoughts curtailed by installation fees and HVAC subcontractors, schedule conflicts and site plans.

You’ve been good about that, too. Gentle. Guiding him back into his own existence. Making it easier for him to remember that although overseeing is his job, he doesn’t have to be invariably vigilant, that not every waking second has to be dedicated to worrying, that he’s going to burn himself out if he keeps going on like this. 

So he isn’t surprised when he spots your shadow first, cast long against the polished tiled floors, followed by your appearance in the doorway. 

He instantly relaxes. 

“What are you doin’ here? You should be sleepin,’” Joel chastises, although he’s smiling just a little, flicking his cigarette against the clay ash-tray sitting at the center of his desk, surrounded by notepads and coffee mugs and drafting pencils.

“You should be at home,” you counter, smiling back. 

He pauses, brings the bud back to his lips and takes a drag. The air goes thick and heavy. 

“There’s a lot of things I should be doing," he answers, stress and worry coupled in his voice as he sits forward and exhales, one elbow on the desk, pushing his fingers through his hair, the other dangling with his cigarette, billowing with gray smoke.  

You look at him for what feels like a long time, following the tense line of muscle in his shoulders as they stretch and roll beneath the cotton of his dress shirt, see his eyes close as he rubs a hand over his face, his breath leaving his body in a reticent, exhausted exhale. 

Then he’s watching as you push off the door frame and walk over to him, plucking the bud from between his middle and pointer fingers and quietly extinguishing it, your lips pursed. You lean against the wood of his desk, between his legs. 

Neither of you have forgotten about the plate you’d dropped. It was only some cheap ceramic thing you had picked up while out shopping when you first moved into your house, one of the ones with the grooves on the bottom to keep it from being knocked over as easily, dipped in bright yellow pottery glaze and dotted around its edges by bright blue flowers, the texture of the sponge used to make the design adding a sort of authentic, homey feel. A pretty thing that came in a set of six, the other five still sitting in your cabinets. It wasn’t difficult to clean up, broken into three solid pieces with only some of the powdery dust from its impact really needing to be swept up, but it wasn’t so much about the plate breaking itself than what it meant. What it symbolized. 

Your shattering frustrations. 

His fracturing exhaustion. 

“They can’t wait?” 

Joel leans back. 

“Not most of ‘em, no.” 

“So you’re killing yourself here? Instead of lying in bed with your wife?” You eye the half empty amber bottle of scotch and the glass filled with melting ice next to it, glance at his accolades hung on the wall, certifications he worked tirelessly to achieve. 

He sighs, hollow, empty sounding. “It’s ain’t that simple. I told you they can’t wait.” 

You go to sit in his lap, bringing your palm up to cup his cheek. “It could be. Divide the work. You’re just one man.” 

He grabs your hand. It’s not your fault you don’t know he can’t bring himself to when so much hinges on the success of this enterprise. Your future. Sarah's future.

“I’m just one man in charge of everythin’ else. It isn’t.” 

There’s another pause, filled by your heavy gazes as you look at one another, waiting for the other to yield. It’s been like this before, instances where you’re stuck within pregnant hesitations, expecting the other to give in, too stubborn to realize it shouldn’t be about who breaks first.

You’re learning that, though, no matter how frustrating it is. 

“I miss my husband,” you confess, although it’s not really a confession more than an admittance to what you both already knew, what you’ve both already felt, everything about this feeling delicate and intimate in a way that makes your lungs constrict.  

Joel frowns, turns his head and kisses the inside of your wrist. His gaze is soft upon you, as gentle as the quiet moon. 

“I know. ‘M sorry,” he murmurs against the delicate skin. 

“You could have called,” you whisper, breathy and painfully soft, not sure you’d be able to say it any louder and still maintain the fragile, stunned atmosphere existing in the space between your bodies. 

“I didn’t want to wake you.” 

You almost roll your eyes. No, better to be up and left worrying.

“I wouldn’t have minded.” 

Joel glides his hand up your forearm, his calloused palm warm and heavy, the pad of his thumb brushing soothingly across the bend of your elbow. 

“I would have.” 

Your chest swells up and suddenly you’re choking on bittersweet nostalgia, on memories of when your husband wasn’t being stripped away from you bit by bit by a business he’s trying hard to keep afloat. And you’re choking on sadness, too, on the overwhelming feeling of active loss, so you’re tempted to let yourself lean into it, to just drop the conversation even though you know that you need to have it because sometimes it's easier to let your problems fall asleep quietly rather than wake them by pushing too hard. It’s easier to let yourself rest.

Still, you persist. 

“You can’t keep going on like this. It isn’t just that I miss you, Joel.” 

He knows you won’t repeat yourself. He knows what you mean, anyway. It isn’t about clarity. He’s been doing what he can, suffering what he must. 

“Please, I don’t want to have this argument, honey.” 

The beginnings of a headache are settling somewhere just behind temples, spreading quickly across his forehead, behind his eyes. There’s nothing more he wants than to be able to do what you’re asking, but he chose this profession, and you chose him. He doesn’t have the energy or the will to fight with you right now. 

You reach up and trace the curve of his brow with your thumb, hoping to ease away the wrinkle that lives between them, and maybe mute the thought that has manifested it, the friction and stress of the situation rising until it’s nearly palpable. 

“I’m not trying to argue with you. I’m trying to talk to you, something I seem to be able to do less and less," you explain, palm dropping to mold against the curve of his jaw. 

Joel looks away, at the folders and blue and white floor plans in front of him, at the doorway, half-expecting to see someone standing in it, ready to give him another piece of information that will set construction back weeks and cost him more money than he has.

“You think I enjoy this any more than you do?” The sharpness in his tone is immediately countered by the look of frustrated remorse that softens his expression, a sort of tug on his eyebrows until that damn furrow is finally gone.

“No, I don’t,” you say gently. “And I know that you’ve got a job to do, but I’d like it if it didn’t tear you away from me completely.” 

You twist the hair at the nape of his neck between your fingers as you lean forward, resting your forehead against his own and closing your eyes. 

“I love you, Joel. I miss you. I don’t like sleeping alone in our bed.” 

He won’t apologize again, and he’s sure you wouldn’t want to hear it anyway, but not for any spiteful reason. You’ve both got your hands tied, but he’s sorry for a lot of things - for keeping you awake, for worrying you, for stressing you out, but mostly he’s sorry he’s given you a marriage like this. A marriage filled with nights spent alone in a house he had picked out because it was the safest, because that’s what he needs to think about instead of whether you like the view, or what the outside looks like. He’s got to think about whether the locks will hold, whether the windows won’t shatter completely, whether - god forbid - you can have neighbors to rely on if something were to happen because he’s away all the time now, gone, trying to build a life. 

He’s got to think of these things and you’ve got to make the sacrifices. 

“I don’t like it either.” There’s an unspoken end of his sentence, an ellipse, a part that he leaves out that neither of you wants to say. I don’t like it either, but... 

But this is my job. 

But this is our life. 

But you’ll have to get used to it. 

So he masks it with an exhale, an empty and low sound, as if he’s been waiting for too long with too much, not relieved but resigned. 

“It’s been a long time since we’ve been alone.” He changes the subject, sitting back in his seat as you open your eyes. 

“Yeah,” you agree, trying not to feel bad about it. “Too long. It feels like we’re dating again.” 

Joel chuckles, low and warm and light, like smelling laundry through an open window when the wind carries it through the house, cool and placid. He still looks at you that way, the same way he had when your relationship was just starting, with honey-dewed eyes and a sort of crooked, half-smile, like he wasn’t doing it on purpose, just couldn’t help himself. The same way he’s looking at you now. 

“Except this time your father isn’t here watchin’ us, lookin’ like he wants to kill me.”

Your groan is superseded by your laughter as you shake your head, glad for it but also feeling like time is moving too quickly, too fast for you to really keep up with it. Where had that time gone? Where is it now? 

“Thank God that he isn’t. And he likes you now, it just took him a while.” 

Joel rolls his eyes, scoffing. He’s sat through too many tense dinners and awkward conversations to believe that, even coming from you. 

“Uh-huh. You keep tellin’ yourself that, honey.” Your father is a hardass, but he’s well-intentioned, their every interaction peppered with warnings about providing for you like Joel doesn’t feel guilty enough about dragging you down with him. 

He looks at you, still grinning. 

“Yeah, I know,” you sigh, the remnants of laughter still in your voice. “But I still married you.” 

“For reasons I’ve still yet to understand.” 

“For reasons I’ll remind you of until the day I die.” 

Joel quiets and shifts his gaze to some point of interest on his desk, where one of the edges is chipping, maybe, or maybe he’s looking at a stained ring discoloring the wood because a drink had been left to sweat without a coaster. Nothing important, nothing that warrants catching his attention, the movement secondary to the thoughts in his head to retreat. You both are aware of the alternative to that sentence. 

You guide him back to you. 

“I mean it, Joel. I don’t regret marrying you.” 

“I know you don’t.” Joel rubs his mouth with his hand. He finally meets your gaze as he continues. “But sometimes I wonder what your life could have been like, if it could’ve been better.” 

“It would have been nothing,” you correct fiercely. 

“You would have been comfortable, provided for-.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I know that I put you through hell every day that you’re with me.” 

“Stop it.” 

You don’t even know half of it, he thinks, through no fault of your own. He’s shielded you from what he can, has kept things to himself, given you half-answers when you’d ask why he’s adding overtime dates to the calendar on the fridge, checking to see if Sarah’s lunch is packed before making his own, tossing change into an old paint can on a shelf in his closet. 

‘Things with work,’ he says.

‘Issues with the client,’ he says.

‘I need to stay a little later,’ he says. 

‘This company might fail,’ he doesn’t. ‘And it scares the shit out of me.’ 

“I’m sorry, honey. How can I make it up to you?” 

It isn’t about making anything up to anybody. This is far too complex for that, but he can at least give a little. You sacrifice so much for him, for a life you didn’t really ask to be living, so whatever he can give he knows it won’t even begin to replace what you’ve lost. Your sleep and sanity and security. And it probably won’t ever, but he can try to return the comfort that you give him, the peace of mind, the love. 

The kind that has to be fought for, torn from your chests in hissing, passive aggressive outbursts in the middle of your kitchen that burn like acid with each word that crawls up your throats, or falling easily after being pulled gently from your hands in moments like this, when you’re trying to convince one another that your biggest concerns shouldn’t be each other because you both can’t stand the feeling of being a burden, unable to handle the lurches of guilt and the helplessness that accompanies it. 

“Coming home at a normal hour would be nice.” You aren’t looking to make this conversation any more serious, to be stuck spending a night convincing him that he hadn’t damned you to some sort of anxiety-ridden, fearful existence by proposing to you because for all the bad, all the heartache and stress and worry, there are the good moments too. The early mornings, subdued afternoons spent sitting in the sunshine reading, evenings spent dancing on your patio bathed in warm light from paper lanterns he had hung up the summer before. Moments that are perfect, beautiful, and real and everything you hang on to when the bad ones come. 

Joel senses this and wants to protest, and while he gives you a searching look he refrains from saying anything that might carry the conversation backward. 

“It won’t always be like this,” he says instead, moving one hand to rest at your lower back, his thumb rubbing the soft skin beneath your shirt. “But I like these visits.”

“I’m sure you do. None of this looks at all exciting.” You turn to the desk, at the documents scattered everywhere, at unfinished contract drafts, at illustrations of building models that are far from perfect, with stairs and doors leading nowhere like they lead to some ghost elevator, at the crumbled-up balls of paper. 

“Unfortunately even the borin’ parts are still my job.” 

“Good thing I’m here then, huh?” You shift in his lap, draping your arms around his neck. 

“Yes,” he agrees, both palms now molded against your waist, digging slightly into your hips. “It’s a very good thing you’re here.” 

It feels nice to have these instances, tediums between bigger periods in time like the one you just had, insignificant and maybe not that meaningful but sweet nonetheless, where you can be happy, flirt with your husband while trying your best to speak in hushed, shy voices so the nighttime janitor doesn’t come skirting down the hallway, wondering why he’s hearing a woman’s voice so late at night coming from the contractor’s office.

So you take his face in your hands feeling like a lovesick teenager, his cheeks flushed warm with affection, a little scratchy from a day’s worth of stubble, his eyes soft, and for the first time since you got here, free from the burdens that normally cloud them, and you kiss him, saccharine and slow and easy. 

He tastes faintly like the scotch, and his lips are little bit chapped but they’re amiable in their movements, as if he’d be content to just go on like this kissing you, not worried about where it will lead, or if it’ll lead to anything at all, making you feel slow yet hyper aware from his gentle caresses, and his hands when they climb higher, having moved beneath your shirt, are rough and hot and careful - always so careful with you - and you don’t like to think about why even though you’ve got a pretty good guess. Careful hands that have a history you know only in bits and pieces. Careful hands that have curled into fists, become bloodied and bruised and scabbed. Careful hands that sweat around the grip of a saw, or a hammer, nowadays, the scabs of his youth long gone, but hinted at in the fading white scars that litter his knuckles.

Careful hands that don’t want to risk letting that seep into you, as if you’re something he’d be able to taint, convolute. 

You lean away, then move even further back when he follows, quickly speaking before he’s on you again. “Touch me like you mean it, Joel. Please.” 

“Anythin’ you want, honey.” 

You card your fingers through Joel’s hair, tug slightly at the roots and try not to get too lost in his answering rumble as his kisses slowly grow in intensity until it becomes nearly desperate, finally indulging in the need for closeness he’s stifled to keep himself from cracking beneath the pressure of work completely. 

Joel pulls you closer with a shallow groan, shifts his seat so that you’re right up against the desk, the lip of it digging into your back, but his warmth is seeping into you and through your clothes, so you really don’t care how the wood bites a little into your muscles, coupled with the way his cock is already straining through his jeans, hard and thick and it makes you feel like this entire thing is sort of scandalous. It is dangerous, and even though you know he wouldn’t be doing this if he wasn’t sure the building was empty, the possibility of being caught does thrill you; makes you grin against his lips, lets him pull you apart piece by piece, his kisses loving and devoted and his hands roaming across your rib-cage and breasts like he isn’t sure where he wants to keep them, wanting to touch all of you at once. 

He rises to his feet, takes a step forward and places you onto the desk, his focus so far away from the papers and other shit that decorates it he doesn’t notice or even really care how they’re being pushed or crumpled or ripped by your movements, desire curling and slivering throughout his body, pooling in his belly, settling itself in his lower abdomen and pressing itself against you, his hips between your legs, the thin fabric of your work skirt doing little to fight the hard outline of his cock against your thigh. 

Joel keeps kissing you, fingers pressed against the space between your shoulder blades, the other flat against the surface of his desk, pausing only once to check the doorway again as he kisses your cheeks, then your jaw, before descending down the gentle curve of your neck, trailing his mouth down and across your collarbone before sucking a bruise into the skin at the base of your throat, right next to your fluttering heartbeat. 

You say his name, syrupy thick and mellow, inhaling sharply when he rolls his hips in response and hums a pleased, vibrating sound that makes you pull him closer and wrap your arm around the broad expanse of his shoulder while the other goes to his belt, untucking his shirt with a shaking, hurried hand, feeling like it's unfair that you’ve got two layers to go through while he only has one, his lips slanting against yours again making it even more difficult to focus on getting him undressed especially now that the palm that isn’t on you is suddenly sliding across your thigh and he’s - God - he’s -

He’s making you feel worshiped. Murmurs of his supplication whispered against your mouth, swallowed by your answering, pitiful moans.  

He has to help you with his belt, lightly pushing your hands away to do it himself, tugging the leather through the buckle and then out of the loops, tossing it haphazardly onto the chair behind him, turning back to you without saying a word, looking so in love with you that it makes your chest ache. 

“Joel-” His name gets caught in your throat, but it doesn’t matter because he’s talking and he knows. He knows exactly how you’re feeling because it’s the same for him too - this longing, this incredible, suffocating, twinge of remorse and grief all jumbled up and twisted somewhere beneath your breastplates for things left unsaid yet still acknowledged, the terrifying things, the things that bring you here when it's midnight and you should be asleep but you aren’t because they’re the same things that keep him away and keep you awake. 

“I’m right here,” he murmurs and it’s like you’re drowning in how much he wants you, his eyes raking over you in a way that makes your entire body feel warm, taking in every inch of you with a reverence that makes your thighs tense up and your cunt squeeze around nothing. 

He urges you to lay back, heavy-lidded and following as you do what he says, your skirt bunched around your waist, waiting for him to do something, anything at all that’ll relieve the restless thrumming that’s settled just below your belly button, spreading like an opening fan throughout your abdomen, converting with every second that passes into a dull pounding that makes everything you’re wearing feel insufferably uncomfortable, hyper aware of the way your panties stick to your cunt, and you’re about to say something again, plead with him to move faster, but he’s leaning down and kissing you - placating you - earnest and cloying and you’re just relaxing into it when he leans away, traveling down and down and down your body until his shoulders are between your legs and he’s - 

You open your mouth to say something but you don’t know what. You can hardly think with the way he inches lower and lower, hooking your already spread legs over his shoulders with so much ease it makes you blush. His arms are positioned on either side of your legs and his breath is hot and swirling over the insides of your thighs and the realization of what he intends to do and the seriousness of where and why and the fact that you’re on his fucking desk of all things makes you tremble and your chest bloom in flustered warmth and your fingers curl into the pliable material of your skirt, waiting for him - always waiting - to do something. 

He starts at your knee, with kisses gentle and sweet, works his way up to the inside of your thigh, humming against the delicate tissue nonsensical praise and muses before giving your other leg the same treatment, the same pattern, sucking bruises and nipping at them pinprick sharp before soothing it with his tongue, making you squirm and gasp with every press of his lips, unsure what to do with the overwhelming affection you hold for him growing exponentially in your chest. 

This continues for a long time, hazy and drunkard slow, calloused palms sliding up and down until it feels like you might explode from the tension and you whisper his name, deferential and restive and it nearly makes him grimace in anguish at all the things he can’t do for you, his heart feeling as if it’s been filled with cement and splintered, then shattered completely - the fragile, desperate whine in your voice splitting it in incomplete halves and you think, unsurely, that if he keeps going on like this you’re going to burn up - catch fire and asphyxiate on the smoke. 

But then his thumbs are hooking beneath the lines of fabric that curves across your hips, and he begins to pull them down, tells you to bend your knees and you listen without a second thought, allowing him to strip you of the garment and then they, too, join his belt on the chair and you’re left with nothing really at all protecting you aside from your skirt but its bunched up around your waist like it has been since he laid you down and not doing a damn thing to stop the shiver that makes you shudder against the desk, your heated skin erupting into goosebumps. 

Joel settles himself and brings his hands to your cunt, reaching out to spread you open. There isn’t time to formulate any sort of thoughts about it or what he’s doing because you can hardly breathe let alone think, Joel’s mouth hot against your pussy, his tongue dragging over your clit and you’ve been so worked up that it hurts, almost, and you’re left trying to push him away and pull him closer in equal measures. 

Your lungs stutter, muscles tensing, all the while panting and keening and rocking your hips with no real sense of direction as he brushes a spot that makes you moan and when you twist your fingers in his hair he makes a sound that’s nearly a growl, then he has one finger inside you then another, fucking you slowly with his fingers, taking his time, curling them up and flexing his wrist, his watch digging uncomfortably into the juncture of your leg where it meets your thigh but its okay because all of its mingling together and he’s suddenly yanking you closer as if he wants to fucking devour you, looking up at you with hungry eyes and the next few seconds seem to last for entire years, everything so intense already that you flutter around him, helplessly keening. 

He sucks gently, looks up again in time to see your eyes screw shut, your eyelashes fluttering as he puts his whole mouth on you, rumbling rich and low at the taste of it, your brows creased tightly in coiled pleasure. Joel groans at the sight from somewhere deep within his chest, his cock twitching, his belly feeling like it's been filled with magma as you dig your nails into his hair, fracturing into little pieces. 

The words he drags from you are babbling, halfway to a cry or sob, something equally as frenzied in its neediness, syllables of his name and something that might be please catching against the rounding of your teeth. 

“I’ll give you what you need, baby. Relax,” Joel appeases against your already oversensitive cunt, the pleasure too much and so much that it makes your toes curl until they hurt, like he’s injected gasoline into your bloodstream and made you swallow a match, ready to snap and burst into a fucking supernova, so close to cumming it feels as if every nerve has been stripped to its bear components. 

The pressure against your clit intensifies, becomes sharp and fierce, his tongue circling over and over again, so acute that your hips twitch and he keeps you pinned - holds you down, keeps going and going and going until the world turns white-hot and bright and you’re choking, every breath drawn in fighting against some invisible leaded anchor and fuck - it’s too much all at once, too much after what feels like so long, too much that life can’t always be like this. 

He eases away from you, presses his lips to your shuddering thighs wet and shiny with your cum, deliberate in his motions as he crawls back up your body, soft and pliant and slightly sore, guiding your legs carefully - tenderly - around his waist. 

“I love you.” 

God you love him too. So much that it physically hurts. 

But arousal, harsh and blinding, eclipses your every sense, keeps you from saying anything at all other than his name, moaned pitifully when you glance down and see him undoing his pants and taking his cock in his hand, hard and thick in his fist and you clutch at his back, feeling spun out and delirious as he pushes in gradually, gently, turning your body into a liquid quiver. 

Joel gasps as if the sound was wrenched from him against his will, and your eyes flicker over him, at the muscles tensing beneath his shirt, the sweat darkening his collar, at his lips, red and raw and plump from kissing you beneath his beard glistening with you, his shoulders broad and his arms are sturdy, and his eyes, when you finally meet his gaze, are blown with affection and desire and love. 

And then it’s broken. 

His hips snap forward and you shift a little up the desk, one of his hands moving to cup the back of your head while the other finds your own, lacing your fingers together and you let out a shaky, short, involuntary whimper as he starts to move, getting pleasantly lost in the feeling of being so stretched and full. 

He trails open-mouthed kisses along your neck, curled over you, and the picture of it in your head, of him so big and broad and draped over you like a second skin, makes your cunt clench and rips a groan from his throat that sounds just as wrecked as you feel, his lips dragging along the underside of your jaw, his fingers squeezing your palm. 

Neither of you are going to last much longer. You’ve already been made too taut, too tight and stretched out and resting on the precipice of something, like fingertips pulling back a bowstring, fiery bright pleasure cementing you to his ministrations when his thumb catches your clit, swiping once, your body singing, then over and over again until your shoulder blades are folding against one another as you rock off the desk and into him, his arm encircling your waist, never stopping, working you through every roiling wave and every filthy noise you make until you collapse - falling away from him whimpering. 

“You’re perfect. So good for me, sweetness. So fuckin’ good.”

His rhythm falters, his breathing hard and burning and shuddering as he holds you against his chest, leaving you to wail against his shoulder, puffing against his neck, clinging onto him like he’s the only thing keeping your grounded and then he shatters too, fingers suddenly in your hair, whispering sentences that you can’t quite make out, adoring among a slew of curses. 

His office comes back in pieces, blurry splinters and slightly out of focus. 

His head tips against your shoulder and you both stay like that for a long while, resting against each other, breathing. You sigh, shuddering and low and content, and he leans back to look at you, his expression open and sincere and it’s the most vulnerable you’ve seen him in awhile. 

“I’ll try to come home earlier.” 

You know that he’ll try. You also know that it doesn’t matter. 

You’re not going to dwell on it. 

“I don’t know if you should. This visit was fun.” You grin, exhausted but happy and glad to be near him, glad that’s happy, and if anything at least he’s here - in this building where he’s less likely to get hurt, less likely to do anything other than listen to conversations and go through paperwork. 

‘Yeah, until we get caught,” he agrees before pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

You hum in agreement, then start to giggle. You’ll go home with him tonight in one piece. That’s all you can ask. 

“Then it’ll really be like when we were dating.” 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

the girl next door 6

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, chronic illness, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

This lewk but silverfox

You can’t remember the last time you had the house to yourself. Even if your mother’s just next door, it feels a little lighter around there. And you’re happy for her. Maybe having Steve around will be good. He can be an outlet so she doesn’t have to put all her frustrations on you. 

She was happy when she left, even excited. That’s another rarity in your life. 

You start your day off with a tea. The apple cinnamon bags are a bit old so you use two. You bring the cup into your room and get your table set up with your pencils and sketchbook. You open the window to let in the sunlight, the natural light much brighter than the yellowed bulb above. 

You know your mom would tell you to do something more useful than just scribble in your sketchbook. You got the dishes done last night. Steve offered to help but you deflected as you foresaw your mom’s disapproval. You can’t let company pick up your slack. 

You try to wipe away the anxiety of last night. It’s over now. You shouldn’t have worry very much about it again. 

You finish your tea. It’s cold by the time you get to the dregs. You sit back to look over your sketch. Your eyes feel a bit fuzzy from hyperfocusing on that one stamen. You rub your brow and yawn. The sun shifts and you look over at the old alarm clock on your nightstand. It’s close to noon. 

Something else catches your eye. You look up at the window across from yours. The curtain ripples around the gap before it’s pulled open from inside. Steve stands on the other side of the pane. Can he see you? 

You can’t tell as he turns away without acknowledgement. The glare of the sun should hide your room well enough. You never really thought of it as your blinds are closed more often than not. 

You get up to rinse out your cup. You stretch your legs as you pace in the kitchen. You’re restless. You’re so used to your mom and her demands and expectations, that having your own time feels aimless. 

You could surprise your mother with dinner. Have it in the oven when she comes home. It’s still early but you can make something more than boxed macaroni. It will be a good cushion to fall back on when you remind her about tomorrow’s appointment. 

🏠

When your mother returns, you can see the fatigue around her eyes. For as little as she goes out, you’re not surprised. What strikes you, is how happy she is. You help her to her recliner and she sighs as she leans back. 

“Such a nice man,” she keeps repeating.  

You smile and let her regale you with a recounting of her day. Still, you can’t help but wait for the pendulum to swing back to normal. She leans her head in her hand, her eyes distant. 

“I swear, the universe sent him to me,” she says, “it had to. It was how much I need someone.” She drops her hand and traces her finger around the armrest, ��sick, got a lazy daughter, stuck in this damn house...” 

There it is. You frown. You mash your hands together and waver. 

“I made dinner,” you offer. 

“I don’t want KD,” she snips. 

“I made... I made shepherd’s pie,” you offer meekly, “should be almost done.” 

“Hm, wondered what that stench was.” 

You frown. “I can put it in the fridge for tomorrow. Be good to have something we can just heat up after the doctor’s.” 

“Doctor?” She grumbles, “eh... I forgot.” 

She slumps and her eyes dull. You can’t help the pang in your chest. Sometimes you wish it was you who was sick. It feels like you deserve it more than her. 

“Hopefully it’s good. If you can get the surgery--” 

“Surgery!? Surgery. You keep going on about the damn thing,” she barks. “They can’t fix me, girl, get that through your head.” 

“I know, mom, but they can help--” 

“Like you help me? Crittering around here like a rat!” She hits the armrest violently, “would ya leave me be?” She closes her eyes and turns her face away, deflating once more, “ruined a good day...” 

You sniffle and slowly turn on your heel. You should have known better. You should have just left her alone. As much as she rants about you staying in your room, she prefers you there. Out of sight, out of mind. 

🏠

The next day, your mother doesn’t say much. Her silence is just a bitter as her words. You don’t push it. She gets in the car without argument and you set off into town. Even if she says it’s a waste of time, she listens intently to the doctor and answers all his questions. It’s only when she has to go through the tests that she shows her agitation. 

After some hours spent at the specialist clinic, you’re free to go. Your mom is just as quiet. You feel her mood roiling in the air. Her hand is shaking to the point that she’s hissing at it. 

You steer down to the corner and linger at the stop sign. 

“Mom,” you squeak, “you want some orange julius? A treat for the way home?” 

“Don’t talk to me like a damn child,” she snarls. “Let’s just go. I’m tired. Got no blood left in me.” 

You nod and bite your tongue. Maybe you can just put her to bed. Her naps are a respite, though you find yourself anxious in the silence, terrified of waking her prematurely.  

As you pull onto the suburban avenue, you slow and approach your drive. You pull in and shut off the engine. You get out and go around to help your mom. You open her door and she hauls herself out, tisking under her breath. 

“Didn’t see him,” she mutters. 

“Good afternoon,” Steve’s voice answers your question before you can ask. You look over the hood as he waves from his porch, “busy day?” 

Your mother steels herself and forces a smile, “just went to the doctors.” 

“Oh, everything okay?” He asks. 

“Sure,” she chimes, “just some tests. Nothing serious.” 

“Good to hear,” he stands behind the porch railing, arches crossed, “day’s not over yet. Still lots of time to enjoy the sun.” 

“Mhmm,” you mom grabs onto your wrist, shaking you as leans into you. “Nice day out.” 

“I was gonna do up a milkshake, if you ladies wanted to join me I got plenty to go around.” 

“Milkshakes?” Your mother considers, “mm, I’d have to change out of these.” She looks down, “smell like a hospital.” 

“Sure, take your time,” Steve says, “how about you, honey? I got strawberry. You seem like a strawberry type.” 

“Eh, she’s more a vanilla type,” your other cackles. “Plain.” 

“Got that too,” Steve ignores the joke. “I understand if you’re tired out though. Don’t wanna be too desperate over here, just wouldn’t mind the company.” 

“I’ll be over soon,” your mom assures him, “she’s got some laundry to do.” 

She keeps hold of you and points you towards the house. You help her inside, even though she does her best to hid how she clings to you. Her steps are uneven and stunted. You get through the front door and help her sit on the chair you keep by the door, just in case. 

“Goddamnit,” she’s shaking pretty bad. “Help me, you dumb girl.” 

“I... I don’t...” 

“Get my goddamn inhaler. I forgot it this morning.” 

“Oh, uh, okay.” 

You hurry down the hall and to bathroom. It isn’t in the cabinet. You go back out and scan the table. Not their either. You find it next to her recliner. You wish she’d keep it one place. You go back to her and hand it over. 

“I’m gonna go over,” she says before she huffs from the canister, “you’re gonna stay here. Out of my way.” 

“Alright,” you agree. You prefer that anyway. 

She takes a minute before she gets up. She shooes you away and you retreat to your bedroom. You sit on your bed and wring your hands, waiting as you listen to her. She doesn’t say goodbye before she leaves. Only the front door slamming lets you know she’s gone. 

You exhale and pull the fold out table up to the edge of the bed. You open your sketchbook and stare at the pencil. You don’t feel like drawing but you have nothing else to do. You just sit, looking at the amaryllis. You can pick out every flaw in your work. You close the cover and frown. 

A knock startles you and you stand up. Oh gosh, it’s probably Marge. What is it now? Is the siding too stained? Are the steps crooked? You get up and shuffles down the hall. You open the front door, hiding behind it as you poke your head around. 

Steve has the screen door propped open against his elbow. He holds a tall glass filled with pink, “here. Figured I’d bring this over.” 

“Oh, uh, thanks,” you accept the condensating glass, a wide straw poking out of the whipped cream topped drink. 

“Maybe next time you can pop over too,” he suggests, “I’ve been working on getting the pool going...” he grins, “it’ll be a good summer for it.” 

You nod and look down at the milkshake. 

“Really nice of you,” you say. 

“It’s nothing, sweetie,” he puts his hand on the door above him, looking down at you, “enjoy.” 

“Uh,” you look at him then at the straw. You don’t want to be rude. You put your lips around the tip and take a sip. “Mm, yup, good. Thank you.” 

His blue eyes stick to you and he drags his hand down the door, “I’ll make a deal. You come over to see the pool when it’s ready, and I’ll make you another. How about that, sweetie?” 

You push your lips out. It’s not nice to say no. He didn’t have to bring you the milkshake or invite you. You shrug. 

“Okay,” you agree, “erm, thanks again.” 

He nods and taps the door frame before he steps back. He gently closes the screen door and you watch him through. He turns and strides down the stairs. You shiver as the cold glass numbs your fingers. Hopefully, he forgets about the pool thing. You don't even have a suit.

[msvblight]

Species of aliens that are like those basket starfish.

Their bodies grow as a mess of branching strands. Outwards in all directions. No symmetry. Just branches off branches.

Covered in small eye dots, and a bulb in the centre for their mouth and digestive organs.

When interacting with humans they contort and fold themselves into a humanoid shape, looking as if they were made of scribbles

Sort of vibe. Loping about awkwardly in an attempt to be more "comforting" in appearance to humans.

But when they need to move fast they unfurl completely and use their natural movement, which is to tumble and roll and utterly startling speeds. Like living tumbleweed.