#so he gets cold drinks but another problem is now its too cold but he deals cause atleast hes not burning his tongue

[skywardknight420]

It's getting cold enough for my area to get snow so.. winter clothes boyfriends!

[atrwriting]

shouldn’t have — lumberjack!logan x fem!reader

listen usually i would hate this plotline but like ?? are yall seeing what im seeing ?? feminism exists and is alive and well until we see this man and suddenly we’re all damsels in distress

as always, warnings: reader was in an abusive relationship, logan the savior (i have issues ok), dom logan, bratty reader, choking, slapping, rough p in v sex, swearing, breeding kink tee hee

mdni!!!1!!1!1!1!11!

————

you had been with your boyfriend — well, now ex-boyfriend — for about three months before you had noticed something was wrong. just a few things, you thought. nothing bad. nothing to worry that much about. it felt like he was doing so many things too much; sleeping, drinking, smoking, video games… yelling…

you thought by getting him a job with some men you knew would be fine — that it would solve every problem. why would it not have? he just needs a job, you thought. just something to get him up in the morning… something to give him purpose…

you were wrong — oh, you were so wrong.

at first, everything was fine — up every day, home every night, and only so many hours at the end of the day could be dedicated to all of those bad little habits you hated so, so much. he was drinking, smoking, playing video games so much less — you almost forgot why you were so annoyed and insistent on this new job in the first place.

...until he stopped coming home before midnight.

...until the yelling got worse.

until he got worse.

you almost left him — almost. until, one night — he asked if you could pick him up from the bar after work so he wouldn’t have to wait before he could drive home. you could've squealed you were so relieved, so happy. it seemed like a step in the right direction, and you were hopeful. you thought the kinks were working themselves out, making it so you could finally work out your issues with him. like the good girlfriend you were, you drove to the bar promptly for half past ten and waited in the parking lot for him.

after a few minutes, you sent a text.

a set of ten minutes had passed as you sat there, waiting.

...then another.

...and then another.

you called him, but there was no answer.

no fucking answer.

you ground your teeth when the call was sent to voicemail. voicemail? fucking voicemail? you stared down at the screen like it mocked you — showing you the reflection of your face in the glass like you were some joke, and embarrassment flooded through you.

all you could think about was self-respect — how if you didn't have any respect for yourself, how could your boyfriend respect you? how could anyone respect you?

it brought tears to your eyes, but you blinked them away.

and there went the last straw…

you got out of the car and slammed the door. you were buzzing with anger, shivering like you were cold. anger filled you, but adrenaline was what carried you on its back through the doors of the bar and past its threshold. it was the only friend you had in that moment, and you grasped at its hand — letting it lead you to your doom.

what you didn't expect what form your doom would take.

…your doom came in the form of a hot blonde with legs and cleavage for days.

she laid horizontal across the bar — shot glass in her belly button, line of salt up her abdomen. you watched a man, dirty from the work day, eye the blonde with hunger in his eyes. he wrapped his dry lips around the rim of the shot glass, and threw his head back. almost immediately, he licked the salt trail with a flat, heavy tongue. the blonde above him giggled at the texture of his tongue on her tanned skin — and once he was done, she grasped both sides of his face and pulled him towards her.

that’s when you saw the guy’s face — smiling and drunk — your boyfriend’s face. men around them hollered as he pushed her against the bar top, kissing her hard. all you could do was stare — adrenaline left you high and dry when you needed it most. you were just cold now — cold, lonely, and embarrassed. so embarrassed. so fucking embarrassed.

“you’re his ol’ lady… aren’t you?”

your head cocked to a stool near you, occupied by one of his coworkers. he had a cigar in his mouth as he cocked an eyebrow at you, barely looking at you. his hand was around two fingers of whisky — and it had never looked so tempting.

“was,” you whispered, politely correcting him and locking eyes with him.

“good,” was all he said before he threw back the rest of his whisky and stood from his chair.

you were still in shock, frozen in place. all you could do was watch as the man pushed through the crowd, and stood in front of your boyfriend. you stared at the man's shoulders — covered by thin flannel that would never stand a chance against the muscles underneath. you gulped as he stood toe to toe with your ex-boyfriend, but the man didn't look half as scared as your ex did.

“you’re fired," was all the man said.

everyone around the man, including the blonde and your boyfriend, went silent. jaws were on the floor — no one knew what to do. what could they do? they weren't expecting this — not when the fun had been going on for so long. the man couldn’t have cared less — he waited for a split moment, awaiting any sort of rebuttal from your ex-boyfriend… and that was when your ex noticed you, staring at him. instead of running to you, begging for forgiveness… he started begging the man that had fired him for his job back.

you scoffed and rolled your eyes. of course.

“not happening, bub,” he spat. “now — i’m going to go buy your ex-girlfriend a drink with your last paycheck. ask your buddies for a loan on the tab with the blonde."

and with that, the man turned on his heel back towards you. when he turned, he didn’t bow his head or look at the floor — he looked straight at you. and for the first time that night, you saw what he really looked like — a man. the man radiated masculinity like he was the poster child for the hard working all-american man. worn jeans, work boots, faded flannel… the works. his body was thick with muscle, and impressive sight that was definitely thanks to his job. the years showed on his face — but in a way that was handsome and reliable. life seemed to have chewed him up and spit him out, but he didn’t look the type to go down without a fight.

with a moment or two, he was in front of you. he sat down on the stool, and patted the one next to him — gesturing to you.

“what’re you having, sweetheart?”

you stared up at him with confusion and surprise in your eyes, but a blush across your cheeks. your mouth fell open, stammering — as if you hadn’t been embarrassed enough tonight. your eyes darted to your ex — the intoxication starting to wear away as realization set in. he lost his job, girlfriend, and ego all in a matter of a moment — and you knew how these things ended.

“i think i should —“

“he won’t bother you,” the man responded, gesturing to the bartender for two more drinks.

you took a cautious step back — eyes on your ex who was talking with his work buddies now, eyeing you and the man. the blonde had been discarded, scoffing as she found herself in a similar position as you — chewed up and spit out, but not willing to fight.

you were fumbling for your keys now, anxiety beginning to take over. you were shaking as you took several steps back, not knowing whether to run or start crying was the better answer.

the man who had stood up for you then stood, sighing. he saw your ex walking towards you now, and he rolled his eyes in the way an owner would be annoyed with a dog going back for something they were explicitly told not to. the man drank his whisky, and handed you the other glass.

the man only had a take one step towards your ex before your ex had stopped in his tracks, eyes and mouth wide.

“got all the time in the world, bub,” the man spoke. the man had his fists balled at his sides — and, within an instant, sharp bones almost two feet long had sprung from between his knuckles. the man didn’t wince — but everyone else did. with a cocked head, he then continued, “do you?”

when your ex didn’t move, and the man was satisfied that none of his friends were going to make a move… he turned on his heel and stalked back toward you.

“finish your drink, sweetheart — we’re leaving.”

within five minutes, you had finished your drink before you went outside. there was logan — same bone swords unsheathed, but now stabbing into black tires on a familiar truck. you smiled — now your ex didn’t have a ride home.

“can i give you a lift?” you asked.

few hours later — there you sat with the man, who you now knew as logan. you were on one side of the couch — you curled in the corner on the end, and him in the middle turned towards you. the alcohol was flowing, so you didn’t need a blanket over you to keep warm. now, sat across from logan, both of you appearing to feel the effects of whisky — all you wanted was his warmth.

“good hostess,” he spoke as you refilled his whisky glass.

you blushed. “nothing compared to what you did for me back there — least i can do.”

“i gotta ask —“ he said, taking a sip. “why him?”

you shrugged. “guess i learned the hard way you can’t change someone who doesn’t want to change.”

he looked at you then — almost through you. you wondered if he could see the same ghosts in your eyes that you could see in his.

he shook his head then, chuckling — appearing to want to break the heavy air. “you’re too young for talk like that, doll — won’t allow it.”

you returned his laugh, realizing you were happy for the subject change. “not every man is like you, logan — first one i met that would’ve done what you did.”

he set his glass down then, and you were struck with the realization of how broad his chest and shoulders were. how the fabric of the stretched across his muscles. how heavy the scent of whisky, maple, wood, and cigar smoke hung on his clothes. you stopped staring at him to meet his eyes then, but he was already looking at you.

logan caught you staring. a blush rose to your cheeks.

“there was a time where men i knew would’ve killed to be served whisky by a pretty girl like you,” he spoke, voice gruff. “time where i would’ve.”

you smiled, insecure under his gaze. “you’re easy on the eyes, lo — can’t imagine you had to put much effort into getting with someone you wanted.”

“oh, doll —“ he spoke, leaning in towards you. his face was barely inches from you, and you wanted him to touch you. you wanted those big, calloused hands on your soft skin — wanted it so fucking bad — but he wouldn’t put them on you. not yet. not quite yet. “sweet, pretty things like you? worth all of the effort in the fucking world.”

you felt one of his hands — his large fucking hands — slide down from your knee, to the side of your thigh. he squeezed lightly on the flesh, loving the feeling of your soft skin. you met his eyes then, dark and hungry. he wasn’t hesitating — he was waiting for your approval or disapproval. he wanted you to know he wanted you, but also that you had the final say.

“y’gonna let me show you how a real man’s supposed to treat a woman?” he asked, tucking a hair behind your ear. “hmm, sugar? climb in my lap, and i’ll show you.”

curiosity killed the cat, but not before it found out what the secret was.

logan fell back against the couch — man spreading, hands on the tops of his thighs with his eyes on you. only on you. there was no more of the adrenaline from earlier, no — but there was the confidence from the warm, dark liquid flowing through your veins. it gave you the push you needed, making you throw a leg over his hips, and sit your ass down right over the tent in his jeans.

“that’s a girl, yeah…” he spoke, his hands ran up and down your thighs. his eyes were raking up and down your body in the way that your ex had looked at the blonde, and it only added to your confidence. you wanted to be wanted — and logan made you feel more sexy than your ex ever had. “tell me, sweetheart — when you look at me, what do you see?”

“a man,” you respond, before you can stop yourself.

he raises his brow then — surprised, but not displeased at your answer. “ — yeah? and what makes me a man?”

you thought for a second, as the alcohol clouded your ability to be witty. you couldn’t pinpoint why — you just knew. while you were thinking, almost stammering — you felt his hand snack underneath your skirt and find your lacy panties. you were struck with the sudden realization of how badly you wanted to show him what they looked like, convinced he would like them — but he wouldn’t let you take off your skirt. you eyed him, confused.

“not yet, doll,” he spoke, voice hoarse. his eyes never left yours. “not taking off this skirt — no matter how much i want to — until you know for sure that i deserve to.”

“logan…!” you grumbled, throwing your head back in mock laughter and frustration. “y’gonna make me beg? come on —"

“beg? not tonight, darlin’,” he laughed. you felt one of his fingers prod at your folds through your panties, poking through your lips to find the hidden sensitive parts of you. you sucked in a sharp breath at the feeling — curious and turned on. “but you are gonna tell me everything you’re going to look for in a man from this point on. when i’m satisfied, then i’ll let you cum.”

“didn’t think you liked games,” you breathed, curiosity, pleasure, and anxiety mixing in your blood.

“i don’t,” he said with finality and sincerity. “i teach lessons, sweetheart — and now i’m gonna teach you how a man should treat you."

“yeah?” you breathed, keeping your lips barely centimeters from his. “and how are you going to accomplish that?”

“rock those pretty hips against my hand, baby —“ he spoke, pressing his fingertips against your clothes core. “and tell me types of guys you're goin' to avoid."

you went to question him, confused — but he pulled you right back in. he pressed two finger tips against your panties, creating the most devious fiction against your sensitive bud. you jumped at the feeling, but he kept your hips steady.

“there’s one —“ he chuckled. “didn’t know how to touch you, yeah? so sensitive — ‘s like he never did.”

“he didn’t know how,” you whined, rolling your hips against his fingers and letting your eyes drift close.

“not surprised,” he grunted. “never a good worker either. so, what’re we avoiding next time, sugar, huh? tell me.”

“i don’t know… i don’t…” your mind was warm and fuzzy now, leaving you unable to answer.

he swatted at the flesh of your ass then, causing your hips to jerk and your eyes to open in shock. he looked up at you, unfazed. “you don’t wanna cum, do you? want me to use you just like him — leave that pussy wet and wanting?”

you giggled. “don’t tempt me.”

his hand reached for your throat, an evil smirk on his lips. “you’re a naughty fucking thing.”

you nodded feverishly, loving the grip on your throat. “for you, lo. i’ll avoid lazy men, i promise —“

“you better,” he warned, his eyes looking up at you with hunger. his wingers were rubbing hard against your clit, and you wanted him oh, so badly to dip into the fabric and roll around your clit or supple hole. “another — tell me. now.”

“careless,” you whined, your hips jerking. “i’ll avoid careless men, logan, i promise —“

“fuck that,” he spat, the grip tightening on your throat. “you’re mine, darlin’.”

he threw you down onto the couch then, landing on your back with a thud. he gave up on his own game, and your confidence bloomed within you. to be so sweet, so pretty — to make a man like logan stumble? forget what he was doing, all because he wanted you so bad? to be in between your plump thighs, round lips, and encircles in those pretty arms? your cheeks were burning pink as your gaze came back into focus above you. there stood logan, on his knees on the couch, as he unbuttoned his flannel with an animalistic chase in his eyes. you couldn’t help but put yourself on your elbows, rubbing your thighs together to keep the friction and heat up. but your eyes? oh, your perfect, big eyes? they were on logan’s. they told you everything you needed to know as he tore off his belt.

“you want me to use you, baby?” he asked as he unzipped his belt. “that’s what my girl wants?”

“by you, lo — a real man,” you breathed, stroking his cock and lining his cock up with the entrance of your pussy.

“good fucking girl,” he growled, plunging his cock into your pussy.

his hips snapped against yours, causing you to jump into the arm rest. you held onto the arm rest, your pillow, to keep you steady. logan liked the sight — pretending that you had your hands tied up above your head as your breasts lifted with your arched back, preening upwards just for him. he watched the shivers run up and down your spine, causing your nipples to peak. he watched them hungrily as they bounced for him and only him, wanting to pull both into his mouth and show you just how greedy real men are.

and when he saw you release the grip held by one hand, and watched it travel down the length of your abdomen, with the end goal of your clit — he swatted your hand away, angry. his gaze — it screamed how fucking dare you?

“fuck off with that shit —“ he spat, pushing your hand back down to hold onto the head rest. “this first time, darlin’? i make you cum — and you lie there, and you take it.”

you whined at his words, your big beautiful eyes on his hungry irises. you folded your lip in between your teeth before you curled your hips up to meet his, wrapped your legs around his hips. never had you been treated with such confidence, such ease — but you wanted him to work for it, see how far he could go to prove to you that he was the best. “you promise, old man? you can keep up?”

the air went still then — but your smirk didn’t falter. it should've, you would realize later. you should've been afraid of the man, knowing what he was capable of when someone tested him. the difference was... logan welcomed the spice in you, as long as it was his to silence. logan’s eyes went wild and dark then, realizing the challenge. he held back so much with you, trying to keep the man awake and the beast dormant — but the greedy girl in you just kept knocking.

he flipped you then — forcing you onto all fours. he bent you over the arm rest, your throat in the crook of his elbow. his free hand groped and pulled at the flesh of your ass, letting go only to smack it. smacksmacksmack. his tough and calloused skin would leave marks, you were sure of it — but it only made your pussy wetter. the sounds were pornographic, filling the room and his nose and ears.

“wasn’t much of a brat tamer, was he?” he spat, fucking into your puffy pussy. his grip on your throat wasn’t tight, but it kept you in control. there was no moving, and there definitely wasn’t enough air to mouth off. “nothing sweet about you — just a greedy fucking girl with the neediest fucking pussy. i'll get'ya there, doll — don't worry now."

you held onto his forearm for dear life, trying to keep your balance as you arched your back up into him. you felt your juices leak around around your sopping wet cunt and down both of your thighs and logan’s. the air was thick with your scent and sounds, pricking at logan’s heightened hearing. your whines — oh, your whines, your fucking whines! — were filling his ribcage and warming every part of him that wasn’t touching you. his lips were sucking at your neck, nipping at the skin . he felt the vibrations of your moans against his lips and he had to fight every instinct to sink his teeth into your shoulder, ruining you for everyone else.

“please — please —“ you choked, smacking against the arm rest. he pulled your free arm back behind your back, forcing you to take everything he gave you.

“not stopping until that pussy creams, baby,” he spat into your ear. his hips were relentless against yours, plunging in and out of your wet folds as he kept them tight and controlled for his use. “when that dumb fuck comes back, to get his stuff? i want him to know who’s pussy this is now. that fucked out look on your face? yeah? that’s all that sack of shit is gonna see before i slam the door in his face.”

“fuck, logan —“ you whimpered. “i’m so close. f-feels so good. please, don’t stop —“

“i know, baby, i know….” he moaned. you reached underneath him, grabbing at his heavy sack and rolling his balls with your finger tips. he jumped at the feeling, curious how a fucked out little thing like you still had so much energy to tease. “never ends with you, huh, does it? always wan’ more?”

“cum with me, lo —“ you choked out. “come on — make me feel it.”

he smacked your ass once more, grasping onto the rippling skin. you could feel your tight muscles, like cement — knowing they would be sore in the morning. you rolled his balls in between your fingers, keeping as controlling of a grip on him as he kept on you. his breaths were ragged against your neck, broken and feverish. your eyes were screwed shut, trying to find his lips in the darkness as you fought with and against logan.

“fill my pussy, baby,” you whined, reaching to any part of him you could grab.

when he saw your eyes, most of the begging in them rather than your tone — he couldn't help it. it took over him before he could even realize it was happening. how could he deny you so,ething you wanted so badly? asked for so sweetly? logan came before you did — much to his dismay, but only for a moment. he felt his skin shiver before his hips snapped forward once to meet yours, trapping you against the arm rest. he rutted into you as the walls of your pussy were coated — dressed in his seed, his spend, his claim. you could hear a growl rumble low in his chest, tearing up at the sound of such a big and strong man at his most vulnerable, his most peaceful state — only for you.

when you reached for your clit again — whining and wanting, ready to take advantage of hearing his satisfied moans in your ear — he smacked your hand away. you scoffed at his movement, but he shut you up quickly. his own fingers found the spot, and his fingers felt better than yours. you should’ve known they would, with the way they attacked you through your panties.

“pussy’s filled to the brim, sugar —“ he grunted. “now i wanna feel it shake while you’re full of me.”

he was so tired, but not his muscles — definitely not his muscles, nor his grip. it held you tight and upright — forcing you to take it in your weak, fucked out state.

“you want me to fuck my cum farther into you, darlin’?” he rasped, fighting his exhaustion through gritted teeth. “i’m too deep, aren’t i? i’ll fuck my cum into your womb if i’m not careful… but you'd like that, wouldn't you? dirty little thing..."

his warning was a threat, but your mind was too soft to realize. too pliant, too ready for him. all you could do was stare off into space as he held you close to him. his fingers spun circles around your puffy clit, his still hard cock piercing into you. “so very deep, lo…”

and when he smacked your clit once before continuing the assault, you came. you came harder than you ever had before — alone, or imagining something in your head as someone else fucked you. it was like your primal nature was being ripped from you, wanting to show and present itself to match logan’s — to show logan you were his match, that you were his equal. you bucked your hips back to meet his, letting the tip of his sensitive cock graze your sensitive walls as you screamed his name. it filled the room more than anything had for him — and it was all he would think about in the days to come. this woman, so worthy and so ready for him — only for him, and all for him.

“that’s it, sweetheart. work for it, that’s right…”

and as his seed slipped into your womb, open and ready for him as you came, you felt his lips press hard, sloppy kisses against your jaw. your own mouth was open, cries falling from it.

“my good girl learned her lesson, didn’t she?” he rasped. “don’t matter now, anyway — no one but me is gonna be in your bed. i'll burn his shit later."

———

i need to touch grass - L xoxo lmk what u think

[chronically-ghosted]

i'm empty without you, so come grow within me

AO3 Link | main masterlist | Joel Miller Masterlist

rating: explicit (18+)

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

word count: 9K

summary: with winter approaching, joel takes stock of what he wants and what he has in his life. he wants you, but he's not quite sure he has you, not in a way that only a life in Jackson can afford. joel's an old-fashioned guy, so he's looking for an old-fashioned love . . . if he can only remember how to do it right.

inspired by the songs 'why don't we just dance' by Josh Turner and 'the kind of love we make' by Luke Combs, this fulfills a request from @handsomehelmet for my 1k celebration (creativity struck and now i'm going to make it everyone's problem)

warnings: the nastiest thing i can possibly imagine which is romance and sincerity, some willie nelson lyrics, established situationship, no age of reader specified, body insecurity, feelings of unworthiness/shame, survivor's guilt, blatant disregard for old man knees by eating pussy on the floor, unprotected piv, a teenager bullying fully grown adult to quit being stupid.

a/n: i know everyone gets into a tizzy when Joel doesn’t name what Tess is to him in front of Bill and while there probably was a heaping amount of guilt that accompanied that omission, i wonder if it might be a bit more complicated: he simply couldn’t name one thing because she was all things to him. A friend, a lover, a guide, a support system, a protector, a partner. So he says it the best way he can: “she’s mine.”

come see what else we've done to celebrate 1K followers

By the fourth bag, all you can think about is a warm shower. 

A chance to scrub away the dirt smeared on your arms, your neck, probably your face. You’d brought your own work gloves to bag fresh dirt for the greenhouse, but the longer you work, more sprinkles of dirt find their way down the lip of your gloves. You can feel it against your palms, under your nails. The cold winter air lurks beneath the crack of the door, stifled from invading by the artificial heat provided by the generator just outside, and it stifles you too with its oppressive weight. You’re fairly sure the dirt on your forehead has turned to mud, sweat and damp earth encrusted on your dry skin. 

By the sixth, you doubt your shoulders will ever move again without popping. 

You know Joel’s already do. 

Never a particularly chatty man even in his best moods, the greenhouse had become stuffy with heat and silence, both you and Joel too lost in the work to find the energy to even fake idle chatter. But, knowing this about Joel and a certain degree yourself, silences with him were never a bad thing. That was one of the things you enjoyed most about being with him; you two could do your own things together. Many snowy days were spent with him stretched out on the couch, reading, and you working on writing your sheet music on the floor, his knee hovering over your shoulder with your back to the cushions – spent in total silence, and they are some of the fondest memories you had since coming to Jackson and falling into the third and final piece of the Miller-Williams household. 

Like with the end of the world, you weren’t sure how you got there until everything had fallen into place around you; Joel and his adoptive daughter had been just another group who were taken in by the town of Jackson . . . until they weren’t. Ellie was just another foul-mouthed kid who had seen too much and had too much taken from her . . . until she wasn’t. Joel was your occasional patrol partner and a fellow Willie Nelson fan. . . until he wasn’t.

Until that unmistakable line, one that seemed to be lost on a global scale beneath the blood and the gore and the grief, had been crossed when he asked you out for drinks and the both of you knew the evening wasn’t going to end in a nightcap. 

And then you were partners, even outside of patrol. Partners in re-enforcing a weakened part of Jackson’s outer walls. Partners in cooking, attempting to recreate an enchilada recipe Joel only vaguely remembered from a Tex-Mex hole-in-the-wall fifteen minutes from where he used to live in Austin. Partners when it’s snowing heavily outside and there’s not much to do except to read and, well . . . Joel was a fantastic partner in that.

Joel Miller was a great partner for a lot of things. He worked diligently, quickly and, unless the conversation was started by someone else, silently. 

He, in short, was not someone who was easily distracted.

Which, in combination with your own exhaustion and a desire to scrub the first layer of your skin off with a loofah, is why you feel a flare of annoyance when you look up and see him staring off into the distance. His fingers loosely grip the handle of the shovel, his palm resting over the curved point, Joel’s expression is nearly unreadable, except for the small crevice between his eyebrows. He stands, fixated on the greenhouse wall, as if watching the blurry Christmas lights from the town square, suddenly oblivious to the work you two have been doing for the past hour and a half. 

“Joel.” Nothing. “Joel!” 

You raise your hand to smack him on the leg when, without looking down, he asks:

“When was the last time I took you out?” 

“What?”

His weight shifts, holds the shovel by one hand now. You catch a sliver of frustration in those deep brown eyes as he looks at you. He wears what you and Ellie secretly refer to as his “pouty-mouth”, a classic expression when he isn’t getting his way about something but won’t draw attention to the fact that it annoys him.

“Tell me about the last date I took you on.”

You huff, standing up with a pop in your hips. Your knees are aching from kneeling on the cold winter ground and your skin fluxes between overheating under your jacket and stiffly frozen on your extremities. 

“Joel, c’mon, be serious. We’ve got three more –,”

“I am being serious.” Dumb-founded, you watch as he digs the tip of the shovel into the ground with a hollow chunk. Crosses his arms and continues to frown at you like you just suggested doing away with the Christmas holiday entirely. “We’ll get to this, but I want you to tell me right now what we did on our last date.”

You roll your eyes, humoring him. “Fine, I don’t know what crawled up your ass, but okay. On our last date, we . . . we did . . . you took me to . . .”

It’s your turn to frown. He raises a petulant eyebrow and it’s eerie how many times you’ve seen that exact expression on Ellie. 

“Okay, fine, so it’s been a while. We’ve been busy – we’ve all been busy with the winter season coming. All of Jackson has been out battening down the hatches. What does it matter if we’ve let things slide a bit?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, quiet in his Joel way. He glances out through the blurred greenhouse glass and maybe he was actually staring at the string lights hung over Jackson’s square. Normally, you didn’t mind being unable to dissect his every expression, every sigh, every carefully wielded silence, but when it came to you and his feelings about you – feelings that were always implied in those silences – you wished you had a little window, some hint, as to what rumbled on behind those earth-dark eyes. 

Joel drums his fingers on the handle of the shovel, unease rolling through his body as he shifts his weight. 

“Matters some,” he tells the ground. “With the holidays comin’ around . . . matters for Ellie – her first winter here in Jackson. Matters for Tommy, with that new baby of his . . .”

“Your nephew,” you supply as much as prod. Sometimes the only way to get an honest answer out of him was when he was just a bit pissed off and less guarded. Instead he just nods, gloved hand on his hip, thick jacket widening his already confounding broadness.

“It matters because it’s important. To me. It’s important to me.”

He meets your gaze and you’re struck full force again with that feeling like you drank too much of the Tipsy Bison’s shitty whiskey too fast. Same feeling that couldn’t be drowned even with the Tipsy Bison’s shitty whiskey when you shared a drink with him for the first time. When you managed to laugh when he bet you a whole day of stable cleaning duties that Willie Nelson and Chris Stapleton survived the apocalypse somewhere in a shack in Tennessee. Joel Miller was disarmingly funny when he wanted to be.

And even worse, disarmingly sincere.

You take his gloved hand in yours. You feel the sensation of his fingers threading through yours but not the heat you’ve grown so accustomed to. 

“Alright, then. What do you want to do about it?” You ask quietly, to the upturned collar around his neck, his green flannel peeking out from behind the zipper of his jacket. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but there’s a lot of snow on the ground so that makes our options for date night kinda limited.” You scrunch your nose at him because you like to see the light in his eyes bloom when you do.

He chuckles, a rumbling sound, and he drops his forehead against yours, fingers tightening their grip around yours. Suddenly in your throat, your heart pounds. He’s never this affectionate in public. Maybe it’s those miraculously blurred greenhouse glass walls. 

His breath smells like that peppermint toothpaste that came in last week, infused with the warming-coil smell from the greenhouse. 

“Dunno yet.” He admits. “I’ll think of somethin’.”

“No ideas yet?” You raise your eyebrows against his forehead and he grins, shaking his head.

“Not yet.” 

“Then can I make a suggestion?”

“‘Course.”

“We finish bagging this dirt, then head home for a shower. In a really sexy way, obviously.” 

He huffs, smothering a laugh, and quick as lightning he kisses you on the cheek. But in the same movement, steps away and grabs the shovel again. You don’t have time to react to the fact he just kissed you for the first time outside of the four walls of his house before he’s scooping up dirt. You drop to your knees to pick up the bag again, your legs already weak.

“We both know you’re going to pass out on the couch the second we’re home.”

Your voice is steadier than you feel, as you look up at him. His face is flushed and that worry line between his eyes is gone. 

“You got me pegged, Miller. You got me pegged.”

Two days later, he stands in the middle of his living room, hands on his hips, surveying his handiwork. All of the furniture has been pushed to the far ends of the room, up against the walls or against the staircase out in the hallway. He’s kept the overhead lights off and put the standing lamps in the corners, bathing the room in a despondent glow. He thinks, after a quarter of a century never even entertaining something like this, it might be interpreted as romantic. He hopes you’ll see it that way at least. 

He hears it now, in his head, even though she’s out in the disconnected garage, snug and warm as he could have possibly made it – you worry too much, old man. 

Ellie knows there’s something going on between you two. Hell, the entire town has cottoned onto whatever this is; you’re often seen leaving his house early in the morning, and he’s been seen on occasion strolling up to your house with flowers. It’s not new, it’s not a secret, but it is . . . it just is and that’s about as far as he’s gotten. 

He hasn’t had you over for dinner with Ellie in that very specific way that very much needs to happen, as it often does when there is a new presence added to an established dynamic – as Maria often reminds him. But that almost feels like presenting your head on a silver plate to Ellie to either sniff with disinterest or tear into – both terrifying scenarios, even though they seem unlikely. Ellie does in fact seem to like you very much, as her riding teacher and occasional greenhouse buddy. But would she continue to like you in the context of you being one half of “You and Him” as a pair? Together. As a couple . . . of people who are seeing each other, whatever that means in a world filled with the most aggressive form of fungus imaginable. 

This life in Jackson, this fragile second chance to remember and rekindle his own natural instincts, is too precious to bet on a question like that. 

So he doesn’t ask it. At least not out loud. 

That’s one of the things he likes so much about you: his silences aren’t entirely indecipherable and often are encouraged by your own. Except this silence about this particular thing doesn’t feel like one of your shared, comfortable moments and instead it’s encroaching rapidly into avoidance. 

Standing in that greenhouse and seeing the string lights over the town square reminded him of a long ago Christmas, dancing with his favorite person under a Christmas tree, and how good it made him feel. How special it made him feel. All these years later, safe in a way his body has almost forgotten, there’s an urge he has to share that feeling, to recreate it under entirely different circumstances, with someone new. Someone else. To not try and fight the smile that constantly threatens to buoy up every time he’s around you. 

It’s foreign, that feeling in his chest, but it’s not entirely alien, at least not of late. 

He knows he’s white-knuckling it because he knows firsthand how painfully quick it can all be gone. Taken away. Left and buried by a black river while the world burns.

But he’s worried he’ll crush it with how tightly he holds on. How hard he begs a silent universe for it to last just a little bit longer. 

His knees ache, his left shoulder goes tight when it rains, his body is not what it once was, but his mind is still there, still clear, and he remembers how romance used to feel, where it used to reside in his younger body, and as he stares out at the cleared room, listening to your footsteps overhead as you attempt to follow his vague instructions to “make yourself feel pretty” (because you already were to him, even covered in dirt and sawdust), he thinks this feels like the old world. An old world romance. It’s foreign, that feeling, but for the first time in a long time he doesn’t want to hold it at arm’s length.

“Joel?” You call from the top of the stairs, your voice tentative and cautious. But not cautious like you peeking around a corner to look for clickers. But cautious as in unsure, doubtful. You are a woman made up of a lot of things, with foundations unlike he’d ever seen before, but doubt is not a part of you. You never doubt him. 

“Yeah, baby?” Your nerves make him nervous and he futzes with a lampshade while waiting for you.

“Are you done down there?” 

He has to breathe slowly through the fluttering beneath his breastbone before he can answer. “Yeah, baby, all finished. You can come down now.”

“Okay . . . but you can’t laugh.” Him, laugh at you? There’s the instinct to smother the faint grin that spreads out across his mouth, but he told himself he wasn’t going to fight whatever came across his face tonight. If you see it, then you see it and he’s come to accept that. 

(Maybe even want that.)

He shakes his head, his only pair of nice boots (a thank you from a former rancher when Joel fixed his family’s heater) clicking on the hardwood floor as he stands at the bottom of the stairs. You must be hiding behind the wall because he can’t see you. 

“I’m not gonna laugh, sweetheart. Why d’ya think I’d laugh?” 

Silence faces him at the top of the stairs, and then:

“Because quite frankly I forgot my tits could look like this and I don’t know how to feel about it.” 

The snort that comes out of him is a poor attempt to muffle the chuckle. He thumbs the wood finial at the top of the bannister. 

“Can’t remember ever having any complaints before and I don’t think I’ll have ‘em now, no matter how they look.” 

“Whatever, Miller, you’re just a horn dog.” 

He rolls his eyes, fingers rubbing anxiously together at his side, as if he could tug the fluttering out of his chest. He leans on the other foot, the one with the bad knee, to adjust the slightly uncomfortable tightness in his jeans. A dark swirl in the second step of the stairs has become wildly interesting.

“Baby, just come down here. I’m not gonna laugh. Promise.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” you grumble, still out of sight. “I know where you keep your feral child and I will not hesitate to let her loose on you.”

Joel nods, grinning faintly, still focused resolutely on the whorl in the floor. “That’s a real big threat from someone who –,”

The words die in his throat.

In fact, he’s quite sure he won’t be capable of speech for a very long time. 

That foreign feeling – that feeling he’s worked for twenty years to suppress – is ignited in his chest. 

You walk, no, maybe you float down the stairs in the most stunning red dress he’s ever seen. It’s definitely not yours – he knows every inch of your closet because he had inspected it studiously when you offered to keep some of his clothes at your place and he was trying very hard to delay putting a handful of his belongings beside a woman’s things in a move that felt heart-stoppingly domestic. 

No, he has never, ever seen you in this dress. 

Come to think of it, he’s never seen you in any dress and you were entirely correct that your tits look wildly different. Fantastically different, but –

“Maria didn’t have any heels that fit me to go with the dress,” you announce airily, your chin up. But your eyes dart over his face as if looking for something you need to find. “But it’s fourteen degrees outside, Joel, and I’m not doing whatever this is in just socks because that’s ridiculous so you’re just going to have to deal with the boots.”

The Boots. The ones you wear while crushing clicker skulls and tending the stables. They still bear damp spots from where you tried to clean the blood and dirt from the leather.

It’s rather incapacitating how arousing he finds this particular combination.

So much so, he doesn’t realize he hasn’t said anything in a full minute until you bark at him, a cold tinge of panic in your voice.

“Joel!” His eyes snap to yours. Of course, you’re fucking beautiful – your eyes seem bigger, cheeks pinker, mouth wet – fucking Christ, where did you get make up? 

“Say something!” Those rosy lips drop down and to his horror, you’re upset. “Please!”

“B-baby, you look . . .” He doesn’t mean to grab your entire ass in one hand; he just wants to feel as much of that velvet on your skin as possible. You stumble into his arms, another something that is so unlike you, as he tugs you forward. Bends his lips to your ear to discover how fast you’re breathing. How fast your pulse races in your neck. The shudder that breaks the rigidity of your body when he brushes his mouth, the short bristles of his beard, against your skin is no surprise; you told him exactly what that sensation does to you in no uncertain terms the first night he ate you out on the table of your kitchen. “You look incredible.”

Your fingers bite into his biceps. Push back out of his arms, despite the obvious warmth in your cheeks. You level his arousal in a single glare. “Joel, I asked you not to tease.” 

Tommy once told him he was a pain in the ass to be around sometimes because he displays every negative emotion as anger and so it’s damn near impossible to figure out whatever it was he was so bent out of shape about.

Sadness as anger.

Shame as anger.

Guilt as anger.

Fear as anger.

With your fingers balled up, it's the tremor in your fists that gives you away. 

He had genuinely intended this to be a quiet night away from the cafeteria, away from the Tipsy Bison, away from anyone else. He wanted you all to himself and in his greed, he didn’t see it until he saw it in your eyes. 

How vulnerable being pretty made you. How vulnerable privacy made you. 

How being vulnerable made you so deeply, deeply afraid. 

Almost as afraid as he was. 

Without a word, he turns to the record player, strategically hidden behind the couch and puts on the carefully selected record. The silent scratches for a moment before –

Your eyes widen as Nelson begins to sing his most beautiful love song (in Joel’s humble opinion). Your shoulders slacken, hands lose their grip, you blink up at him in total bewilderment. You aren’t an indecisive person, you’re quick as a whip, rarely confused – so this befuddled look on your face is kinda cute. 

Tucking that rare look on your face away for another time, Joel wanders to the center of the room, in the heat of the light from the fireplace, his good boots clicking over the wood. He opens his arms, hand out to you.

“Let’s try something new tonight.”

I'll always be with you for as long as you please

For I am the forest but you are the trees

The decision you make is a visible one. 

Your palm is warm, weighted as it slides over his. This time his hand respectably settles on your waist, then on your low back when (to his surprise) you come closer. He’s delighted to watch you smile at him, distantly aware of the stretch of his own on his face. 

Willie strums on his guitar, crooning softly, the sound warm and deep. With the weight of you against his chest, that feeling crackles like the flames over the wood logs in the fireplace. You drop your head, turn your cheek, and just before you come to rest on his shoulder, he sees your smile slide into a smirk.

“New, huh? What’s new look like for a sixty-five-year-old man at the end of the world?” Even with teasing, your voice is soft and sweet, the soft powder of cinnamon. Slowly, as if not to startle either one of you, he leans his chin against your forehead.

“You n’ I’ve been burning both ends, keepin’ the lights on. New to us is having a goddamn break.” His voice is low, meant only for you, and in the tremble of his deep bass, the words elongate in his mouth. He brings your intertwined hands just under his chin and when that goes well, he tightens his grip around your back, drawing you flush against him. It reduces the dancing to more of a sway but Joel can’t find a single thing to complain about. You gently tap the pad of your middle finger in the hollow of his collarbone to the beat of the song.

I'm empty without you so come grow within me

For I am the forest and you are the trees

And the heavens need romance so love never dies

“‘N ‘m only fifty-six, jackass.” 

You grin, twisting in his grasp, rub your nose on his chest to wrap your arms around his neck. He clutches to your back like a key finding its lock. 

You'll be the stars dear and I'll be the sky

And should any of this find us let them all be forewarned

That you are the thunder and I am the storm

“This is nice, Joel,” you murmur in his ear. The backs of his arms are growing warm by the fire. He presses his lips to your exposed shoulder, unsure of what to say, or what not to say, only nodding. He closes his eyes, trying to hold this moment forever in his memory. The soft flare of your waist, the winged-spread of your ribs, beneath his hands brings him back into your arms.

"Yeah?" Quiet, into your skin as if to muffle the question entirely, to muffle the unsure wobble in his voice. "It's good?"

He feels you nod beneath his chin, the smell of fresh soap escaping from the back of your neck, and the clamp around his throat loosens. He breathes, unimpeded for the first time all night, a low exhale taking the tension from his body as the air leaves his lungs.

Relief. A sinking down into the moment, into your arms.

You chuckle with your cheek against his chest and he feels the vibrations down to his stomach.

"Yeah, Joel, you did good. Really good." With the hand he holds in the air, you rub your thumb over the knuckle of his thumb, soothing. It used to bother him you could read the lines of his emotions as well as you read a book, as well as you write your own name, effortlessly, as if you had been given a guide no one ever thought to show him. But now, now that you understand how much this means to him, that you know he needs to be told he made you happy, it's more than relief. It's an unburying – a resuscitation of pieces of himself (seed-like bone fragments) that he thought had long since died in the soil of his ribs. "Thank you. I needed this."

He wants you to see the whole of him. Lift up an antiquated silver plate and show you the dents and scratches in his reflection. When you kiss his cheek gently, the hope floating in his chest flares, a solar explosion with tendrils that reach into the blackness of space and it asks him, what would you do to keep her?

Everything. Anything.

He shuffles closer, feels the warmth of your body lined up against his, the clean scent beneath the edge of your jaw blooming in his nose and throat. The hope hums, pitches dark like the forest floor in the rain, and grows teeth. His want for you digs into his skin and evolves into a needy, unsatisfied thing.

“Where’d you get this dress, hm?” He asks, lips half an inch from your shoulder. It falls and rises, never catching on your skin as he plays with the fabric. He runs his palm up your spine, the velvet coming with him, and watches as the swell of your thighs and the tease of your ass is revealed. Dirty old man. “‘N who do I have to kill to get you to keep it?”

You laugh into his neck. He wonders if you’re intentionally twisting his curls at the base of his neck to send sparks of arousal down his spine or if you are completely unaware of the cause of his insanity. Your hands are littered with scars and calluses and every time you touch him, he could melt through the floorboards.

“They found it in some strip mall and were actually going to strip it down for material. But Aaron at the sewing center owed me a favor and you said wear something nice, so . . .” You thumb the lip of his collar, your fingertips brushing the knot of his spine every time you drag your fingers back and forth. 

And I'll always be with you for as long as you please

For I am the forest and you are the trees

He knows you well enough to know that something lingers in your mind, but even after all this time, even after what he’s seen with you, been through with you, the things he’s done to you – he isn’t quite sure if he has the right to ask. 

Instead, he squeezes you. He means to do it just with his hands, but ends up swallowing you in his arms. 

Your mouth is pressed up against his chest when you finally go on. 

“It just seems silly to keep, Joel.” 

The high he’s been riding on all night falters, since you first walked down those stairs to him. Your eyes are wet when he pulls back and cups you by your cheek. He stops swaying with you.

“Why’s that?” 

There it is, that all too familiar flicker of fear. You can’t look at him, despite his every touch, his every glance pulling you into him, to be near him. 

“Because other people should have it. They should have a chance to . . .” 

You withdraw your head from his hands, his thumb brushing your jaw as you retreat. He might actually lose a piece of himself if you let go now, but instead you clasp his wrists in your fingers. You stare at your hands and his between you, as if this whole thing between you could solidify at your feet, finally real. 

Willie has stopped singing, only that musky drone on an empty track.

“Someone else should have a chance to feel pretty, to feel this way, because it shouldn’t be wasted and I’m afraid – I wonder if –,”

He knows he’s being a bit too rough when he takes your jaw and straightens your gaze to him, but his heart might fly out of his chest before he has a chance to say anything. His stomach turns, not knowing he’s not at the peak of a roller coaster drop, that he’s standing on solid ground, even if it swims under his feet.

“What you feel is not wasted.” A murmur, stern, as steadily and as serious as he possibly can be.

That feeling aches in his chest and you haven’t even gone anywhere. You haven’t left . . . yet. “What this is, is not wasted time. I spent twenty years wasting time, looking for something that wasn’t there, and with you . . . I can’t say I’ve found it –,”

“Why? Why can’t you say you’ve found it?” Your grip around his wrists tightens, eyes hard. “Why can’t you name it, Joel?”

“Can you?” He pulls his hands out of your grip and you let him go. “How can you ask for what you want when you can’t even ask to keep this dress?” 

“Because I don’t deserve it!” It’s not silence that follows; it’s emptiness. You face away from him, pressing the heel of your hand into your brow bone, teeth slightly bared. Your arm bars across your stomach like you are literally holding in your guts. Finally, you lift your head, the few scant tears on your face sparkling in the firelight. “I don’t deserve you, Joel. I don’t deserve any of this. Ellie, the way she . . . I’m here, warm and happy, acting like the fucking world hasn’t ended. Playing house, playing pretend. Pretending like I’m your –,”

You swallow the words caught in your throat, gaze leaping away from him. At your side, your hand trembles again. 

Oh, honey, the shit I’ve done . . . 

With wide, wet eyes, you watch him approach. He doesn’t look at you, instead seeing exactly where he’d like to put his lips on your stomach beneath the fabric. 

“Then what do you want, hm?” There’s a fold in the front of the dress and he runs his fingers along the edge of it. “We can’t fix it. Can’t go back ‘cause there’s nothin' to go back to. I don’t care what you had to do to get here, right here, with me because I’m so fuckin’ glad you are. I’m not pretending, not wasting my time, never was. ‘Cause you’re right.” 

Your hand over his stills his endless roving and then it stays, scarred hand over scarred hand. Your gesture says something to him, something so meaningful he has no idea how to put it into words. He swallows his attempt and instead, slowly, drags both hands over your hips, where they stay. Heavy against the velvet. 

You rest your own against his forearms, neither pulling him in or pushing him back. 

“I was right about what?”

His eyes flick to yours and maybe it’s presumptuous, maybe he really is an old man afraid of his feelings, or maybe living this long – despite everything that ever tried to make it otherwise – living this long has granted him the privilege of knowing with perfect clarity what you’re thinking when you look at him like that. How he wants to whisper it back to you and he decides he will the next time your skin is warm and tacky, body helpless beneath his. 

Your eyes shamelessly track the brush of his tongue against his bottom lip.

“That you’re mine. Just like I’m yours.” 

The hands at his forearms glide up to his chest. The rims of your irises have gone a bit blurred, a bit unstable, and you can’t decide whether to look at his mouth or his eyes.

“Joel?” Suddenly breathy, all begging, pleading.

“Hm?”

“Get me out of this fucking dress.” 

When your lips crash into his, his entire world narrows down to where on his body, yours touches: 

your rough hand cradling his cheek, the other fisting the collar of his shirt. His fingers digging into your skirt, the heat from your thigh nearly driving him to tear straight through the fabric to get to you. Your sweet, perfect mouth smeared against his, lips puffed pink, nose to your cheek. 

That warm, wet cunt he thinks he can feel through his boxers, jeans, the dress and your underwear. 

It’s not enough. 

The cry you let out is some mangled mix of a moan and his name when he licks the soft supple skin behind your ear and nips your earlobe.

“Baby, please – please – bedroom, we have to–,”

He grunts his disapproval at your words, overwhelmed by the scent that makes his mouth water as he stains the column of your throat with wet, humid kisses. 

“Joel, c’mon, honey, just upstairs –,” 

The last flickering tiny speckle of logic in his brain fights with itself; take your right here or haul you over his shoulder – which isn’t great for his back and, quite frankly, he intends to spend most of the night on his knees. 

First option it is. 

You mumble in confusion, eyes shut, chin brushing the thread of gray curls on the top of his head as he purposefully sucks a bright hickey into your collarbone, one hand cupping your breast, the other pushing you backwards. You go willingly, of course. 

Until the backs of your legs hit the couch and there’s nowhere else to go. In the stumble, your dress rides up even higher and those thighs he’s actually lost sleep over appear to him. He drops to his knees, hands like meat hooks as they squeeze your waist, pulling that warm cunt even closer to him over the edge of the couch. You groan when he pushes the skirt up even higher, practically to your tits, as he explores your outer, then inner thighs with soft strokes of the back of his hands. He presses his nose to the crevice between your thigh and hip and inhales. 

“B-baby, the windows,” you swallow thickly, slurring like you’re drunk, grabbing at his shoulders like you’re trying to steady yourself, or turn him towards the windows. “I mean – the curtains, baby, the curtains are –,”

“It’s a fucking blizzard outside,” he explains tersely with his eyes still closed, as if irritated to have a conversation instead of focusing every ounce of concentration he has to the heat and smell beneath your black panties. He drags his teeth over the elastic band around your hips and makes you whine his name for an entirely different reason. 

You don’t make him stop or wait when he tugs those panties down your hips. In fact, you help, lifting your hips, the irises of your eyes so wide and black, you look halfway out of your mind.

Good.

He gathers the skirt he was once so fond of and stuffs it into the cushions behind you. You watch him as he moves, eyes half-lidded, finger scraping your bottom lip. Around his ribs, your knees dip back and forth, moving targets, like he’s forgotten why he’s here and needs reminding. 

His big paw, the size of which makes you feel indescribably small, catches your knee and stills it, gaze dark and heavy. Do not test me right now. You try not to moan. 

“Can’t believe I’m going to let you fuck me with my boots on,” you whisper airly, watching with delirious fascination as he puts one of your slender legs over his shoulder. His mouth is actually watering at the sight of your damp curls. 

“Not gonna fuck you. Just gonna eat your pussy. You’ll know the difference.”

“Semantically, it’s the sa-a-me thi-ng, Jo-e – ah, Joel!” 

His tongue up inside you turns you into a whiny, high-pitched, feminine mess. He eats like he does everything else: diligently, quickly, and silently. 

Until you bury your fingers in his ash-flecked curls and tug. 

That first deep, loud moan ripples through his body, rolling him up just off his heels, his crotch seeking some kind – any kind – of friction. 

The feel of his mouth humming against your cunt has your eyes rolling back in your head. “Please, oh fuck, please –” 

You are a grown woman. You should not be making these noises. 

You also shouldn’t be using a man’s face to get off . . . but you do it anyway.

“Tha’s it, baby,” he mutters when your hips grind against his face. His nose catches your clit and around him, your thighs wobble. “Use me, fuckin’ use me.” 

His grip around your calf over his shoulder turns rough and he knows he’ll bruise you, but fuck, the thought of you walking around town with a mark in the shape of his hand where everyone can see —

He briefly lifts his grip from your thigh to adjust his iron-hot cock in his jeans. From his view over your cunt, it doesn't seem like you noticed, or even saw him leave your skin. He watches you writhe, try to capture your breath, eyes crammed shut as your hips rock almost without your control. He takes a chance to lick the musky dampness from his upper lip when your cunt rolls back from his face a fraction of an inch — and then he sinks in again.

Call it age or the fact that you both are here at the end of the world, but the first night he ate you out, you told him exactly how and where you like it, unabashed and in control and honestly it’s the hottest thing he can think of in recent memory. 

He would have written it down on the backs of his eyelids if he could. 

He follows it to the letter.

“Joel – Joel, baby, please don’t stop –,” You buck and moan beneath him as he spells out your instructions with his tongue along your cunt. He dots the i’s with a tap of his tongue or a lick on your clit. Just inches above his head, your chest heaves, your fingers locked into his curls, gently pushing him closer to your puffy pussy as if he’d ever waste a drop of what leaks out of you. 

With a flat-tongued brush against your suffering clit, you arch off the couch, your sighs now verging on desperate, high and whinging, because it’s just not fair how good he makes you feel. He can feel your foot curl against the planes of his back, the rubber heel heavy, your mouth open and wet, with your eyes locked on the ceiling as you try to ride out your humming orgasm with a semblance of control.

“Look at me.” 

No other man has ever been able to make you come with just his mouth, you told him once.

And no other man ever will. 

It’s sweet, the way your eyes soften briefly when you lock eyes with him, crouched between your thighs — before your head tips back, lips wrenched apart in a silent scream, and you come, as hard as he has worked for the flush of slick down his chin.

There’s goosebumps on your thighs, he notes. He rubs his thumb against your raised skin and you shudder, head rolling against the back of the couch.

He’s already feeling a slight twinge of shame at the noise his knees will inevitably make when he stands, but for now he’s content watching you glide down from your high, his head against your knee, shoulders still stretching your legs open wide. 

To his delight, you manage to laugh, your hand draping over your eyes. You can see the shine of the dull light all across his lips, his chin, his nose and you have to close your eyes. He should make you lick it off him, but not tonight.

“Top marks, Miller, as usual,” you mumble, “but the threat of voyeurism really deserves the extra credit.” 

He grins. Still waiting for your breath to slow, he wipes his mouth with his palm and slides the leg over his shoulder down in between his own thighs. Propped up on one knee, he begins to unlace your boot. He holds your calf like it’s delicate as he gently drags the boot over your heel. 

He’s just as reverent with the other side. 

And then your boots, the pair, sit at the end of his couch, like they were always meant to be there. 

His heart, easing down from its own thunderous beat, squeezes and that feeling, that strange-not-so-strange feeling, the one that dictates practically every action with you, dribbles into his veins. 

You open one eye. A flutter of lashes, coy and playful, the curve of your mouth guarding a hoard of secrets.

“Now, Joel Miller . . . will you take me to bed?” 

It’s a question. A request. Your eyes, as dark as ever, on his warm his chest, all the way down his spine. You’re asking, politely, for a thing you both know he would never, ever deny you. 

He cannot lose you, he just can’t. 

He stands and, yes, his knees crack and pop, but he regains stability when he toes off his only good pair of cowboy boots. He nods, grinning, and offers you his hand.

The walk, half-run up to his bedroom is something his brain designates as not important enough to store away. 

Instead, it languishes in the way you stretch out on his mattress before him, ass in the air, knees spread over his blankets and arms sliding through crumpled sheets towards the headboard. 

The room is dark, the only light fighting its way through the downpour of snow comes from the lamp posts that dot the street outside. But the veil of snow warps the light and everything in the half-darkness is doused in blue. 

The shadowy, blurred curve of your shoulder, blue. 

The spread of your fingers on his mattress, blue.

The swollen bottom of lip of your mouth —

“Joel.” 

The snow falls so fast and hard, it patters against the windows and the sides of the house. It’s the only thing he can hear over the pounding of his heart and the short breath in his lungs. He stares at you, soaking his blankets in your scent and slick, and you stare right back in utter and total silence. 

You sit in the center of his bed, bare for him beneath the velvet dress that is red like blood, your patchy white socks at complete odds with your smeared make up and the fucked-out look in your eyes. But there’s something else there too. 

Something softer. Gentler. 

You reach out a hand to him and he goes to you, like always. The instant your skin touches his the instinct to fuck you hard until you’re bruised and crying evaporates. He doesn’t think you want that anymore either. 

No, you need — 

“Joel, please come here. I need you.” 

You need him.

The mattress squeaks when he settles one knee and then the other on top of it, his fingers stroking your ear, brushing the tips of your hair, while he kisses you with an ache that is not physically manifested. Instead, it resides —

“I love you,” you whisper. 

You pull back infinitesimally, just enough that your eyes are all he sees. 

A patient silence hangs from the ceiling. The sound of snow falling. Of baited breath. The scratch of your fingers against at his beard —

“I love you too.” You smile and his body is no longer big enough to contain his heart. “I feel like I’ve always loved you. Is that strange?” 

Your gaze traces the same path your fingers take when you think he’s sleeping; it runs over his nose, his forehead, his eyebrows, the plush curve of his lips. Like you can’t believe he’s there with you. Like you can’t believe he’s real. 

That feeling — that feeling he had been fighting because it always was the only thing that would ever really do him in — is love. He loves you. 

He loves you.

And you love him. 

Didn’t think they told stories like this anymore, not in a world like this. So maybe, for once, Joel Miller just got lucky. 

“No. It’s not. Just be sure you mean it.”

He can't tell if the glow in your eyes comes from within you or it beams out of him. “Every word.”

Eventually, he sheds you of his favorite dress of yours, your only dress, and he lays you back, fully bare in the nest of his blankets. In the corner of his bedroom, the heater hisses like the wind from a purple storm, the static crackle of warmth hovering in the air. You watch, with eyes that shine like stars, as he pops apart the pearl-snaps holding his shirt together. 

And then his white undershirt goes next. He used to worry what he looked like, until he found someone else who had done exactly what was necessary to survive. 

When he goes to unzip his pants, you sit up, hair mussed and the hickey he gave you earlier throbbing like a dream. 

“I wanna do it.” 

He lets you unbutton his jeans, slide the zipper down, at the edge of the bed, but your hands are shaking, your breath stunted.

“I’m fumbling like a teenager,” you huff, a small, flustered smile on your face. “It’s like I’m nervous, but what is there to be nervous about —,”

His mouth pressed up against yours creates the most beautiful silence of all. 

How do you want me, you ask him and he thinks, all the time. But he takes you both under the covers and settles in next to you. He positions one leg over his hip and immediately you know exactly what he’s asking for. Quick as a whip, you are. 

There’s a rustle of covers, the bed slats squeaking, and then he’s nearly nose-to-nose with you. You kiss him again, maybe nervous still. 

He disconnects, when you slip between his legs and take his thick, leaking cock in your hand. 

“Baby, wait, do you need — I know it’s a lot — I’m a lot –,”

He can’t fathom why he’s so nervous either. But you chuckle, shake your head, smile at him. 

“Don’t need anything but you.” 

Your leg wraps tighter over his hip, knee up to his ribs, as he sinks inside you. The palm wrapped around the back of your knee grips roughly only once.

This is true silence. The instant where the world goes muted, everything distant and muffled, when he’s first buried deep in your heat. 

Your fingers thread through his curls and suddenly all sound is cranked up to an eleven. Your rapid, stilted breathing, the groan of the bed, your soft smothered moans, or are those his? —

“Fuck me, Joel.” 

Eyes never leaving yours, he does. 

Your fingers dig into his skull, nails biting, hand wrapped around his neck to hold yourself steady as he thrusts up into you. He thumbs your stiff nipple, half of his hand still grasping your ribs. 

You meet him thrust for thrust, a slow steady pace that draws sweat to his hairline and endless gasps from his mouth. But your gaze stays strong, never falters. Your hand slips to his shoulder, to stabilize just a bit more, but then it's on his chest, twisting his chest hair and he thinks he feels that sparkle of sanity, of rationality, any restraint to hold back crack and shatter between the clench of his teeth. 

“Goddamn–,” 

He rolls, taking you under him and demanding a faster pace. You push your hand against the headboard, the bed knocking against the wall in rhythmic, hypnotic thuds. 

He thinks you hiss his name before you bite down his shoulder. 

The sharp shock of pain lights up his brain, channeling the sudden awareness that he liked that so fucking much all the way down his spinal cord where it presses hot against his groin. 

He lifts up onto one elbow, skin sweat hot and sticky as it splits from yours. 

“Tell me what you need to come,” he pants.  

You whine again, your throat dripping sweat, but that’s not an answer. Knowing he has about a half-a-dozen to a dozen good grinds before it puts too much strain on his back, he uses every single one of them to drag you to the knife’s edge. 

“What–,” grind, “do you need –,” grind, “to come?”

The wail you let out nearly makes him come on the spot. Your eyes have that same, out-of-this-world, off-this-planet unfocused gaze, any sort of language impossible. You plead with him in the silence. A silence loaded with damp moans, grit teeth, and skin against skin against skin against skin against skin. Best sound in the world, as far as he was concerned.

You arch until he lifts above you and, taking the hand that was by your head, tuck it down between your legs. You let him grasp around with spread fingers where you are wet, where his cock rocks into your body, watch as that pulls him apart faster with dark eyes, before pressing his thumb against your clit. 

There, you say without words. There is where I need you.

Once, twice, he circles – he can feel the tightness in his back already settling in, his jaw fixed and locked, his body battling the two overwhelming sensations of dull pain and fierce, wild pleasure – and you hit your release and you soak him in it. 

He falls then too, falls just as hard and as fast as you, the chronic pain he holds in his shoulders, his neck, his back, his knee fleetingly gone in the rush of heat that branches out of his body from his groin and it feels divine.

When he lies on top of you, face buried in the curve of your neck, the heat from your humid skin warming up the breath in his lungs, the throb of your body matching his, his mind wiped clean, the thought occurs to him:

It’s not silence he’s found with you, it’s quiet. 

It’s peace.

Eventually, some awareness seeps back into his trembling body and he rolls off of you, but takes the curve of your jaw in his hand as he goes. He can’t settle into the pillows because he can’t stop kissing you, love bites occasionally against your lip, as if where his body fails, he proves his love for you won’t end so easily.

Eventually, you press your fingers into the base of his skull and, like a reset button, he groans and drops onto his back. 

Eventually, the quiet returns. Only soft noises, murmurs of existence outside of this perfect little room, fill the space. 

Eventually, he falls asleep with you curled up next to him. 

He knows you love waking up in bed together, but he also knows you love fresh coffee even more. 

Which is where Ellie finds him the next morning. 

He nearly adds too much ground coffee to the pot because he’s distracted, lost in thought about the way your curves looked in the bright morning light, when the back door slams open and a little creature made of entirely scarves, mittens, and an oversized purple jacket stomps into his kitchen and clomps its snowy shoes on the rug. 

“Joel, we gotta go!” She’s a little breathless, red-cheeked too as she unwinds the scarf around her head and her face is revealed. “We don’t wanna miss it!”

“Miss what?” Joel asks, this time carefully measuring how much water the pot needs. 

His question is not met with her usually buzzy chatter. Instead, she’s stopped undoing her scarf and just stares at him like he’s been beamed down from another planet. 

He realizes all too late that he’s still in PJs at 9AM (basically a sign of another apocalypse), he’s making more coffee than just for himself, and he’s smiling. 

Shit.

“Ellie, um, I –,”

She rolls her eyes. Her scarf is flung off her neck and she starts yanking off her gloves, her plucky attitude back, if not a bit smug.

“Get your girlfriend up too. They’re lighting the big tree in town square in an hour. I know she’d be pissed if she missed it.” 

So definitely caught. Time to be “The Adult” here and put it out on the table. 

“Don’t call her that.” Joel eyes her. Coffee percolating, he grabs a slice of bread and Ellie’s favorite jam. “Makes it sound like we’re fourteen.” 

She frowns at him, classic “pouty-mouth”. 

“I’m fourteen — rude. But seriously, and I say this because I care, get over yourself. Call a spade a spade. You’re dating her, fucking her–,”

“Ellie!” 

"– and you make gross ga-ga eyes at each other when you think I’m not looking."

She slides into the seat at the island in front of him as he pushes the toasted bread with jam across the marble to her. She takes a bite, chews with her mouth open, and shrugs. “That’s a girlfriend, dude.” 

Joel turns back to the eggs that might be burning, his shoulders hunched and fist tight around the spatula. Hate it when the kid is right. 

He salvages what he can of the eggs, plates them along with two strips of bacon on two plates, and balances a mug of coffee on each. He tries to salvage some of his dignity with a glare. 

“When you’re older, you’ll see some things just don’t need labels.” 

At that, she rolls her eyes again and snatches up the last strip of bacon from the folded, greasy napkins. “Whatever, you dork.”

Argument soundly lost, he gathers up the plates and heads back up stairs. She’s still mumbling to herself as he goes. 

“'Girlfriend', pfft . . . much better than fuck bunny!” She yells to no one in particular.

You hear the entire conversation from bed, the door cracked open enough for the sound to travel. Muffling a giggle, you snag his white shirt from the floor and draw it over your head. You should probably be more embarrassed that Joel got caught in his Walk of Shame, even if it was to his own kitchen to make breakfast. But . . . you’re just not. 

The smile is still on your face when his footfalls approach the door and he sticks his head into the room.

“Sounds like we’re busted,” you smirk. 

Joel almost chuckles. “'Bout as busted as you can be.” He hands you one plate and sits on the end of the bed with his own. He takes a low, slow sip of coffee and you follow him. The eggs are nibbled at and the bacon is perfectly crunchy.

“So . . . girlfriend?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Not you too.” 

“I mean," you slip the plate and coffee onto the bedside table, then hug the sheets around your knees, "I agree with you on the bit about labels. It seems silly. And not wasteful silly. Just . . .”

“Silly.” Joel’s eyes are as dark as his coffee, warmer than it too. “Doesn’t really capture the whole thing, does it?”

An apocalypse and a half later, and a boy’s sweet eyes on you can still make your stomach swoop. 

“No, it doesn’t.” 

“Then what do you wanna say, if people start askin’?”

You bite your lip, eyes up in faux-thought. “Truth be told, I'm kinda partial to fuck bunny. Cute like with a little tail and ears —,"

The groan from Joel and subsequent head shake makes you laugh enough for you to take pity on the old guy. You crawl closer and his eyes slip from your face to where the sheet tucks under your knees. But a hand on his cheek returns his gaze.

"I like what you said last night." Your smile is soft, pleased. "That I’m yours. Like you’re mine.” 

Joel’s warmth bleeds from his whole frame as he leans in close to put his mug on the bedside table, then leans in closer still to you. He drags his nose over your bare, exposed shoulder, in a way that is sweet and sensual all at once. He stops with a kiss on the hinge of your jaw. 

“I like that too. I like saying that you’re mine.”

Ignoring the shiver that rockets up your spine at the low hum of his voice, the flutter of his lips barely against your cheek, you tuck an errant curl around his ear and it immediately springs back up again. You smile and he smiles back, a youthful shine in his eyes.

“Wherever you are, I am too.”  

Listen to: I am the forest by Willie Nelson

[xtreme-shipper]

Just Don't Give Up

Azriel (ACOTAR) x FReader (Human)

WC: 1.5K (Oneshot)

Summary: When it all becomes too much to keep going, our favorite Shadowsinger shows up just in time.

Warnings: Mentions of (and attempt at) suicide, angsty, I think, canon divergent, not proofread, lol, hurt/comfort, English is not my first language. Let me know if I should add anything <3

N/A: Hi! This is my first ACOTAR fanfic, so constructive criticism is really appreciated :) It's been a while since I've written fanfiction, but recently, I've been obsessed with Az, so here we are.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The night sky was blinding in the best way possible. Another year had passed, and you could see from the distance how your friends were celebrating another Starfall, a drunken joy filling the air, their voices full of excitement. The preparations started early this year, and the night court went all the way in, with concerts throughout the city and free drinks for all its citizens. You could tell the party would go on until sunrise and wondered, not for the first time tonight, why weren’t you down there with them?

“Is everything alright?” Az had asked you earlier that day. You nodded, smiling brightly at him.

“Just had a long night.” He nodded, not fully convinced, but he didn’t push the subject, which you were grateful for. You didn���t need to ruin the mood because of your problems.

 Nightmares from under the mountain still plagued your sleep, making it almost impossible to get any rest, and it was starting to show. The things that you had to see while not being able to do anything haunted your every second.

You didn't expect to survive when you escaped from the human lands, but Rhys found you not long after you crossed the border. He wanted you to turn around, warning you that Prythian wasn’t safe, but the alternative—going back to town—was not an option; anything would be better than that, even certain death. So you stubbornly refused to, claiming you knew how to take care of yourself. The problem was that one of Amarantha’s minions watched the interaction and wanted you for its own entertainment, so Rhys had to pretend that he had taken a liking to you and wanted you as his pet.

Word got to Amarantha, and she wasn’t particularly happy with her plaything taking a liking to someone else, so she punished him while you watched, unable to do anything. Useless.

After that first time, Amarantha decided it was a fun idea to have his “beloved” pet watch the suffering she had caused. So, every time you did anything she deemed disrespectful (which was basically everything), a torture session would take place. You couldn’t help but think that if you had just stayed where you belonged, Rhys wouldn’t have suffered as much as he did. It was your fault, even when he insisted that it wasn’t.

Shaking your head, you try to get rid of the memories.

You turn your eyes to the stars, the same ones you prayed to every night. Always the same wish without any answer from them and wonder, like you so often do, whether you should still be here.

The inner circle had never treated you as less or excluded you from anything. They were your support when no one else would lend a helping hand, and with the years, they became your family, yet even now, you still feel like an outsider. You weren’t Illyrian like Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel. Heck, you weren’t even Fae to begin with. You ended up being in the way most of the time.

You took your jacket off, letting the cold breeze hug your bare arms, where scars of silent battles painted them. A shiver ran down your spine as you stepped closer to the edge of the building.

In the human lands, your family never cared for you, and even when you left, no one mourned your “death”. Here in Velaris, you had people looking out for you, yet you felt like you didn’t quite fit in.

Would they notice? Would they care if you just… disappeared? Fae's lives were so endless that compared to them, humans’ existence must seem… insignificant.

Another step. You had slipped from the party when it all became too much. Your feet were moving on their own accord. Another shiver, another step. They would probably mourn for a while but then move on. You could stop the nightmares and the pain, and they could move on; Rhys wouldn’t have a living reminder of every time he was abused and had to endure the shame. Or when he was beaten, and you had to patch him up with your scarce medical knowledge.

Az and Cass could stop pretending that you didn’t cause their brother more suffering. That your recklessness didn’t make things worse. That they didn’t believe you weren’t brave enough to help him.

You are standing on the border of the building now, eyes fixed on the stars above, “Please,” you whispered. “Please.” You weren’t sure what you were asking for any more. Relieve from the pain, the guilt? Maybe you didn’t need an answer from the stars to fulfill that. You could hear the music all the way up here, a serene tune drowning the rest of the noise. You start walking on the edge, arms stretched wide to give yourself a bit more balance. One step, then another.

Letting go… should you… just one step…

A cold grip settles on your ankle and another on your wrist, pulling you carefully away from the border while a sad smile paints your lips.

You were used to Az’s shadows clinging to you from time to time, so you welcomed the touch but didn’t budge. You knew their master was standing a couple of steps behind you. “You know, you aren’t very sneaky for a spymaster.”

“I was looking for you.” His voice wasn’t more than a whisper. “I was worried since you left so early.”

“I’m fine” was all you said. A lie you had perfected over time.

He led out a humorless laugh. “You don’t seem fine.” You hear his steps, careful but loud, so you know he is getting closer. “Can you please step away, Sunshine?” You tense at the use of your nickname. So familiar by now, yet so unfitting.

“It’s fine, Az. I’m just admiring the night sky.” You can feel him right behind, you know. “It’s a beautiful sight.”

“Y/N… why are you here?” You knew he meant at the rooftop, but your mind couldn’t help going to a darker place.

You take a moment to answer, weighing your options. After a couple of silent minutes, you decide to be honest. “Did you know…” You pause for a second to try to stabilize your breathing. “That I was not only responsible for treating the High Lord's wounds? I was also tasked to inflict them.” You choke at your words, your throat feeling like it's closing, and it’s getting hard to breathe, but you push the words out anyway. “I am responsible for every scar that never fully healed, for every messed-up nightmare he has at night. I can still feel the way his muscles tensed every time I inflicted pain.” The world was spinning before your eyes, and the words were coming out in short breaths. You were gasping for air, struggling to get any inside your lungs, but still, the words wouldn’t stop coming out of your mouth.

“I’m the reason he suffered. If I hadn’t been there that day, or maybe if I had put up with my life at the… maybe he wouldn’t… he saw his… and I couldn’t… anything…” you close your eyes again. “How am I supposed to live here and accept all his help and love whe—”

A strong hand grabs you by your waist, interrupting your words and yanking you away from your doom. “It wasn’t your fault.” Az’s whisper came breathless, and his arms, though firmly hugging you, were shaking.

Tears were running down your face, staining his shirt. A protective wing wrapped around you, offering shelter. Giving you a protection you didn’t deserve. “I need the guilt to stop, Az. I’m a broken reminder of his pain, and selfishly, I can’t take it anymore.” You felt so tiny, so… shattered, fragments of yourself falling to the floor with every tear shed. He was silent for a moment, trying to hold you together while you crumbled.

Then his words reach your ears. “He once told me you remind him of his sister, you know?” One of his hands starts caressing your hair while the other firmly supports you against his body. “That your bad jokes to lighten the dreary mood and your constant presence were some of the things that kept him from giving up. That thanks to you, he was able to survive long enough to find his mate.” A loud sob shakes your entire body, hands fisting his shirt as you grab onto him for dear life. “Do you know why I call you ‘Sunshine’?” Az pauses, so you shake your head in response. “Rhys had been suffering long before you got there, and when he told us how you gave him hope, even when you yourself were silently breaking apart, how you would sing to him and brighten the mood with your warm voice, I knew. I knew you were like the sun he had been deprived of for so long. You saved my brother in the way that mattered the most. You were his light, and ever since you started living with us, you became my light, too.”

You were speechless at his words; raising your head from his chest, you looked into those beautiful hazel eyes and found nothing but tenderness. “You are my light, and I’m sorry it took so long for me to say it, Sunshine.” He places a kiss on your forehead. “I won’t say it will be easy, but I promise to be here with you. We will get through this. I promise, ok?” You nod as his grip tightens. “Just don’t give up, Sunshine.”

[lay-z]

🎄 Day 14 – A Christmas miracle

A continuation of 🌲 Day 6 – A Christmas tree disaster, which means it’s set in the same universe! 

Synopsis: The tension is palpable between you three after the kitchen incident, but you’re determined to fix it for their sake and yours. Perhaps some Christmas spirit will help. 

Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley x fem!Reader x John Soap MacTavish 

Warnings/Info: NSFW, 18+ | military!Reader; established poly!relationship; throuple; cussing; hurt/comfort; humour; domesticity; threesome; fluff

Word count: 2.2k 

↳ back to 🎅🏼 Masterlist ☃️

@lov3-ly

They just won’t stop bickering.

Every little thing causes an argument, starting at who’s driving the truck. Johnny claims to know his way around and is the better driver, especially in the snow. Simon insists that he rented the truck, so he should be the one driving it. They make you chose, and you choose Johnny, because it makes the most sense, and Simon gets into the backseat, masking his sulking face with indifference. 

Once you get to a particularly pretty spot, offroad and untouched, where Nordmann firs grow, the trees who make the perfect Christmas trees, they first start arguing about which tree to cut until they ultimately ask you to choose again, which you hate to do, because you want to make the decision with them – which seems impossible at this point. When you do eventually decide on a pretty tree, deep green and two metres tall, Simon and Johnny argue about which axe to use. 

“Ye’re not carryin’ it right.” 

“How the fuck can ya carry a tree the wrong way, Johnny?!” 

You watch for another moment, vein throbbing hotly in your neck beneath your soft scarf as Simon picks the large tree up by its stump while Johnny carries it by the crown. The snow keeps falling peacefully around you and it could be so tranquil, freezing cold yet wonderful, but they just won’t cooperate like that.

“If you two don’t stop this goddamn bickering, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind!”  

Both men huff and grumble at your reprimand, breath puffing in clouds in the cold as they continue to shoot each other nasty glares as they heave the fir onto the truck bed. They stop talking to each other altogether and somehow that’s even worse. 

Sitting in the passenger seat, gnawing on your bottom lip anxiously and pissed off, Johnny reaches over, driving one handed while his other hand rests on your upper thigh, squeezing it gently. It makes you squirm and your pussy twitch in pleasure-pain; still sensitive from what you two had done but didn’t finish in the kitchen when Simon made you stop instead of join in – what you’d initially hoped for. 

Your panties are damp, completely soaked, and rubbing against your puffy folds as you shift in the passenger seat. You can feel Simon’s eyes burn into the back of your head and stare down Johnny’s hand on your leg, but the latter doesn’t mind as he rubs your thigh up and down. When you glance at Johnny, you can see his lips cracked into a small, impish smile, his crotch bulging with arousal, because he didn’t get to come earlier, either.  

Tease.  

You’re aware what he’s trying to do and it’s dangerous. Don’t poke the bear or it will snap. 

After they manage to put up the tree in the living room with little to no problems or arguing, you clean up after them; puddles of melted snow, scattered fir needles and large boot prints that lead from the front door to the living room. 

And then they leave you alone. Johnny disappears into the kitchen to store away the food and drink you’d brought up here before starting on dinner while Simon simply disappears again.  

Now it’s quiet in the rented cabin, way too quiet, so you put on some classical music on your phone, but it only adds to the somber atmosphere as you start decorating the Christmas tree with fairy lights and ornaments that you’d brought from home. The snowstorm has picked up again, too; icy winds howling outside while you can only daydream about being curled up on a thick fur carpet in front of the fireplace, sweating as you’re sandwiched between your massive boyfriends. 

A dreamy sigh escapes your lips as you take the last ornament out of its vintage box – a golden start that’s supposed to sit on the Christmas tree crown. 

Simon watches in silence as you decorate the tree by yourself, going by a particular strategy that he cannot figure out and yet the result looks put prettily put together.

It unlocks childhood memories that he though long erased from his memory; veiled visions of his late mother decorating a meek, little Christmas tree with homemade ornaments in their shitty flat in Manchester when he was but a wee lad, barely able to talk back then. She was always determined to give him and Tommy a piece of that holiday spirit, even though she was never able to afford any presents to put under the tree. And then, the vision turns rotten by the memory of his shithead father knocking the tree over and throwing it down the staircase in a fit of drunken rage.

Simon inhales sharply as his chest tightens with a mixture of raw anger and melancholy, and he swiftly blinks away those memories to focus on the present; focus on you, struggling to put the star on the tip of the tall tree. 

“Need any help with that?” 

You nearly pinch a nerve in your neck as you flinch, glancing over your shoulder as Simon saunters into the living room; hands stuffed in his pockets, broad shoulders slouched somewhat. 

As he comes to stand right behind you, he reaches out, then. One hand supporting your lower back as you keep stretching, standing on your tippy toes, while his other hand grabs the star from your hand gently. “Let me help ya.” He almost croons softly, as softly as he can with his gravelly voice, and you hold your breath as you gaze at his ruggedly handsome face while he places the last ornament on the tree’s crown. 

Then his strong arms come to wrap around you from behind, his nose nuzzling you lovingly behind your ear, “Looks nice. Good job, lovey.” 

His quiet praise goes straight to your heart, squeezes it tightly and makes your breath hitch as you keep peeking up at him subtly over your shoulder, watching the reflection of the fairy lights in his dark irises, turning them a molten bronze. Cupping your own palms over his rough hands resting on your stomach, you melt against his chest. 

“Thank you for putting the most important final touch to it, honey.” 

He hums against your neck, enjoying the silly pet name too much and places two chaste kisses below your earlobe that has your skin pebbling with goose flesh. “Never done that before, y’know,” he murmurs, kissing your neck again while one hand slips underneath the hem of your warm sweater, “Decorated a bloody Christmas tree or... even celebrated the bloody holiday properly.” 

“About time, then.” You retort, laughing through the pain you feel when his sad admission makes your heart squeeze and throb in your chest this time. “I wanna makes this special for us,” you say, turning around in his embrace to wrap your arms around his neck while both his hands slip beneath your sweater, tracing the curve of your spine.  

“I want this to become a tradition for the three of us. Y’know? Renting a cabin for the holidays and hide away for a few days to... relax and... enjoy each other,” you explain, eyes twinkling while your fingers play with the short hairs at the base of his neck. “Would you like that?” 

He nods slowly, sheepishly. A shudder runs down his spine as your nimble fingers run through his dark blond hair, though if he’s being true to himself, it’s more about what you’re telling and asking him that has him reeling and trembling internally. Building traditions together, all three of you. That includes him, too. Obviously. 

“I’m yours, too, yes?” He utters those words before he can stop himself and his eyes widen imperceptibly at the uncharacteristically needy tone of his deep voice, and he watches in horror as your brows furrow quizzically. “Ah–I mean–” 

You huff in amusement, brows relaxing again while your arms tighten around his neck to better convey the meaning of your next words, “Simon, you and Johnny are as much mine as I am yours, yes.” 

“Steamin’ Jesus! Can ye kiss already? I wanna see ‘sum tongue with it, aye?” 

You can practically feel Simon bristle as Johnny’s teasing tone of voice breaks the tender moment, though you can merely roll your eyes playfully as you peek around Simon’s broad shoulder. 

“Who’s the true voyeur here now, John?” 

Johnny chortles, completely unabashed as he leans against the wide, open frame that opens the living room up to the hallway. He’s grinning, cocksure as always, eyes shining brightly with mischief as he pushes himself off the frame to saunter towards you while Simon’s calloused fingers flex against your supple skin on your back as if he’s afraid you might move away. 

“I feel like we should pick up where we’ve left off earlier,” Johnny purrs, wiggling his thick eyebrows suggestively, “What say ye, Lt.? Wanna help me turn our bonnie lassie into a wee mess?” 

You brace yourself with bated breath for another argument, but Simon’s chest rumbles against yours as he regards Johnny with a softening gaze, and the curt nod he gives nearly has your knees buckling. 

Strong, calloused hands roll you over onto your back on the plush carpet, making you feel like a worshipped rag doll in the way they handle you, firmly yet carefully. Your vision is so hazy, you can barely tell who’s touching what right now. 

The living room reeks of sex; it’s stuffy and warm and you’ve never felt better, more at peace than ever. 

A pathetic moan is torn from your throat as Johnny sinks his fat cock back into your dripping cunt with an obscene squelch as Simon’s cum keeps mixing with his. He holds your legs open and up by the back of your knees as he kneels between them; dark hair sticking to his damp forehead as he grinds his hips slowly yet deeply, pushing his cock into your welcoming heat far enough to have his tip kiss your cervix, his girth stretching your velvety walls and having you arch your back into the sensations. 

“Tha’s it, hen, keep–ach, fuck–takin’ it like our good girl,” Johnny groans when you squeeze your core around him, sucking him in deeper until he must thrust more powerfully to even thrust at all. 

You reach out blindly for the other large man sprawled out on the carpet next to you. His broad, scarred chest rises and falls rapidly as he tries to catch his breath while your sweaty palm pats along his muscular arm, squeezing his bulging biceps with greedy need. 

“Si–Si–,” you whine and hiccup as Johnny keeps fucking your soppy cunt with deep, slow rolls of his hips. The big, blond man rumbles deep in his chest in return, answering your whinging calls as his head tilts to the side; dark, half-lidded eyes regarding you languidly.  

His mammoth hand reaches out to grasp your chin, thumb rubbing your lower lip to catch your drool and smear it over your burning skin while Johnny starts playing with your swollen clit, making your back arch and your lips part with a louder cry of pleasure. 

Simon slips his thumb into your mouth and pushes down on your tongue. “Need more, lovey?” He chuckles darkly as you suck on his meaty digit, eyes flickering up to Johnny, who laughs huskily. Simon’s cock twitches back to life, blood rushing and boiling in his veins as his pale skin keeps flushing. He pulls his thumb from your mouth, eyes crinkling with a smile as your tongue darts out to chase it. 

You lick your kiss-swollen lips as you nod, “Uh-huh.” 

“Insatiable wee thing,” Johnny groans, hips snapping to make your tits bounce and jiggle the way he loves watching. “Gonna milk us both dry.” 

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny,” Simon huffs and groans as he pushes himself up on his knees, “’m lookin’ forward to it and she is, too.”  

Even in your blissfully fucked out state, you want to retort something stupid and witty, but when Simon suddenly grabs Johnny by the back of his neck to pull him into a deep, passionate – and very first – kiss, you nearly loose the last shred of your sanity.  

You watch in awe and shameless desire as Johnny briefly tries to pull away from Simon, but the latter has an iron grip on his neck and then Johnny leans back in with a deep sigh, reciprocates the kiss with wild fervour as you watch from below. 

They make out sloppily, teetering on aggressive and looking like battered warriors in the warm, dim glowing lights of the Christmas tree. All teeth and tongues. It’s maddening. It’s your personal present and secret wish come true, a Christmas miracle. You catch the way Simon dominates Johnny and your pussy clenches and flutters around Johnny’s fat cock still nestled deeply inside your gummy walls. 

You reach down between your thighs, replacing Johnny’s hand with yours as you start flicking the pad of your index finger over your sensitive clit, chest heaving as you enjoy the way your lovers finally start bonding the way they should.

[jessilynallendilla]

DPXDC FENTONS IN GOTHAM AND MISCELLANEOUS

TITLE/LINK RATING COMPLETED-WORD-COUNT SERIES

DP FIC REC HOME POST

let me know if the links aren't working and feel free to suggest any

FENTONS WORKING IN GOTHAM 

Stalling  T 2,363 

Just a perfectly normal conversation between Arkham's newest psychiatrist, and its most troublesome resident. In the staff parking lot. During a jailbreak. How she walks out of this alive is a question even the Batman himself wants answered. 

Who's Afraid Of Who?  G 611 SERIES 

Someone gives Jazz the wrong interrogation room number. Now she goes to visit a certain Dr. Crane...The station officers realize the error in the files when visiting the other resource, 1 hour later it's too late. By the time they arrive at the interrogation room, they find...Dr Jasmine Nightingale became an expert on the mind to help people. That included almost all of Gotham's worst offenders. Dr Crane, aka Scarecrow, is about to find out more first hand. 

Danny The Intern  T 

Danny decided to intern at Wayne Enterprise. He's always so helpful, and polite, and gets the job done. He gets REALLY confused when his co-workers start acting weird: they would either pull him into another room; or make him do some outlandish task so far away, or a group of people suddenly surround him. It’s as if they are trying to hide him from someone. Meanwhile, there is an unspoken agreement amongst the employees: Rule #4: DO NOT LET ANY WAYNES SEE HIM. Otherwise, they are going to lose their most helpful intern (and hopefully a permanent employee) because of those damn Wayne’s adopting addictions. Though of course, it wasn’t long until they messed up Rule #4. 

Trivia Night  G 

Danny gets a job at some underground bar as one of the tenders there. The problem? He wasn’t informed that Gotham’s most dangerous villains would frequently go out for drinks, using said bar to do so. And naturally, through the power of tired college student and brunt-out hero, he manages to gain favor of all of them. So much so that they begin including him on planning heists, kidnappings, etc 

Just Another ̶L̶A̶ Gotham Devotee~  T 

Danny didn't expect much after leaving Amity and his vigilante career for a job at Wayne Tech R&D. All he wanted was a decent roof over his head, non ecto-contaminated food in his fridge, and maybe to stop getting thrown into buildings so often. Hell, he'd even negotiate that last point if it kept the Bats of his back. Unfortunately, fate has never been kind. Ancients, he needs a vacation. 

Specter Of The Month  T 

Far from Amity and those who'd follow, Danny does the only sensible option to make money and watch over his sister. Apply to become an Arkham Asylum security guard. When breakout rates drop and Penguin's released spouting rumors of a ghost haunting BlackGate, a certain Tim Drake grows curious. 

Gotham's Ghostly Bartender  T 

Danny after revealing to his parents he is Phantom and taking his place as King of the Infinite Realms, decides to try his luck as human opening a nightclub in Gotham. It´s going great until he attracts the attention of the Bats because he can´t help going feral on the Joker everytime he finds him on the city 

Help! My Teacher's A Mad Scientist  NR 

wherein Danny is a metalwork teacher at Gotham academy and ends up subbing for Tim's chemistry class. Measurements are just suggestions. 

Pitch-Dark Shades  T 

Danny Fenton is trying to build a new life in Gotham after closing up the connections to the Ghost Zone. Not that all connections are entirely broken, still being able to perceive shades and give them strength when he connects to one of their prized objects. Tim Drake is trying to find his own place in the world, focusing on becoming a better detective by solving cold cases in his spare time. When Tim and Danny meet, a new (begrudging) partnership starts to bloom to solve even the hardest of cases. Or it would if only they told each other the truth. 

New Job, Who's This?  T 8,000 SERIES 

Danny has an interview with the Engineering Team at Wayne Enterprises. He gets a job, but not where he expected. 

Those Who Serve.  T 

Alfred Pennyworth sees a homeless teen who looks like he'd fit right into the Wayne family and decides to take matters into his own hands. It's not like he's just going to leave this very sad, possibly meta teenager alone when there's more than enough space in the Manor to house one more child in need. 

A Matter Of Opinion  M 13,096 

Jasmine Fenton goes down a different path in her attempt to care for her brother. Unfortunately, she could not stop her parents from taking her brother apart. Now, his core is slowly rebuilding his body from infancy, and someone has to pay for letting the Anti-Ecto Acts exist. When she bites off more than she can chew, she learns how to grow bigger teeth, and hunts down bigger prey. 

The Curious Case Of D. Grayson  T 

Dick Grayson gets a job in Wayne Industries as an electrical engineer, or so is the word. Except it's not Dick who gets the job but Danny Grayson, half ghost and professional disaster. Of course, because nothing is ever easy for Danny, the world mistakes him for the prolific first child of Bruce Wayne and therefore rumours start Dick Grayson got married in secret. What could possibly go wrong, am I right? 

Penny Two  T 6,822 

Alfred decides to hire Danny Fentom as an assistant butler. Bruce is uncertain about having a new person in his house. 

He Can See Ghosts Because He’s A Medium, Obviously  NR SERIES 

But no, what convinced him he’s in a different dimension are the ghosts. They’re nothing like the ghosts from the infinite realms, more like stereotypical ghosts kids who were raised normally believe in. The ones no one can see except in the flickering of lights, something falling when it shouldn’t, a strange noise or even sometimes a shadowy figure. But not for Danny, cause of course he can’t be normal. To him these ghosts look like every other living person around him. Or Danny gets trapped in the DC universe, specifically Gotham, and decides since he can see ghosts here he may as well use it. Or or Danny the medium! 

Ghost In The Morgue  M 

There's something off about the new Medical Examiner for the Gotham City Police Department. Danny Fenton, now working for the G.C.P.D. is good at his job. Very good. His reports are always done promptly and accurately. Scarily accurate. His "unofficial reports" even more so, listing details the medical examiner shouldn't know. He's an oddity, and oddities in Gotham attract Bats. 

Mondays, Am I Right?  T 2,681 SERIES 

There was a long silence. He heard his sister breathe in, breathe out, like she was mentally preparing herself to say something. “I… I heard, from other interns I talked to, that guard positions are always open. And that it’s super easy to get in.” 

Unnerving  T 

There's a new doctor at Arkham Asylum, and with the new doctor came a new security guard. Or, Jazz decided to work in Arkham and now it's everyone's problem. 

Arkham Phantom: The Cryptic Security Guard  NR 

Danny becomes a security guard at Arkham. 

Graveyard Shift  NR 

He moved slowly through the dark hall as the alarms blared and flashed, his eyes cutting through the dark. Where. Where did he go? He pauses at a sound, glancing down the left hall as a masked group crouches and goes still. Not paying them any mind, he pays more attention to the blue smoke that finds its way out his throat, curling around his face before trailing off down the hall. He starts walking again. He has someone to find. With barely a thought he slowly fades from the visible spectrum as he continues down the straight hall. 

Shrike  T 

Danny Fenton starts a new life in Gotham but ghosts keep following him, forcing him to return as Phantom to try and keep them in control. The Bats are trying to hunt down the new meta due to the destruction he causes. In his civilian life, Danny finds himself being questioned about his background and knowledge of technology when he wins a full ride scholarship and fellowship from Wayne Enterprises. Both sides of his life ends crumbling before him. 

DANNY IN GOTHAM 

Wait, I'm A What?  T 

after Clockwork dropped of Danny in Gotham he tries to make the best out of the situation which includes helping out some people. Except along the way that led to rumors that he was an up-and-coming crime boss. A rumor he was largely unaware of. 

Wait! I’m A Cartoon Over Here!?!  T 

A new vigilante group had been working the rounds. Every rogue or villain they came across for the past week got defeated in seconds. Bruce has been aging like a fly due to the stress of trying to catch them. Everyone else wishes to meet and get their autographs. While Damian and Dick can’t figure out why this group's actions, tools, and abilities feel so familiar. That is until Damian gets saved by a teen with snow-white hair and glowing green eyes. Damian just got saved by a cartoon character Dick and he watches regularly. Meanwhile, Danny and the gang got dumped into the DC Universe. They are familiar with the comics, shows, and movies, they know what’s up, and they can survive! They plan not to draw too much attention. Maybe help a person here or there? get an autograph or ten? But, definitely find a way back home.  That plan fails immediately, and now, they’re a vigilante group with a dumb name. But, as long as they stay in the shadows, they should be fine! That all changes when Danny saves Robin and learns something very important yet terrifying. 

Cry Of The Mourning Dove  T   

Danny's made it this far from Amity. An alley way, somewhere in Gotham city. He had a goal, but he's so injured... He's not sure he's gonna find who he needs to find. Red Robin and Red Hood find him first. A kid. Bleeding green. With Bruce Wayne's face. 

Bus To Nowhere  T 

Is it running from your problems if your problems consider you to be a dead imprint of consciousness that killed their son? Yes, but Danny tries not to think about how his nightmares of his parents trying to kill him came true when they found out he was Phantom. After being on the run from his parents and the government for a couple of months, moving from town to town, Danny ends up in Gotham City and decides to risk staying in Batman's territory. He'd take the wrath of Batman over live vivisection via beloved parents or being studied and torn apart by the government. Besides, he's not a meta. Being dead is a medical condition. 

Change In Management  T SERIES 

Desperate for energy to sustain herself and her city, Gotham tries to consume Phantom but loses and instead bequeaths her mantle to him as she destabilizes. This has some interesting consequences as Danny now finds himself inexplicably linked to a crime-ridden city in another dimension. 

In The Dead Of Night  T 

Danny's life has never been normal. One night he is thrust into a situation he never wanted and certainly didn't ask for. Now lost, alone, and injured in an unfamiliar city, he must rely on the help of strangers in the forms of Gotham City's vigilantes, and the family of Bruce Wayne. In order to survive and keep himself out of the hands of an insane cult that is desperately seeking out a power far greater than anyone should have. 

Thirty-Odd Days Of Chasing An Enigma  T 

Danny and the Batfam play hide and seek and tag, all on the palm of Danny's hand, while he tries to gain some much needed balance after a reveal gone bad. 

Anarchic  T 5,585 SERIES 

Danny Fenton is set free on another world, he really should've taken the "No consequences" claim with a pinch of salt 

Hatred At First Sight  G 1,304 

The residence of Gotham were used to rogue attacks and most didn't bat an eye to the extravagance that was the Joker even as everyone watching as he live filmed his assault on the bank in a numb kind of horror that you could only acquire through exposure. He was holding a bunch of hostages, asking the watchers what he should do with them with a wide unhinged smile and maliciously gleeful eyes that watched his many victims squirm in terror. Until he looked at the skrunky kid in a ratty hoodie that looked like he could be a Wayne adoptee. And both froze for a good minute. And like some kind of demented switch got flipped the kid snarled and (still with his hands tied behind his back mind you) launched himself at the Joker. 

Danny's Guide To Not Dying Alone On The Street  G 

After his parents chase him out of the city, Danny finds his way to Gotham to stay out of the eye of the GIW or any other ghost hunters who might be interested in him. After he accidentally shows his powers in a very public setting, can he avoid the ghosts of his past and the ever-increasing number of Gotham Vigilantes interested in him? 

Run Ghost Run  NR 

Danny escaped from the GIW and his parents, but he had to keep running. If those in the infinite realm found out what happened war would happen. Clockwork said to follow the birds and bats whatever that means. For now, he would just hide in Gotham. No one would look for him there. 

Gotham's Haunted  G 

Five times Danny Surprised a Batkid and that one time he was forcefully adopted by Bruce Wayne. 

No Laughing Matter  NR 

Danny kills the Joker, not knowing of the kill switch set to release Joker gas the moment Jokers heart stops beating 

Taking Flight  T 

Danny decides to tell his parents the truth. It doesn't go so hot. Fleeing Amity Park for his life he decides Gotham is the best place to fall through the cracks. Sadly as a black-haired blue-eyed teen with a strong sense of morality the adoption papers were half filled out. Unfortunately for Bruce, Danny has a thing about rich guys with secret identities who want to adopt him. 

Death Is Not The Enemy  T 

Danny gets summoned into a new universe, makes some friends, becomes part of the most powerful vigilante clan ever, punches a bunch of satanists, finds the meaning of family and gets a chance at dreaming big. Definitely not in that order 

Concession To Realism  G 

Clockwork sends Danny to a universe where he'll be safe until he can take up the mantle of Ghost King, a dimension far away from the Fentons and other ghost hunters. Danny is less than thrilled, especially when he starts developing a soft spot for some local bats. 

And So It Ghost   T 65,805 SERIES 

When Danny Fenton is invited to a Technology Fair in Gotham he hopes it will help open doors to a good college. What he doesn't expect is an attack by a technology obsessed ghost, or a visit from the Batman himself. Can Danny keep his identity a secret while also scoring a spot at Gotham University? Or will everything come crashing down around his ears like usual? 

MISC 

A Vigilante A Day Keeps The Government Away  M 11,158 

Lucius Fox gets a phone call he'd never expected from a source even more unexpected. Now, he's got to figure out what to do with a betrayed child, a traumatized nephew, a protective son, and an adoption-prone Bat. 

I Can Be Both Even If It's Hard (And It's Hard)  G 52,999 SERIES 

Sam and Tucker ran to get Jazz and didn't see Danny come out of the portal. By the time they return Danny has transformed back. This changes things. 

-=INSERT TERM=-  T 

“It's probably just identity theft” Tim looked up from his laptop in the corner as he said it, a courtesy Jason didn't return. “Maybe” he sighed, reading through the document in front of him again. Apparently a kid had cashed in his government trust fund, two years after his death. “I don't know why you care” Tim continued, returning to his screen. Originally Jason hadden’t, had even been offended when Bruce handed him the file with instructions to ‘look into this’. However, the more he did look into it, the more he realised this wasn’t really about the trust fund at all. 

Dull Residue Of What Once Was (A Shattered Cloud Of Swirling Doves)  T SERIES 

Danny didn't expect to become Ghost King. He definitely didn't expect or want to become a target for summoning because of it. He's pretty annoyed at this point. But hey, at least he gets to meet some of his favorite heroes! The Batclan meets King Phantom. It's very alarming. 

Of Course It's A Cult  T 2,696 SERIES 

Danny did not sign up for kingship. Nor did he sign up for random summons by crazy cult people. Fortunately, the sacrifices for this one are still alive and are slightly familiar. 

The Historian  NR SERIES 

I have even documented some stories claiming that the Bat is a living person. Of course, these claims are preposterous and should be immediately discounted. What living person would willingly choose to dress as a bat to fight crime? 

Dead Men Don't Bleed  M 

Dead men don't bleed. When the body begins to break down, the blood settles and congeals in the veins, clotting and preventing them from being able to bleed like the living. This, of course, isn't an issue, so long as your corpse stays dead. 

Tape 01  NR 

Daniel "Danny" James Fenton wasn't just a normal young adult and while everyone seemed to accept this fact, nobody was able to understand it. That's the point, where all his problems started to evolve into something much bigger. So nobody noticed when he disappeared... 

When The Clown No Longer Laughed  M SERIES 

Things have been going well for Arkham Asylum. There haven't been any breakouts in a while, a new team of Psychologists are starting to make a breakthrough with the residents, and Gotham is starting to heal. But with the recent suicide of one Mr. Freeze, Batman decides to look into what is happening in Arkham Asylum. Dr. Penelope Spectra talks about the good she is doing for the inmates, and how they are finally being rehabilitated. But Batman knew something was deeply wrong. When the Clown no longer laughed. 

Time Traveler Code  G 1,486 

Danny has to (re)introduce himself to Batman and his family after meeting them in the alternate Dan future. He has a few other big pieces of information to break to them, too 

[frogthane]

I’ve got some thoughts on Mouthwashing. Unsurprising, really. The developer did an excellent job with the unique style of the game as well as its themes (shoutout Wrong Organ!). Anywho, I wanted to focus on everyone’s struggles and how they all remain so human despite what circumstances threw their way. Except Jimmy. Fuck you, you were a monster before the ship crashed.

Daisuke is a sweet kid, still struggling to figure out what path he should head down and feeling the pressure from his parents. Despite his internal struggle, he’s still hardworking at everything he tries, even if he may not be the best at it, and naturally brightens those around him. During the rough months that followed the crash, leading to his easily avoidable death, he may have gotten sucked into the mouthwash, but he still cared for his crew mates and tried his best.

Swansea. A man dragged back to his addiction in trying times, sucked to the bottom of a bottle. Swansea had known difficult times before boarding the ship. He’s been an alcoholic, but turned his life around to become a better father and play into the world’s capitalistic tendencies. And yet, he still thinks back on his days blackout drunk as the best days of his life. He knew what his greatest problem was. Now, there was a role he was meant to follow along with the rest of society. Get a job. Have a family. Pay your taxes. Work diligently until retirement. His days of alcoholism were controlled by the drink. The days that followed were controlled by a government that couldn’t give less of a shit about him as an individual. So yes, he was bitter. He noticed the cogs of the world and became a grumpy old man. But, he was made more human when working with Daisuke. He still saw the innocence within the boy, the innocence he once possessed before descending down a cold endless road. He could be condescending at times, but I sort of interpreted their relationship as found family. Swansea took Daisuke under his wing and guided him through the work, protected him from danger. Until he witnessed innocence stolen once more, and from there, there was no going back. The cryopod he had so desperately been saving for this young boy was a waste, he had to spare Daisuke from agony and end it then and there, and he turned his rage on the one that took it all.

Anya. A poor girl who struggled in med school, now scared of the place she had come to consider her new home and family. “I have to believe that our worst moments don’t make us monsters, Jim.” “Why does the infirmary have locks but not our sleeping quarters?” A girl also stripped of her innocence by the very same man responsible for Daisuke’s demise. Alone in her quarters, no one heard her pleas for help when someone slipped into her room. No one listened to her pleas when she confessed to the captain she was pregnant. And no one understood the danger she tried to protect them all from by hiding the gun. She was all alone aboard that shop, despite being surrounded by people. Despite her attacker’s attempts to diminish her abilities as inferior, Anya was capable. She single handed lay kept the captain alive in unsanitary conditions, with few supplies and a stressful environment. She knew that even if she ever did get off this ship, her life was over. It would have been difficult enough finding another job with her education, but now she would have a child to look after too with critique from the media. Through it all, Anya did what she thought was necessary.

Curly. Captain Curly. The alleged perpetrator of crashing the ship into a meteor. Of all his flaws and faults, this was the one action he was innocent of. This doesn’t make him a nice guy. He may have seemed like a jolly fellow, solely interested in holding his crew together and making the best of their life, but to do so, he believed he first had to ignore the negative. So no, his friend wasn’t a bad guy, he just made a mistake, but he could talk this out, figure out what really happened, because they’d been together for a while, and so he would listen. Curly had his chance to take action. He could have eased Anya’s worries and reprimanded his friend, taken action to make sure he’d stay far away from Anya. He could have prevented this crash and done something when his friend said, “I’ll take care of it.” His end was fitting. Stuck on a table, watching his crew fall apart. He had his chance to take action, and so now he would see what it was to be truly incapable.

Jimmy. Friend. Team member. Copilot. Rap*st. Crasher. Liar. Coward. Murderer. But certainly not a hero, no matter what end he desired. He was the catalyst for it all. Jimmy urged Daisuke to crawl through that vent. Jimmy drove Anya to commit suic*de. Jimmy shot Swansea in the head. But hey, at least he took responsibility, right? He stepped up, led the crew, found codes, obtained medical supplies, kept the peace. As long as he took responsibility, right? He oh so bravely sacrificed himself and saved Curly, dying as a hero. Sorry. He uttered those words to one being, and you know who it was? A fucking pony. He views Swansea as the drunk, Daisuke as a worthless kid, Anya as an inferior being, Curly as someone he’s placed on a pedestal, a god. And only he and Curly can fix this now. Take responsibility.

It’s a devastating story about how a situation can introduce an individual’s demons. And I can’t help but feel bad for Swansea and Daisuke, two members who just happened to be on the ship when the other three became involved in a horrible situation (I say became involved in instead of cause because Anya is a victim and in no way caused any of it by speaking up). The wails of Anya’s unborn infant that rang through the halls as the ship first collided at the beginning will continue ringing through my ears for a little while, and I will not soon forget this game.

[letmesleep8]

the fucking punchline // elliexreader

CHAPTER 1: White Carnations

Ao3

content warnings/tags: drug usage (weed), implied daddy issues

notes: hello lesbians! this is my second ever fanfiction here on tumblr, quick reminder: i didn't drop the other one. this is kinda slowburn and also kinda daisy jones & the six inspired, so if you like that book you might like this too. i'll always link up the songs I used in the story at the end of the chapter. hope you enjoy. <3

taglist: @lorelaihehe @lonelyfooryouonly

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────••─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────••─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

September 09th, 2023 

Time shakes, found you at the water 

At first you were a problem my father, now I love you like a father a brother

Earthquakes shake the dust behind you

This world at times will blind you

Still I know I’ll see you there

The calloused, ink stained hands scribbled on a sketchbook, next to a drawing of what seemed to be a wolf. On the same page, Ecology notes got lost between chord progressions and two-sentence long lyrics. Near the margin, a quick but precise drawing of Dina’s eyes. 

Ellie was sitting in the corner of her Organic Chemistry lecture at Jackson’s Community College, hiding her freckled body under a gray sweatshirt and her sleepy eyes behind overgrown face-framing bangs. As the professor finally called the class off, she got up from her seat, walking to her visibly well loved truck, its blue paint holding scratches and slight dents, clearly faded from the sun

I sat on my window as I watched her old truck drive by, as loud as always. I was waiting for my nails to dry, afraid that the maroon polish would stick to everything if I didn’t have the  patience to let it take its sweet time. She got off her truck and stepped on her cigarette before  going through the front door. 

I had met Jesse a few weeks earlier, it was karaoke night at the bar. I managed to get a few drinks from the old creeps there and was already feeling a bit too “happy” when I stepped onto the improvised stage we had set up and gave that bikers’ bar the best drunk performance of “Hopelessly Devoted to You” they had ever seen. 

I have always loved to sing. Writing, playing  the  guitar, putting up concerts for my family in my living room. Music is my soul. But I’ve come from a reality where art wasn’t an option, being an artist would not pay my rent, nor would it show to my  parents that I wasn’t a complete disaster. So I worked as a waitress and saved up  to  the last cent of any tips I would get, only spending enough to pay my parents my contribution to what they spent so I  could go to cosmetology school

After I finished my fifteen minutes of fame, I went back to the cold reality and started cleaning up some tables. That was when Jesse came up to me, drunk and full of compliments to give. He had a girl beside him, Dina. He started rambling about his band and how they’re so good that they even do weddings, and then he asked me if I had ever auditioned for a singing  gig  at all. I was full of confidence and whisky, so I gave him my number when he said they could  use another vocalist

The next morning I had basically forgotten about my new deal, and I figured he would have forgotten about it  too. But I was wrong. The boy did not forget about it, in fact, he kept calling me to schedule my “audition”. So I finally gave in. I grabbed my guitar case and started walking to the address he gave me. It was just down the street from my house, at  the Miller’s. I held the case on my shoulder and walked towards the open garage door. There were Dina, Jesse and the girl I had only seen from my window every now and then. 

– You actually came! – Jesse got up from his seat, walking his way to me. – Oh, you play the guitar  too? Damn, Williams, found someone else to do your work. – He joked and the girl gave him an annoyed look, sitting comfortably on the old chair inside the garage. I couldn’t help but observe how her thighs set apart from each other and her head was thrown back mindlessly. 

– So, are you gonna show me what you’re all about? You seem to have really impressed the other two. – She gestured for me to sit on a stool, her voice was, honestly, cold but not in an unfriendly way. She seemed nonchalant, but not distant. Her green eyes had the warmth her mouth seemed to lack and her face was strangely expressive, like someone who had spent their developing  years in front of the tv instead of talking to people, but it complemented her sharp voice just perfectly. 

– This is a song I wrote a few weeks ago. It’s not finished yet, but I think it’s fine. – I spoke as I tuned in the guitar while keeping my eyes mostly on the girl, who seemed to be paying close attention to me and, at the same time, seemed to disdain me. 

She analyzed my every move as I started singing. I could see some curiosity peeking through her eyes when I began performing the first verse. 

“She's asleep in the backseat

 Looking peaceful enough to me

 But she's wakin' up inside a dream

 Full of screeching tires and fire”

I played the chords and kept singing the words, trying to mask the knot on my throat. “Emily, I’m sorry, baby / You know how I get when I’m wrong” I tried to keep my voice from shaking;  not because of the lyrics, I haven’t talked to Emily since 8th grade and, honestly, I just think it’s a beautiful name. I wanted to cry because I felt anxious. Turns out it hurts more to overcome your fears when your blood is not 50% whisky.

It was as if I could listen to my  father screaming from a distance: “you are a waste of time!” Suddenly, it was like I could slowly feel my blood going through my veins all throughout my body, sliding like raindrops on a window. I was feeling overwhelmed, the song felt never ending and I was sure that I had gotten at least 30% of all the notes wrong. I didn’t realize how much I wanted this, how much I craved for a chance to showcase my songs, a chance to pretend that my dreams were possible. And in my head, it was all over, until I heard Ellie’s voice from across the room.

– Sounds good to me. – She shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows. – If you two think she’s good then she’s good and she’s in. I’d be the odd one out anyway. Dina flashed me a warm smile and gave me a side hug.

– Welcome to the band! – She nudges my arm.

– Rehearsal every Sunday, Wednesday and Thursday from 3 to 5 pm. – Jesse smiled from the worn out couch he was lazily lying on. 

We decided to spend the rest of the afternoon getting to know each other better. Dina talked about some songs she would like to perform at their next weddings, Jesse laid back on the couch and played with the drum sticks. The band had some work of their own, but not many since Ellie was basically the only one who was more interested in writing than playing covers. 

– Hey – I was sitting on the floor and scrolling on my phone, Ellie scooted closer to me, brushing her jeans against my knee. – D’you write that song by yourself? The “Emily” one and shit? 

– It’s called “Emily, I’m sorry”. – I chuckled, nodding. – Yeah, I did. I actually write a lot of songs. Why?

She reached out for her sketchbook inside of her forest green backpack, I couldn’t help but notice how it matches her eyes almost too perfectly. She flipped the yellow pages  until she found a small verse of lyrics to show me. I wasn’t really used to showing unfinished lyrics to people but I grabbed the small handbook in my pocket.

Do you understand the things that you’ve been seeing?

Do you  understand the things that you’ve been dreaming?

Come a little closer, then you’ll see

– I woke up in the middle of the night last week and wrote this down on my phone. Do you think it could perhaps work with the melody you wrote? 

– Well, actually… – She scratched the back of her head and looked up. 

– You haven’t thought of a melody yet, have you? – I smirked.

– No, no, of course I have, I just… – She stuttered. – It just needs a bit of… refining.

– Refining, huh? – I chuckled.

Jesse told Dina he was bored and, with a smirk, they both decided it was time to go watch a movie at his house. I was ready  to take my things and leave too, but Ellie stopped me.

– Hey, wait! – She called for me. – Do you want to work on the song? I mean, I ain’t got no professional studio but we could make it work with what I  have. The others don’t really like to write and shit, I was thinking maybe we could give that one a try.

– Oh, sure. – I smiled softly. 

She closed the garage door, giving us some more privacy. Ellie reached for the laptop on a tools table, it was plugged into a reasonably nice mic, she must have saved up for ages to buy it. She also got an electric guitar out of the case and started to tune it. With my acoustic guitar, I started humming a few different generic melodies that came to my head, until Ellie liked one and decided to try to follow it with her guitar. We stayed there for a while.

– Do you like it that way? I don’t think it’s working out well enough. 

I scratched the back of my head, my eyes narrowed. I rubbed my hands over my face. 

– I don’t know, I'm just having trouble locking in, I guess. We could give up for now, if  you want. 

– I know something that could help, if you’re up for it. – She smirked slightly. Maybe I was overthinking it, but I could swear I saw her eyes wander to my mouth. – I  mean, if you’re even a smoker, of course. 

– Oh. – I fell into reality and felt stupid. – Oh yeah, sure, I- I mean, we could try. Cool.

She got up and gestured to me to follow, I put the guitar on the case and took it with us. We exited the garage through a small door that led to the kitchen. Her house was messy enough to be acknowledged as a college student’s but it was furnished like some kind of family had once lived in that space

She led me up the stairs, into her room. I shyly sat on the edge of her bed and she got some weed and some silk out of her bedside table. She started rolling it up and I watched as she licked it together in record time, I would be lying to say I wasn’t impressed. A simple lighter came out of her pocket and she took a long hit before passing it over to me. I brought both the blunt and her gaze up to my lips, taking a drag not as experienced as hers. It wasn’t  my  first time smoking but I was scared to bite more than I could chew, for some reason.

– So, are you from around town? Never seen you around. –  She was trying to break the ice. I got up from her bed and walked towards her window, she was quick to follow after me. 

– Right there. – I pointed to the other side of the street, about three or four houses over. She seemed surprised. 

– Really?! – She spoke, surprised. –  I thought that was where the annoying lady from the Neighborhood Association lived. The one that’s always telling people to speed down and shit.

– Yeah, that’s my mom. – I laughed as I watched her cheeks  grow a bright red, her eyes trying to look anywhere but mine. – It’s okay, she really is annoying. She does that to me too and I’m her own daughter. – I sat on her windowsill, taking another drag of the joint. She joined me, sitting by my side. 

– I mean, she never complained about the noise during the band’s practice sessions. Gotta give her that, though. 

I laughed and she took the weed back. 

– She can be a bit mean but she is a music lover, after all. Maybe you’ve found her soft spot with that one. 

– Aw shit, gonna have to give her tickets to our next underground-bar concert. 

We both laughed at the idea of my mom at one of our shows. 

– Gonna make sure to tell her to look out for it. – That was when I realized I hadn’t asked a really important question. – What’s the band’s name anyway?

– White Carnations. – Ellie took another hit, blowing the smoke outside and passing it to me.

– White Carnations… – I breathed out the smoke. – I like it. Any particular reason for the name? 

– I don’t know. – She shrugged her shoulders. – Sounded good, I guess. – She was clearly lying, but I didn’t want to push her too hard so I changed the subject. 

I went back to playing some chords on the guitar and we were lost in a comfortable silence, until I had an idea. I started humming something along the lines of: “Ten thousand people stand alone now / And in the evening the sun sank, tomorrow it will rise / Time flies by, they all sing along”, repeating the last line over and over until Ellie started singing it too. At some point she simply changed it to “time flies, bye-bye” and I absolutely loved it. It sounded like something you’d point the mic at people so they could scream at a concert

Only then I realized my bare feet were in her lap, like we had been the closest of friends for ages and not distant neighbors that only now realized that each other existed. Her tattooed hand rested on top of my ankles and her hazy eyes and smile seemed as familiar as my mirror. That evening we wrote the entirety of ‘Come A Little Closer” while sitting on her bedroom window, then ate a bunch of chocolate covered ice cream bites.

[eluxcastar]

For the whole dottore basically adopting the reader, what would he do if reader got sick? And would reader call him dad, dottore or zandik?

Dadtore with his sick child

── ୨୧：il dottore & reader

୨୧﹑synopsis :: more dadtore but with germs this time (the first germs)

୨୧﹑genre :: fluff

୨୧﹑content :: gn reader, child reader, not proofread, also written at one am I'll edit in the morning 😭

୨୧﹑words :: 700

originally this was gonna be another ramble but I was like this could be cute let's write it. as for the name I actually have no idea largely because when I wrote child reader last time I wrote them intentionally without dialogue so I actually didn't even consider it but Dad feels like a very down the road choice

Zandik feels more familiar than Dottore but whether he'd want a kid running around calling him that to everyone is a different question. I think there's a definite Dottore to Dad pipeline

Perhaps you managed, no thanks to your infinite curiosity, to get into the things he'd tried to keep you from. Dottore thought he'd done everything he could possibly do, but children find a way. When you wake up in the middle of the night to him still up and about, he's surprised to find you look barely awake, unsurprising on its own, but you are unsteady and warm to the touch.

That's not good. You've never been sick before. Dottore pauses, hand practically glued to you as he tries to think of what to do. Should he run you a cold bath? Maybe he should leave you or warm you up more so that you can sweat it out easily. He's not even sure what's wrong with you yet.

You're sleepy, it seems, as you're passed out in Dottore's arms before he can even carry you back to your makeshift bed, breath softening against his skin as your head rests on his shoulder. It's such a natural way for you to settle by now, even after only a few months, that Dottore waits to let go. You feel too warm, too fragile. It is the polar opposite of how cold you were when he found you.

He sets you back in your spot on the couch and wraps your blankets tightly around you. Your face is flushed, and you still look far too addled.

Rest and a lot to drink are enough, but they certainly don't feel like enough as Dottore stares down at you, all curled up amongst your blankets. More than ever, you look like a pathetic newborn kitten stumbling about and too small to do anything but sleep and blink with great effort. It's all in an endearing way. Dottore can't have you dying on him, especially not to a fever, but there's little he can actually do to help you and little that says he should be. Fevers are the kind of thing you have to sweat out, often because they're fighting something else. Dottore knows that well.

"Did you touch anything you weren't supposed to?" he asks. Dottore doesn't recall a time at which you went poking around with a dedication to finding anything or that you didn't cut it out the moment he scolded you.

You slowly shake your head as you register his question. It reassures him, seeing as he can't find a reason to doubt that. You've had very few problems with honesty before today. You're trustworthy enough not to interrogate you.

"Then you got it from someone else," he concludes. "You're not uncomfortable?"

Again, you shake your head once the question sets in. That's the best you'll get as you are. Whatever this fever is trying to fight off is not something you found in a petri dish and probably came from your disagreeable habit of being far too welcoming to strangers in the lab. If nothing else, he can find comfort in the fact he won't spend the next few hours worrying if you've contracted a deadly disease or greatly repel properties of the abyss. You're still very safe right here where he's able to watch over you.

Dottore takes a moment to lay you down, a vaguely tender show of practically pushing you over as you've dozed off to sleep again in the time it takes him to act. Dottore collects the mess of blankets around you and pulls them over you, opting to keep you from getting cold unless you get worse or throw them off in your sleep. He finds his overcoat bunched at your feet and drapes that on top of the blankets too, your favourite item of comfort and what keeps you most warm.

Dottore sits beside you in the tiny space between your feet and the edge of the couch. There is just enough room for him. His hand rests against your leg as he waits, watching your chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. He is pleased to see you sleep well despite the circumstances.

That coat had once been wrapped around you, cold and shivering, and it engulfed you with fabric to spare. Dottore doesn't mind sharing it with you now.

[dullgecko]

So this might be a bit different than what I usually send, but riz is having a very bad morning -------

ok so...the day didn't even start out too bad, sure I slept in, meaning I was late to school and in my rush to get ready of course I split the last of the coffee on me which ment I had to change once again and as I was leaving its just perfect that my crystal apparently didn't charge the night before so I would have to charge it at school and to top it all off I swear something had been watching me since I left the apartment today and if that wasn't bad enough somehow on my way to school I ended up in the fae wilds so no you can't have my name I don't really care what your problems are I just need to get back before my friends realize I might have been kidnapped or my mom does

Riz groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face as he pushed himself out of bed and tried to wake up properly. He felt groggy, like he'd slept in for WAY too long which honestly made sense. He'd laid down at about 10pm the night before, and there was sunlight coming in from his window so he'd have to have slept at LEAST a full eight hours. His alarm hadn't gone off though so he stretched lazily, joints in his back popping as he glanced over at the analogue alarm clock he kept next to his bed and froze.

Oh.

Shit.

It was nearly 8am.

In his scramble to get out of bed Riz got his leg tangled in the sheets, the goblin landing with a thud on the floor and groaning as it dinked a decent chunk of health off of him. If that wasn't a critical failure on his dexterity nothing was. He flailed about for a bit, managing to get free (and ripping his sheets in the process with his claws) and dashing to the bathroom to get cleaned up and dressed so he could go to school.

The water in the shower was FREEZING, meaning the buildings hot water heater was probably busted again but that was normal so he didn't think anything of it. At least he managed to get dressed without much of an issue, hopping on one foot as he shoved his shoe on on the way to the kitchen to make a quick coffee and chug it before heading out the door. At least he'd made it a little bit colder than he'd like so he could drink it quickly, saving himself from a nasty burn when he lifted it to his mouth, took a sip... and the handle promptly cracked off the old coffee mug and dropped the whole thing to the floor with a crash.

He was covered in coffee. The cabinets were covered in coffee. The floor was covered in coffee and ceramic shards. Riz made a gutteral sound of annoyance at that, swearing in Ghukliac as he threw the broken handle with a LITTLE too much force into the sink, it ricocheted off the sides, and pinged back to nail him directly in the forehead (already bruised from its sudden impact with the floor when he got out of bed).

"FUCK!"

Riz snarled at nothing in particular, crouching to start picking up shards of broken coffee mug so he could clean up the spill before having ANOTHER shower and getting changed. There was no helping it now, he was OFFICIALLY going to be late to school no matter what he did.... hopefully the TA for his rogue class would just think he was extra well hidden today.

After cleaning up the kitchen, having another freezing cold shower, throwing his coffee-spilled clothes in a bucket with detergent to soak and getting changed he was FINALLY ready to get out the door. Making sure he had all his things (vest, arcubus, sword, crystal, briefcase) he took three steps down the corridor, blinked, and realised everything was WAY too bright. The goblin turning back around with a huff to go retrieve his light-blocking glasses from his bedside table before dashing out the door properly at a brisk jog.

It was okay, he told himself, if he got the next bus he'd only be.... thirty minutes late for school. Its FINE he'd be able to sneak in no problem, pretend he was there the whole time and no one would even question it. He made it to the bus stop about two minutes before the bus would arrive, pulling out his crystal to text his friends to let them know where he was while he waited he hit the power button on the side and watched as the screen came on... for two seconds, flashed a low battery warning at him and then promptly switched off.

Okay now this was just getting ridiculous.

He shoved it back into his pocket with an annoyed huff, very suddenly feeling like he was being watched as the hair prickled on the back of his neck. His perception was high enough that he was usually correct when he had feelings like this, the rogue wheeling around to where he felt the watching eyes were and finding only an empty field. Riz was so busy scanning and looking for his hidden observer that the bus blew past the stop without slowing down, the goblin jumping in surprise as the wind whooshed past behind him and having to watch as it turned the corner down the street.

Riz grit his teeth, taking a calming breath as he looked at the bus schedule posted on the wall of the little shelter and realised the next one wouldnt be here for another three hours... he could WALK to school faster than that. Well, might as well try. If he cut across the field and through the wooded area beyond he SHOULD pop out near the Clearbrook estate, then it would only be a twenty minute walk across the bridge and to the school rather than the hour it would take going past Fabians house.

He started walking, keeping up a decently brisk pace as he made it to the trees and started heading towards the road on the other side. The only problem was he'd definitely been walking for at least thirty minutes now according to his watch and he STILL couldnt see the road... he also couldn't see the field he'd come from which was concerning. This wooded patch wasn't even that wide.

Riz stopped, ears perking up as he turned slowly in place and tried to work out where the fuck he was. Jumping a clear four feet in the air when something own near his ankles cleared its throat and spoke to him in a clear, loud voice.

"Greetings Detective, I am glad you have made it here unharmed for we require your help... may we have your name?"

The rogue blinked, then blinked again as a tiny clearly fae spirit no taller than his knees (and wasnt that saying something considering how small HE was) looked up at him. "Um... no. No you may NOT have my name. You can call me Detective though thats fine.... but I really don't have time to help I'm late for class already."

He pointed back in the direction he'd come, taking a few steps that way as he called over his shoulder. "I'm just going to head back this way before someone notices I'm gone and think's I've been kidnapped. Bye."

"We're terribly sorry Detective but you won't be able to leave until you help us, the spell we set has already seen to that."

Riz stopped mid step, crouching down to hang his head despondantly between his knees and flick his tail backwards and forwards behind him. Okay. With the way his morning has being going so far that totally tracks.

He took a deep breath to steel himself (or maybe to prepare himself to scream he wasn't quite sure) before standing back up again. Ears dropped in resignation as he rubbed both hands over his face before dropping them to hang limp at his side.

"Alright fine, but once I'm done helping you have to PROMISE to send me back home TO THE EXACT DAY I LEFT LET ME BE CLEAR. Understand?"

[judyprincess]

Too Pink for me- Logan Howlett +18

02: The Wolf and the Rabbit

Paintings were never really loved for what they were.

People admired the beauty, the reflection of the artist's imagination captured on the canvas.

But could anyone truly love a painting by seeing beyond its surface, embracing only its meaning?

When has anyone ever appreciated a painting while being fully aware of the story it really tells?

A sea of praise, received by those who simply admired the artist's skillful creation.

________________________________________

Leaving the ancient lands of Europe behind and drawing closer to the vast American landscape, we find ourselves in Westchester County, New York. Unlike the beautiful Venice, cradled by the sea, Westchester was a colder place, embraced by forests.

Away from the bustling city, nestled within the woods, stood the X-Mansion, a classical structure amidst the modern cities of the United States. Majestic in its presence, this grand building, now a school, was reminiscent of the old European buildings, known for their classical architecture, fit for kings.

The view was breathtaking for the young Italian, who anxiously moved her legs beneath the soft fabric of her floral dress. She could feel the cold seeing through the structure of the Jet-X, an electrifying sensation that reminded her she was no longer in warm, sunlit Venice. Everything about this journey thrilled her, and through the material of the vehicle, she could already see the mansion in the distance, making her even more nervous. Her lips stretched into an eager smile, while her hands gently traced her thighs in a nervous gesture.

Calm down, calm down, Rosellina. You must make a good impression.

The artist reminded herself. Although she knew she rarely needed words to charm others.

"One step at a time, one hope, then another," she whispered to herself, as if it were a mantra.

Ororo, from the pilot's seat, heard Rosellina's voice although she couldn't make out the words from afar, and simply smiled with amusement. She knew the girl was nervous.

"You haven't slept at all," Ororo remarked, referencing the advice she had given Rosellina a few hours earlier. Rosellina lifted her head and laughed nervously, nodding. She remembered how Ororo had suggested she sleep, as it would be a long journey, but her nerves and the anticipation of this new chapter in her life had kept her wide awake.

"Don't worry, no one there bites," Jean assured with a smile.

Ororo glanced sideways at Jean, though a particular individual was on her mind-someone who should keep his thoughts private and often blurred them out impulsively.

"Well, not all of them," Ororo murmured under her breath, reminding herself that she would need to have a word with that person upon Rosellina's arrival.

More than a person, Ororo had in mind a man whose behavior often bordered on the animalistic.

And there he was, pacing around the mansion, trying to stave off his boredom.

Logan.

Logan Howlett, the infamous Wolverine. A man who was blunt, stoic, with more than a few anger issues, doing what he wanted, when he wanted. He was highly allergic to what others thought of him, indifferent to whether his actions were right or wrong in their eyes. A man with nearly two centuries of life behind him, far from being a model human being, and certainly no friend of polite conversation.

Logan hated many things, and his list was longer than any spoiled child's Christmas wishlist. Not to mention, humanity itself disgusted him. His happiness was rooted in smoking and drinking. He smoked like a poor devil with a serious nicotine problem-more smoke billowed from his mouth than from a chimney in winter. He drank so much that it was common for his natural scent to be a mix of alcohol, sweat, and a hint of something that could only be described as the essence of the woods.

Among the things he despised was being treated like a babysitter. This was a frequent occurrence at the mansion-getting stuck playing nanny while the rest of the team went off on small missions, usually involving tracking down mutants causing chaos or responding to what Charles pinpointed through Cerebro.

Charles had been urging him to become a teacher at the school, but Logan had no patience for dealing with kids. He'd probably throw them out the window before listening to a single complaint, so he refused to take on a role he couldn't picture himself doing. He was a bitter soldier, not someone interested in raising other people's children.

Yet, that didn't spare him from being a substitute teacher or a frequent assistant in simulations, or from playing nanny when everyone else was out and he wasn't included in the mission, thanks to Scott's kind remarks about his impulsive nature.

Frustrated, Logan leaned against the wall near the front door, arms crossed. Being idle while the others taught, and having the displeasure of seeing Scott in the hallway from time to time, didn't help his mood. Logan and Scott's relationship had deteriorated further from the rocky start it had when Logan was marked as the sole culprit for the flirtations between him and Jean, Scott's girlfriend.

It had worn him down-the mixed signals from Jean, as if she both wanted and didn't want him, and how Logan was always the one to lose out in the end. Despite the bitter taste Jean left, it was the same feeling he got from whiskey when he drank it. Bitter and burning, searing his throat, hard to swallow, yet creating an inexplicable addiction within him.

An addiction that was clearly unhealthy. Toxic, both physically and mentally.

And like the taste of whiskey, the Canadian found himself submerged in Jean's essence. He recalled her particular scent, and those eyes that often looked at him with a teasing glint-it was intoxicating. I have longed to see her once more.

Though, of course, he had no idea where the hell she had gone. He only knew from Bobby, who seemed to keep tabs on everything happening at the school, that they had gone to Italy. What were they doing in Italy? They'd been gone for two days now, and he was smoking more than usual due to the anxiety.

"You're going to have a meltdown, Logan," Logan was slightly startled and turned to see Rogue, the one that couldn't touch anyone with her bare hands.

"I don't know what you're talking about, kid," Logan replied indifferently, as if Rogue wasn't the person who knew him best around here.

"Yeah, well, lying isn't your strong suit, you know," she said with a little laugh, leaning against the wall beside him.

"That's because I don't care to lie, so I'm not doing it now," I responded.

Lies upon lies. Yes, he was lying to himself more than to Rogue.

"Well, if you say so, I'm not going to question the babysitter," Rogue teased him lightly.

Logan raised an eyebrow at her before turning back to the door, his lips curling into a slight smile.

Like a dog that had just heard his master's keys jingling from a block away, Logan pushed himself off the wall when his sharp ears detected the sounds of the Jet-X. Rogue looked at him with accusatory eyes, almost mentally shaking her head. She wasn't a big fan of Logan's strange fixation on Jean, and seeing him act like this almost made her want to touch Logan with her bare hands just to knock him out for a while so he'd stop acting like a headless chicken whenever he came to the red-haired woman.

The door swing open after a few minutes. Jean and Ororo made sure both sides were fully open so Rosellina could pass through easily when she arrived with her things.

"Logan," Jean said first, finding the tall man standing in front of her, almost as if he had been waiting for her.

"Hey, Jean," Logan replied quietly, almost gently, dropping his usual gruff and indifferent tone for a moment.

Logan met Jean's flirtatious eyes for a moment, and he wondered, did she do it on purpose, or was it just her natural state? Because it seemed only he ever fell prey to that doe-eyed look of hers.

Ororo cleared her throat, suppressing a sigh at the all-too-familiar scene. Her words were more than just unheard by Logan's rather sharp ears.

"Hello to you too, Logan," Ororo greeted, as always, remaining in the background.

She glanced at Rogue, who was watching Logan with slightly accusatory eyes.

"Ah, Rogue, I'm glad you're here. We've brought a new companion, a very sweet girl," Ororo said, leaving Logan and Jean in the background, as she often did.

When it came to getting along with the teachers, Rogue couldn't say she liked Jean. She could greet her and be polite, but she harbored no affection for her. Logan was like an older brother to her; he was the one who brought her to this place she now called home and the one she could read on when she needed a shoulder to cry on.

To Rogue, it was clear that Jean had a thing for the bad boy of the school, but to her, that's all Logan was-a man with whom she would only spend one fiery night if she could. Jean's flirting felt like a game that had turned into a daily habit, and Rogue didn't like it one bit. To her, it was the behavior of a two-faced flirt.

Rogue shifted her gaze away from the toxic zone, softening her expression as she smiled at Ororo.

"A new companion?" Rogue looked genuinely excited.

There weren't many girls her age at the school besides Kitty, and the thought of someone close to her age gave her a thrill of excitement.

"You went all the way to Italy for a girl?" Logan asked gruffly, searching for the supposed newcomer.

"Yes, it was a direct favor requested by an old friend of the Professor's," Ororo responded to Logan.

Logan raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Ororo's words. As always, he was left out of the loop in the X-Men's group discussions, or at least unaware of their plans until the last minute, only learning half of what was going on.

He let out a tired, mocking laugh.

"Of course, since you never tell me anything, I was totally up to speed on the situation."

Ororo shot him a look that discreetly said, -Please, behave-.

"We didn't have time to inform you, I'm sorry," Jean offered with a gentle smile.

That look. Logan regulated his breathing and looked away, placing his hands on his hips. Maybe he could always argue with Ororo, but it only took Jean's most logical words for him to drop the conversation and accept it.

"And where's the kid?" he asked, glancing at Ororo.

But his keen sense of smell almost answered his question instantly, ignoring any other noise after he asked. His nostrils filled with a sweet scent, as intoxicating as a field of blooming flowers. Could a perfume ever smell as good as the fragrance he detected? It was as heady as a glass of summer wine.

Logan's eyes shifted toward the door, noticing through the strong sunlight streaming into the mansion a small figure approaching. His eyes widened slightly as he saw the woman, the one who seemed to carry with her the most enchanting fragrance any girl would wish to have in her perfume collection.

Pink hair, fair skin lightly dusted with brown freckles. She was dressed in a floral dress, fitting for a girl who might live far away in the countryside in her own fantasy world.

Rosellina struggled a bit as she dropped her luggage to the floor, almost harshly but unintentionally, her delicate hands barely managing to hold onto it as it nearly slipped from her grip. The sound of the suitcase hitting the mansion's expensive wooden floor echoed. The Italian winced and let out a nervous laugh.

"Sorry, I'm not one of those mutants with extraordinary strength..." she admitted with embarrassment.

After another nervous chuckle, she straightened up and tossed her long hair back with the help of her arm, sighing a bit from the effort. That's when her eyes met Logan's. Rosellina's eyes widened slightly, having to tilt her head up to look at a man who was probably about 190cm tall. His figure was imposing, his features exuding ruggedness, and his body seemed as though it had been sculpted by Michelangelo himself under that shirt, surely. Not to mention her mischievous eyes saw more than they should. He was a man whose masculinity was evident in his aura and posture, staring at her with those piercing eyes.

Rosellina felt exposed under his gaze, as naked as the muses in the paintings of Velázquez or Goya. This man was looking her up and down without shame, without any semblance of manners. A gentleman wouldn't look at a woman so intrusively, at least not in Rosellina's mind. But she could see how his gaze finally settled on her eyes, a rough, fiery eye contact that... made her sense more, something beyond the roughness that this man, with an almost animalistic aura, projected as he looked at her as if she were prey.

Logan, on the other hand, didn't even know where to begin looking once the Italian girl stepped through those doors. His gaze eventually anchored itself to her eyes, as firmly as an anchor buried in the sand, keeping the ship from drifting away. Those emerald eyes, so innocent, so full of life-Jean's gaze had never been so naturally flirtatious, so damnably sweet that it stirred his most primal instincts.

What's wrong with me?

Logan asked himself, unable to tear his eyes away from hers, from that face. This little one had him rooted in place, staring at her like some creepy old fool. He felt like an idiot, unable to say a word at first glance, just staring.

Without a doubt, he'd add this girl to the list of things he hated.

Why?

He hated how she made him feel like a boy standing there, like an animal without reason. That dazzling appearance, so eye-catching. Those intrusive eyes that seemed to want to read his entire being, as if begging to be let in. Everything about her seemed designed to be adorable, to be liked by people, or so it seemed. He wondered if her mutation was driving people mad, and he was close to the mark, though not in that sense.

His gaze hardened in the face of her bright presence, wanting to strip away his senses to rid himself of this weakness toward her appearance.

She's just a damn kid, Logan! For God's sake!

He screamed at himself mentally, wishing she'd stop looking at him like that, so curious, so submissive. As if she were expecting something from him. And he wasn't going to give in, no way.

"Logan?" Logan snapped out of his trance at the sound of Ororo's voice.

The dark-skinned woman had snapped her fingers to get his attention. Logan had shut down his entire system and wasn't aware of any conversation that might have been happening.

"What?" he responded gruffly.

Ororo sighed, not understanding what was going on in his head.

"This is Rosellina. She's been living in Venice all this time. Her father works at the Pentagon," she informed him about the new arrival, hoping for some semblance of politeness from Logan.

Rosellina looked at Logan with those curious eyes. He was an interesting figure, to say the least-she had never encountered such a walking embodiment of masculinity on the streets of Europe. But she had the feeling that this person didn't like her.

"My name is Rosellina Wilson, a pleasure to meet you."

Rosellina was about to step toward him but hesitated. Back in Europe, she would have greeted him with two kisses on the cheek. It was her foreign custom wanting to emerge, but she knew that on this side of the pond, it wasn't appropriate. Besides, even if she stood on tiptoe, she couldn't reach him, nor would she have the courage to do so. Something about his piercing gaze made her legs tremble.

Was it being surrounded by so many warm, good people that made her feel so small? Or was it him?

Logan raised an eyebrow at her foreign accent, a clear sign of her upbringing in Italy, despite her seemingly American roots.

"Logan," he responded curtly. Politeness wasn't accompanying his words today, at least not for her.

Rogue observed the tension between them, suppressing a smile, biting her lips to keep from laughing. She had never seen Logan like this; it piqued her curiosity.

She herself was struck by Rosellina's beauty. The young Italian girl evoked envy and jealousy for her naturally enchanting appearance without even trying. But not in a bad way-there was more a sense of admiration. Plus, the way she made the great Logan react amused her.

Ororo's eyes darted back and forth between Rosellina and Logan, not understanding Logan's sour mood toward the sweet girl. The first thing she asked Logan not to do (be rude) was the first thing he did. The man was absolutely incorrigible.

"Don't look at me like that, Storm. I looked after the brats like you asked."

Logan muttered irritably, pulling out a cigar and lighting it in the middle of the conversation.

Jean watched him, suppressing a small giggle at his behavior. Although she found it curious, at the very least, why Logan was more irritable around Rosellina-he had always seemed protective of Rogue and Kitty.

Ororo, on the other hand, wasn't pleased, deciding to let Logan's attitude slide.

"Oh, thank you for your care, Logan. At least the mansion didn't burn down."

She said, rolling her eyes slightly, while waving a hand in front of her face to avoid the smoke that started billowing from Logan's cigar.

Rosellina wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant smell of smoke, letting out a small cough as the fumes invaded her nostrils without permission. She had never encountered someone so rude and indifferent to the comfort of others around them. She waved her hand in front of her, trying to disperse the smoke, and took a step back on her small heels.

"I believe this is a smoke-free space, Signore. It's a school," Rosellina said in a polite tone, offering a small smile.

"That's not right."

She added, to which Logan raised an eyebrow at her, pulling the cigar from his mouth and letting the smoke drift in another direction. He could hear Ororo trying to suppress a smile.

"Don't lecture me, brat," he warned immediately.

"I'm just advising. There are many children here; you're not setting a good example. Aren't you a teacher?"

Rosellina looked at him curiously, placing her hands behind her back. Logan stood still for a moment, taken aback by how she was trying to "educate" him. The situation was amusing to the others who weren't involved in the conversation. Rogue watched with admiration, thinking, "I like her," since no one usually dared say anything to Logan.

"Besides, I'm not a child; I'm nearly 24 years old," she corrected him with a sweet smile.

Logan stared at her as she smiled sweetly, like a little angel who would never harm a fly. Knowing he was the target of the moment's mockery didn't sit well with him. Logan took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, avoiding an outburst.

This little girl had the knack for making him angry without even trying, not to mention the audacity to keep trying to school him.

"Listen, Pinky. I don't care if you're 24 or 30. I'm nearly 200 years old, and to me, you'll always be an utterly impertinent brat," he said, not bothering to hide the disdain in his tone.

Rosellina was stunned by the first revelation-was he really nearly two centuries old?

Before she could respond, Logan blew out more smoke, nervously puffing on his cigar.

"And I can smoke wherever the hell I please. I don't need your little pink health flag telling me what to do and what not to do. You got it?"

He warned her again, his tone menacing, his gaze like a freshly loaded gun aimed right at that pink point. He leaned in dangerously close before lowering his voice.

"If you don't want smoke blown directly in your face next time, I suggest you save your lectures and move your pink ass out of my business."

Rosellina stood stunned by such aggression; she hadn't even intended to anger him. Was he really that irritable?

She watched as he stormed away from her, taking long strides far from the main entrance, leaving clouds of smoke in his wake.

"Logan, Logan!" Ororo called after him, trying to follow with a few steps. "Don't be rude, apologize to Rosellina!"

Logan didn’t bother to turn around; he had no interest in staying in the same space as the one who specialized in short-circuiting his temper.

“Blow me,” Logan spat out harshly before disappearing around the corner of the hallway.

A long silence settled among the four women at the entrance. The Italian looked at the three women, even at the one whose name she still didn't know, who seemed to be stifling a laugh at the situation.

"Did I do something wrong?" Rosellina asked, worried about Logan's irascible behavior.

“No, you didn’t. I actually found it amusing,” Rogue commented, smiling at her.

“Logan’s like that, don’t worry. Don’t take it personally,” Ororo said with an apologetic smile.

“I wasn’t going to…” Rosellina murmured to herself, wondering what the man's problem was. In the background, she could hear Jean saying she’d go prepare the room.

Why doesn’t he like me?

The little rabbit pondered, unable to understand the fierce wolf.

____________________________________

The vision of something you don't understand can always lead you to madness.

Not understanding can lead you to rage.

The most arrogant being on earth is always unnerved by the idea of not comprehending something when they believe they know everything.

[mythicamagic]

Slow Dance: a Sylus oneshot

Summary: “It's not like you to drink alone though, sweetie,” his rich cadence purred above her ear. “Usually we'd have something together.”

She huffed. “I felt like raiding your wine cellar, is that a problem?”

“In what world would it be?” a smirk could be heard in his voice.

Rated T

Short fluffy oneshot for @nebuchadnezzar

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

The beat was a slow, lulling tune that wrapped her in a relaxed embrace. Lazy yet tantalizing like the flow of wine traveling through her system, warming whenever it touched.

The luxuriously furnished room held a sole occupant tonight. Instead of its owner, a decorated Hunter swayed in place. She took another sip of her wine, humming, rocking her hips slowly to the beat while tiredly watching Sylus’ record player as the disk spun and spun. The minutes had crawled into hours, and there was only so many times she could play Rock, Paper, Scissors with Mephisto before it got old.

It wasn’t as though they’d had plans or anything. She’d dropped by unannounced and found the place empty, but he knew to expect her in the evenings. The hour now approached midnight, and the moment she’d begun to feel cold and foolish in her deep red silk slip, she’d reached for the Romanée-Conti.

“I see you started without me.”

The muscles automatically tensed in her lower spine, before she relaxed. Sensing him approach from behind, she kept her gaze forward and continued swaying, taking another swig. 

Her hand was seized the moment she lowered her glass. Warmth pressed against her back. His free hand came into view, resting on the deep black shelf before her. The wine glass was tipped a little for him to inspect, swirling the red liquid around inside. 

“It's not like you to drink alone though, sweetie,” his rich cadence purred above her ear. “Usually we'd have something together.”

She huffed. “I felt like raiding your wine cellar, is that a problem?”

“In what world would it be?” a smirk could be heard in his voice.

Though he caged her, his grip on the glass fell away to her hip, allowing her to keep swaying. She set the wine down and turned in his embrace, sliding one arm up to perch on Sylus’ shoulder as they mock danced, gently moving their bodies in sync. She kept her gaze low, pretending to be enamored with his mouth. Her freehand carefully skimmed his waist, moving to roam the expanse of his back. No wounds there either, but the scent of gunshots filled her nose.

His lips lost the amused tug at the corner, downturning slightly. “Were you worried?”

She laughed, moving her attention to the lights above his head. “Only a prized idiot would worry about the leader of Onychinus after agreeing to be with him. You're going to get shot at and come home late sometimes, it's nothing unexpected. Nothing to…make a fuss over.”

Sylus’ calloused palm brushed her cheek, and she fought the urge to lean into it, inwardly sighing as he grasped her chin and forced their eyes to meet. He smiled slightly, wrapping his arm more snugly aroundher waist and back as they swayed like they were back at the auction where they’d first danced. 

“I suppose so. But, hm…turning that around, I know of a woman very dear to me, who runs around as one of Linkon’s Hunters. She faces fearsome Wanders all day, and she’s very strong. Comes back battered and bruised for her cause. She’s reckless too. Self righteous. She’d foolishly sacrifice herself to save others.”

Opening her mouth to argue, she stilled when his thumb brushed her mouth and he leaned in close, swallowing her in his shadow. “I still worry about her, despite knowing the type of woman I signed up for. I guess that makes me a prized fool too.”

Stupidly, tears actually stung her eyes. Her mouth pressed into a thin, grim line, stubbornly holding them back as heat flooded her cheeks. She grabbed him by the collar in an effort to distract him, standing up on tip-toe to meet him halfway as their lips met. 

Sylus muffled a chuckle against her mouth, stroking her back in a long, indulgent drag before grabbing her under her thighs and lifting her up- letting her wrap both legs around his waist. “You’re such a bad liar, kitten,” he mumbled in-between heated kisses. 

The woman in his arms ignored him, moving her touch to his face and cradling it gently in both hands for a moment, as if he was something incredibly precious. She combed her fingers through silky silver hair, massaging his scalp, before dragging one hand down his firm shoulder and under his-

Her fingers traced a hole in the material of his shirt. She pulled back with a frown, pinching the spot for good measure. Sylus hissed against her teeth. “Easy, there. It’s healed but still tender. We can play rough later.”

“It shouldn’t be tender at all. There shouldn’t be a hole- or an exit wound,” she groped at his upper back, finding a similar hole. “Are there any others? How bad is it?”

Sylus just looked up at her as he continued swaying them gently to the jazz music playing on loop. His eyes twinkled, smile deeply satisfied. 

“Sylus!” his lover hissed, swatting his shoulder continuously. “Let me down now. March yourself to the bathroom this instant. We’re going to go over every single trace- no, every hint of an injury you probably received tonight- and you’re going to explain each one. Do you need first-aid anywhere? Your Evol only heals so much if you overuse it,” she was rambling, checking him over as best she could.

He hummed contentedly under her care, turning and striding with long legs towards the door. “Sounds exciting, Darling. Next time you come home injured though, I fully expect to receive the same perks of examining your body from head to toe.”

—-

End

[cinamun]

I decided to put together some gameplay mods and overrides I use primarily for storytelling! I recently had someone ask if I had a resources page on my blog, and while I don't (yet), I hope you and others find this cool list helpful. Full disclosure: there are several lists out there of must-have-mods, these are just ones that I use in my game that allow me to tell stories the way I'd like.

Overrides:

Food Textures - Utopia Sims (this creator stopped retexturing foods awhile ago, however all of their links are still active. I will get into actual food mods later, however I find these to be boss).

Stereo Dance Override - This overrides the basic stereo dances that come with the game. I believe there are 35 different dances (preview).

Earbuds Override - I use these which replace the one that came with the Fitness Pack.

Coffee Art (works with tea, too!) - Overrides the default black coffee or tea. Only choose one.

Kitchen Sponge - Just a cuter version of that yellow blob they use to wash dishes.

Cutting Board - Overrides the default cutting board in game, choose only one (I use version 1) its the little things, you know?

Knife Override - Same as above except just a cleaner version of the knife your sims are always flipping up in the air whilst prepping food. Again, the little things.

Billboard Overrides - Just a cool replacement for billboards that make for pretty cool pics.

Illness Blush Override - Gets rid of the spots and stripes that come with a sick sim and replaces it with a body blush. Realistic touch for storytelling when your pixels catch a cold or another nasty virus.

Dirty Plate Override - Because who leaves a clean plate behind after they eat?

Ceiling Override - Replaces the in game ceilings indoors with a variety of pretty cool swatches. Choose one but keep the folder somewhere so you can switch out when you want.

No gloves while boxing - I use this for realism. One of my OCs used boxing as a way to relieve stress. But he was a beast so, gloves? Nah.

Natural Knitting - If you're tired of the rainbow yarn, this override changes that to a neutral color.

EA Default Teeth Override - exactly what it says.

Beer instead of juice for coolers - This one I made myself lol. In my story, my OC's mom lived in a trailer park and was always outside watching TV next to a cooler. Well my OC had a drinking problem so I recolored the "juice" into a heineken. The things we do for our stories... anyway, you might get some use out of it.

Randoms:

No Bike Helmet (there are several of these, I use one by Scarlet but their website is giving me virus warnings now. Check lilmisssam and the guy I linked)

No ZZZs while sleeping

No Mosaic

No Music Notes

Toddler No Sparkle

Hide Lot Trait Head FX

I'll do a list of essential mods later!! Hope these come in clutch, friends!

[dallasgallant]

As I re-read the novel I find myself appreciative and disappointed. As it’s really damn close a lot of the time, some parts are word for word and there’s little details here and there but then it’ll loose these pretty important moments. The biggest for me being how cut down the drive in scene is. Not only because there are some funny quippy parts to it but also so much world building and character work.

The whole reason Marcia cracks her “you just burry him no sweat.” joke is because Greaser fighting is wildly complicated! It’s fascinating to how two bit explains it.

To a greaser violence becomes almost like another form of communication, blowing off steam, solving an argument- getting the anger out of the way now so there’s less grudge holding and more solidarity. They have self made rules and honor that holds them to their system of fairness. You back up your friends when they ask you but sometimes it’s their fight alone— Dally’s getting what’s coming to him for slashing those tires, they ain’t cheap and it’s a poor community. Tim will whip him and they’re back to buddies by the end of the night. Big fights, real fights - rumbles- are organized with rules and this weird sense of civility.

There’s this weird mix of “Boys will be boys” roughhouse with “got to be tough to survive” raised in violence survivalism.

Meanwhile,the Soc’s are a lot less warm with their approach to fighting its “cold and impersonal” like they handle all things. Though honestly I’d argue it’s a lot more personal— not fighting for communication but because one can or to exert power. They don’t fight fair, they hold those grudges and there’s no solidarity to that. Ponyboy describes them best as “a snarling pack”. Their violence is rooted in the same systems and misfortunes Greasers face - in that what perpetuates violence is a bit universal. The difference is a greaser will help a guy up and maybe get him an ice pack where as a Soc will just leave you in the street for the sake of appearance or dominance, it’s not enough that they beat you. Nothing is ever enough, like Cherry mentions they can never be satisfied.

“It’s not the money it’s feeling— you don’t feel anything and we feel too violently.”

I’ll keep mentioning that quote until I’m blue in the face honestly, it goes right alongside “things are rough all over” Differences stem especially from their reactions and behaviors in response to what’s rough. Some hardships are universal but don’t mishear me as a good portion of it is also class issues because the Reason a Soc might drink himself into oblivion is way different from why a Greaser might.

Beyond Two-bits explaination I’m sad we loose more of the talk between Cherry and Pony on emotions and money. How people are people and they’re all a lot more similar than one might think (despite the contrasting I’ve been doing in this post it’s very true). And talking about his brothers. In the movie it’s a little weird as he only brought up Soda once but she “feels like she knows him” and he brings up sunsets to her later in the movie and they never mentioned it here! Unless they’re trying to imply they had more of a convo on the short walk to the parking lot but I’m not buying that.

Ponyboy being resentful (not that he’s wrong for it) because how hard everyone he knows has it compared to Soc’s. How he has to learn though the novel that “things are rough all over” isn’t that everyone has the same troubles/level of trouble. As they’re certainly worse off; it’s about empathy and everyone being human. That some might be better off but that doesn’t mean they’re entirely without problems. That not everyone is out for a fight all the time.

It’s just a shame as this scene adds so much context to the world, social circles and the moral of the literal freaking novel. The compare/contrast with their lives is pretty important… I digress.

[wanderersmalewife]

DR2 and DRv3 boys comforting their sick S/O

Characters: Hajime, Nagito, Kokichi, K1-B0

Warnings/content: G/N reader, mentions of vomit... nothing else tbh

A/N: So self-indulgent bc i have a fucking fever 😭😭

🌻Hajime Hinata🌻

- Hajime is extremely concerned when he hears you're sick. His anxiety just makes him an easily worried person

- That being said, he is. So awkward about taking care of other people

- Hes never been around other people much and he's never had anyone to take care of him

- Very much hovering around you but never really touching you unless you're explicitly asking

- The moment you tell him you need him, that you want him by your side to snuggle... he's a bit hesitant, not wanting to be sick himself. But he'd easily give in.

- He can't resist when you ask so sniffle and... sad

- Constantly asking you if he can get you anything or help

- If you get nauseous or vomit he is also. SO AWKWARD 😭

- He just looks horrified (this diva...) but he'll kneel next to you and awkwardly rub your back

- very sweet, just a bit unconfident

Another coughing fit is expelled past your lips, facial features twisted into a strained expression as your throat burns.

Hajime frowns, brows furrowing with concern as he watches a bead of sweat trickle down your forehead.

He reaches a hand out to rub your shoulder before he stops himself, actions hesitant. "You should drink something. It might help..."

Somehow, you manage a small glare. You know he means well, but does it look like you have the strength to get something right now?

"Ah, sorry." He apologizes near-instantly, standing from the bed. "I-I'll go get you some water!"

You sigh softly, body slightly relaxing even as you watch him disappear into the next room.

Your eyelids feel heavy as your breathing slowly evens out, fatigue settling in.

You barely register the sound of Hajime's soft footsteps as he re-enters the room.

What you do feel, though, is his hand softly brushing your bangs back and his lips pressing over your forehead.

A soft hum leaves you as finally drift to sleep.

🍀Nagito Komaeda🍀

- So so SO doting

- You don't even have to ask him for anything. He's immediately on it and making sure you have everything.

- Might forget a few things because of his dementia, but if you gently remind him, he's more than happy to go get it for you

- One of the best people you could ask for comfort

- Only thing you'd have to worry about is him getting anxious or self-conscious if he messes things up. Will blame himself horribly especially when you're already so unwell

- Nausea? No problem.

- The kind of guy to hold your hair back if you have longer hair

- constantly rubbing your back and whispering encouraging words and praise

You groan as you press your head against the pillow, pain throbbing against your skull.

Nagito is beside you in an instant, a patient smile over his face. "I'm sorry, my hope..." His tone is gentle. He doesn't need words to understand you're expressing your pain.

His prosthetic hand finds its way into your hair, cold metal scratching over your scalp. It's a much needed relief from the heat of your fever.

He chuckles softly as you lean against his touch, working his fingers over your head before he presses the back of it to your forehead.

You finally open your bleary eyes, and instead of pain flooding your mind from the bright light, slight relief washing over you as you see Nagito's angelic face.

His gaze softens, eyes meeting yours with adoration. "Good morning, my hope. I'm right here... promise."

🎲Kokichi Ouma🎲

- what a little asshole

- somehow whinier than you 😭??

- acts like this affects him SO MUCH

- "You're sick? EWW STAY AWAY FROM ME I DON'T WANNA GET SICK TOO. WAHHHH!"

- i mean. That doesn't mean he's not worried. He hates seeing people he loves in pain

- He's also allergic to being sincere

- He's also genuinely worried about getting sick but that's a him problem

- You can tell he's cares though.

- Hes shoving like 15 different cough syrups, fever medicines and whatever else he can at you

- Also a squeamish asshat about nausea

- Literally fake gagging over you vomiting like he's gonna puke too??😭 wtf

- Threaten to puke on him and see what happens it'll be so funny

- Not the kind of person to comfort you physically or verbally if you're puking... but he will absolutely get you a glass of water afterwards so you'll stay hydrated.

"Ughh... Kichi..." You whine, voice nasally from congestion.

The smaller boy next to you, much to your chagrin, simply grunts, scooting away from your reaching hands. "Don't touch me! You'll get your cooties on me!"

Fucking brat. You lift your head from your pillow, glaring unhappily at him with a small sniffle.

He seems to shrink at that, a small flash of guilt passing over his face. One that only someone as close you were would notice.

Great. Latch onto that and make him give in.

"Mmmh... it hurts..." You whimper again, head flopping onto your pillow as you clutch at your stomach. Not fully a lie... your stomach is churning, but it isn't intensely painful.

Kokichi catches onto your theatrics almost immediately, scoffing as he looks away. "Yeah, yeah. I can tell you're lying!" He winks, smiling cheekily as if he wasn't neglecting his very poor sickly partner.

Alright. That's it.

With as much strength as you can manage through your sick stupor, you leap forward, arms latching around his waist.

Kokichi yelps. Loud.

"Ghh-! Dammit, [name]! Let go!" He squirms with small grunts, wriggling like a rat caught in a trap.

Despite this, you easily notice he's not putting his full effort into it. Kokichi may be small, but he could pack a punch when he wanted, especially against a sick person.

He wasn't making a real effort to get away from you.

Content with your efforts, you simply keep yourself latched around him until he stops, pouting. "You're so mean..."

Even as he complains, he huffs while sliding down into the bed with you.

His arms wrap around you too, head resting against your tangled strands of hair.

"Fine, I'll stay. But you better take care of me if I get sick too."

🤖Kiibo🤖

- Oh lord hes so awkward. Save him

- He cares you soso much but he does. Not understand how being sick works or how to help 😭

- Does research as best he can. Probably ends up actually being overbearing

- You're bedside is suddenly filled with cough syrup, and tea, and cough drops, and Tylenol, and Ibuprofen, and soup, and water, and Gatorade, and-

- You have to politely tell him that's enough. More than enough. You'll be okay, You promise

- So anxious abt doing everything right. Asks if you're sure like 10 times and only stops asking when you pat his head softly and smile. "You're doing great, Kiibo. Thank you..."

- Immediate blushing mess as he eagerly nods , just thankful that he's helping

- Nausea. Makes his panic so much worse

- "O-Oh my gosh! Are you alright? Can I help at all!? Oh, that's a lot... oh my gosh..."

- Bro acts like you're dying.

- You ask him for water and he's back in a split second with it

- Once it's all out and you're just panting over the toilet bowl, he'll slowly pat your shoulder until you lean back against him.

- He just holds you until he realizes you fell asleep. He feels so bad abt waking you up to go to bed, but he 8snt strong enough to carry you

"I-Is that enough? Are you sure you don't need anything else?"

Your eyes scanned over the various items lined along your bedside table. Medicines, drinks, and tissues alike cover the flat surface, not a single spot untouched.

In all honesty, the cluttered area was a bit overwhelming with everything going on, but you don't have the heart to tell him that.

You just nod from your pile of blankets, (which Kiibo had also collected for you,) voice ragged from a sore throat. "Mhm. Thank you, Kiibo..."

Kiibo nods, and for a moment it seems like he gets the message.

But then, his brows furrow, and that anxious little frown finds its way onto his face again. "Are you sure? I've found plenty of other remedies that might work if these don't help enough! I--"

You cut him off, gently taking his hand. You press a chaste kiss to his cold knuckles, grinning with a soft gaze before you speak. "You're perfect. This is more than enough... Thank you."

You see that familiar blush creep up his face, and despite his lack of any real blood, his face feels warm. "Oh! I-I'm glad then! I'm happy I can be here...!"

You giggle and nod before you speak one last time. "Just one more thing. Could you stay...? Please?"

"Of course!" He sits on the edge of the bed, hand resting over your side.

"I promise, I will never leave your side."

[dutifullylazybread]

just found you, i see a lot of pre and post family with the teefs. what about during? and directly after? how do they care for their partner during pregnancy? especially if its a diffcult one? and afterward when their partners body has changed and maybe they're less confident about the extra weight, softer body, the extra rolls and teh stretch marks that wont go away? how does each bachelor help or make it better ir suddenly realize that is even wrong to begin with? what if they accidentally something bring out that newly found weakness in their partners confidence? ( sorry if youre busy i know you got stuff to do- i just figured youre the person who could slam dunk these thoughts i had)

Have I... GOTTEN TO THE POINT WHERE I CAN JOIN THE TIEFLING HEAD CANON SQUAD???????

ADDED 4/26/24: This might be a rough list, but I hope you all enjoy!! ❤️

OKAY. I GOTTA ADD CAL. I'M ADDING CAL. THIS SWEET MAN IS A TIEFLING BACHELOR AND DOES NOT HAVE ENOUGH FAN CONTENT... YET.

And thank you for bearing with me--I know that this ask was sent in a hot minute ago! I'm hoping I answered all of your questions; I got to a point of this sitting in my drafts where I just felt bad about how long it had been there, so I tried to be thorough but I wanted to get this out sooner rather than later. I mostly worked on this when I had a few spare moments between chapters, and then I said "screw it. This is getting done. TODAY."

So, for Cal, Rolan, Zevlor, and Dammon--let's go!

DISCLAIMER - I do not have children myself, nor have I ever been pregnant. So I shall do my best!

JUST IN CASE - A CONTENT WARNING: While writing these head canons, I did refer to the tiefling's partner as "you." If reading about being pregnant makes you uncomfortable for any reason, please be aware and be kind to yourself. I have zero doubt in my mind that I will be creating another head canon list, so if you need to pass or wait on this one, that's absolutely okay. Your mental health is important.

Cal

While Cal's partner is pregnant, he will do absolutely anything and everything to make sure they are comfortable. To say that he is doting is putting things very mildly.

He will make your favorite meals, will go out and get whatever you are craving (late night runs--not a problem), will rub your swollen ankles.

Too hot? He's asking Rolan for a cantrip scroll to fix it. Too cold? He's already piling you with blankets.

Are you feeling sick and nauseous? He's already prepping something for you to eat/drink that doesn't have an offensive smell.

And if it's a hard pregnancy? I don't see him leaving your side. If he does, he has Rolan create a sending stone set for the two of you so that you can reach out to him for anything and everything.

Honestly, he doesn't get far enough for him to even use the sending stones. He is looking for anything and everything to make the pregnancy easier on you. If he wasn't a light sleeper before, he is now because he doesn't want you to lay there in pain.

There may be points where he feels helpless because while he can do things to try and alleviate any physical discomfort, there are just times when he might just grasp at straws.

And, in situations where he can't alleviate your physical discomfort, he will do what he can to distract you.

He keeps his stress managed well enough, but that doesn't mean he won't snap at Lia or Rolan if he is too anxious. If he does get openly frustrated with them, it takes both off guard.

I also think he just holds you. A lot. Part of that is to comfort you, and the other part is to assure himself that everything will be okay.

If his partner is dealing with body image issues after giving birth, I see him being confused. You? The most enchanting person he has ever known?

Cut to him kissing you and holding you whenever possible. He'll ask Lia and Rolan to watch the baby whilst the two of you go on outings when your health permits. If it helps you to hear it, he'll remind you how lovely you are. Frequently. Hourly. Every five minutes? Not quite, but close enough.

Personally, I don't think his doting goes away after the pregnancy. And, if it is too much, it might make you feel like he views you as helpless.

If you give voice to this, he goes into immediate mediation mode. He will be extremely apologetic. He loves you and never wants you to think he perceives you as anything other than the phenomenal person you are.

Rolan

Ugh. My beloved.

He might be more stressed about having a child than you are.

He never anticipated being a father, and that might be for 15+ reasons, but he feels drastically unprepared (even if the pregnancy was planned).

He reads every. Single. Book. On pregnancy. He is the parent who gives himself nightmares when he reads about birthing complications.

Every sign of discomfort that you show is a catastrophe on the horizon.

And if it's a difficult pregnancy? Yeah. Dial that up by five notches.

He is preparing for all worst-case scenarios.

If it weren't for Cal and Lia keeping him in check, he would be safety-proofing everything in the tower.

He crafts sending stones so you can call for him if you need anything. ANYTHING.

But also, he starts shadowing midwives and asking lots of questions. If the worst were to happen and you couldn't reach a professional, he wants to be there to help you.

After giving birth, I see him splitting his anxiety between your health/recovery and the baby's overall well-being.

"The baby sneezed. That might indicate five different lethal illnesses. I'm fetching the cleric."

This is another situation where you, Cal, and Lia might have to remind him that, yes, babies do sometimes sneeze, and not everything that lands in the diaper spells doom.

Rolan might not initially understand why you're feeling self-conscious about any weight gain. Of course you're lovely. Also, isn't that what happens with pregnancies? (His words--not mine).

He assures you that you're lovely, but words might not be enough here. He might shove his foot in his mouth while trying to make the situation better.

But the best thing for him to do is remind you, repeatedly, that you are lovely. And that might not have been something he was accustomed to even saying to you prior to you conceiving. He would assume you knew that he was attracted to you.

It honestly might be the strangest (and most endearing) thing to have him say "You look very lovely today. Yes, even with the baby's spit up on your shirt."

Zevlor

*nervously staring at the tiefling I am the most unsure about writing.*

*cracks my knuckles and cries because it hurt like hell*

Zevlor has been through some of the most heinous things that can be thrown at someone. He is a seasoned soldier. A Hellrider. Surely he can help his partner through pregnancy. After all, there were plenty of soldiers in the barracks who has pregnant spouses. He's heard enough stories that he feels prepared.

He survived the Elturel's Descent. It's possible that he helped safeguard someone who was in the middle of giving birth or guided expecting parents to safety. Maybe he had to fight off the devil's skulking the streets if they caught wind/heard that person enduring birthing pains?

So maybe, he thinks, he has already seen some of the worst births ever. Maybe, he thinks, in this time of relative peace, in this home that he and his love have created, it'll be easier?

My personal headcanon for Zevlor is that he put EVERYTHING into being a Hellrider/paladin. It was his life. It was his every breathing moment. And when he became an oathbreaker, it destroyed him. His life was devoted to protecting others, and he feels that he failed in the worst of ways possible.

He certainly had friends and very possibly family that he would see on occasion, but I think that, if you didn't fight alongside him/live in the barracks too, you very likely didn't see much of him.

So maybe he has heard a great deal about pregnancies. And maybe he knows about the complicated ones--just a bit. But he himself is at a loss for when his partner tells him that they are pregnant.

Is he excited? Absolutely. Is he terrified. Oh yeah.

Regardless of how complicated the pregnancy is, he is nervous. He is worried that he will slip up in all the ways that matter, and he is terrified of letting you down.

He's a soldier though, and he prepares for everything.

He has additional blankets and pillows next to the bed.

Hot and cold compresses are ready to go.

He makes sure that he accounts for your cravings whenever shopping.

He has medicine for when the pain is severe. And when the medicine doesn't cut it, he tries his best to distract you--his mileage varies.

And this man adores you. So after the pregnancy, if you are feeling self-conscious, he will worship your body.

Dammon

I could see Cal and Dammon both being very doting, but Dammon would be juggling the forge and helping you.

If you spent a lot of time in the forge with him prior to pregnancy but find that being in there now makes you feel ill, he will absolutely feel lonelier. He is definitely the sort of person who gets very absorbed in his work, and I think this makes him feel guilty. Especially if he feels like him being there could have made things easier for you.

He becomes a meal prep king. Will cook several comfort meals for you to eat while he is working.

Massages swollen ankles and feet and anything else.

While he might have worked later hours in the forge before, he makes a point to wrap things up sooner to spend evenings with you.

That doesn't mean he isn't nervous--you're about to have a child, and he does worry if there will be enough money.

He worries that if he does slow down, commissions will dry up, and then where will that leave the three of you?

If the pregnancy is difficult, he feels guilty for leaving you alone and looks for hundreds of ways to make things easier.

Eventually, he creates a small sitting space for you near the doorway to the shop itself. It's not so close to the forge that you'll be uncomfortably hot or so close that the smell will make you sick, and he sets up a small tarp to create some shade.

If you helped Dammon in the forge before the pregnancy, he is likely hesitant to have you come back and immediately help. Especially if the birth was difficult.

But what you need, more than anything from him, is time

And Dammon wants to be a parent who is present in your life and the baby's, so he does everything to be there.

But money is still a stressor. And he might worry about you being in the forge again. So he's stressed on all fronts.

And while I don't see him commenting or changing how he treats his partner because of weight change, I do see him being VERY reluctant to have you work in the forge with him.

And this may lead to an argument. You know he is stressed about commissions and being there for you and the baby, but you still want to help.

So Dammon dials it back several notches and agrees that you know your body best. So long as you feel comfortable working in the forge, and so long as you listen to your body, the two of you can start it from there.

And it gets easier to balance the forge and child rearing. While the baby isn't allowed close to the open heat/flame until they fully understand why they must be careful (and until their lungs are developed), you and Dammon create a small swing/play area nearby.