#so it stings even more when they are inevitably not ok

[lenny-zesty]

god i NEED N and Uzi to have another tender moment. i'm already being emotionally damaged by them can we please have a little crumb.

[bonkhrnyjail]

desert eagle

pairing: young joel miller x f!plus-size!reader (age unspecified, no specific physical descriptions other than plus-size and able-bodied) summary: joel gets reluctantly dragged to the strip club after a long day of work. god knows he wasn't expecting to meet someone like you... rating: explicit 18+ mdni word count: 8.8k (sorry) tags: thigh riding, oral sex, so much oral sex, ass play, 69, reader is a stripper, joel is down horrendous, JOEL MILLER LOVES BIG GIRLS, gentleman!joel, until he's not, sub!joel if you squint, joel and reader are both aggressively texan, i'm midwestern so i do not take responsibility for inaccuracies i did my best a/n: soooo this is based off of the beyoncé song desert eagle, the first time i heard it i immediately thought of this idea and i couldn't get it out of my head and i was having literal sex dreams about it so i decided to write it. this is my first time writing joel too so i'm scared :P anyways i love writing about confident beautiful fat women but i think anyone can enjoy this fic so yeahhh anyways you should listen to the beyoncé song and then read the fic or vice versa ok love you bye

Joel didn’t want to go to the strip club. 

In fact, Joel wants nothing more than to be alone tonight, and yet he finds himself uncomfortably perched on the edge of a half-crescent booth, dragged along by Tommy and some of the idiot twenty-somethings he’d met on their most recent project.  

“Loosen up, old man!” one of the cocky landscapers barked at him when he tried to decline. “A pretty pair a’ tits in your face’ll turn that frown right upside down!”

He almost did say no, almost played the foolproof dad card; unfortunately for him, Sarah had already planned to stay at her best friend’s house the next few nights, taking advantage of the last week of winter break. But he saw the premature wince forming in Tommy’s eye, waiting for the inevitable sting of Joel ruining his chances at making some semi-decent friends in this town—friends that wouldn’t land him behind bars on the weekend, anyways. So Joel surrendered with a begrudging grunt, under the terms that he could stop by home to shower and change clothes. Miraculously, he convinced the other guys to do the same.

Inside, violet and teal spotlights cast a thick fog across the large stage. It illuminates the performers whilst somehow clouding them too, their bodies winding and whirling in a periwinkle haze. Joel’s skin feels humid and suffocated beneath the clinging fabric of his flannel shirt; the glass of Jack Daniels he’d spent the last ten minutes nursing only abets the formation of dew trickling down his neck and spine. The only thing keeping him cool is the wet curls he slicked back sitting at the base of his skull, providing a momentary chill with any slight breeze. He feels claustrophobic, displaced; like his presence was altogether a clumsy wedge into somewhere he didn’t quite belong. 

Nothing another glass of whiskey couldn’t fix.

Joel excuses himself from the group without much notice. The boys are hovering over a meaty stack of ones, attempting to divvy up the bills in even increments without having to count them out individually. He strides across the room with a languid ease, scanning the room and the scattered clusters of men, appeasing his unconscious instinct to confirm safety wherever he is—and to keep tabs on the people he should keep Tommy away from. He stops short for a moment, palming his pocket to confirm his wallet and keys haven’t left his side.

“Pardon me, honey.” 

A soft, seductive drawl takes him by surprise as a hand on his lower back guides him inches to the left. It takes a moment for his vision to focus, the crisp snap of his neck to follow the voice leaving a slight dizziness in its recoil, the trailing scent of cinnamon and honey wafting beneath his nose. 

When he finally sees you, actually sees you, Joel finds himself powerless to avert his gaze. Your body is awash with exquisite peaks and valleys, velvet curves clad only by precarious strings and swatches of fabric covering mere inches of glistening skin. The clack of your heels leaves him hypnotized as you leave him in your wake. His jaw slackens and his lungs become paralyzed as he witnesses the way your body moves like water with every step; like the current that flows across the edges of your figure, rippling as you step onto the stage and coil yourself around the silver pole.

Good god.

The bones in Joel’s knees suddenly turn gelatinous, a huff of air escaping his mouth as he stumbles backward into the bar, bracing himself with flat palms against the polished marble. He steadies himself, blinking out the sting beneath his lids, trying to moisten the dryness in his eyes—a consequence of his bulging stare.

A soft giggle lilts from behind him, piercing through his trance and hammering his conscience back into the earth. Joel turns to the source to find the bartender, shaking her head with laughter as she drags the rim of a glass through a bowl of salt.

“Don’t worry, ain’t the first time I’ve seen a man nearly lose his footin’ around Paloma,” she jeers, a smirk threatening the corners of her mouth. “She’s really somethin’, that girl.”

Joel nods, clears his throat, and swallows the saliva that pools at the back of his tongue. Somethin’ was an understatement, an insult to the ethereal vision twirling before him. The fog and dusky lighting prevents him from capturing a defined image of your face, only catching glimpses of soft cheeks and plush lips as you spin and float with ease, but he’s certain you’re breathtaking.

“You want another Jack?” the bartender offers, pouring out a picture-perfect margarita, the lime hue nearly fluorescent in the lowlight.

Joel grunts in affirmation, his eyes not once straying from your direction.

“Not much of a talker, are ya?” she ribs, chuckling as she reaches for the whiskey.

“Sorry, long day,” Joel winces, suddenly painfully aware of how rude he’s been. “Is she, uh, new ‘round here?” 

“Who, Paloma? Been ‘round for about… six months or so? She’s done real well for herself, honestly blew all us away with how much she was able t’make from the jump.”

He bites down on the tip of his tongue, a sharp, electrifying pain searing through his nerves. It does nothing to fracture the beguiling spell you’ve somehow cast upon him, and Joel finds himself staring again, studying your every move, knowing nothing but need.

“Do you know if she… when she’s done here? Her shift, I mean.”

The bartender laughs exuberantly, a wide smile revealing a far-too-pristine row of pearly veneers that nearly glow under the lilac beams.

“Well, I don’t think I can tell you that, sugar,” she coos, sliding Joel’s drink across the space between them. “But you can ask her yourself! I promise, she don’t bite. Sweet as honey, that one.”

Honey. 

It still lingers in the air, thick and cloying in a way that grips like a hand wrapped around his throat, like a demanding croon singing over and over: Eyes on me. He can taste it too, a whisper of it stagnant on the back of his tongue, a lurking craving impatiently waiting to be satiated.

Joel thanks her in a low gravel, and strides back towards his table with newfound urgency nipping at his heels. He arrives at the booth with no reaction from the boys, the party too enveloped in counting their stack to be stirred by his presence. It’s only when Joel clears his throat, the force of it deep and thunderous, that the men take any notice.

“I’m gonna need me some of those.”

.   .   .   .   .

You didn’t expect the club to be busy tonight. 

In fact, you practically relied on Wednesdays being the slowest day of the week. You often used the opportunity to practice new routines, test out new outfits, try something different with your makeup; pretty much anything you didn’t particularly prefer for a crowded audience to behold.

Tonight you find yourself testing the limits of a string-bikini-esque number, the laces doubled around your torso and triple-knotted in the hope of extra security, and the triangular fabric cutouts stuck down to the curve of your breasts with double-sided tape. You climb the pole with ease, perfectly-formed calluses on your palms and heels aiding you with improved grip. 

It took just a month of pole classes for you to develop an addiction to the burn of sleek metal sliding across your skin. Something about the sting of it, alongside the quiver of your core, the aching clench of your thighs; it was a remarkable blend of pain that spilled through you like pleasure. It soon became an unholy replacement for Sunday worship—melding yourself around the pole; bathing in the sweltering beams from the spotlights; inhaling the musky scent of crumpled bills lying at your feet. It was entirely meditative, and you’d found a sort of spiritual enlightenment amongst it all.

You let your head fall back as the rod swings you around in tight circles. Normally you let your eyes close when you spin, but tonight you feel called to the fuzzy warmth that pools behind your brows when you get good and dizzy. Your surroundings bleed and curve like an Expressionist painting, and an unmoving figure lurks amongst the brush strokes, appearing and disappearing and blending until it’s a constant image: a broad, stoic, masculine body, melting into everything you can see.

The invasion peeves you. Sure, you know you should be pleased that a customer is watching, clearly interested and coming closer, but for Christ’s sake, you’ve been out for less than five minutes. At 6pm. On a Wednesday.

You carefully bring your body to a halt, slowly inching down the pole until your shoes meet the hardwood. Your vision lags far behind you, skipping like a scratched disc, and it’s enough to nearly knock you from your feet. A lightness billows through your blood and tries to whisk you away, but you sink against it, sitting on your heels and fastening your grip on the cold steel.

Lines begin to gain their sharpness again, and the figure in your peripheral starts to look less and less like a Van Gogh portrait. The man’s face is still muddled, dimly-lit and shrouded by the bill of a baseball cap. You smile at him on instinct, and you notice his chest jerk, like he was entirely unaware that he too was being observed; like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You also can’t help but notice how broad he is, even from this distance. The plaid lines of his button-up sprawl across his chest, his arms, his waist, and though the shirt clearly isn’t skin-tight, you can tell the expanse of him fills it out with ease. With a slight tilt of your head you motion for him to come closer, and your balance finally stills enough for you to trust your feet again.

The man strides across the room with a glimmer of urgency—not fast per se, but with a spirited buoyancy hot beneath his heels. He parks himself at the table nearest to you, pulling the chair from its nestled nook under the table, and makes himself comfortable, splaying his knees and crossing his arms tightly atop his chest.

God, he’s big.

“Haven’t seen you ‘round here before,” you lilt, descending the stairs from the platform and taking a seat on the table in front of him.

One of his hands peeks from beneath the sleeve of his flannel. It looks gruff, firm, and tightly grasps a palmful of ones, and the sheer width of his fingers make the bills look like Monopoly money. 

“Ain’t really been ‘round here before,” he shrugs, his voice exactly as deep as you expected, and steeped in what you immediately recognize as a born and raised Texan.

His eyes are noticeably shifty, ping-ponging between the floor, the stage, your shoes, his watch; anywhere that isn’t your gaze. The majority of his face is still shaded by his cap, and even this close his features remain more vague than you’d like them to be. You realize he must be new to this, and you’ve heard that drawl before; the drawl of a man who was raised to mind his manners.

You don’t make him ask.

“You want a dance, baby?”

You graze your fingers over his, and have to bite down on a grin when his chest hitches sharply against the row of buttons resting over his sternum.

“I… um… no, thank you sweetheart—”

“What’s your name?”

He clears his throat with a stifled, nervous cough.

“Joel,” he blurts, a sober assuredness possessing his voice. “Joel Miller.”

He finally meets your gaze, just as a whirling spotlight dances over his face. A split second of illumination reveals a whiskey-brown stare, dripping with warmth, glinting with a sedated hunger. You bite down on the flesh of your cheek and extend your hand to shake his.

“Paloma,” you croak, imitating his baritone husk, pausing to repeat his cadence. “Paloma Blue.”

A dimple appears amongst a veil of brown scruff, the faint edges of a charming smile peeking through the shadow from his hat. His shoulders remain rigid, hiked with an invisible thread tugging them toward the ceiling.

You really can’t read him.

“Can I do somethin’ for you, honey? You seem tense,” you question.

“I was… I was wonderin’ if you might be interested in lettin’ me buy you a drink. When you’re done workin’, f’course. Wouldn’t wanna get you in any kinda trouble.”

You find it impossible not to let out a chuckle. It’s not the first time you’ve sent a man into a flustered mess of shifting-eyes and stuttering words, though that would usually come after he got too bold and you needed to put him in his place. Joel Miller doesn’t look like those men; college-aged hooligans or machismo cowboys that are all bark and no bite. He doesn’t look like a man who gets nervous; yet here he is, fidgeting profusely with his watch, and you’re quite relieved he’s sitting down.

“Well, ain’t you a sweet one…” you drawl, half-teasing despite the truth to the statement. “I’m s’posed to work ‘til close tonight, but if you can convince my boss to let me leave early, I’m all yours.”

You don’t miss the swell of Joel’s pupils at your affirmation, a look of determination you had yet to witness on the man. The chances of getting out of your shift tonight are next to none, considering there’s merely three of you working the floor and a new hoard of howling youngsters just came tumbling through the entrance.

You point out your boss behind the bar and Joel follows with his gaze, nodding and starting towards her without a word.

You’re a bit shocked at his immediate action; not to mention the lack of the typical prying you’ve accepted as routine. He’s been extraordinarily polite; a man of few words but refreshingly direct despite the subtle shake in his voice, and the honesty alone makes your cheeks flush.

You’re far more used to taking control and providing entertainment for the countless men that frequent the club, always catering to their needs first and foremost, smothering them with flattery—or degradation, if you notice a well-timed “good boy” summons a bigger bill from their pockets. It’s work, but it’s undoubtedly started to bleed into your personal life. The lines between you and your Paloma persona have blurred these days, making you unsure of what you’re supposed to want and what you actually want. You find yourself lost in thought, gazing at the black and white tile as your legs swing underneath you, until the interruption of two dirty boots break your trance.

“Boss said you’re good to go. F’you still want to.”

How the hell did he manage that?

Your jaw hangs slightly in shock, racking your brain to make sense of what he may have done to convince her. You can’t help but be impressed by his vigor, by all of it, and a smile lifts your cheeks to the heavens as you recognize the feeling stirring in your tummy, a feeling that has laid dormant for far too long. You want him.

“I’ll go get my stuff, just hang tight.”

.   .   .   .   .

Joel stands by the exit of the club, waiting for you to grab your things. He hadn’t thought a damn thing through before he asked you out, and his voice of reason was nowhere to be found when he forked over 200 bucks to the club owner to get you out of working for the rest of the night. Any semblance of forethought vanished when he saw you, all sashayed hips and strut and so undeniably, deliciously Texan. And your face—oh—once he saw that sweet face of yours… he didn’t stand a fucking chance.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t know where exactly he should take you to get a drink. Should he have asked you to dinner instead? The last thing he wants is you to think is that he’s trying to buy you for the night, or that anything is required of you just because he got you out of work. He just wants to know you, be near you, bask in your presence. He wants to treat you like a gentleman, like he was raised to, because he’s damn sure the kind of men who wind up at that club don’t give a damn about chivalry.

You emerge from the narrow hallway leading towards the exit, clad in gray sweatpants and a flowy white tee that somehow still clings to the most feminine parts of your figure. You shoot him a beaming smile, a playful glint in your eyes as you haul a small duffel bag over your shoulder.

“You’re not takin’ me anywhere too fancy I hope,” you snicker.

Joel offers one hand to hold your bag and swings the door ajar with the other, holding it for you as you pass through. The trail of your perfume—that soft, sugary scent—leaves his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he tightens his grip on the doorframe.

“You need somethin’ to eat? We could get some supper,” he suggests, offering his arm to you.

“Yeah, actually, I usually wait ‘til after my shift, considerin’ work ain’t too far off from a non-stop Tilt-A-Whirl ride. Y’get used to it after a while, but—”

“Better safe than sorry, I bet.”

You look up at him and nod with a half-grin, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

With just a single look, Joel’s stomach flutters and dick twitches at the sight of you. The glow of your face beneath the warmth of the streetlight; your soft features and the intensity of your persistent gaze is beyond mesmerizing. You’re pretty, the epitome of it, all batting lashes and pillowy lips; the very definition of divine feminine. You’re the spitting image of the hazy being that appears behind his eyelids when he touches himself and lets his mind wander; the body he craves to wake up tangled with every morning. 

He follows you to the passenger’s side of the car and opens the door for you without a thought, leaning in to his tendencies and muscle memory. You hum a sweet thank you as he extends his arm to help you into his elevated truck, but you barely need the support, your strong legs lifting you into the height of the car with ease. 

As Joel turns the key in the ignition, the scream of the roaring engine sends a full body cringe snaking down his spine.

“Sorry, uh, she’s a lil’ noisy,” he winces with an apologetic brow. “She’s fine, runs great, just—”

“A bit of a talker?” you blurt.

He smiles diffidently and nods. You’re better with words than he is, and he finds himself thankful for that—lord knows he needs all the help he can get in your presence.

Joel flicks on the radio, an old Willie Nelson tune lilting from the rear speakers. You let out a hearty grunt of approval.

“Haven’t heard this one in forever,” you slurred. “Practically grew up on this music. ‘M sure you did too, I can hear it in that drawl f’yours.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he reaches his arm around your seat, crooking his head back as he shifts the truck into reverse. 

“That bad, huh?”

“Not bad! Just strong. Just how I like it, really,” you admit, pulling your lip between your teeth, doe-eyed and eager as you catch his gaze.

God, he’s absolutely fucked.

He dials up the volume as he clears his throat and starts down the jagged road. You relax into your seat, curling one of your feet up to tuck beneath your thigh as you hum along to the radio.

He knows exactly where to take you.

.   .   .   .   .

A twenty minute car ride with Joel revealed that he wanted to know as much as he could about you. He asked question after question, about your life, your hobbies, your family, and not one thing about your job, which was honestly quite refreshing. Not that you had any shame about your occupation, but most men were more fascinated about what it was like to be Paloma, and most importantly what it could mean for them at the end of the evening. Not Joel, though. It seemed as though he was almost afraid to breach the subject; out of politeness or avoidance, you weren’t sure. You crossed your fingers that it was the former.

You arrive at a little shack of a restaurant, some sort of fusion between a diner and a sports bar. It looks as though it should be empty, the exterior of it run down in a way that makes it appear frozen in time, but it isn’t. Clusters of customers sit in long-stretched booths that fill the width of the windows and the entrance is shrouded with people; some smoking, some chatting, and some seemingly waiting to get in. You scan the crowd and find that everyone visible to you appears quite innately blue collar, down to the sea of Levi’s Jeans and scuffed up boots, extra-illuminated by the cheap plastic solar lights haphazardly stuck into narrow beds of mulch.

Joel hops down from the truck before you can even say a word, and with a quick shuffle he’s arrived at the passenger door. You have to laugh at the absurdity of it, how it seems he has—cover to cover— studied a textbook of how to be a perfect gentleman. Alongside the frequency of nerves you can sense radiating from beneath his skin, you know you need to get a drink in him. 

He offers his arm as you hop down onto the pavement and swiftly rests his palm on your lower back, guiding you through the crowd of patrons with ease. A cheap, crackling doorbell sound chimes as you pass through the doorway. The hostess offers a wide and toothy smile, hollering to announce Joel's arrival, by name, towards the kitchen. She appears surprised but delighted to see him, making a point to let him know how much she has missed him with a cringeworthy attempt at a bit too much physical contact. She asks about a Sarah, and your stomach tightens with concern—you hope to god she's anything but a wife. He requests a booth, a cozy, curved table in the shaded, sheltered corner of the restaurant, and the staff oblige him immediately, one waitress clearing the tabletop of dishes and the other wiping the surface down in one clean swipe.

“Hope this is ok,” Joel says. “You’re definitely not the only one wearing sweatpants in here, if it makes you feel at ease.”

“It’s good, seems perfect,” you slip the innermost part of your bottom beneath your teeth and let your eyes do the smiling. “They sure are treatin’ you like royalty in here.”

Joel seems to relax a bit, his spine softening into the back of the cushion and legs splaying wide. He isn’t looking at you as you observe him; his eyes dart around and he musters a casual wave to anyone visibly moved by his presence. The constant, worried scrunch of his brow smooths out for a moment, just as the beams of passing headlights rake over his features, and you finally realize:

He’s fucking gorgeous.

You could see him before, sure, but you didn’t actually see him, not with the lingering luminescence of the warm white that shines through the outspread window behind you. He was steeped in shadow, but now he’s colored in, every detail and curvature entirely yours to behold.

The bend of his nose draws your attention first, strong and angular, demanding your eyes pay it mind. Your gaze follows a natural map, a sporadic trail of sun spots that dance across his cheek, conspicuous evidence of long days working outside in the relentless Austin heat. A few silver hairs are sprinkled amongst his umber scruff; a well-kempt beard and mustache sits just above the soft curve of his lips, flushed with ruddy hue.

He’s gorgeous, plain and simple. 

The waitress brings Joel a whiskey before even saying hello. Joel asks what you would like, calls you sweetheart in a low, thick growl. You order a vodka cran and try to ignore the hostess currently staring a hole into the side of your head. 

“You gonna tell me why they treat you like royalty ‘round here?” you tease.

“Not royalty—” he cuts himself off with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “They just ain’t seen me in a while. Used to bring my little girl here for breakfast every Sunday.”

“Ah,” you release with a sigh, the ball of tension sitting in your chest following behind. “Sarah?”

“Mhm,” he hums.

“Was worried she might be a wife for a second there.”

“Oh, no, I- I’m not… I wouldn’t…”

“S’alright. I’ll admit though, I’m real glad she ain’t.”

Joel’s face turns a soft shade of pink and a whisper of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. His eyes flicker, lingering on your lips, a flame dancing behind his pupils, before meeting your gaze again. You can’t control the smile that possesses your face, nor the simmering heat that blankets your chest, and you can’t recall that last time a man made you feel like this. 

Every facet of Joel’s appearance exudes an air of dominance. He dresses much like the hordes of men who approach you with their usual excessive bravado and unwarranted sense of ownership over your body, but he seems to act entirely the opposite. He seems apprehensive, wary, like he’s trying desperately to be the right kind of man around you, to treat you the way you deserve to be treated.

You decide to try what Joel orders, some sort of off-menu special order the waitress jokingly calls “The Miller Deluxe”. It isn’t long before you finish your drink, and another appears before you can even ask. You inquire more about Joel’s daughter, his life, his work; returning the line of questioning he surveyed you with in the passenger’s seat of the truck, and you find yourself mirroring his smile as he tells you all about Sarah. He rambles off a brief explanation of his business and Tommy; you immediately know who he is, a somewhat troublesome regular visitor at the club. Joel apologizes for Tommy before you even say a word about him, and your food arrives at the table before you can explain that he’s more of an occasional nuisance than anything else.

The whiskey seems to unwind the tension in Joel’s stature, and words begin to flow with much more ease than they did before you arrived. A natural, charismatic charm seeps through, sticky sweet, until it’s all but enveloped his demeanor, blanketing his palpable apprehension with an earnest geniality that radiates warmth like a fireplace. It washes over you, clinging to every inch of your skin, seeping through to your veins and igniting a flame low in your belly, a flickering heat that demands to be noticed.

You’re fairly certain he won’t be the one to cut through the guarded distance between you. Despite the unmistakable hunger in his eyes, he remains heedful, taking extra care to keep his hand from grazing yours as he reaches for the chip basket and keeping his body at least a foot away from yours. You want—desperately want—to shatter the glass partition he seems to have placed between you, to destroy the self-imposed barrier keeping his temptation at bay.

You start by sliding closer, closing the gap between your knees until they touch. That gets his attention, but he doesn’t retreat, he only meets your eyes with a look of inquiry, curiosity, and a hint of apprehension. You flash him your most doe-eyed, encouraging smile, sanctioning the proximity of your bodies, silently divulging that you want this, that you like him, that he can finally release the imprisoned breath he’s been holding beneath his sternum since he uttered his very first words to you. 

Joel swings an arm around your shoulder, resting against the wooden panel atop the booth seat, leaving a few inches between your skin and the sleeve of his flannel. He doesn’t have to tell you a thing; you oblige him immediately, leaning your shoulders back and relaxing into his forearm. You fit seamlessly into the crook of his elbow, and the warmth emanating from his body makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention.                       

The second vodka cran—the one that you nearly shotgunned—possesses your will for a split-second and you find yourself reaching for his face, whisping the pad of your thumb across his wiry scruff. Despite the rough tickle it leaves behind, you immediately crave the sensation elsewhere, certain that the drag of it across a more delicate area might just feel like heaven.

“Can I be honest?” you whisper in a low lilt, tracing the brim of his cap with lazy fingers.

Joel nods with a thick swallow, his Adam's apple jumping almost comically in his throat.

“Yeah, f’course,” he responds with a strained attempt at nonchalance.

“I don’t like this hat.”

You grip the bill of the hat, wiggling it back and forth playfully. Your actions are outrunning your thoughts by a mile now, and you’re unable to keep your hands from wandering towards Joel’s magnetism. His face transforms into a bewildered, amused grin, one brow furrowed and the other cocked toward the ceiling. 

“Mm,” he hums, a low, resonant sonance from the pit of his chest. “Why’s that?”

“I can’t see you,” you whine. “Can’t see that pretty face of yours, s’all hidden by a shadow.”

“I, um—” he whisks the hat off, running his fingers through a slicked mountain of curls. “My hair’s still wet.”

Christ. The light bathes his face, every detail revealing itself to you in absolute glory. He’s fucking beautiful, his features demanding of your undivided attention, an impossible balance between striking and soft. The flicker of need at the base of your core spreads at the speed of a wildfire, setting you ablaze with a hunger you can no longer ignore.

“Joel?”

His name spills from your throat, sliding off your tongue like a siren’s nectar. Your fingers find their way to his mane, weaving through the strands with a gentle tug. His inhale catches in his lungs, the air held prisoner as your nails trace along his temple and jaw. His eyes finally meet yours as the pad of your thumb drags across his lower lip, and it’s only then that you will his breath to freedom, a stuttering exhale pulsing with anticipation.

“I think we should get the check.”

A momentary shock quickly turns to realization, and with widened eyes and a stifled smirk he nods, wasting no time to flag down the waiter and ask for the bill. Neither of you speak; you find it almost impossible to do so, your gaze spellbound to the curve of muscle and veins that lay beneath his collar, and you swear you can see his pulse jumping beneath his skin.

You want nothing more than to feel the rush of it beneath your tongue.

Joel offers his arm to help you out of the booth, his flannel rolled to his elbows, exposing his thick and freckled forearms and a modest watch strapped to his wrist. He wastes no time whisking you towards the door, his palm flat against your lower back, waving a few rushed goodbyes to the folks he chatted with on the way in. You can feel his heat, his fervor, singeing your skin through your shirt, his fingers curled into the soft skin just above your ass. He holds the door for you as you lock eyes; you’re met with primitive opacity in his gaze, the desperation of it surging straight to your cunt.

You grasp his hand, and book it towards his truck, counting down the seconds before you lose control.

.   .   .   .   .

Joel hums with surprise as you twist the neck of his flannel into your fist, tugging him into you and colliding your lips savagely with his.

Fuck, you taste better than he could’ve possibly imagined.

He didn’t intend for the evening to end like this. In fact, he almost wanted to avoid it, wanted to take you out with the crystal-clear message of no expectation whatsoever. But he’s just a man after all, and the second your eyes started talking and hands started wandering, he knew there was no way he could resist giving you what you wanted.

His hands find their way to your hips with magnetic force, slipping under the hem of your shirt with ease and grasping at the softness that lies beneath the fabric. The strength of his hands is enough to push you flat against the passenger door as he tilts your pelvis towards him, easing your knees apart with an effortless nudge of his leg. 

You gasp into his mouth as he pulls you onto his thigh, grinding you into the thick denim. The sound of you, breathless and needy, stirs a ravenousness in his chest that Joel had thought was long laid to rest, an avidity that only you have managed to awaken. You, in all your glory, drenched in honey and cream, calling out to him to come and taste.

As he bucks your hips a second time, you whine, your hands shooting up and tangling in his hair. You tug his head back, distancing his lips from yours, and he can’t help but groan at the loss of contact. Your gaze bears into his eyes with a newfound ferocity, a determination that leaves him straining against the confines of his jeans.

“You gonna give me what I need, Joel Miller?” you speak against his mouth in a hush.

Goosebumps litter the better part of his neck and chest as his eyes struggle to keep you in focus. The sting of pain at the back of his scalp only swells his desire, a sensation so staggering that he finds his breath caught, full and tight in his lungs, escaping only through labored, silent sighs.

“M’gonna give you whatever you need baby, whatever you want,” Joel pants, slurring his words against your gluttonous smirk. 

Suddenly you’re diving beneath his jaw, dragging the heat of your mouth across the pattern he knows follows a prominent vein in his neck. Fuck, it feels euphoric, his pulse jumping against your tongue, every rush of blood to and fro delivering another wave of want straight to his cock. He gives in, letting his eyes roll back into his skull, no longer able to maintain any semblance of insouciance as he’s damn near collapsing under your spell. He can’t recall the last time he’d been touched like this. On the rare occasion he’d bring a woman home he found himself falling into routine, taking control because that’s what he sensed she would expect, fulfilling some sense of duty as a man that he never quite understood. He’d always felt a sort of magnetism toward assured women, but somehow they were never the ones who ended up in his bed, only wavering ladies who looked to him wide-eyed, waiting for instruction.

He’s quite sure he’ll never go back.

Joel drags your hips against him once again, this time increasing the friction, bearing you down on his thigh enough to feel the damp spot that’s pooled between your legs. You yelp, biting into his neck, the sting of your canines against his skin bordering on vampiric. Joel hisses, the pain once again blossoming into some sort of pleasure, twitching and crying from the head of him. 

“Babydoll—shit—” he curses, stunned as you drag your lower teeth towards his ear, undoubtedly leaving behind a sketch of crimson. “You wanna get in the truck baby? Plenty’a room in the backseat.”

You hum in agreement, your lips wrapping around his earlobe, flicking it against your tongue before giving it a feeble nip. Joel fumbles in his pocket until he manages to unlock the door with his key, wasting no time as he pulls you tight to his chest, swinging the door ajar before offering a hand to help you inside. Despite his lust-stricken haze, his gentlemanly charm seems to be beaten into the very fiber of his being. You step into the car, gracing him with a personal view of the perfect splay of your hips and ass, only revving his hunger as he follows suit.

.   .   .   .   .

You don’t allow Joel but a second before you’re caging him in between your legs, straddling his thighs against the backseat of his truck. The rough grip of his hands on your hips, grinding you down on his knee, kneading into your curves; it was enough to set you entirely ablaze. No more matchstick flickering at the pit of your stomach, every cell in your body is pulsing with need, pleading for release by the hands of Joel Miller.

You can’t help but glide with a sharp rock of your hips across his lap, desperate to return some friction to the pounding ache within your walls. Your eyes lock with his as your clothed cunt skims the sizable tent of his jeans, observing him feverishly as he groans at the sensation.

“Fuck—” he grunts, his chest heaving as you slowly drag away again. “Easy, easy baby…”

His hands find the valley of your waist with ease, slowing your pace to an achingly languid speed. With each brush of your throbbing clit against the seam of your panties, another gush of slick floods from your core. It’s filthy, obscene, soaking all the way through the thick material of your sweatpants and onto Joel’s denim. You can’t even remember the last time you were this wet. It makes you burn that much more, the way his mere presence alone was enough to turn you into a sopping mess.

“Joel—” your palms cradle the curve of his jaw, holding him still to allow you to study him in the lowlight. 

He’s so fucking beautiful, positively mesmerizing, his pupils blown wide with a raptured stare, the sharp curve of his nose like something carved from ancient marble. The pad of your thumb snakes across the pout of his lower lip, pressing down until his jaw goes slack, parting his mouth with an exhale.

Joel seems to lose himself in your gaze, his eyes not once leaving yours as you slip your thumb between his teeth and force him even wider, applying pressure to the tip of his tongue and feeling the muscle flex against your fingertips. You need his mouth, need it anywhere and everywhere and right fucking there, you need him to clean up this mess he’s made of you.

“You know how gorgeous you are, sugar?” you hum, spreading the slick from his tongue across his lower lip and down his chin. “You know I don’t do this for just anybody, right?”

“You’re the gorgeous one, baby, so goddamn gorgeous,” Joel pants, snaking his hands higher, up the bend of your waist until his palms reach the yielding skin that cloaks your ribcage. His thumbs trace the band of your bra; smooth, fluid motions that send chills crawling up your spine. “So beautiful I reckon’ it might jus’ kill me.”

You can’t help but smile at his sweetness, his accent reduced to a slurry of words, appearing to be drunk on your aura. It seems you’ve managed to reduce him down to his very core, the heat from your body melting through the hardened layers of gruff masculinity to reveal an almost desperate eagerness to please, a yearning to relinquish control.

“I can’t have you dyin’ on me, honeypie,” you allow your hands to wander, your fingertips finding their way to the uppermost button of his shirt. “I got far too many plans for that pretty little mouth of yours.”

You lean down to kiss him once again, your thumbs making quick work of the trail of remaining buttons. Your lips move sloppily against each other, the both of you unable to stifle your muffled moans, swallowing each other’s pleasure as your tongues waltz in the in-between.

“Tell me what to do, baby,” Joel croons against your cheek. “Fuck, want you s’bad, jus’ wanna make you feel good.”

Your fingers nestle into the damp mess of curls at the back of his skull. With an innocuous little tug, you guide his lips to the expanse of bare skin on your chest, his mouth settling at the heart of your sternum. You don’t even have to ask, his tongue darting past his lips, savoring the taste of you with a deliberate torpor. The graze of his scruff against your thumping heart feels better than you could have possibly imagined, sharp yet soft, ticklish enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You blanket the backs of his hands, your fingers settling in the spaces between his, maneuvering the wide expanse of his palms to splay across your breasts. You can’t believe the sheer size of his hands, enveloping your tits entirely, calluses harsh against the sensitive peaks veiled beneath the mesh of your bra. 

“Touch me here,” you sigh, unable to keep yourself rocking slowly against his thigh. “Taste me. Show me how bad you want me, pretty boy.”

Something akin to a growl claws from his throat, and you gasp as his nails hook around the seam of your bra, exposing the peaks of your breasts with a relentless tug. He wastes no time, pulling your nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking at the sensitive bud mercilessly.

“Fuck, oh fuck, that’s good baby,” you bear down into his thigh as his thumb finds your other nipple, rolling it between his forefinger. Your core surges with another wave of need, crying for attention, spilling her tears from your center and dampening the denim-clad thigh beneath her. “I need— shit— I need you lower, Joel.”

In your hungered haze, you push Joel flat against the seat of the truck, his eyes wide and wild as you climb atop him, his chest hiking and falling against your bare tits. He looks downright enraptured, licking his lips like a kid in a goddamn candy shop, fiending for a sugar high.

“You wanna taste me, sugar plum? You gon’ let me feed you?”

“Christ—” Joel curses, his hands wandering along your torso, lifting your shirt above your head and flinging it across the dash. He unclasps your bra with his free hand, sending it flying the opposite direction. “Please darlin’, need’ta taste you.”

You manage to kick off your sweats while Joel holds you steady by the hips, his eager words somehow igniting even more fervor in your movements. His thumbs knead into the give of your lower tummy, meandering beneath the waistband of your panties and twisting the elastic around his knuckles, slack-jawed and nearly possessed by the sight of your bare curves alone.  

Joel gives you a nod, cupping your ass to ease you forward as your knees find a home adjacent to his ears. He pets along the length of your thighs, damn near drooling at the sight between them.

“Don’t hold back on me now,” Joel slips a finger beneath the seam of black lace, teasing against the soft damp skin closest to where you need him the most. “M’a big boy, can handle myself.”

You gasp as he shoves the soaked cloth covering your cunt to the side, brushing your desperate clit with his knuckle as he does so. You’re bare to him now, surely glistening and ripe and ready to be devoured.

“Don’t doubt it, cowboy,” you croon, raking a hand through his curls before lowering yourself onto his eager mouth.

A rocket of white-hot pleasure shoots straight through you as Joel latches on to your clit, nestling the bud between his lips. The searing sensation is enough to make your hips twitch forward, sending your hands to scramble for purchase to keep you upright. You can’t even make a sound; the release of euphoria coursing through you stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you to choke on empty inhales until Joel finally gives your bud a moment of reprieve.

His tongue dips into the pool of your center, sending another swell of nectar from your core, coating his scruff in sweet slick. You hear him groan, muffled between your thighs, as his arms lock around your hips and push you down even further. 

“Fuck, Joel—” you hiss, trying to keep yourself from grinding against the sharp curve of his nose, pulling yourself away slightly.

You swear you hear a hum of disapproval from between your legs as Joel chases you with his mouth, his grip tightening and his fingers digging mercilessly into the give of your thighs. His tongue is deep, drinking straight from the source of your arousal as his arms begin to rock you against his face, his nose grazing against your clit with an impossible precision; sending wave after wave of pleasure coiling up your spine. It seems dangerous, the way he’s devouring you without a single breath, but he holds you steady, bearing the weight of you onto his mouth with no hesitation.

“Baby, shit sweetheart— you gotta breathe,” you manage a fistful of his hair, pulling him off you with considerable force. 

He looks thoroughly dazed; glassy irises and pink parted lips glistening with your dew, like a man who’s been given a taste but is nowhere near satiated. His chest swells and shallows rapidly beneath your ass, each breath bringing more color to his cheeks and a myriad of pearls forming across his hairline.

“Need more,” Joel pants, his fingers weaving around the lace stretched across your hips. “Need these gone, angel.”

You oblige him with a swiftness, pulling the garment to your knees, dismounting him to allow you to slip it past your ankles. His palms cup your ass and squeeze, his thumbs spreading you open to reveal even more of yourself to him. The stretch feels good, the sensitive muscles fluttering with the shock of the exposure, sticky and soaked from the steady drip seeping from your sex.

“So pretty…” he kneads into your pliable cheeks. “Can I taste it? Please sugar, need’ta taste all of you.”

God, his desperation is like a siren song, your desire burning hot and full in your throat. You hum with approval, mounting him once more but reverse this time, a wave of goosebumps skittering across your skin in anticipation. 

He starts gentler this time, licking a languid stripe from your taint to your tailbone. His tongue splays across your skin, wide and flat, making sure not to miss a single inch. A guttural moan escapes your lungs; an uninhibited response to the forgotten feeling of heat in that region, an entirely distinctive kind of pleasure that sends your eyes spinning to the back of your skull. Your nails dig crescents into the cushions your hands are so violently clinging to, your back arching, matching in a manner to match the little moons left behind by your fingers. 

Joel groans in response to your noises, biting at the supple flesh gathered in his hands, his hunger surely spurred by the sweet sounds of your euphoria. Like a switch, his mouth turns greedy again, lapping against your puckered skin with a ferocity that makes you cry out his name. He gives you no moment of respite, jerking your hips toward him and seizing your clit with his curved tongue and pulling you into him, his nose practically fucking your cunt.

“Ohhh, that’s…” you trail off, your eyes beginning to water from the sheer intensity of it. “Christ, you’re heaven.”

At that, Joel seems to lose control, seemingly possessed by a determination to make you meet God. His palms jerk your hips back and forth, your clit never once escaping the grasp of his lips, his nose delving into your pussy with reckless abandon. Pleasure ravages the whole of you in a frenzy, wave after wave surging in your belly until you’re all but crying, quivering as you white-knuckle the headrest holding you steady. Your orgasm topples through you, your vision blasting with light as your walls clamp again and again, squeezing the length of Joel’s nose buried in your cunt.

Joel doesn’t release your clit from his mouth until you’re yelping, twitching and gasping from overstimulation. His grip softens as you fly forward to your hands and knees, your chest heaving with exhaustion, your muscles bearing through the aftershocks of your release. His lips find the backs of your thighs, trailing sweet, slow kisses across the expanse of skin. They feel like praise, almost like he’s thanking you without words; a mellifluous tempo of graciousness that you had yet to experience from him. 

Part of you wants to linger in the divinity of this moment, but from your position you find yourself face to face with the bulging mass beneath his jeans. It looks painful, the outline of his shaft straining against thick denim and a sturdy zipper. You manage to unbutton the pants with your one free hand, slipping your palm beneath the waistband effortlessly. 

“Jesus, Joel,” you chuckle, astonished by the way his cock fills your palm, heavy and thicker than you would have ever anticipated. You begin to stroke him above his boxers, softly and slowly, swirling your fingertips across the head of him as you feel him groan beneath you, dampening your fingers with his weeping tip. “Lemme help you, sugar.”

Joel grunts out his approval, his palm splayed across your ass, seemingly as a means to ground himself to this mortal plane. The callused pads on his fingertips clutch you relentlessly as you free his dick from the confines of his clothes, holding the base of him steady as you glide the tip of your tongue across his glistening slit.

His hips jerk forward at the sudden contact, sending the length of him thrusting into your open mouth. You welcome him wholly, savoring the salty musk that coats your cheeks and the sting in your jaw as you stretch to accommodate him.

“Fucking—shit—” he growls, his breaths coming in short, shallow bursts. “C’mere, god damn—”

He tugs you back onto his open mouth, burying himself into you once more with a reignited ferocity, drinking the remnants of your orgasm. You yelp, your throat flexing around his tip as he flicks your overstimulated clit, the blend of pleasure and torment accosting your nervous system. 

It’s downright mean, the mercilessness of his tongue sending you straight into overdrive. Two can play at that game.

You take him as deep as you can manage, hollowing your cheeks as you swirl your tongue around his girth. He groans into your pussy, licking you faster, pulling your lips apart with his tongue and spreading them like angel wings. You can’t help but grin, the unspoken competition between you revving with intensity with each passing second, sending the both of you toppeling into bliss, warmth spilling down your throat as you cry out against his cock. Your thighs begin to shake as you reach your peak, tears beading in your eyes as you grasp tightly onto the flexing muscles in Joel’s legs. You choke on his name as his dick falls from your lips, bearing through surge after surge of euphoria. The pleasure is so consuming that it coils itself around your windpipe and renders you mute, holding you hostage until it’s had its way with you and leaving you dizzy when it finally relents.

Your arms give out on you and you collapse, exhaustion possessing you for a moment until your consciousness returns. You feel Joel pressing soft, sweet kisses to the back of your thigh, and suddenly become aware of the fact that you’re likely crushing his dick beneath your weight. You ease off of him slowly, your legs quivering with the effort, turning to face him as he shifts himself to a seated position and fastens his jeans.

The moonlight catches the sweat beading at his hairline; the glassy whites of his eyes and the dew on his lips beaming under the cool-toned hue. He looks like art, soft lines and harsh edges painted exactly where you’d want them; masculine shadows dancing across his skin as he shifts his weight, daring you to watch them move. You’ve never been so completely mesmerized by a man. Not once in your life has a man rendered you speechless, but here you are; irreversibly hypnotized and a stranger to the English language. You’re aware of yourself—painfully aware of your staggering silence and your gawkish gaze—and you shake your head, laughing at the unbelievable effect washing over you.

Joel’s cheeks turn ruddy, his irises shifting between you and his lap as he drapes his arm across his chest, giving his own shoulder a hearty squeeze. 

“What’s funny?” he breathes, insecurity creeping in his throat.

You come to suddenly; the stark realization that you’re probably making the man nervous is enough to break you from your trance. You crawl towards him, your fingertips grazing the underside of his jaw, tilting him towards you until your lips are merely an inch apart.

“Nothin’ sugar,” you hum, pressing your lips to his in a gentle kiss. “You’re just one hell of a cowboy.”

[eat-limes-bitches]

Not Allowed To Die

PAIRING: Female Reader x  Bucky Barnes

SUMMARY:  We never know how much time we have left and fate is a cruel mistress. We can only make the best of the time we have left.

WARNINGS: ANGST! Like omg so much angst not really a happy ending but it's not super sad either. Sad! Bucky, mentions of death, dying, tears

Word Count: 755

A/N: Would you like to be sad and or have your heart ripped out? Good. I was thinking about this the other day and it just felt like something so raw and real to talk about, especially since this is one of my greatest fears.

Enjoy! <3

It was around three am when Bucky woke up with a start. He heaved deep breaths into his lungs, physically willing his heart to slow down. He looked to his side and saw her still asleep, the moonlight drifting in through the window casting a halo on her hair as steady, strong, breaths fanned across her pillow. It was the sight of her next to him in their bed that allowed Bucky to finally catch his breath. He reached over with his flesh hand and traced her features with his finger, mapping every dip and curve, freckle and crease on her face, permanently ingraining her face into his mind. 

His feather touches eventually woke her up. Her brows furrowed together as a sleepy “James?” left her lips. Her eyes fluttered open and landed on the man staring at her with worry and fear etched deep into his features.

“James? What’s wrong?” She mumbled as she started to sit herself up. Bucky stared at her for a moment before blurting out “You are not allowed to die before me.” 

This surprised her. She sat up a little quicker and looked at him, “What?”

Taking a deep breath, Bucky repeated himself, “You are not allowed to die before me. You, just can’t.”

She let out a deep sigh as she leaned back against the headboard keeping her gaze trained on the man she loved. 

“Now James,” She started, reaching for his hand, “What on Earth brought this up, my love?”

Bucky takes a shuddery breath, his throat suddenly becoming tight as he tries to speak.

“I- I just realized how fragile all of this is. I realized that I m-might lose you and that scares me. I’ve already lost so much, I don’t think I’d be able to handle losing you too.” He chokes out, tears starting to sting his eyes, threatening to spill.

“I can’t lose you. I- I have to go before you.” 

Now her throat constricted, the thought of him leaving before she did was not a foreign thought to her, with his line of work, there is always a possibility that he won’t come back, but something about him making that statement when the world was silent weighed a little more on her. 

“Well that’s n-not exactly fair is it?” She choked out as tears started rolling down her cheeks. Bucky reached over and cupped her face in his hand.

“I s’pose no darlin’” He murmured as his breath caught in his chest. 

“B-but I just can’t lose you. I- I wouldn’t survive it” He choked on a sob as his admission hung in the air. Y/n sighs and gathers Bucky up in her arms, tears still streaming down her face.

“Baby, we can’t avoid it. It’s inevitable but I need you to promise me something ok?” She says softly, pulling away slightly so she can look Bucky in the eye.

“If I do die before you, don’t let that grief bury you alive, my love, ok?” Bucky opens his mouth to speak before she silences him.

“Take each day as it comes. And promise me, when the pain eases, you'll let yourself feel joy again.”

“But, you’re my everything darlin’,” Bucky sobbed, pulling her into his arms. She wound her arms around him, further deepening the embrace. 

“And you are mine. But you know what my ma told me? Love doesn't end with death. It transforms into memories, moments that live on, even when the people in them are long gone.” 

The pair sat in silence, content to just sit in one another's embrace before Y/n pulled away taking a deep breath.

“Now, as things sit, right here, right now, at this moment, I’m not going anywhere any time soon ok? We still have a lot of living to do, together, alright?” Bucky nodded.

“But I’m still afraid.” He whispered. 

“And that’s ok, my love,” She whispered as a ghost of a smile danced across her features, “As long as we don’t let that fear cloud the beauty that surrounds us right now.” 

Y/n laid back down, pulling Bucky down with her so that his head was resting on her chest where he could hear her heartbeat. 

 “We’re going to grow old together, and make lots of memories, so when the time comes, and one of us has to go, we have a lifetime of love behind us. And who knows,” She whispered, “Maybe, just maybe we will go hand in hand, and I’ll follow you into the dark.” 

[catcze]

You want some Wriothesley requests, eh? I’m more than happy to provide ;))

Wriothesley is a busy man, he’s the Lord of the fortress of Meropide for gods sake, so the last thing he needs is more distractions.

So I raise you this:

Reader hurts themselves on a commission or something, and instead of telling their boyfriend about it and bringing him even more things to worry about, they decide to treat their wounds themselves and hide their injuries from him entirely.

When Wriothesley inevitably finds out, he scolds them and tells them that their health is always his number one priority, and that he’s more than happy to leave his work behind to take care of them.

It’s safe to say that reader always informs their boyfriend of their injuries from that point onward.

AUGHHAKDJS AUGHAJKSD LOVE AND CARE AND CONCERN 🥺 oh LORD

AAAAAAAAAA MY GIJUKANSDJKAJKSDNJKASJKD

OKay OKAY OKAYSYDKUAJS okay okay. Okay. ok. yes.

This,,,, this was supposed to be a blurb,,,,, and then somehow,,,, along the way,,,,, it evolved into a short fic like what the fuck i just can't shut up when it comes to him 😭😭

「 CWS : 」 Light descriptions of injuries, established relationships, Wriothesley being so soft for you

Okay. So it's no biggie to you, really. Getting a little banged up on the job? Just a regular day for an adventurer. There's no real cause for concern— no need to go to a hospital or a clinic, and certainly no need to bother Wriothesley about it. Not when he's already up to his neck with extra work since the court has just sentenced some new convicts to the Fortress.

You're a seasoned adventurer! You know how to do first aid. It's easy!

Until it gets a little bit more difficult.

Applying salve and bandaging up your arms and legs gave you no trouble. Your lower back was just a smidge bit more difficult, but nothing you couldn't do. The main difficulty, you conclude, huffing in annoyance and staring at your reflection in the bathroom of your home, is that stupid laceration between your shoulder blades that for the life of you you just couldn't reach, much less patch up and slap some gauze over. Your arms are already aching from all the stretching they've gone through, all in vain because you couldn't reach that stupid spot on your back. And to make matters worse, all the movement was beginning to make the laceration sting and you worry that any more exertion would make the scratches on your arms and shoulders open back up, which is a whole other can of worms you'd rather not deal with.

You're hyping yourself up, convincing yourself to try just one more time— no, if you're careful your wounds will absolutely not open back up and you'll definitely be able to clean up before your boyfriend gets home and—

You're so lost in your own thoughts that you don't even hear the front door opening. What does catch your attention is Wriothesley's voice from down the hall, calling that he's home and oh shit in your haste to patch yourself up you hadn't closed the bathroom door and fuck fuck fuck he's too close and you're too far from the door to slam it closed and you grimace to yourself when you see Wriothesley appear at the open bathroom door, his expression melting into one of surprise (and not the good kind) as his eyes grow wide and his mouth opens just the slightest bit, taking in the bandages wrapped around parts of your arms, parts of your legs and around your torso.

"...Hi." That's all you can come up with as your eyes meet his in the reflection of the mirror, looking both guilty and sheepish.

"...Hi," he echoes, still staring. Then it breaks, his brows furrowing with concern. You can see the questions on the tip of his tongue. Are you alright? What happened? Why didn't you call?

But instead, he approaches, taking the open salve you've placed on the counter into his own hands. "Arms down. Don't strain them," he says, giving them a gentle nudge until they fall to your side. He scoops a liberal amount of the salve up, gently covering that pest of a wound with it. The cooling sensation feels delightful on the clotted scratch, but you can't help protesting his help.

"I- I can do that, you don't..."

"I may not have to, but I certainly want to. The gauze, please, dearest." You hand it to him over your shoulder, and he takes it with a mumbled word of thanks, tending to the wound that had given you such a headache. He does it better than you ever could yourself, even laying a small kiss on the bandage that has your heart melting.

The he releases you, catching your eye in the mirror as he makes a turn around motion with his hand. "Come on, dearest, let me check on the rest of you."

You do as you're told, spinning around slowly. He helps you sit on the counter of the sink, hands careful to avoid any of your injuries where he grips your waist and hoists you up. He doesn't speak while he checks you over, hands skimming your skin so gently it almost tickles. He checks if you've done your bandages right, if you've missed any scratches or scrapes. To his relief you have not, and the only wound that you hadn't treated was the one he had helped with.

Wriothesley's checkup ends at a scratch on your face that you stuck a bandage on, and his hand gently cups your cheek when he's done. On instinct, you lean into his touch.

"You're all good. Nice job with the bandages, dearest," he says, pressing a kiss to your lips. Then he raises a brow, face turning just a bit more serious, tone becoming more like that of the duke that many people feared. "Now. Can you tell me why you tried to do it alone when you could have asked for my help?"

"Because I could have taken care of it myself." You tell him in a huff, looking away from his eyes. "You're busy and I wouldn't want to bother you over something I was capable of doing myself. It would have given you more things to worry about."

You make a pointed effort not to look at him, and Wriothesley can't help it when he laughs under his breath. "Even if I'm busy, you can always come to me for help. Work or no work, you'll always be my priority."

Before you can even protest, adamant that you would never want to willingly interrupt his workflow, the thumb of his hand comes to stroke your bottom lip, silencing you. "Nope. No if's or but's. Especially when it comes to your wellbeing, I'll never turn you away." He can feel the flustered warm that spreads through your cheek under his palm and has to stifle a smile.

"You're always worried about me, so let me worry about you too," he murmurs, giving you a peck on the forehead, and he can practically see your stubbornness crack.

"Okay," you acquiesce, sighing, but you can't deny how warm it makes you feel to have him dote on you like this. Your boyfriend, the Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide, one of the biggest softies to you and only you. "I'll come to you the next time I need anything."

"You promise?"

"Yes, Wriothesley, I promise," you exclaim, dramatically rolling your eyes, but smiling all the same.

A similar smile is reflected on his own face, and he can't help it when he feels the need to kiss you again.

"Thank you, dearest."

[yallthemwitches]

Predatory in Nature

“No actually mate, it's ok—really, don’t worry about me. I’ll just never forget that my best mate, my brother in arms, my fellow marauder, betrayed me for Lily Evans’ sweet fanny—”

Today and tomorrow will be a double dose of some Sirius antics mixed with some fluff. Written for @jilytoberfest day 17: "It's cute when your face gets red like that."

AO3 Here

“Evans.”

She knows that sing-song voice from anywhere. Sirius Black lopes his way across the common room to take the seat across from her, grin looking downright sadistic in nature. 

“Yes Black?” When she doesn’t look up from her parchment, he leans down onto his folded arms, craning his head to force eye contact upwards at her bowed head.

“I’m feeling very perturbed and I need you to assuage my fears.”

Lily tries to keep writing but he plucks the quill out of her hand, throwing it behind his shoulder. 

“The fuck.” He ignores her annoyance, eyes setting into a firm stare. 

“Are you snogging James?”

The room temperature increases and Lily now feels the sudden sensation that she is being hunted for sport. 

“No–”

“Ok–Are you shagging James?”

Lily sputters, cheeks going rosy. “N-No.”

Of course the real answer is yes on both counts. A loud resounding one. It had been months of build-up, hours spent skiving off the last part of her patrols to lock themselves in various empty classrooms and passages, safely undiscovered from the comfort of darkness. But like the slow march of time, this moment was inevitable: that Sirius, the angel of death of all discretion, would come calling with suspicion. 

He leans further against the table top. “You sure about that?”

She scoffs knowing well that her body language is betraying her. To cover, she tries to rip her parchment out from under him, but he smacks his hand down against it, not swayed by her antics.  

“It’s cute how your cheeks get red like that when you're lying. So—once more for emphasis: are you or are you not snogging and/or shagging James Fleamont Potter—really dig deep here Evans.”

She leans back in her chair, eyes looking down at her lap. Of course he already knew the answer. This interrogation was just a formality—probably for his amusement more than anything else. Still, there was no use fighting it. She had been silly to even try.  

“Maybe,” her voice teeters off, hands fiddling with the ends of her hair. “A little?”

Sirius blinks. “A little?”

She breaks, his whittling down of her defenses an annoyingly effective tactic. 

“A lot! Alright, Black? You happy?” She gestures wildly into the air, face flushed. 

“Son of a bitch.”

Lily starts to open her mouth, ready to capitulate, but he cuts her off, running a hand down his face.

“I mean—what an absolute tosspot—I didn’t want to believe Remus but—.”

“Wait–excuse me?” Lily drops all exasperation to squint at Sirius, absolutely confused. She expected lots of things from his discovery of her and James' relationship, but anger was not one of them. 

“I mean, this is just rich—that bloody traitor, I mean this really stings.”

Lily stares at him, watching as Sirius shakes his head in discontent, running his hands through his hair. Her whole face is devoid of color, feeling like her body has gone numb.

“Sirius—if this is some god awful way of saying you fancy me—”

Sirius rears his head up, eyes maniacal. 

“No Evans!—stop being egotistical and fucking keep up—”

He slams his hands onto the desk, before lowering his head as well, his long hair shrouding his face.

“James is keeping secrets—from me!” He says, voice like an animal that has been kicked by its owner. Lily blinks at him but she can’t hold back the laughter that bubbles up from her chest, keeling over. Sirius lifts his head up to watch her through his hair, face twisted in a scowl. 

“It’s not funny, Evans! This is serious!”

“You are completely mental–” Lily chokes out between breaks in laughter. “That is your takeaway from this?”

“What? You think I care if you are banging my mate? I mean, I’m happy he’s getting laid and it’s you but—,” he puts his head back in his hands, “why in the fuck would he keep it from me…”

The portrait hole swings open and like a sixth sense, both Sirius and Lily’s necks crane to watch James enter. He is still sweaty and out of breath from quidditch and he stops dead in his tracks at the sight of the two of them, eyes darting from one to the other as though he needs no further information to know what is going on. 

Sirius wastes no time jumping to his feet and stalking towards him, finger guiding him until he is poking it into James’ chest. 

“First of all, how bloody dare you.” James looks down at Sirius' finger and frowns before casting a pleading, withered look at Lily.

“Pads I–”

“You didn’t think I’d find out? Me? You know, your best mate who also happens to have access to–” his voice gets lower, hissing, “--a certain artifact that lets me know what you are up to?”

James stares at his mate, mouth a perfect o. Sirius pulls away and slowly stumbles back, waving a hand dismissively in the air. 

“No actually mate, it's ok—really, don’t worry about me. I’ll just never forget that my best mate, my brother in arms, my fellow marauder, betrayed me for Lily Evans’ sweet fanny—”

“Black!” Lily stood up, hackles now raised and bounding for him. “Leave him alone, I told him to keep it quiet.”

Sirius looks down at her with wide eyes, mouth hanging ajar. 

“You did wha—what is wrong with you? Why’d you do that?”

“Because if you knew then—then I dunno…” she teeters off but Sirius waits, expecting answers.

 Something starts brimming under her eyes, and she loses all the momentum she had moments ago, feeling sidelined by emotion. 

“If we told people, it would make it real, you know?”

Both boys stand in stunned silence.

“You don’t want it to be real?” James' voice is barely above a whisper. There is a sudden shift in the room, all of Sirius’ dramatics floating into the background.

Lily staggers towards him, cheeks ruddy. “No—that’s not what I mean. It’s just—we haven’t been talking about it and I’ve been happy when I’m with you—but if we were just mucking around for a laugh…I didn’t want to rock the boat and make this more of something than it is.” She knows she’s babbling, perhaps incomprehensible,“you know—assume you still wanted something more—” 

James steps forward, putting his hands on Lily’s crossed arms. 

“Lily, there is nothing, no one that could make me want to stop doing whatever it is we are doing together,” he pleads, “I’ll keep it a secret forever—I’ll make Sirius too if that's what it takes.” His voice is firm and he reaches for her cheek. “I want…everything with you.”

“Then why did you stop trying to ask me out? You know– properly.”

She doesn’t know how this conversation devolved to this point, how Sirius’ whole friendship infidelity act could have led her to say the thing she wanted to say to him for months now, but here she was, eyes feeling glassy.

“You wanted us to be a secret,” James whispers.

“Yeah, but maybe I want other things now.” Tears are rimming her eyes but James reaches her before they can fall. She lets him wrap her into his chest, nuzzling her nose into his jersey which smells sweetly of his sweat. 

“So you want to? I mean—will you? Go out with me? In public?”

She looks up from his shirt. A grin has broken through his face like a burst of light. 

“Yeah—I would.” 

He presses his lips to hers, still smiling but hungry for her all the same. The world drops away and she feels their hands start to wrap to familiar places when a long whistle cuts through their small bubble of happiness. 

Sirius now sat on top of the back of the sofa. All of the anger, the sadness, the betrayal he had so woefully lamented about earlier now wiped from his being. Instead, a devious air wafted off of him, grinning with the satisfaction of a mission accomplished. 

“Wow–finally. Godric you two are so thick, at the rate you were going, you would have had a whole litter of children before going to Hogsmeade.” He flashes smirk, swinging his torso back and forth with playful ease.

“Sirius–” James warns, but Sirius’ barking laugh cuts through. 

“When you’re married with little baby Prongs’, I hope you look back on this moment and remember I did this,” he plops his feet on the floor, starting for the dorms. The couple track his movements, now aware they are captives in an elaborate trap. “Also, I expect a glowing account of my acting ability to Remus and Peter. They didn’t think I could pull it off. What tossers—I mean honestly.”

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Fall Drabbles, Day 8

prompt: curling up with a book

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!Reader

summary: Matt accidentally startles you and feels really bad about it.

warnings: Swearing, fluff

a/n: This one got away from me lol. Also I have to work a 12 hour shift today so I will probably not be posting the next few days! Sorry my loves!!

w/c: >1k (the new longest)

A sharp crack of thunder echoed throughout Hell's Kitchen, shaking the walls of your apartment and causing you to flinch violently. Shaking your head at your dramating reaction, you tried to get your breathing under control before picking up the novel you'd dropped. The pounding rain acted as a metronome, allowing your heart to mirror its steady pace.

Licking your thumb, you turned through the crinkled pages of The Shining, one of your favorite books, to find your place. You read it every year as soon as the weather turned and the trees dropped their leaves. It was a comforting tradition, but, in another sense, a huge mistake that you made annually.

See, you loved the story, but your nervous conscious was easily swayed into paranoia when you partook in spooky activities--such as reading Stephen King. (As illustrated by your reaction to the storm outside). In your opinion, though, the week or two of fright were worth it for the good read. Besides, these days you had a strong man to protect you from the inevitable nightmares.

With a steaming cup of hot chocolate beside you and a soft fleece blanket across your lap, you settled further into the couch, holding your breath during a particularly suspensful scene. Another crack of thunder roared outside the windows, rattling the glass as it whooshed past. 

Smirking pridefully, you instinctively sad up a little straighter when this noise didn't spook you. “Gonna have to try harder than that, thunder.”

“I'm not sure it heard you, love.” Came a rumbling voice from above you, which your pattering heart was not prepared for. 

“CHRIST ON A CRACKER!” You screeched, leaping off the couch and ungracefully faceplanting as your feet got snared by the throw wrapped around you. Thankfully, your hands shot out to catch you before you got an impressive concussion. Unfortunately, your right shoulder hit the ground first, underneath your full body weight, leaving you with a stinging ache. “Ow, fuck!”

The concerned face of your boyfriend appeared over you, his hands prying off his helmet before helping you back onto the couch. “Shit, darling, are you ok? I didn't mean to startle you that badly.” Matt winced, guilt heavy in his pretty eyes. 

Forcing a smile, you reassured him. ”I'm ok, Matty.“ Gratefully leaning into the warm embrace he offered, you gave a bashful chuckle. ”Pretty sure my ego is more bruised than my arm.“

”Can I check it out for you?“ After three years with the man, you knew this was more of a demand than a request. Sighing, you offered up the injured limb. 

Matt gently prodded at the joint, carefully turning your arm from side to side with his head tilted down. Seemingly satisfied with his examination, he set your arm against your side and stood up, heading for the kitchen. Pouting in his absence, you folded your hands together and looked after him. ”Did the city treat you alright this evening?“ Your voice was even, but you were sure he could sense your hesitation nonetheless. 

Given your boyfriend's tendency to fall into deep pits of remorse over the smallest mistake, you were confident he was beating himself up for injuring you--despite the fall being entirely an accident and the fact that your clumsiness was in no way his responsibility. When he was in self-flagellation mode, easy questions that encouraged him to focus on the fact that you were alive and safe usually helped. 

”Guess so.“ Was Matt's firm response. Apparently 'easy questions' wouldn't be the solution tonight. Stifling a sigh, you pivoted to a riskier tactic.

“Matthew, I can smell the self-pity from here. Please stop beating yourself up and come sit with me?“ 

Padding back over to you, Matt handed you a wrapped ice pack. ”You need to ice that shoulder first.“ 

”Pretty sure those two things aren't mutually exclusive.“ You laughed, stroking over his suit-covered arm gently. ”Please?“ 

Matt perched stiffly on the edge of the couch, tilting his head at you. ”Happy?“ He asked, the question dripping in sarcasm. 

With a mischievous grin, you wrapped your arms around his waist, tackling him to the couch cushions. He grunted, but made no move to stop you. Wiggling up his muscular torso, you kissed the tip of his nose, which he immediately scrunched with feigned contempt. Egged on by his surly reactions, you peppered kisses all over his face--breaking into a radiant grin when he laughed brightly. ”Ok, ok! I love you too, bug. Will you ice your damn shoulder now?“

Gratified, you placed the pack against your sore arm and squirmed in between Matt and the back of the couch. Flipping onto his side, his face softened as you pressed your forehead to his. ”Hi,” You greeted him happily, hand coming up to cradle his cheek. 

Closing his eyes, Matt let out a breath as you stroked a thumb over his stubbled cheek. ”Sorry about your arm.“ 

”Matty, sweetheart, I already told you to knock that shit off. I was distracted by my book and I tripped over my blanket when you startled me.“ You mock glared at him, poked his solid chest. ”Tell your brain to forgive you and move on.“ 

”Hmmm, my brain says no.“ Matt chuckled, but there was no jest in his words. 

”Ugh, Matt!“ You groaned, snuggling into his chest. ”What can I do to get you to forget about this?“ 

”Well, I think I'd be more likely to forget if I got another kiss.“ Puckering his lips, he closed his eyes expectantly. You scoffed, but gladly pressed a longer kiss to his mouth. 

”That better?“ You asked, brushing your noses together as your hand moved across his jaw and into his hair. 

Your boyfriend went slack against you, murmuring in assent before asking, ”Whatcha reading tonight?“

”The Shining. That's why I was so spooked when you got home.“ Matt chuckled quietly at the admission.

Burying his face in your chest, his lips tickled the skin over your collarbone. ”Read some to me?“ His voice was small, as if he expected you to turn him down. 

”Of course, love. Did you want to change first?“ 

Matt simply shook his head. So, you retrieved your book and opened it to the page you'd last read. Kissing his forehead, you grabbed the blanket from the floor and spread it over the two of you. ”Wendy sat in the overstuffed chair by the window with Danny on her lap, holding him, crooning the old meaningless words..“

Your velvety voice surrounded him, lulling his adrenaline filled body into a state of peace. His breathing evened out as you continued petting his hair and reading aloud. It wouldn't be long until he fell asleep, but he knew you'd be there when he woke up. 

[halcy0ng1rl]

growing pains | F.J.S.J

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Joey: R U OK?  Susie: @ the lodge

3.5k words Susie Lavoie centric hurt/comfort

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─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Playlist𝅘𝅥𝅮 1: Growing Pains by Ethel Cain  2: Nara Dreamland by Nicole Dollanganger  3: Crack Baby by Mitski 4: Golden Age by Ethel Cain 5: Waco, Texas by Ethel Cain 6: Not a lot, just Forever by Adrianne Lenker

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1996, Mount Ormond 

The bitingly cold wind wafted through Susie’s hair as she trudged up the steps to the abandoned Mount Ormond Ski resort. It nipped at the static tears in her eyes and snuck through the gap of her sweater’s front pocket, hands stuffed feebly inside. She dredged her soaking canvas sneakers up the crumbling wood steps toward a room she knew all too well. The cracked frosted glass window of her sanctuary door welcomed her home. 

She folded herself onto the painstakingly thin mattress and listened as the wind-beaten old frame sighed under her weight. The dark mauve dusk of evening settled over the inconsequential town of Ormond, and by extension, over Susie. 

      As she pulled the bed’s scratchy faded blue blanket over her nose, she felt the inevitable sting of tears fall from her burning eyes down her cold cheeks. Snot dripped from her nose, and she wiped it with her sleeve. She hated him. 

Congested sobs bubbling up in her throat, hair the texture of dead straw sticking to her forehead, tonight’s altercation played on repeat in her head;

Her mid-term marks in her father's curled fist. Shouting. The deaf ring of flesh hitting flesh. More shouting. 

‘How can my daughter be an idiot and a dyke?!’ Smack. ‘You ungrateful brat!’ Another. ‘Fucking useless’. Crunch. 

She had managed to tune out most of it– his usual drunken stammering– but she couldn’t tune out the pain in her ribs or the throbbing ache under her left cheekbone or the coagulating, purple-green bruises on her shins. Some things she couldn’t escape. But here in this abandoned, snow-soaked castle, she could flee to her own kingdom of solace if only for a few hours. 

Susie had first found the ski lodge with Julie last year when they were juniors at Fairview, first semester. They were out cruising in Susie’s “new” 1990 accord during the Christmas break, snow falling like puffy stars beyond the windshield. Old holiday jingles played over the beat-up speakers, and as they drove down a backroad on the way to one of their only rich friend’s parties, Julie spotted the large chain-link fence hidden in the thickets of frost-covered evergreens. 

Susie parked the car, apprehensive as Julie ran her purple-manicured fingernails over the rusted NO TRESPASSING sign bolted to the fence. The words, emblazoned in crimson red, put a knot in Susie’s stomach. 

She didn’t even want to go to this party, let alone break into a place where they could get in trouble, murdered, lost, or all of the above. But as Julie’s cold hand took hers, all of her worries melted away. So long as they were together, Susie could do anything. 

Pulling her hood over her snow-dotted blonde hair, Julie whisked over the fence with ease. Susie followed suit, albeit less gracefully, and they stared at the forgotten wood monolith in awe once their feet hit the icy pathway. Julie broke out in a rush of excitement. 

“Let’s go, Suse!” 

Susie tried her best to keep up with Julie’s sudden burst of energy, her breath visible in the night air as she clamoured up the hill. Inside was a world of their wildest dreams. 

They spent the night pouring over the dusty wood bannisters and abandoned vending machines, enchanted by the cavernous hallways and cracking upholstery, all left permanently as they were when the resort closed. Stuck in time. Moonlight and snowflakes filtered through a large concave in the roof and illuminated the large centrepiece fireplace. Cracked wooden beams stretched across the high ceilings for what seemed like miles.

 It was the most beautiful place they’d ever seen.

Holding a hazy green bottle of champagne, Julie leaned against the water-ring-covered bar in the chalet. She dusted the cobwebs from the glass with her gloved palm. 

       The moon from the window behind her illuminated the contours of her like a halo as she smiled skeptically at Susie, raising the bottle. Susie felt a painful and sudden yearning to reach over the countertop and close the distance between them in response, but instead, she simply nodded. Stared into the beautiful, gleaming blue eyes before her.

 Julie popped the cork. 

“To the other resort that shut this place out of business,” she toasted, and lifted the bottle to her cracked lips.

 They took turns sipping the bubbly drink, laughing like they hadn’t in years as they posed like 1950s pin-up girls on the countertop and talked like detectives they’d heard in movies. The sound of tipsy giggles filled the once-empty chamber of the resort and echoed back at them, sweet and melodic. 

The world introducing Susie to this place was the kindest thing it had ever done for her right next to introducing her to Julie in the eighth grade. 

When they finally made it to the party, it couldn’t compare to the fun they’d had at the lodge. 

Even now thinking about that day made Susie’s tears quiet, and the thrumming of her heart steady. She held herself together, knees up to her chin, and closed her eyes. Thinking of Julie and snow. The gentle scent of her car's heat enveloping them in the dark cab when they drove back home, only faintly lit by the dashboard. 

‘Too bad she’s preoccupied with he who shall not be named,’ she retorted to herself bitterly. 

The warm visual of Julie in the snow morphed into Frank in the firelight, the underside of his jaw highlighted by orange as he pressed his thin lips to Julie’s, the scent of whiskey on her breath for the rest of the night. Susie could smell it when she hugged her goodbye. 

Even so, she couldn’t be mad at him for long. They were cut from the same cloth and he had saved them from dying of boredom before senior year. But part of her was ambivalent toward the lodge no longer being hidden as the forest's best-kept secret. Upset that Julie wanted him over her, and that he returned the sentiment. The conflicting feelings she had for Julie made her want to buy a gun, shoot 30 people, and then herself. It didn’t seem fair. 

She thought of them, toiling around on the dust-covered comforters in the next room over. A shared cigarette burning between parted lips, smoke funnelling into the air (Susie knew Julie wouldn’t object if he offered). They were probably glad she couldn’t come that day— it may have even been their plan. Julie knew she had a test that morning.

‘You’re my best friend. You know I’d never leave you out, right?’ And yet she did. 

But then she thought of all the fun the four of them had together these past few months and flashes of Julie’s black-lipped smile brought forth that feeling of belonging she sought for. Her friends filled the gaping hole life had carved in her chest. 

With a pang of guilt, Susie remembered her obligation. Tonight was a legion night, her legion night and she was spending it wallowing her pain away dreaming wistfully about a girl who would never love her back. Angry for reasons she had made up in her head. She hugged herself tighter. ‘Pathetic’. 

Before this evening she had planned to rent a copy of whatever interested her at the video store and formulate her ideas whilst they curled up on the couch munching on popcorn, staring at Frank’s tiny box TV. Yet here she was. Ditching them. 

They were probably all waiting for her. 

Her phone buzzed, confirming her suspicion. 

Joey: R U OK?  Susie: @ the lodge

Immediately after she sent the text with shaky fingers, Julie’s number flashed across the tiny viridian screen. The phone vibrated, and she hesitated for a moment– then put it to her ear. 

“Hello? Susie?” Julie’s voice cracked through the poor signal. Susie sat on the edge of the bed, picking at her leggings. 

“Hey Julie,” her voice worked hard against the lump in her throat. Julie picked up on her tone immediately. 

“Is everything okay? Joey said you’re at the lodge.” 

“Yeah, I– uh,” Susie exhaled a shaky breath, watched it dissipate into the air. Julie would understand, surely, but putting words to everything she felt would be like having her teeth pulled. She ran her tongue along her braces and bit the inside of her scarred-up cheeks silently. The fear of being seen as a burden outweighed her need for reassurance. 

The sickly-sweet voice on the other end broke her from her reverie.

“Are you there, Suse?” 

She wiped her runny nose and teary eyes with her sleeve, murmuring a small “yeah,” in response. 

“We’ll be there soon, okay? Don’t go anywhere.” She could hear Joey’s concerned whispering in the background; ‘What’s she saying?’ ‘Was it her dad?’ He was probably fluttering nervously over Julie, playing with his hands. Susie began to sob. ‘So much for playing it cool,’ she thought. 

“Okay,” she choked.

“Love you, we’ll be there soon, I promise.” 

“Love you too,” when Susie flipped her phone shut, she heard a snippet of Frank’s manic raving behind Julie’s soft reassurances; ‘We should get back at him, strike while the iron is still hot-’ and flopped back onto the bed, eyes on the ceiling. 

She had thought of it before. Taking a kitchen knife to his throat in the middle of the night, beating him senseless and leaving him to starve to death in the closet under the stairs. Even petty things, like smashing the glass cabinet that held all of his ski trophies and snapping the gold-coated pieces of metal into unrecognisable specks of dust. She wanted so badly for him to hurt, to feel all of the pain he caused her. To let go of all of the rage she felt. 

She would love to ply off his fingernails one by one.

However, every time the knife block in the kitchen whispered to her, a wave of nausea would settle deep in her stomach. She would be letting him win if she gave in to their pleas. 

Every inch of skin sliding overtop of her bones shook with resentment and made her sick with a desperation to rip it all off. 

The salty taste of anger fell into her mouth as she screamed into the pillow, tearing at her hair. She tore the choker off her neck and threw her shoes in the corner of the room, then collapsed once more and screamed until her throat felt the same texture as wood bark. 

“Why are you like this Susie?” She mocked, lifting her face up. “Why are you like this Susie?” She straddled the pillow, picturing her father’s limp body in its place as she curled her hands into fists and threw blow after blow at it. “WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS, SUSIE?! WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS, SUSIE?!” 

For the one time he caught her smoking, 

For the one time she got a 40 on a science test, 

For the one time he saw her ex-girlfriend kiss her in the driveway,

For every single time she simply existed and he took it out on her as if she had just committed a crime worthy of capital punishment, she threw her fist at the pillow. 

…

When Julie walked into the room, she stumbled upon Susie sitting red-faced on the floor surrounded by feathers with her head in her hands. Smudged mascara had cascaded down her cheeks. 

Immediately, Julie dove into the fluffy down and enveloped Susie in a warm hug. Startled– yet grateful to see her– Susie returned the favour and found solace in the warmth of her neck. 

She smelled like the expensive perfume her parents had gotten her for Christmas last year: vanilla & sandalwood. 

Her hands dug into Julie’s shoulders,

“I just want to fucking burn it all down.” 

“I know,” she held her tighter “I know.” 

Susie’s eyes locked onto Frank, leaning against the doorframe with a flashlight. An uncharacteristic look of sympathy contorted his pimpled face. His eyes told a level of understanding beyond words, but he was still tapping his foot impatiently against the hardwood floor, some sinister plan brewing behind his gentle gaze.

She knew what he was thinking of doing. Silently, she shook her head. 

 Joey stood right beside Julie, a soft hand on Susie’s heaving shoulders. 

They had come to console her in one of her darkest times and were willing to give up their night to do so. Weren’t afraid of the hysteric wailing, or the uncomfortable silence that followed. The very thought of their sacrifice made Susie’s heart swell with affection. 

When she finally calmed down and pulled away, Julie chuckled. 

“Guess I know better than to ask what happened here,” she smiled and gestured to the decimated pillow. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Susie felt her lips curl into a sheepish grin. The room sighed. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she stood up and dusted herself off, kicking the feathers to the corner to join the dust bunnies. Julie threw her knapsack on the bed as Susie hastily embraced Joey and waved at Frank as he settled the flashlight on the nightstand, a silent token of apology. They all moved closer to the centre of the room as Julie unzipped the bag. 

“We stopped by shoppers on the way here, sorry it took so long,” blurs of colour folded out of the bag and onto the bed “but we picked some stuff up for you.” Julie leaned against the bedframe to give Susie time to examine her wares. 

On the dusty mattress lay a box of electric blue hair dye, a pack of menthol Newports, a crunchy chocolate bar, fluffy white teddy bear, and a cassette tape with ‘for Suzzie :)’ emblazoned on it in permanent marker. Susie was overwhelmed.

“Guys–” 

Julie wrapped an arm around her from behind and pointed at her presents with a peeling manicured finger, “The dye, crunch, and bear are from me, the mixtape is from Joey, and the Newports are from Frank,” she jokingly scoffed and glared at him from the corner of her eye “because he obviously wants to kill you before we graduate.” 

He flipped off Julie with a smirk and walked closer, “your favourite, right?” 

Susie stuffed the pack into her front pocket, the familiar weight soothing her “Yeah, thanks– you remembered.” 

Frank tousled her knotted hair, “Kinda hard to forget when you reek of mint every time you get to the caf.” 

Susie punched him lightheartedly– eliciting a mock cry of pain from the boy– and bent over to caress the glossy cassette tape with her fingertips, brushing over the inscription of her name. There were little stars and lightning bolts doodled next to it in gel pen. On the back, it said ‘from Joey >:)’. 

“That was supposed to be your Christmas gift, but I figured you should have it now.” 

“It’s mid-November,” 

“I like to plan ahead.” 

She grinned at his obvious lie. “So what’s on it?” 

Joey pulled a piece of creased notebook paper from his pocket, tracklist written in hasty scrawl “I had Julie help me out, you can yell at her if it's wrong.” 

Susie took her time examining the note, most of it spent deciphering his handwriting– tracks from Aphex Twin, Nine inch Nails, and even some of the obscure techno artists she annoyed everyone else with were there. Her lips curled over her braces as she beamed. 

“This is sick, Joey.” 

“Really?” 

“It’s perfect.” 

His shoulders sagged like he had been tense for the whole minute this interaction played out. “I’ll bring my player up here at some point,” Frank shot him a wink, and Susie pretended not to notice, but it made her feel a little sick. 

She loved Joey, but not that way. She didn’t know how to tell him that, though, and she also didn’t want to lead him on. Her heart only pined for Julie, who was waiting idly for Susie to pay attention to her. How the tables had turned. 

Susie’s black nails gripped the polar-white teddy bear and stared into its beady brown eyes, bewildered by the care her friends had shown her. She wasn’t used to this. “How much of this did you actually pay for?” 

Julie eyed Frank and put a finger to her lips “That’s classified.” 

Susie wanted to kiss her right then and there. So many nights she lay awake and fantasized about it; how she would taste, where her hands would travel, if her braces would make it awkward. Would she whisper to her and throw her blonde hair over one shoulder so it wouldn’t get in the way? Would Julie taste the menthols on her tongue? 

Would the nicotine on it drive her crazy?

Every night would end the same, with Susie going to bed alone in her cold bedroom, forever unfulfilled. Left solitary to wander the confines of her unsatisfactory thoughts, stuck at an impasse. Susie knew better than anyone that you don’t always get what you want, but why couldn’t she have this one good thing? 

She’d have to settle with simply being her friend and the thought terrified her. Julie seemed like her only ticket to happiness, the cure-all for her woes. ‘Take me,’ she wanted to scream. ‘Just fucking take me already!’ 

The stuffed animal in her arms’ stitched-on mouth smiled as if to reassure her–which sadly didn’t work much. She tried to distract herself by imagining different ways to give it a makeover, she could glue on some googly eyes, patch on some fabric, spray Julie’s perfume on it– 

Okay, maybe that angle wasn’t working either. 

Julie’s voice poked through her dizzy trance.

“You wanted to dye your hair blue, right?” 

“Hm?” 

Julie shook the box of hair dye, “You wanted to dye your hair blue, right? You said something about it the other day.” Concern painted her perfect face. 

“Oh, sorry, it’s—yes. I wanted to dye it blue—thank you, Julie–” Fumbling, Susie looked down at her faded pink tendrils: brown was steadily leaching into the strands. She dreaded the thought of being brunette again. 

“Are you okay? You spaced out on me there. We can leave if–”

“No!” She blurted, “I’m okay, more than, I just wasn’t expecting all this. That’s all.” 

Again, her heart filled with appreciation and her face grew hot with the embarrassment of being perceived. She took a split-second moment to lavish in the fact that for once, people cared enough to remember the little things, like her favourite brand of cigarettes, the music she listened to– even something as trivial as the colour she offhandedly said she wanted to dye her hair.  It was such an unnatural feeling, to be revered. Her eyes darted around the room to look at the faces of her friends, all of a sudden so grateful for them—fuzzy warmth cascaded through her body. 

Julie waited for her to continue, one hand on Susie’s arm. “I thought you’d come here to drag me out, get me back on my feet to continue the night’s activities– not this,” Susie’s eyes met the floor, full of guilt. How could she ever think so lowly of them? Julie’s brows furrowed, then softened, her eyes gentle. 

“I would never force you to do anything you don’t want to, okay? Even if that means postponing legion–” she rolled her eyes at the term Frank had coined, “--activities. You come first,” Susie found herself in Julie’s embrace once more, inhaling that sweet scent on her skin. “We can’t stop that prick from hurting you, but the least we can do is be there for when he does.” 

Frank tilted his head after a few moments of silence and put words to what everybody was thinking yet didn’t want to admit: “We could kill the fucker.” 

Nobody laughed. Joey’s face turned to stone, and Julie only clutched the girl in her arms tighter. Thunder cracked outside and icy sheets of rain slammed against the window, as inside, the four of them raged with the same deadly force. 

All they could do was wait for the storm to pass. 

…

The next day, in Julie’s small bathroom, Susie sat on the tile floor with her neck craned over the bathtub, freshly bleached scalp covered in cerulean sludge. 

“You’re gonna look like Marge,” Frank’s scratchy chuckle echoed. 

“Oh, shut up!” Julie pushed him, then bent over Susie and smiled haphazardly. “You’re gonna look great.” 

Joey, leaning against the countertop, put up a hand in defence, “Better than looking like a walking piece of bubblegum.” 

“Hey, you all said it looked good pink–” 

“Don’t listen to these morons, Suse,” 

Julie tilted her best friend’s head back, smiled, and turned on the handheld tap with blue-stained fingertips.

 I’m home, Susie thought, I’m home here. 

[fyodior]

Wait oh my god, omega reader in heat with alpha verlaine AND alpha Rimbaud 👁️

hhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

ok so we've already discussed this some, and what i think their different strengths as heat partners would be -- verlaine would be much better at alleviating your sexual needs whereas rimbaud is likely better with the emotional/physical support. basically verlaine will fuck you raw and rimbaud will make sure you drink water

so i definitely think they tag team it like that. when you wake up agitated and so horny you can't breathe, rimbaud will rub your back and do breathing exercises with you as verlaine gets himself hard fjdjfjfd and as he fucks you, rimbaud will prepare some light food and drinks to make sure you stay hydrated and fed, which he has to really encourage you to take a few bites of afterwards. your insanely overwhelming omega hormones and scent drive verlaine fucking crazy and he ends up fucking you half to death so you're rightfully exhausted jjfjdsjfdj but rimbaud is still going to gently force you to eat and drink, and will help you either take a shower or bath afterwards. he's pretty adamant about keeping you clean too. he'll help you rearrange your nest when it falls in disarray and scent/provide you with every single sweater he owns to comfort you when pieces of your nest inevitably need to be washed. he is the most gentle, patient, and loving caretaker

verlaine on the other hand. his talent is fucking. it's not that he's a bad person and doesn't want to provide you with emotional support, that's just something he has almost no experience with and doesn't even know where to start. that being said, he'll very gladly still try, and his hugs and cuddles and sweet words are very very comforting. but good god no one does it like him. when you've fallen back into the subspace-like, primal horniness and your pawing at verlaine and whining, he'll be very gentle and kissy as he lays you on your back and spreads your legs open. shhh honey, its ok, he'll whisper into your ear as you whine and cry out, your body overwhelmed by its own biology. i'll take good care of you, give you what you need, make you feel all better. which is exactly what he does ehhehehehe you're screeching and clawing at his back as he stuffs you so full of his cock you can feel your guts rearranging. he marks and scents you just like a good alpha should, and you breathe a little easier when you inhale his scent on you. even though he's not in rut, he has to be careful and hold himself back, because your pheromones and slick that's leaving him and the sheets absolutely soaked are triggering his own alpha instincts, but he knows when you're in such a fragile state he could hurt you badly if he gives in. he will indulge and force your thighs wide open so he can spend damn near an hour drinking up every ounce of slick you have to offer - it's so fucking sweet and absolutely intoxicating, and having his tongue shoved inside of you is a good alternative when he's waiting to get hard again. and exactly like a good alpha should -- he knots you. a switch flips in you as soon as the base of his cock swells and he releases all of his cum right into your womb, one that allows you to calm down even just the slightest amount. it feels so right to be full of his cum and for it to be plugged up inside you, for the two of you to be physically inseparable, even for just a short bit of time. verlaine's knot gets big, and your painfully sensitive, swollen cunt stings and aches as he stretches you out even further than his own girth, but you've never felt like something has belonged to you more.

all of this isn't to say that rimbaud won't support you sexually ever, he just doesn't have that high of a sex drive. he can and will fuck you slow and sweet with his fuller cock, draping himself over your back and spreading your cheeks wide so he can rub his cock over every single inch of your pussy, and fill every single crevice with his cum. he gets chilly though, so typically he'll want to fuck buried deep inside the nest under the covers. i can see him teasing you sometimes, though, wanting to have a little fun. im imagining verlaine is gone for some reason, either just in the shower or off very briefly to see chuuya or something, and rimbaud is your only alpha for the next hour or so. hormones dont care when and where the best time would be to fuck, though. you've woken rimbaud up and pounced on him, mewling please pleaseplease, arthur please i need you to fuck me, but he's still half asleep and not really in the mood. so, with a small smirk, he'll position you onto his lap and kiss you, whispering honey sweet words onto your lips. "you can take care of yourself just this once, can't you? for me?" you cock your head a bit, confused as your brain is cloudy, but get the point after he yanks your soaked panties off and grabs hold of your hips to help you rock against his thigh. you gasp as your swollen clit rubs against his toned thigh, finally understanding what he means. he doesn't have to convince you more, you can be a big girl and do it yourself this time. he offers you a sleepy smile as you throw your arms around his neck and start frantically humping his thigh, dirty moans and whines directed right into his ear as your body shakes. your heightened senses makes the stimulation feel blinding, and your body seems to have a separate mind of its own as grind down on his thigh, lips spreading so you can get direct contact with your clit. you're wet, so wet, and rimbaud almost thinks you've wet yourself as you come not long after, but it's just the ungodly amount of slick and squirt released from inside you as you succumb to your orgasm, shaking and crying. you collapse into rimbaud's arms, and that's how verlaine finds the two of you when he finally returns. you passed out, drooling on his chest as he hugs you close and pets your hair.

moving on from sex (booooo boo tomato tomato tomato) i just wanted to briefly talk about how sweet i think verlaine and rimbaud would be about you blabbering about having pups. clearly, heats have one purpose and one purpose only, to breed -- and that's what you want. they'll very patiently listen as you whine about how badly you want to get pregnant, how badly you need them to get you pregnant, and just pet your hair and laugh. it'll come with time, my love. just wait, they'll coo. they'll tell you how beautiful you'd look pregnant with their pups, and jokingly argue about who's pup you'd carry first. they decide to settle it with a game of rock, paper, scissors, and verlaine wins. here's to hoping you have cute little blonde pups <3

and that is just a mild glimpse into what i think alpha verlaine and rimbaud would be like when reader is in heat <3

[formula-fun]

ON TODAYS EPISODE OF LINES THAT MAKE ME CRAZY

this is a little long but I couldn't help it

"They’re back in the desert again for the first time since Charles was pregnant, on another planet again, the sand so unfamiliar from his home—from Flanders and Limburg with their thick forests and heavy rains and comforting warm food designed to stick to his ribs. It’s different from Monaco, his real home port, a dreamworld where he can find clear water and perpetual sunrise and Charles, most of the time. 

The desert is a dreamworld too, but different. It’s endless and ancient and inviting, the flatness of Bahrain starting at the edge of the tarmac and then falling off the edge of the map, like if they turned and drove into it they could go forever and ever. The hotel has a plate of things set out on the bed like he’s on his honeymoon, roses on a gold tray beside tiny dishes of sticky pastries and nuts. An hour later Charles is laughing in his bed as he licks honey off his fingers. 

“They’re just like in Capri,” Charles tells him, and the memory explodes on his tongue, a phantom ache of too-sweet. Charles’ face screws up a little every time he eats one of these, here and now—tiny bits of dough, perfectly round, alarmingly orange and shiny as glass. His mouth is shiny too, and they must be painfully sweet for the face he keeps making and the way he laughs after, delighted. "

these descriptions are actually insane,,,,,, especially the "tiny bits of dough, perfectly round, alarmingly orange and shiny as glass" for some reason is just lighting up some specific neurons in my brain I was just hand to my mouth reading and rereading

And then this

"Charles smells honey-sweet after, and after the race. His heat is on the way. Max isn’t sure if he knows it and is ignoring it, or if Max has noticed it before he has. It’s not common, but he does sometimes, and Charles has been distracted with other things.

When he comes to Charles after the race Charles kisses him hard and stinging. Charles likes his pleasure rough and unrelenting more often than not, and especially after a race. He wants to be pinned down and fucked across the mattress, but Max knows what’s good for him, and that won’t quiet his head down. He drags him closer instead, his skin hot beneath the blankets—drags him up and up, until Charles is sitting on his face, his forearms against the headboard, letting out little moans and frustrated sounds. His hips keep jerking like he doesn’t know where to go and every few minutes he tries to roll away entirely. Max doesn’t let him. He digs his fingers into his thighs every time he tries, forcing him through the slow, inevitable build of it until Charles falls apart against his mouth with a broken moan."

this is post suzukaaaaaa he's distracted bc hes trying to find a COURTING GIFT

also? jfc this is soooooo hot what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck 🕳️🚶

ok last bit

"You are very proud,” Charles protests half-heartedly, “if you think I need you this badly. I am fine on my own.”

Charles is teasing him, but it still stings a little. It’s been a few months; Charles has been on his own more often than not, or at least he has if he hasn’t been seeing anyone else. Still, it’s a sharp reminder.

“I don’t need you. You know that,” Charles says, and then his eyes are back on Max’s all at once. He tugs at his hair. “I want you. I always want you.”

I'm just,,,,, whattttttttt the fuuuuuuckkkkkkk

the way that his agency and independance and confidence in his identity is underlined throughout the fic almost thoughtlessly bc it's so obvious to both of them make me want to pull out my hair

the way that throughout he's CHOOSING him

ITS HIS CHOICE. THAT HES MAKING, CONCIOUSLY. BC HE WANTS IT. HE DOESNT NEED IT, BUT HE WANTS IT

im so in love with this series it's not even funny

☀️

jsfkdgksdfjsdkf hellOOOO WELCOME BACKK

this is a pro fried dough fic.....the dough in that scene is lokma which i have never had but which i NEED. specifically the ones from the photo in the wikipedia article like hhh theyre so orange and shiny and they look SOO good. every time the words honey or orange appear in this fic you can be assured that max is in a setting where he feels secure enough for self reflection and personal growth

🕳️🚶 <- this sent me btw so thank you for that hahsahshas

and both of these last two kinda go with the same idea of wants vs needs in a way?? they both started seeing each other originally because of needs but it's developing into want, and that becomes so important to them :( the whole thing is abt choice tbh, cause charles never exactly chose him to begin with and he didnt choose to get pregnant, but NOW he's choosing him when it's all over and there's no reason he has to. he doesn't really need him anymore. he's choosing him because he wants him!!! does any of this mean anything

[calebwittebane]

ok but that alt timeline Ghetsis Wins idea is kind of growing on me already. i think it would be extremely funny And extremely sad. ok im putting the following under a readmore cuz it ended up being longer than i had intended

im picturing N looking dejected while sitting at whatever serene place he likes to spend his time nowadays--maybe chargestone cave now that it’s a perfect place without humans, maybe some quiet forest clearing. powerless arceus and the creation trio are with him, small and plain-looking, but still alive and well. he is lost in thought, and he is feeling glum.

indeed, having experienced some human interactions, some connections (though feeble), and having begun to crave a worthy opponent to his convictions, he has now ultimately gone back to square one. it looks like he really did not belong among humans who are, for all their complexities, just as cruel and thoughtless as he was led to believe. not even others from team plasma are exempt from that; now that their part is done, they are all simply part of the kneeling, groveling masses put in their rightful place.

but what makes him different? and what makes ghetsis different? their dreams aligned in their outcome, as humans lost their hegemony and pokemon are now all free and perfect beings, but the meaning behind those dreams diverged significantly. many pokemon had to be hurt in order to achieve this. the ones that worked hard among team plasma, the ones ghetsis has stolen divinity from. N’s hands are not clean.

and what is ghetsis even going to do with this power? will he create something out of nothing? will he change something small yet fundamental about this world, causing it to become unrecognizable? or is standing so far above the rest of humanity all that he ever wanted? now he is untouchable, untarnishable by scorn, and needs no pity. is he going to be an absent god, only taking any interest in the mechanisms and their inhabitants on a rare whim? arceus says that for a being separate from all other things such attitude is inevitable. well, then--N once again finds himself stuck, as ghetsis is no such thing in his eyes. maybe back when N was very little and understood very little, and futilely looked up to his father in unquestioning adoration. oh, of course, N loves him, that has not changed and can’t ever change, but ascending to godhood has only made ghetsis seem all the more fallible and corporeal and ordinary. more human than ever before. gods are supposed to be beyond one’s understanding, and N feels like he sees and understands the man more clearly now than ever before. all the greed and uncertainty and overjoyed erratic rambling. far too human.

arceus also says that to be in control of all things is to be in control of nothing. now that arceus is but a simple moving part of this chaotic and fragile world, it feels proud of the little control that it has, the space it takes up, the ownership it has over its very own cosmologically tiny and insignificant body. but that is easy for arceus to say--N is keenly aware of the fact that ghetsis never felt safe or in control within his own body, with all the ways it could fail him.

so what is N meant to do now? enjoy all the things that finally are as they should be, he supposes. he, however, is as lonely, as powerless, as frustrated by the limitations of his own mind as he was before. as an individual, he has gained nothing, if making new pokemon friends is to be excluded here. he feels very unloved, and it stings particularly badly to feel very specifically and pointedly unloved by god. although, yes, N sees the undeniable humor in this. “god can’t even decide if he’s my real dad. god didn’t feel like spending too much time around me, so he had my sisters look after me, and i can’t blame them if they resent me for it. god used to give me so many gifts, so many toys and books and art supplies and whatever else i desired, so long as it would fit inside the room i was confined to. god seems weirdly threatened by me sometimes, and it makes me wonder what i could’ve possibly done to him. god likes it when we have some interests in common, but only when he’s better and more knowledgeable at them. god used to like playing chess with me because he always won. god is very scared and alone, and so am i, but i don’t know if we could ever relate to each other. god is educated and clever, but he is also really, really, really stupid sometimes, so stupid that it startles me. god is never going to therapy at this rate, is he”, and so on.

N doesn’t think anyone, any creature, should reign over another. giratina says that all beings and ideas have their equivalent opposite, and all reactions have a response, and so, ironically, someone has to rule over all else to ensure there are no rulers and subjects. palkia concurs--when left to its own devices, all matter succumbs to forces of gravity and clumps together, and nothing is left evenly distributed. dialga adds that all repeating cycles are an act of mercy.

arceus doesn’t say anything. N wonders if it’s embarrassed that its children seem to know more than it does.

[panoramaofhell]

ive kind of always passively been somewhat unhappy at my job anyways primarily due to pay( but its never truly bothered me until the way i was treated today and now ive never wanted to quit more than i do now. i have to go tomorrow for like the fourth fucking eleven hour day in a row and i am absolutely dreading it after todays experience. i am laying in bed unable to sleep because the panic attacks in my chest wont stop. im so congested from crying for the last five fucking hours. my face stings. my nose and lips burn. im so dehydrated and i haven’t felt good in several days. I haven’t been eating every day, which is not like me. ive never gone off food willingly, only when im sick and even then. I just want to disappear. im at the lowest point ive been in my life in many years and im barely hanging on by a thread. i can’t get ahead. i can’t get away from my abusive father and being a slave to his side of the family . im stuck here until i inevitably kill myself because it’s not if at this point it’s when. i absolutely will hold it together for my mom but i cant help but wonder how much more abuse i csn take when im already down as it is. i really don’t want to suffer. I thought I was doing ok before i caught my “long term boyfriend” cheating on me again (i mean, i guess he never really stopped since the first time) but then that happened and yeah it’s like ripped back the curtain of the placebo. or something like that. basically im so fucking tired of being alive, i feel worthless in every way humanly possible about everything i do, say, think, or touch and i feel like no one takes ne seriously except the handful of online friends i have that i hate to constantly burden. i dont want anyone to actually hurt or feel bad because of my own actions, I just want to like go to sleep and peacefully not wake up,but without hurting or affecting anyone else’s lives in the process. but that’s not possible. so here ill toss and turn another night until i wake up tomorrow just to do all of this again.

[orchidddddd]

To a very special someone<3

I was kind of thinking if I should write this or not

But I feel like I have to, to move on

Where do I even start?

I didn’t even think we had a complicated relationship until my friend pointed out.

I felt a rift between usI don’t know how long it’s been like this,

I remember when we use to be much closer I really did miss that.

I think I know why it could be even if I didn’t want to admit it,

I know it probably also life but I can’t deny that this must have also played a part in it.

You know when you confessed me and I rejected you once again.

I did expect you to move on that’s what I kind of ask of you to not wait for me,

I just didn’t expect it soon

It really made me feel like nothing like I didn’t matter at all,

Like I never played a significant part of your life.

You know I really didn’t get it at first because of how hurt I was,

But I did try to understand you thinking how hurt you must have been and you just wanted to move on.

After all you did wait so long for me,

Still 5 days after the confession really stinged 

I guess we never really talked about it.

I know why I rather pretended it didn’t happen at all just to make it more bearable

I think you also felt that way it was easier to just to not talk about it

And move on from it.

I think that’s when the crack in our relationship began,

And let to the rift in the end.

I forgot about everything for awhile because of how hectic my life’s was,

Unrealizing how we drifted apart.

And then I wondered why we were so distant,

I know now it was inevitable because of the way we handle it.

I feel like our relationship is just a small fragment of what it use to be and it feels weird

You might thinking why are u writing this now?

Well when life gets more calm and u get to think about allot of things

You realize things in your life you might have not payed close attention before due to the pressure you face everyday.

I just want to rewind and set some stuff straight with you,

I don’t know if you feel the need I do.

But I want to move on from the past,

Start a new or we say we go or our different paths all together.

First of all I want to say thankyou for loving me all those past years

You probably might think it was unrequired ,unseen ,unappreciated,

But let me tell you it wasn’t. I appreciated every part of it and I loved you till the end.

I don’t regret letting you go because I know it was the right thing to do I wanted to spare us both the pain and time. There was allot of things in my life that I needed to decide on and set straight.

I wasn’t a full person when I met you,

I was really struggling with my self and my surroundings.

It was so unbearable to pretend all the time

That’s when I really realized I couldn’t do that to you.

I couldn’t bring you in the environment I was in,

I couldn’t show you off or talk about you like I would want to

I know I didn’t show it allot but letting you go must have been one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life.

Now I finally understand that cringe line in that song “if you love me let me go”

Yeah I know VERRYY CRINGE but it suits the situation and I have to lighten up this Euhm almost book its getting long 0-0

In the end I don’t regret my decision because I see you have found someone who loves you very much and could give you things I never could.

Your presence really chanced my life

You might not think it.

But you had more impact in my life then you could imagine 

You made feel like it was oke to talk about my feelings and to be who I am

And still loved me for it.

You really made me feel seen.

Our friendship really means everything to me,

 I value it allot.

Thankyou for everything

As I said before this is more like goodbye message to the past us

I feel like we have to open a new chapter if we want to move forward or we go our separate ways 

I will leave that up to you ,

To dear Aki

[sdyuteiaok]

Well, here we are. I just dread it's going to start getting warmer, and of course, Joe and company are heading out...I find myself sad and angry as time goes on thinking about that. But I did get a nice 5-3 in the draft earlier, including picking up a Joe Biden, actually--that's Jace the VP, as we used to call him. It was a splash for that and the 4/4 bounce/discard guy, off of pretty ok lands--woulda like one more dual. But we did pretty well, including racing an imposing RW deck that went all in on his double striker finishing me, or maybe he, like me, just had to hope his opponent didn't have it, but I had initiated that calculus by attacking with my Bat and Gurmag, he didn't chump with his sole creature, a souped up double-strike Eidolon. I had to swing in under the notion that he couldn't get me for 9 in a big, single attack. This brought him to 7 (which I hadn't calculated, but intuited that it'd bring him low enough to put him in the Abyss). So then he attacked back--with no pump. I was down to lethal next turn. But I cracked back with my guys, and sure enough played my Reassembling Skeleton with Extort for the final point. So even if it didn't work out, I could have the Skeleton chump to buy me one more attack--and he'd have to get rid of my Bat since it was evasive and represented more drains, which means Gurmag could probably get the Abyss going since he'd be at one or two life. So it was definitely sweet, we both had to play to win and both took somewhat risky plays that could have easily gone poorly, but fortunately we got it done. I had a similar game, where I chose not to block and took a ton of damage one turn, setting myself up for a lethal finishing blow his next attack, but on my turn, I was able to cast a creature, Extort off my two Bats, and then sac two creatures--again, one sac being my trusty Skeleton (deck had two!)--to give my Aristocrat pro his two blockers, and then an alpha attack for exactly lethal. It was delicious. I had three bats, and even a Bile Blight, which would have single-handedly won my final out cuz my opponent played four or five of the 3/1 Hannes UW detain flyers. I woulda Plague Winded him down to a 1/1 Pilgrim, and my guys surely woulda closed the gap, especially with three Bats to find. but I couldn't draw my Bile Blight and was too behind by then. But I had an active Mentor of the Meek (speaking of Hannes--though they got some neat Ixalan art for his card) drawing me toward my BB instant, but never quite got there, nor another flyer. The loss didn't sting too much, even though it was our third, cuz the games were so good and cuz it was already an infinitivo, so no big deal, just want to be able to draft for free again, and that's what we achieved, on top of a couple of dual lands and Jace, though lamentably, I understand Jace is no longer good. This was like a whole man yen back in the day. I opened three over the course of our constant drafting of Origins cuz they played for raredrafts after hours, so it was the easiest way to mass open packs and since they were mostly pros--we even had a GP winner in the group(!--they always called him "GP Champ"), so I was definitely low on the totem pole, so I'm sure they were thrilled whenever I'd open a Jace, cuz it was free money for them when they inevitably trounced the draft. One highlight was I got the Jace-Beguiler of Wills combo, where you just steal creatures every turn by targeting them, despite the rarity, I believe I got the combo twice. Pretty cool. Anyway, good draft, eager to hop in the queues again and forget everything else.

[sevenmissedkalls]

i seethe in anger.

tw :: mentions of a blade & needle.

as my hands shake in fury, only one thing crosses my mind. the thought of death; my death, furthermore, keeps me awake amidst my anger.

i think, “why must i be cursed with such uncontrollable liability? tell me, please do. must i be forced to feel such contempt anger? when will the day come where i finally am forced to lay in my grave and cry as the shadows of millions of souls kiss me in bittersweet agony? i wait for that day, though im not sure when it will come.”

the antagonizing day slowly progresses into a melancholic night. nothing but me, and me alone are here to face the inevitable future. “is there a future?” i ask myself, because i know that he lurks. lurks beyond my shoulder, peeping around every corner, waiting for the moment where he can finally catch me off guard.

though he wont, and never will. not tomorrow, not next week, not next month. though i am sure my death will come slowly, i find myself gaining karma. he will not come, lest i jinx myself. he will not come; not tomorrow, not next week, not next month. i repeat this, though im not sure why. maybe its for comfort. i wouldnt know.

but where, i ask myself once more, did this anger come from?

it came from the torture of which is life. like a sharp needle pinching my skin, or a blade coming in contact with my veins; it stings, burns me to my core. i tell myself, “it’ll pass,” even if i understand it wont, but instead, linger in the back of my mind.

linger it will, waiting for my nerves to spike. and out of desperation i will do something horrible, oh so horrible, that he will smile. smile with joy, knowing his plan worked. though it didnt work today, or tomorrow, or next week, or next month — it worked.

sry for mistakes i didnt care to read it over….

why did i write this? roblox made the alpha (me) angry. ANYWAY, this is my first post on here and i dont expect anyone to see it. ok bye

[milla-frenchy]

Ok let's go, final chapter, and I'm totally ok 🥲

“What, don’t you recognize me?” he says. You do, though. Of course you do. He was the one Joel beat the shit out of in that alley.

You mf!!

You hear it before you feel it, leaving you blinking in shock for a moment. Life may not have been great in the apocalypse, but no one’s actually hit you before. Not like this. Your cheek and eyes sting sharply. Ball Cap certainly hadn’t held back. “Don’t lie. We’ve seen them coming in and out of your place, you stupid cunt.” When he hits you this time, it’s less of a rage reaction and more for fun with a closed fist. You’re still reeling when you register the heat first, then the slick, sickening drip of blood from your nose down your lips.

Fuuuuuuck I'm hyperventiliating rn 😭😩😩😩

“You better hope they show up soon,” Ball Cap snarls at Mustache. “Or there won’t be much left for them to find.” It’s true, no matter how he means it. You’re not suited for this. You wish you were a secret badass with balls of steel, but you’ve given pretty much all the fight you had.

I'm just a mess, leave her alone please, pleeeeaaaase 😓

He takes them out first, silent as the falling snow, which melts as it lands in pools of hot blood.

Omg this is so beautiful 😍❤️

“Tell us where she is,” Joel says before pointedly shifting his gaze to where Tess holds the knife buried, “and maybe you’ll be able to salvage that arm.” He gives in so quickly he might have been able to, if they had left him alive.

They're such badasses

Tess is on the other end of it. It’s hard to conflate her with anyone else; they never made a girl superhero more badass than Tess.

If I wasn't already in love with her, I would be now. I love your Tess, Toni

You look up at his blank eyes. There’s viscera splattered on his shirt and face. When you crane your neck to look at Tess, still behind you with both hands on your shoulders, she’s soaked in gore. “Not yours, right?” you say. “Not a drop,” she promises. You look back at Joel. “Now, please,” you whisper, even though it makes your stomach turn. “Get her out of here,” Joel says.

I am so amazed by this rescue. I know you're going to break my heart later, but this? Jesus, that's so good

They play you like a harp, keeping you trapped between their legs and plucking pretty sounds one after another from your taut body. There are a lot of orgasms all around, and you’re not even trying to keep track. Your head is blissfully empty, each climax wringing your brain like a sponge. At some point, you push Joel off so you can suck his cock. Tess helps herself to feast from your cunt while you do, and somehow, when you look up, Joel’s buried his face in her as well. The circle shifts and warps but never breaks. Eventually, they get you on your back again, and after a bit of whining on your end, Tess sits on your face while Joel has your cunt again. He switches between licking and fucking, and you actually pass out a bit this way.

Fuck, this is so hot seriously. These 3 are perfect together and I love them and I want them to stay together until the end of their lives 💕🥰😍❤️ Right? Toni? Please? 🥹🥹

On your loneliest nights, you think of them. You hope they’re okay. It’s never a guarantee in this world. You like to think they’re wrapped up warm and safe in bed. On cold, sleepless nights under the starry sky, Joel likes to think the same of you.

This is the 3rd time this chapter has made me cry. And this time, it's even worse than the previous two, as if the fact of rb it made the reading true and inevitable. And that's probably why I didn't do it right away.

I always say that what I look for when reading fics, is emotion. Woah, Toni ❤️

I don't think I've ever been so moved.

Thank you for this journey. These three will stay in my heart for a long time. And I think this is the perfect ending. Even if it hurts ❤️

I'm gonna buy a box of tissues now

ain't no rest for the wicked - chapter five

ain't no rest for the wicked series

five: way down below

series masterlist | prev chapter

Tess Servopoulos x f!reader x Joel Miller

words: 4k

summary: After sneaking out of Joel and Tess's apartment, you wake up in an unfamiliar place.

warnings: creator chose not to use warnings, dark-ish Joel and Tess, smuggler!Joel, smuggler!Tess, boston QZ, QZ life, poorly negotiated d/s-style dynamics, poor communication, enthusiastic consent, oral sex (m & f receiving), p in v, threesome, description of violence & wounds, canon-typical violence, canon-typical killing.

Welcome to the end, my friends. I omitted a specific warning due to spoilers. If you need to know before you read, DM me.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

When you come to, head pounding, it’s on an old dining chair with cheap metal legs and a moth-eaten seat. Your hands have gone to pins and needles from the rope that burns when you try to flex them, bootless feet in a similar predicament. The cloth stuffed in your mouth tastes metallic, though you don’t seem to have bled.

You’re swimming through static. You think you might throw up.

Wherever you are is long abandoned, which doesn’t really help narrow it down. It was maybe a break room, once, with a shattered microwave and the cupboards askew.

A tall, spindly man in a Mets hat leans against the counter. He’s bundled in a jacket while yours is missing.

You take comfort in that it’s the only other piece of clothing you’re missing. You wiggle your toes, trying to coax a modicum of warmth back in them.

Ball Cap snubs his cigarette on the counter and leaves it there. “Nice to see you again,” he says.

You wish it wasn’t to you.

“What, don’t you recognize me?” he says.

You do, though. Of course you do. He was the one Joel beat the shit out of in that alley.

“You sure were a talker before. Aren’t you gonna give me that same offer? Your mouth for your life?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to think. Come on. Any time now, brain.

He seems to be alone. Could you take him? Probably not. Is he armed? Yes, definitely. He had struck you over the head with the butt of a gun last night.

At least, you think it was last night.

He stomps over to you and yanks your head back to look at him. “Aren’tcha gonna answer me, you little whore?”

When he sees the gag, he throws back his head and laughs. “Shit, right. Well, no point in this,” he tugs the knot loose and tosses the cloth to the ground. “Nobody’s gonna come help you, no matter how loud you scream. And kinda wanna hear it. Y’see, the boss man didn’t take kindly—”

You manage to hold your tongue, due largely in part to the tackiness of your mouth, but your lip curls a little. Is this guy for real? He’s fucking villain monologuing?

“Hey,” a nasally voice says. “Better not be starting without me.”

The newcomer is tall like Ball Cap, but beefier. He’d be more intimidating if he wasn’t sniffling and wheezing, his nose a constant faucet of mucus that pooled on his upper lip.

He coughs deeply for a minute, fist against his open mouth. The part of your brain that’s actively pretending you aren’t going to die tonight is worried about catching whatever he’s splattering across the room.

“Don’t you want to know what we want with you?” Slimy Mustache says.

“Not really,” you say before you can stop yourself.

You hear the rattle in his lungs as he steps closer. “No, you already know, don’t you?” His hand lifts, a finger stroking down your cheek. You flinch away, squeezing your eyes shut.

Slimy Mustache laughs. “Don’t worry, we’re not going to start the show without your friends.”

Friends? You don’t have—aw, fuck.

“Not my friends,” you say. “I didn’t—they were strangers, too.”

You hear it before you feel it, leaving you blinking in shock for a moment. Life may not have been great in the apocalypse, but no one’s actually hit you before.

Not like this.

Your cheek and eyes sting sharply. Ball Cap certainly hadn’t held back.

“Don’t lie. We’ve seen them coming in and out of your place, you stupid cunt.”

When he hits you this time, it’s less of a rage reaction and more for fun with a closed fist. You’re still reeling when you register the heat first, then the slick, sickening drip of blood from your nose down your lips.

“Knock it off, man,” says Slimy Mustache. “He said we had to wait for them. Ain’t gonna negotiate if she’s dead.”

“They’ll kill you,” you lie, grimacing as it invites the coppery tang into your mouth.

Ball Cap grins with a set of unusually shiny, straight teeth for a thug at the end of the world. “Nah, honey, that’s why we have you.”

You spit blood at his feet. He moves to backhand you, but Mustache tries to stop him, and it knocks him a little off course. His hand is decked out in gaudy rings, and the edge of one snags on your cheek. You gasp, and it turns into a whimper as the pain bleeds through.

“You better hope they show up soon,” Ball Cap snarls at Mustache. “Or there won’t be much left for them to find.”

It’s true, no matter how he means it. You’re not suited for this. You wish you were a secret badass with balls of steel, but you’ve given pretty much all the fight you had.

And you know no one’s coming for you.

When Tess wakes, the sun peeks through the window aggressively, and she has to shield her eyes to see Joel. He’s shaking her shoulder gently to let her know he’s leaving. He’s already bundled in his coat and hat, tugging gloves on. It’s unusual, but he doesn’t look distressed.

She sits up and stretches. “Where ya going?” she says, but she thinks she knows since the bed is empty and the apartment is quiet.

“Just gonna make sure she got home okay,” he says and kisses her. “Musta snuck out sometime in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, I think I spooked her when I asked her to stay,” Tess admits.

“M’sure she’s fine,” he says, but he isn’t looking at her, and that’s when she realizes she misread him earlier. He is worried.

“I’m comin’,” she says, already on her feet. “You go on, take the long way, and I’ll meet you.”

He nods.

There’s only one lurking outside your apartment, but two in nearby alleys on standby. He takes them out first, silent as the falling snow, which melts as it lands in pools of hot blood.

He lets the third man catch him. There’s a pistol in his face, but he knows he’s not really in danger.

“Where’s the girl?” he growls.

“Don’t worry, we’re just showin’ her some of the same hospitality you showed my brother,” the man tells him.

He seems to think that by pointing a gun at Joel, he has the upper hand.

He doesn’t think that for long. Not when Tess’s knife sinks into his arm and twists, the gun clattering to the ground as he reflexively jerks. Joel picks it up and stuffs it in his waistband as casually as if he had just adjusted his belt. His jaw ticks as his hand wraps around the man’s throat.

“I suggest you listen real close,” Tess says, voice low and thick with danger.

“Tell us where she is,” Joel says before pointedly shifting his gaze to where Tess holds the knife buried, “and maybe you’ll be able to salvage that arm.”

He gives in so quickly he might have been able to, if they had left him alive.

“Think we made a mistake,” Ball Cap drawls. “They aren’t comin’ for this bitch.”

You don’t know how long you’ve been here, but you keep slipping in and out of awareness. Floating through something like a dream, but not enough to escape reality. Worse yet, you keep snapping back to the world, having been close to escape or rescue, a sick hope still brewing in your brain.

“That’s too bad,” Slimy Mustache says with an exaggerated pout. “I wanted them to watch.”

“Guess your pussy wasn’t good enough to save you,” Ball Cap says.

You keep your mouth shut. They’re still pretending they need a reason to hurt you, and you sure as hell aren’t going to give it to them.

They’re right, though. The late afternoon sun is dragging wearily through the clouds.

You don’t blame them. You knew the danger. You didn’t just open your door to let the tornado in; you had sex with the—no, okay, you have to retire this metaphor.

It’s okay. You knew what this was.

And what it wasn’t.

Still, you think. You’re not really keen on dying here and even less keen on what you’re pretty sure will precede it.

“I dunno. I still think we should find out for ourselves,” Slimy Mustache says.

“Not a fuckin’ chance,” someone snarls behind Slimy Mustache, a knife to his throat.

You must be delirious from fear and blood loss because your first thought is that motherfucking Batman is here. You’re at a point where you apparently genuinely believe, if only for a moment, that it’s more likely for Bruce Fucking Wayne to show up than Joel. Except why would Batman be in Boston?

There’s a gun resting against Ball Cap’s head; his namesake knocked to the dusty ground. Tess is on the other end of it. It’s hard to conflate her with anyone else; they never made a girl superhero more badass than Tess. Not that you’d say no to Wonder Woman, but who would?

You close your eyes. You’re not getting tricked by this dream again.

“That’s it, sweetheart, keep ‘em shut, okay?” Tess says.

There’s a lot of rustling fabric and soft, wet sounds muffled by agonized cries.

When hands touch your shoulders, you flinch.

“It’s just me,” she says. “Hold still just one more minute, okay? And don’t look.”

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter as she goes around the back of your chair, her hand never leaving your shoulder. It’s easier to breathe with her touch to anchor you, even through your swollen nose.

With one hand, she flicks open a blade and cuts through enough of the rope that she can tug the rest away. She doesn’t have to come up with a way to free your ankles without letting go, because Joel’s already cutting the knots.

“I gotcha,” he’s murmuring. “We’ve got ya, sunflower. Hey, look at me.”

You do, hesitantly opening your sore eyes. His broad body is blocking everything else, though there’s clear whimpering and groaning behind him. He cups your face in his hands, turning it to look at the cut on your cheek and survey the swelling.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “It’s not pretty.”

He ignores you. “We’re gonna get you home. But first, I need to know—you want me to drag it out or just kill ‘em now?”

You look up at his blank eyes. There’s viscera splattered on his shirt and face. When you crane your neck to look at Tess, still behind you with both hands on your shoulders, she’s soaked in gore.

“Not yours, right?” you say.

“Not a drop,” she promises.

You look back at Joel. “Now, please,” you whisper, even though it makes your stomach turn.

“Get her out of here,” Joel says.

“No,” Tess surprises both of you. “I’ll take care of it. I don’t think she can walk on her own.”

You remember Tess in the kitchen with the chef’s knife and how you thought she looked like an angel when you first met. They both do, now.

“I’ll meet you there,” she says, her tone offering no negotiation.

Joel doesn’t argue, though you think he looks disappointed. Like he wanted the kill.

You’re just barely aware that it should scare you. It doesn’t.

He scoops you up with no problem, as if it doesn’t strain his aging knees.

“I think I can walk,” you say.

He doesn’t dignify you with anything more than a shake of his head.

It’s not a long walk. The setting sun frames him in gold, the blood gone dark and sticky. You’re only a block from the alley you first met them in, which in turn is only two from your apartment. But by the time you get there, you’re asleep against his chest.

He sets you down gently on the bed, meaning to go looking for your first aid kit, but you dig your fingers into his shirt.

“I ain’t leavin’,” he says, gently prying them off. “Just gonna get you cleaned up, okay?”

It’s so hard to open your eyes, but you manage a few seconds to take him in. You nod and let go, but the deep pout is unshakable.

He opens the door to the bathroom and flicks the light on, stepping over the towel threshold and then nearly stomping on who, if he was forced to guess, is Georgie. Both mice scatter immediately, luckily into the wall instead of out into the open apartment.

He shuts the door to prevent an escape and rifles around your cabinet until he produces a mostly empty bottle of rubbing alcohol and some bandages.

You wake again when he sits on the bed at your side, booted feet still on the ground.

“Sit up for me, sunflower,” he murmurs, helping you up as you groan and popping a pillow behind your back. “Look at me.”

He waits until you do and hands you a glass of water. While you sip at it, he gets a better look at your nose.

“It’s not broken,” he says, and you sigh, shoulders slumping. “It’s going to be swollen for a few days, though.”

You flinch back from his touch but try to work through it. “Okay,” you whisper.

He cleans your face, murmuring to you all the while about what he’s doing. You hiss when he wipes the gash on your cheek, tears welling up at the sting.

There’s a familiar knock at the door, but Tess doesn’t wait for anyone to answer; she just slips inside.

“Not gonna need stitches, either,” he says. “You got real lucky.”

“Don’t feel lucky,” you mumble. Your eyes dart to the horseshoe. Both of theirs follow yours, and they exchange a look.

“Think you can take a bath?” she asks.

You shake your head.

“What if I get in there with you?” she offers.

You think about it, biting your lip, and nod.

Joel gets the tub filling while Tess gently peels you from your battered clothes. When he comes out of the bathroom, he’s scrubbed the blood from his skin and has his shirt hanging up to dry.

Your bath isn’t very big, but you make it work, nestled close between her legs. It’s maybe the least sexually charged moment you’ve had with them. Joel kneels on a towel and washes the blood from both of you. None of you speak.

It does help. Having it cleaned from you, having it be them who do it. Joel’s firm hand scrubbing the blood and dirt away, Tess’s steady embrace keeping you grounded.

Joel helps you each out of the bath and dries you off, swatting away your hands when you try to do it yourself. The look in his eyes is still kind of distant, so you stop protesting and let him do what he needs to do.

No one bothers with clothes. There’s no point. While the bath may not have been sexual, whatever is happening now definitely is.

You’re on your back in bed, wet hair splayed out on your pillow. Joel is on your left, and Tess is on your right, and their hands are everywhere. You clutch at them in return with each of yours.

They’re passing you back and forth for kisses, deep, consuming things with teeth and tongue and spit. You understand the “beast with two backs” thing now. Except, how would it work with three backs? Are you some kind of mutated monstrosity squished into a triangle? A pyramid of flesh and sweat and moans?

“Stop thinkin’ so much,” Joel growls against your neck, and you’re inclined to obey when his fingers find your clit. Thoughts aren’t super useful right now, and you’d like to keep most of them at bay anyway.

Even that’s a little too close, and you must tense because Tess nips at your ear and whispers, “Just focus on us, okay? Just us.”

They make it easy to lose yourself in their hands and warm mouths. You genuinely can’t tell who touches you where until you end up with three fingers in Tess’s cunt.

Joel rolls your lower half and yanks your legs where he’d like, leaving you contorted with your top half focused on Tess. He plunges into your pussy while you mouth at her tits. One of her hands cups your head to her breasts, and the other gropes at your own.

Neither of them are being rough with you, but they aren’t treating you like glass, either. You really fucking appreciate it, even if you don’t register it right away. Even while he fucks into you, Joel can’t stop his hands from roaming, smoothing over your hips and thighs and stomach.

They play you like a harp, keeping you trapped between their legs and plucking pretty sounds one after another from your taut body. There are a lot of orgasms all around, and you’re not even trying to keep track. Your head is blissfully empty, each climax wringing your brain like a sponge.

At some point, you push Joel off so you can suck his cock. Tess helps herself to feast from your cunt while you do, and somehow, when you look up, Joel’s buried his face in her as well. The circle shifts and warps but never breaks.

Eventually, they get you on your back again, and after a bit of whining on your end, Tess sits on your face while Joel has your cunt again. He switches between licking and fucking, and you actually pass out a bit this way.

When you wake, it’s to Joel getting out of bed and pulling his clothes back on. He catches sight of the look breaking across your face and shakes his head.

“I’ll be back. Runnin’ over to get her some clean clothes ‘n stuff.”

You settle back down. Tess slides an arm over your waist, and you roll over to snuggle up to her.

The next time you wake up, it’s because of the nightmares. You jerk awake with a cry, and she’s right there, rubbing your back and coaxing you to lie down.

“I know, sunflower. I’m so sorry,” she murmurs as you cry.

“I was so scared,” you whisper in the safety of the night, voice wavering.

“I know, baby. You were so brave, though.”

You don’t feel like you were very brave. You feel like you let the creeps crawl into your skin and ruin everything.

When Joel gets back, you’re still awake.

“Good,” he says. “I didn’t want to have to wake ya, but I need you to eat.”

“M’not hungry,” you say. Tess is up and getting dressed in a soft tee and sweats. She tosses you another set, and you put them on without thinking about your own clothes in the dresser.

“I know,” she says. “But you need to. It’s nothin’ much; just need to get something in ya.”

“I brought something for the pain, but you can’t have it on an empty stomach,” Joel says.

You give in and unscrew the thermos he hands you. It’s chicken noodle soup, and he presses warm bread, wrapped in cloth, into your lap.

Once you’ve satisfied their expectations, Joel drops a round white pill into your hand. “I can only give you one,” he says, laced with raw guilt. “But I got some ibuprofen for ya, too, for later.”

He hands you a glass but pauses. “It’s gonna make you sleep,” he warns.

“Okay,” you say and chase the pill with a swig of water. “I trust you.”

He winces a little, almost imperceptibly.

“I’m going to run out and talk to someone ‘bout the mess we made,” Tess says.

Joel scowls. “Can’t it wait ‘till later?”

“You know damn well it can’t,” she hisses like she doesn’t want you to hear.

“I’m sorry,” you say. They both look at you, and you sniffle. “I’m sorry I’m trouble, I’m s—”

“You cut that out right now,” Tess snaps, but her face softens right after, and she comes to sit on the bed beside you. “It ain’t your fault. We should be apologizing to you.”

“Please don’t,” you whisper.

She and Joel exchange a look.

“Alright,” she concedes. She kisses your forehead. “I’ll be back soon. Joel’ll stay with ya, okay?”

You sniffle again but nod.

They share a significant glance when she reaches the door, but say nothing. Joel locks it behind her and slides back under the covers. He tugs you to his chest, and you melt into his warm, broad shelter.

They phase in and out of your apartment all night, but never both at a time. You wake just a little at each changing of the guard, just enough to snuggle into whoever slips in and holds you.

There are murmurs and whispers; you don’t catch most of it. Just huffed breaths, a few sharp snips, and lonely words with no meaning—dawn, you hear once, and for. Or four. Or fore, you suppose, but it'd be strange to be talking about golf. Anyway, there’s no context.

They don’t break through your slumber as anything more than a soft breeze.

When morning comes, you’re alone.

It’s painfully obvious. Your tiny studio is occupied by only yourself and the ghosts. The towel is neatly stuffed against the bathroom door, betraying its vacancy.

There’s a bottle with a handful of painkillers on your kitchen counter next to a glass of water. You can tell there’s a note and something wrapped in cloth. But if you stay here, stay tucked into bed where they left you, you don’t have to see it.

It could say that they’re cleaning up the mess and they’ll be back later. It could be instructions for when to come over next.

But it’s not going to be. You don’t need to read it to know. The truth’s been trickling into your lungs since you woke up. Since last night, really.

You get up anyway, shaky legs on autopilot. You take the pills first, sipping the water, and stare at the paper. It’s bigger than their usual scraps, and neatly folded. Someone’s drawn a little flower on the outside. You wish you knew who.

When the water is gone, and you’re out of excuses, you pick up the paper with a trembling hand.

Rough capitals take up most of the page. “Be good.” You close your eyes, choking down the acid in your throat.

At the bottom is a neater, slanted scrawl. “It’s the iron.” You blink stupidly for a moment and then reach for the cloth.

It’s a flannel Joel brought over last night, clean and soft. When you pick it up, something clatters against the countertop and falls to the ground.

It’s a fucking horseshoe.

You sit, right where you had stood, legs folded and the flannel clutched to your chest with both hands. Your head droops so your nose is buried in the fabric, and you stare at the gift and let the tears burn down your cheeks.

You don’t change out of their clothes for three days.

The note gets tucked between the pages of “An Unsuitable Job for a Woman.”

The horseshoe sits on your table for weeks until you shove it under the bathroom sink. Half of you wants to bury it somewhere, afraid it might actually work.

But it’s just a horseshoe, and they’re just human. They only wanted you to think it would work—that it might protect you.

The flannel lives tangled up in your blankets. The smell of them fades fast.

You don’t return to their apartment. You think about it. Think about haunting it like they haunt yours. Think about banging on it until they tell you why.

But you know why. You saw it in the fear in their eyes that night. You had become something they could lose, and so, they had to. Quick and sharp, like their knives at the throats of those men. How could you blame them? Hadn’t you run away for the same reason?

On your loneliest nights, you think of them. You hope they’re okay. It’s never a guarantee in this world. You like to think they’re wrapped up warm and safe in bed.

On cold, sleepless nights under the starry sky, Joel likes to think the same of you.

Thank you all so much for coming along on this journey.

I hurt my own feelings with this one, y'all. Please feel free to yell/vent/talk with me about this because I am not okay.

*title from "Heaven Knows" by the Pretty Reckless.

[stevesbipanic]

You know what fic a friend of mine and I we for a long time we were thinking we want like seriously jealous Steve like idk after helping Eddie get back to health, Eddie confess he is gay and that he used to have a crush on Jonathan and idk after that Eddie and Jonathan becoming best friends and Eddie blushing everytime but Steve thinking is because of Jonathan but is actually because Steve and well Steve just being jealous of them and being like oh no man first Nancy now Eddie damn you Jonathan Byers idk if you can do it lol also babes love your work what an absolute legend you are x

Thank you 😊 glad you've been enjoying them, hope I did your request justice.

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Steve thinks he's either cursed or he was still working off karma from his King Steve days.

Jonathan dating Nancy after Steve and her broke up, he got over that, even the cheating part. He understood why that happened and that at the time Nancy deserved someone better than who Steve was. But Steve thought he was better than that now, that he was a better person now, someone who deserved the same happiness.

Jonathan and Nancy had broken up since then, and Eddie had seemed to make it his mission to get Steve back with her. Eventually, Steve had blurted out he was bisexual which had lead to Eddie confessing he was also gay. The boys got closer after that and Eddie trusted Steve when he said he was over Nancy now, they both had a suspicion that she liked their favourite band geek anyway.

Steve's crush on Eddie had been inevitable when he thought about it. He was powerless to falling for the metalhead who was so sweet and caring to everyone and made Steve laugh and forget about the world for awhile. He almost told Eddie too, almost believed Eddie could like him too, maybe love him.

Until Jonathan fucking Byers had waltzed into Eddie's life. When the Byers moved back Jonathan and his new friend Argyle had come too, something about a pizza shop Steve hadn't listened much. But now Eddie was always at their apartment smoking together, or at the trailer together and Steve hated it. Eddie was always blushing around Jonathan too and called him pet names too, Steve had thought that was their thing.

Maybe Jonathan deserved Eddie.

Steve hated seeing them together. When Eddie called him to call off plans to smoke with Jon and Argyle, Steve wanted to cry. When he tried visiting Eddie he was always with Jonathan. It all came to a head when they came into Family Video one afternoon.

"I just think you're misreading the situation, Steve."

"I'm really not, Robs, I was too slow to tell him and now perfect boyfriend Jonathan Byers has swooped in again and saved the curly haired brunette from King Steve."

Robin was going to respond when the front bell rung, Eddie, Jonathan and Argyle coming inside.

"Hey guys!"

"Lady Buckley, please tell me your humble store has new movies these poor stoners can giggle at this evening."

Steve looked away not wanting to see Eddie be cute near Jonathan, didn't want to look at Jon and see the heart eyes he used to have for Nancy but he couldn't help it, Jon looked smitten. Robin was handing over the tapes when Steve couldn't take it anymore and stormed into the back room.

He wrapped his arms around himself, squeezing his eyelids together to try and stop the stinging tears he knew were forming. He heard a knock on the door.

"Go away Robbie, I'll be out in minute."

The door opened anyway. Steve opened his eyes ready to te his best friend to leave again when he saw Eddie standing in front of him, eyes full of worry.

"Are you ok, sweetheart?"

Steve scrunched up his face at that. "Don't call me that, I'm not your sweetheart and I doubt your boyfriend would like you calling me that."

"Boyfriend?"

Before Eddie could say more all of Steve's emotions bubbled to the surface.

"Yes boyfriend, Eddie! I'm not blind I know you and Jonathan are together because you're always blushing around him and you're always hanging out with him and of course you'd choose him over me everyone prefers Jonathan over me. First Nancy and now you, I just thought I deserved to be happy this time but I'm not and Jonathan has come to take another person away from stupid King Steve again—" Steve felt he couldn't breathe properly, everything hurt, it felt like he was back in that bathroom at Halloween again. He was losing the person he loved again and to the same fucking man again.

"Hey, hey, hey, Stevie breathe for me ok, baby?"

Steve didn't have the energy to berate the nickname again, just tried to match his breathing to Eddie's. Eventually he felt the tightness in his chest loosen a bit.

"I'm not dating Jonathan, sweetheart. I think his boyfriend wouldn't appreciate that."

Steve scrunched his face in confusion. Suddenly, things made more sense.

"Oh shit, Argyle?"

Eddie nodded a small smile on his face. "Yes, baby, Argyle. I don't like Jonathan like that anyway even without his boyfriend, they're both just really fun smoking buddies ok?"

Steve nodded. "Sorry I blew up at you."

"Sounded a little jealous, Stevie, is there something you need to tell me?"

Steve bit his lip, no point hiding it now, he'd dug a deep enough hole.

"I'm glad you don't have a boyfriend, but, would you like one?"

Eddie's smile grew, "If you're offering how could I refuse, sweetheart."

Steve leant forward and tentatively kissed Eddie's lips before Eddie moved forward deepening the kiss.

Later they would need to leave the backroom, and face Robin and the boys who had decided to leave them be and rate dumb movies until they were done. Now though, now they could just enjoy being together.

Steve wasn't cursed and he didn't have anymore karma to pay back for his King Steve days, he could finally deserve to be happy. The world could let both Steve Harrington and Jonathan Byers be happy. No jealousy necessary.