#still thinking about vertigo

[jess-bradford]

buck's in a romcom. eddie's in a psychosexual thriller.

[retrogradedreaming]

okay, inspired by @dragon-spaghetti's chronic pain Husk headcanons, I present Angel with atypical migraines

Angel getting knocked off balance after a few grueling weeks at the studio (because stress makes them worse), but like with the kind of vertigo that makes you feel like you're floating and untethered, but not spinning

Husk notices when something's off because Angel will stand up from the bar and pause with a hand outstretched before he starts walking, like he needs to recalibrate real quick

he lays on top of Husk with his face in Husk's chest because it's dark and then he'll forbid Husk from moving because that makes it worse, so Husk just kinda rests a hand on his back while they cuddle

[slunberparty]

Coloring sketchbook doodles on my phone

[frankensteincest]

something something Ganymede clung desperately to the eagle when he was being flown to Olympus the way people often attaches themselves to their abuser for survival something something choosing life by surrendering a part of yourself

[sooptea]

Thinking about how i had a not zero amount of symptoms that i never told adults about while i was a child. And now i just spend the foreseeable future not know what's wrong with me

[clownov]

when i turn 31 should my yearly goal be:

[boneless-mika]

Honestly I feel very unwelcome in the “physically disabled community” because while I do have multiple physical conditions, I’m also neurodivergent

[moonstruckme]

hi i have an unhealthy attachment to your doctor!remus content…could i request a fic where reader is hiding some type of health problem from him or maybe ignoring it, and when something bad happens he finds out and is all stern with her and his usual worried self? i <3 this man, thank you truly for sharing your writing and doing it so well!!

Thank you for requesting lovely!

cw: description of vertigo, mention of nausea

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

You’re sick of being miserable. You had a cold, which had turned out to be the flu, which had turned into a sinus infection, and your poor, sweet boyfriend had weathered it all with you. Remus had made you soup. He’d warmed damp towels for your sinuses. He’d stayed home from work a couple of days, and rubbed your back, and your chest, and your temples when they ached, and supplied you with name-brand medicines. He’d been so, so patient when you were whiny and awful to be around. So now, when your sinus infection has turned into this heinous ear pain, you’ve decided you’re done with it. 

You won’t entertain your body with its miseries any more. You certainly won’t be making it Remus’ problem. 

It’s easy not to feel miserable when you wake up before him on a slow Saturday morning. There’s a line of sunlight reaching across the room from the crack in your curtains, Remus’ face lovely even in shadow. He could use a haircut, you think fondly. It’s starting to cover the tops of his ears, which you think is a rather endearing look on him even if you have to agree when he says it’s not very professional. 

Eventually his eyes blink open. He smiles when he finds you watching him, the stretch of his lips sleepy and content. You draw a finger lightly down the bridge of his nose. 

“I think,” you say, “that we should stay here all day long.” 

Remus’ smile widens, and it takes half a second after his mouth begins moving for you to realize you can’t hear him properly. You pick your good ear up off the pillow as subtly as you can, propping your chin on your hand. You ignore the wave of dizziness that follows. 

“...what you really want? You’ve been home nearly all week,” says Remus. “What if we went on a walk today? We could go to that park you like, the one with the lake.” 

You shove down the dread that rises in your chest. This is what you want. You want to get over being poorly and get back to your life. 

“You’re right,” you say brightly. “That sounds great.” 

Remus peers over you to check the time. “Oh. God, we slept in, didn’t we? We may have to go soon if we want it to still be nice out.” 

“That’s alright,” you say easily. “I’ll be right after you, I just have to pick out what I’m going to wear.” 

Remus leans forward to peck you on the forehead, getting out of bed with a sleepy groan. He stretches his neck this way and that, movements sluggish as he goes toward the bathroom. 

Your movements are sluggish for different reasons. You sit up slowly, fighting through the vertigo that sloshes the room about you in protest. It wasn’t this bad yesterday. 

You discover a series of new miseries as you get dressed with cautious, snail-like movements. Your ear hurts something awful. More than that, the pain has spread to most of your head. The constant dizziness quickly results in a low nausea. You’re genuinely uncertain whether the ringing in your ears is a symptom of your ear infection or a warning bell of your impending insanity. 

Putting on your trousers is an ordeal. By the time you sit down on the bed to pull on socks, your resolve has spiderweb cracks spreading and threatening to unleash a meltdown. 

But you’re stubborn. You can do this, you think. If you’re only walking on even ground in the park, and Remus’ hand is in yours, you’re sure you can manage. The internet said your symptoms wouldn’t last long anyway—maybe they’ll clear up as the day goes on. 

“...ove? Dove?” 

You look up as Remus comes to stand in front of you, swallowing when the world spins. In the center of the swirl, you think he’s smiling. His hand cups your face. 

“You seemed off in your own world there,” he says fondly. 

You smile and hum, keeping your head perfectly still so that the spinning slows. Remus’ eyebrows twitch towards each other. 

“You alright?” 

“Mhm, yeah.” You cup your hand over his, holding onto it as you stand. “Let’s go.” 

“You’re ready?” he asks while you pull him towards the door. You sway a bit in your effort to walk at a normal pace, reaching for the doorframe. 

The hallway in front of you looks like a funhouse horror. You put one foot in front of the other as surely as you can. “Yeah,” you say. “Aren’t you?”

Remus’ hand tightens on yours. You don’t understand why for a moment, but then you’re falling sideways, his hands catching you around the waist. 

“Dove.” His stern voice is slightly alarmed and largely disembodied, your eyes unable to find his face in the whirling mass in front of you. “What’s going on?” 

Like an overinflated balloon popping, you burst into tears. 

Remus collects you to his chest, holding your head securely against him as he half carries you back to the bed. It doesn’t prevent your dizziness entirely, but it helps. 

“What’s happening?” he asks more gently as you sniff and whimper. “I can’t fix it if I don’t know.” 

“I think it’s an ear infection,” you say in a small voice. “It hurts, and my head hurts, and I’m so—” You take in a short breath. “—so dizzy I feel sick.” 

“Okay. Okay, it’s alright.” Remus pets the back of your head, shushing you until you calm some. 

“Sorry,” you whimper. 

“What are you sorry for, love? For crying?” 

Your sniffly silence is answer enough. 

Remus sighs. “Why did you try to act like nothing was wrong?” 

“Because,” you say thinly, “I’m tired of things being wrong. I just want—” You pause, pressing your lips together to avoid crying again. “I want to feel normal.” 

“Oh, sweetheart.” Your boyfriend’s mix of disappointment and sympathy only brings you closer to tears. “You can’t will it, my love. And you can’t pretend this away. These are the sorts of things I need to know about.” 

You blink away the blur of tears, grateful that your world has finally straightened out. You press your head closer to Remus’ chest. “I wanted to give you a break, too,” you admit. “The internet said it would go away in a couple of days, so I figured I’d just ride it out.” 

“Mm, a middle ear infection would.” 

You stiffen. “What does that mean?” 

The kiss Remus drops to your head is heavy with compassion. “Vertigo like this comes with an inner ear infection, dove. They take longer to go away, sometimes weeks, but the process can be sped up with antibiotics.” 

He pauses while you process this. 

“You know, the sort prescribed by a doctor.” 

“Oh.” 

He chuckles fondly, kissing your head again. “This is why you tell me things. Understand?” 

“Yeah.” You wrap your arms around his middle, clinging pathetically. “I’m sorry. Help me.” 

“I will, sweetheart. Think you can lay down and be still while I nip to work and the pharmacy?” 

You don’t think you’ll have any problems there.

[dragqueenpentheus]

mmmm

[swampjawn]

What happens when you let a film nerd make an anime?

Fuuga Yamashiro (山代風我) joined Science Saru in 2017 as an Assistant Production Manager during production of "Night Is Short, Walk on Girl." He was essentially Studio Co-founder Masaaki Yuasa's secretary, but he worked his way up to assistant director on "Keep Your Hands off Eizouken" and finally got to direct his own first full Anime series, Dandadan.

Having worked so closely with one of the greatest living auteur directors, you might think he would share that overpowering individual creative influence, but as he has pointed out in interviews himself, it's much the opposite.

Instead of relying on his own creative voice, which he doesn't seem confident about in interviews, he literally collects techniques from his favorite movies, breaking them down into storyboards and adding them to his arsenal to re-contextualize later. And as you may be able to tell from watching Dandadan, his biggest influences aren't anime and manga, but live action film -- something he seems to have studied obsessively.

And when you compare the anime to the original manga (which itself is already filled with references to old movies and TV) subtle adaptation choices make the deft application of techniques borrowed from other storytellers very clear. Every choice is made for a reason and furthers the story being told in some way; nothing is there for no reason. like the simple, controlled camera pans and tilts that make the serpoian spaceship feel cold and sterile, or the crazywackysilly, un-predictable wide-angle camera movements that intrude on that cold sterile world when turbo granny shows up.

In one interview during the production of "Keep Your Hands off Eizouken" Yamashiro pulls out his notebook where he had collected all these techniques and gives an example:

"There's a technique called 'Dolly Zoom', which is a technique that changes the perspective of the background while keeping the size of the subject." […] "In 'Cult of Chucky,' which I saw recently, there is a scene in which a long passageway is filmed in telephoto, while a wheelchair moves forward. The character is 'getting closer, but the viewer feels farther away'. This is the kind of thing I collect." […] "I'd like to combine these things in various ways and do it in animation." (I took some liberties with this, the translation was pretty rough)

And sure enough, that exact same type of dolly zoom rears its head in Dandadan as Okarun sprints away from Turbo Granny and the mouth of the tunnel stretches impossibly into the distance.

It may seem counterintuitive to ascribe too much importance to the creative vision of one person who specifically talks about his own lack of strong creative vision, (and to be clear, he's far from the only person playing a major role) but I think it's precisely that encyclopedic knowledge of film techniques and that pragmatic, meticulous attitude that may have acted as a stabilizing force for Yuasa, and that also provides some needed structure to a ball of pure energy like Dandadan, while still preserving its essence and the eclectic influences that it wears on its sleeve.

Also, mad respect for using the seventh installment of the Child's Play franchise as your example of a dolly zoom instead of, like, Vertigo, Jaws, or Goodfellas.

This is just a sliver of what I talk about in this full video! A minuscule piece of the pie! Some tiny little crumbs for the peasants! So if you consider yourself worthy, go watch the whole video. I think it's good.

Uhh also reblog! I spent way too long on that intro animation, so I need it. Bad.

[chefkids]

My Sydcarmy Bible

The Most Damning Evidence

Carmy took Claire to Sheridan Road*

Carmy made Sydney's Pasta for Claire*

Claire is Carmy's projection of Sydney*

Claire was the Cold Prep*

Strange Currencies was never Claire's song

Claire is the physical manifestation of Carmy's avoidance*

Carmy gave Syd an I love you

The Bear is A Midsummer Night's Dream and Marcus is making the Violet love potion for Syd and Carmy*

The food that ties them together

She’s still thinking about that short rib risotto*

He’s also still thinking about that short rib risotto*

Radicchio and Fennel – Carmy gets emotional remembering Syd*

Sydney is the Fennel

Carmy does not know how to do a chaos menu

The Movie References

Sydney is Our Mother of Victory – The Great Outdoors

"Syd is a lesbian." No, she's not – Some Kind of Wonderful

Carmen's Hungry Eyes For Sydney – Dirty Dancing

Carmy is experiencing Vertigo

The Bear's Magic Tricks: From Dreams to Love Stories to Trainwrecks to Alien Motherships

The Symbolisms & Metaphors

A Delicate Fucking Ecosystem*

Sydney is the Muse*

Spoon Fork Knife Theory

Sydney lights a fire for Carmy*

Carmy's Bachelor Party After Syd Dumped Him

Screwing Under The Table*

Carmy left Syd on the table*

Syd & Carmy's Table Settings and Lights*

Emotional Cheating*

The Good Thing*

"Who is your best friend?" Sydney & Fak's Costuming

Syd & Carmy's Tattoos*

Sydney has her own 7 Fishes

Sydney is Carmy's new drive.

Sydney got her mothers car (drive)

Sydney is on the last train home

Richie dropping hints

Claire is not Carmy's future. She's "Wednesday".

The Scrunchie Does Not Fit In, but Carmy is Saving it for Later

Sydney fell in love with Carmy in a train station

[paradiseprincesss]

Imagine Jackson Rippner with an innocent gf with Stockholm syndrome that just absolutely adores and loves him and trusts him completely and is very affectionate

human - jackson rippner x reader

masterlist

notes: im working diligently on all my other requests guys i promise!!

summary: you develop stockholm syndrome after you were kidnapped five months ago, and you become hopelessly devoted to your captor.

word count: 1.7k

warnings: mdni 18+, [DUB-CON], smut, p in v, kidnapping, guns, knives, stockholm syndrome obviously

it had been nearly five months since you went missing. nobody knew where you had gone, and there had been a manhunt for you ever since you disappeared. your friends and family were grief stricken - everybody was. a young, promising, beautiful woman going missing after her morning jog; nobody saw it coming.

your city was a relatively safe place to live in, there was very little crime in that specific area. however, when jackson touched down in your city for a two day layover whilst he was heading home from a mission, you'd caught his eye. he didn't even think twice about it - he knew right then and there he wanted to keep you as his.

as soon as he got to his hotel, he grabbed a knife and shoved it into his pocket. he returned to the neighbourhood that he had passed on the way to his hotel; the same one he saw you jogging in. with high hopes that you were still there, he walked around the area with his eyes peeled. to his delight, he was correct - you were still going for your jog outside in the fresh, vibrant, morning sunlight.

it was a shame, though. the trail by your home that you were jogging in just happened to have a lot of greenery by it. trees, branches, tall bushes, you name it. luckily for jackson, this made what he was about to do a hell of a lot easier. you were oblivious - headphones in and jogging peacefully down the trail in broad sunlight. "what if someone were to ambush her?" he thought to himself, "she should really be more careful."

in just mere seconds, he pounced.

he grabbed your neck from behind, choking you with your back towards him. he slammed your neck onto his chest, fingers wrapped tightly around your throat, and he tore your phone and headphones away from you as he threw them into a nearby bush. steadily, he held his other hand up to your throat with the cold, metal blade of the knife pushing into the side of your neck - for good measure.

"don't fucking scream," he said lowly into your ear, "behave. if you don't, i'll slice your throat open right here, right now."

you could barely even whimper out a response, as the vice he had around your throat was strong enough to cut off your ventilation. you tried to respond, but you couldn't articulate any words due to the way he was choking you.

"scream and i'll kill you." he threatened once more, loosening his grip on your throat so that you could breathe again.

with heavy, gasping, heaving breaths, you slump your head against his shoulder as your vision became spotty and you started to experience severe vertigo. he chuckled lowly as he held you against his chest, the blade of the knife sitting right against your jugular vein. he could slice you open right now if he wanted to - and you'd have no choice but to lay there as you bled out and the blood supply to your atrium slowly stilled, leaving you lifeless and limp.

he thought about it, but he wasn't going to do that to you. how could he make you his little doll if you were dead? exactly.

he directed you to keep walking until you flagged down a cab together. he kept the knife out of sight, but you knew he wouldn't hesitate to stab you. he then brought you to his hotel, and you went up to his room with him where he proceeded to hold you at knifepoint and at gunpoint - just in case you got any ideas. this way, you knew even if he didn't have the knife in his hand, he could put a bullet in any one of your arteries at any given moment.

your fear silenced you as you boarded a plane back to his home state, and that is the story of how you ended up in his home in the suburbs. you learned all about what he did for a living from there on, and you couldn't believe that a highly trained assassin was just living in the suburbs amongst everybody else; blending in. i guess it's true what they say; that the average person walks past at least thirty-six murderers in their lifetime unknowingly - or whatever the statistic was.

he'd kept you in his house for months, never letting you step foot outside. sure, he let you open the windows for some fresh air after a few weeks of you sobbing and hyperventilating, but he kept a gun pointed at you the whole time. the first couple weeks were the worst - you were constantly having breakdowns, anxiety attacks, and you were suffering from major depression.

you missed your family, and jackson taunted you by showing you articles and news reports about your disappearance. you just sobbed for weeks after that, and you thought you might die from the anxiety and depression that was slowly eating away at you. then you hit the two month mark. things started to feel less real. you weren't sure if you were slowly dying or just losing touch with reality, perhaps both.

days went by quicker, and your mind was becoming numb. it stayed that way until around ten weeks ago. your behaviour did a 180, but jackson wasn't convinced at first. you started to become unhealthily attached to him, clinging to him every chance you got. you would breakdown if he left for even thirty minutes at a time, and you'd run into his arms every time he came back. you started to beg him to hold you at night and sleep in the same bed as you (of course he didn't say no to that).

he was still on the fence about the whole stockholm syndrome act until you started to beg him to fuck you. at that point, he knew you weren't faking. he wanted to ruin you for the last five months, but he couldn't do it because every time he tried to force himself onto you, you'd put up one hell of a fight. you would scratch him, bite him, hit him, thrash around - the list just goes on. as much as jackson wanted to tie you up and force you to take him as he fucked you senseless, he wasn't going to do that. you were too innocent for that...far too innocent. you deserved to be fucked properly.

so, when you started to beg him to, he jumped at the opportunity. he wanted to destroy you - and he did.

"i love you," you whimpered as jackson forced your head down into the pillows, "i love you so much."

"fuuuuck," he groaned as he pounded his cock deeper into your cunt as you were ass up face down in the bed for him, "such a tight pussy, mm, love you too."

it felt like you were suffocating in the pillows, but that was okay because as long as jackson was happy, you were happy. you don't know why you put up a fight for so long; he was clearly the one for you. you couldn't see it for a little while, but now you were seeing straight again. he fucked you good, fed you well, and treated you like a princess.

sure, at first he held you at gunpoint and threatened to stab you on multiple occasions, but that was your fault. you were the one who disobeyed him and wanted to leave him, so he had no choice. he was doing this all for you because he loved you. you understood that now, and you were determined to be the perfect girlfriend for him. jackson told you that you were his forever. he told you that you were his little angel and that he'd make you his wife soon.

"o-oh, mmph!" you moaned into the pillow as he plowed your soaking cunt.

"yeah, you like that baby?" he grunted as his cock brushed up against your cervix, "are you gonna cum?"

"y-yes, so close!" you whined as he continued to fuck your cunt at a deeper angle, rearranging your insides with every stroke.

you felt yourself leaking down your own thighs, and he groaned at the sight of your slick, glistening cunt as it sucked his cock in with ease. you felt yourself tip over the edge and he continued to pound that same spot inside you over and over. your legs trembled as the clear liquid poured onto the mattress, leaving you a shaking, moaning mess.

jackson continued to fuck you brutally, chasing his own release. "jesus, babygirl," he groaned, "did you just fucking squirt? fuck, that's so hot."

after a few more thrusts, he groaned lowly and you felt his cock pulsing inside of your aching core as he spilled his cum into you. after a moment, he pulled out, watching as his cum dripped out of your pussy.

"that's pretty, stay still for one second," he said softly, and you heard a click and saw a flash of bright light, "so hot, babygirl. you can lay down now."

you did as you were told, and you saw him holding up a camera in his hands. he did this more often then you'd liked, but you didn't complain. if he wanted to take pictures, you'd let him.

jackson did this so that if you ever got the idea to leave or escape, he would blackmail you into staying, but you didn't need to know that. you were too stupid and fucked out all the time to think too deeply about it.

and that's how he liked it. he would come home and fuck you good - so good that you would forget what you were thinking about, and he'd spoil you after he brutally pounded all your holes. he'd buy you expensive gifts and come home with dozens of roses because he loved you in his own twisted, fucked up way. he even started to take you travelling with him because at this point, he knew you were too far in. you were in way too deep, and you didn't want to leave him.

hell, he even threatened to leave you to see what you would do, but you threw a major fit and started to sob uncontrollably. he learned never to do that again because you'd cried for about forty-eight hours straight. jackson gave you everything you wanted, and in return, you gave him your mind, body, and soul.

sure, everyone thought you went missing from right outside your house and that you had most likely been murdered or that you were dead in a ditch somewhere. but you were happier than you ever were in your old life and jackson knew that. he was your home now - and there was no escaping it.

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[fratttymatty]

The Card That Changed Everything

(All characters are 18+)

Elliot Novak had always been the quintessential "nerd" in high school. At 18, he was just a few weeks away from graduating, a proud member of the debate team, the editor of the school newspaper, and a staunch liberal in a town that was a bit more on the conservative side. With thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and a backpack full of books slung over one shoulder, he had always felt a little out of place. His friends, a small but close-knit group of fellow "outsiders," often joked that if the high school hierarchy were a pyramid, he’d be firmly planted at the bottom, right next to the chess club.

Elliot had been expecting a quiet, uneventful Friday night. But when his best friend, Max, invited him over for a game night, he reluctantly agreed. It was nothing too out of the ordinary—just a few games of Uno and maybe some pizza. What he didn’t expect was that this seemingly innocent night would change his life forever.

It started innocently enough. The group—Max, his girlfriend Lily, and Sarah from the drama club—sat around Max’s living room, laughing and talking as they shuffled the colorful cards. The first few rounds of Uno passed without incident. Elliot was his usual self: sarcastic, quick-witted, and, as always, a little too passionate about winning.

Then came the final game of the night. For some reason, the cards seemed to fall differently. He felt a strange energy in the room, a kind of buzz that seemed to hum in his ears. It was Max who had drawn the last card, and as he placed it down, there was a sudden flash of light, so brief that no one noticed—except Elliot.

The world seemed to tilt.

He blinked, disoriented, trying to shake the odd feeling of vertigo. The room appeared the same, but everything felt… different. He looked down at his hands, which were suddenly larger, more muscular, the knuckles rougher. His clothes felt tighter, almost too tight. As if on instinct, he reached up to adjust his glasses, but they weren’t there.

“What the hell?” he muttered, his voice coming out deeper, rougher than usual.

Max, still grinning from winning the last round, glanced over. “You okay, man?”

Elliot’s heart started to race as he realized something was wrong. He glanced at the mirror across the room, and for a moment, he barely recognized the reflection staring back at him. His once lean, skinny body had transformed into something broader, more defined—his arms, his chest, his jawline—all of it seemed so different. His short, curly brown hair was now dark and tousled in thick, messy curls, and his face, still familiar in shape, had lost its nerdy softness, replaced by the sharp angles of a confident, athletic young man.

He was no longer the bookish Elliot Novak. In the mirror, staring back at him, was someone new.

“Max, I don’t… I don’t think I’m okay,” Elliot’s—no, his new voice—sounded unfamiliar, confident in a way it had never been before.

“Dude, you’re acting weird. What’s wrong?” Max asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“I… I feel different,” Elliot murmured. But as he spoke, he didn’t feel the anxiety or the usual sense of out-of-place-ness he had grown accustomed to. Instead, there was something else—a surge of confidence, a sense of power. A feeling of certainty.

He was no longer Elliot Novak. He was Ethan Cole.

Ethan ran his fingers through his new head of tousled, dark brown curls, noticing how it felt different, more natural than his old look ever had. He straightened his back, feeling the strength in his spine, the ease of standing tall. He had always been awkward about his body, but now it was as if he had been molded into something new, something purposeful.

Max looked him up and down, his eyes widening. “Holy crap, Elliot, what the hell happened to you?”

The name Elliot felt wrong in Ethan's mouth. "It’s Ethan, man. You know, like… the name that suits me," he said with an easy smirk, not understanding why he was suddenly so at ease with himself. A new sense of self-assurance flooded his veins, and he felt an overwhelming desire to flex his muscles, to show off this newfound strength.

"You're acting weird," Max muttered, unsure what to make of this transformation. But Ethan was already adjusting to his new life.

He looked at the game of Uno, now discarded on the floor, and the realization hit him. It was the game, the card. It had changed everything, even his very identity. But rather than panic, he felt a strange sense of… relief.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized he didn't miss being the old Elliot. Being Ethan felt right. His thoughts began to align with his new persona—no more arguing about social justice issues, no more complicated liberal viewpoints. No, now he saw things clearly. The world was about competition, dominance, and personal achievement. It made sense. Everything made sense.

And the people around him? They weren’t so different from him anymore. He gave Max a friendly clap on the back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, bro. But we should hit the gym sometime, huh?”

Max blinked in surprise. “Uh… sure, man. That actually sounds good.”

But something in Max had shifted too. His posture straightened, his eyes narrowed with sudden focus, and an unexpected grin spread across his face. “Yeah, you’re right. I could use a solid workout. We should start lifting.”

As if by magic, Max’s transformation mirrored Ethan’s. His body began to tighten and firm up, his once lean frame now more muscular, shoulders broader, chest more defined. His hair, always scruffy, seemed to grow thicker, more styled—almost like it had a purpose now. He gave Ethan a playful shove. “Maybe I’ll even beat you at this gym thing.”

Ethan grinned. “You can try.”

The two exchanged a knowing look, as if they were already bonding over something bigger than just physical strength. It was a new world, one where power and confidence ruled. For Ethan, it felt like a natural fit.

As the evening wore on, Ethan felt something else—something different in the air. Kassie, Max’s girlfriend, had been sitting on the couch, watching their interactions. She was the type of girl who didn’t usually give Ethan much attention. But now, there was something new about him—something magnetic, something that drew her in.

She looked him up and down, her eyes lingering on his broad shoulders and the way his new curls framed his face. She smiled slowly. “Ethan, right? I’ve gotta say, you’re looking good.”

Ethan felt his chest puff with pride. “Thanks, Kassie. You’re not so bad yourself.”

She laughed lightly, a flirtatious edge to her tone. “How about we grab a coffee sometime? You and me?”

Ethan smirked, feeling the newfound confidence flood his veins. “Sounds like a date.”

By the end of the night, Ethan had fully embraced his new life. He wasn’t just a jock in body; he was a jock in spirit. His new persona felt like home. Kassie was his girlfriend now, Max was a jock too, and together they would rule the school.

The old Elliot, with his liberal ideals, his anxiousness, his nerdy quirks—was nothing more than a distant memory.

Ethan Cole was here to stay.

[blindmagdalena]

Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter eight)

18+ 5.5k. homelander x f!reader. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, abuse, forced relationship, slow burn, suicidal ideation/close call, dubcon, oral sex, penetrative sex. fic directory | AO3

It isn’t love like they tell it in fairy tales. It’s love the way the poets write it. It’s blood and tears, a gnawing hunger that eats you from the inside out, leaves you empty and clawing to cram something into yourself as replacement. It’s love like an infection, a fever that never fades. It’s devotion and yearning that runs so deep it turns into violence.

For the next several mornings, you make breakfast as usual.

The heat of the gas range and the hissing sizzle of the eggs are always slightly muffled. Time itself moves strangely around you, like you’re standing under a waterfall flowing in reverse. Minutes tick on like hours, but the hours go by without you noticing them at all. 

As the days–they could be weeks, you’ve stopped keeping track–pass, that night of intimacy with Homelander feels more and more like a fever dream than a memory. If you really try, however, the details of it are simple enough to recall, if not a touch hazy. 

The part of it that’s a struggle is believing any of it actually happened. When you do put your mind to remembering it, it’s as though it happened to someone else. You were an outsider to your body, and now that you’re yourself again, you’re left to ponder the actions of that stranger.

It’s your body that holds onto the reality of it for you. Your stomach still feels faintly tender from the nausea and vertigo of flying. The penthouse air feels stale in your lungs compared to the winds whipping above the city. Your heart pounds whenever your jaw feels tight with the memory of his hand clamped over your mouth, but perhaps the most vexing aspect of it all is the way the throb of your pulse now echoes loudest between your legs.

How your fear now comes laced with an unwanted tinge of arousal.

You’d been left alone that night while Homelander attended a Vought function. He hadn’t been gone long; just long enough for you to bathe. You hadn’t felt up to eating, but he didn’t notice. He’d only cared about coming home, about taking you back into his arms, about breathing in the shower fresh smell of you and exhaling mine into the crook of your neck.

Never before have you felt more like a toy, a possession, a belonging than you did in that moment.

He hasn't touched you like that again since, though you think he aches to. You feel it in the way he squeezes your thigh when you watch movies together, how his hand drifts gradually higher, but it never progresses further than that. Sometimes he’ll press against you in bed, but so long as you lay very still, he eventually drifts to sleep.

When he’s gone, you touch yourself. The ache is there, the pleasure faint, but it’s never quite enough to put you over the edge. It’s never enough to give you the kind of relief–the kind of escape–you felt with him. Your body feels like kindling without a spark, the sensations empty.

You wonder what it would take to prompt him back into that kind of frenzy, that single-minded drive to pleasure you. Would he do it again if he saw you crying?

I’m doing this for you. For us. I’m doing this because you don’t know how to let yourself be happy.

Could he have been right? Have you ever really known how to make yourself happy?

A touch to your waist snaps you from your introspection, startles you into jerking. The pan in your grip would have gone flying if not for Homelander’s hand on your elbow, steadying you.

You completely forgot you were cooking breakfast.

“Eggs are burning,” he tells you, reducing the gas to nothing. They’re far from black, but it doesn’t take much to turn eggs from edible to rancid, the sulphuric smell burning your nose. You can only imagine the havoc it’s wreaking on him.

It isn’t the first time you’ve burned a meal since that night. His tone indicates he’s come to expect it.

“Oh,” you say noncommittally, staring at the curled dark edges, the solid yellow yolk.

His hand slides absently from your hip to your waist. He’s become so familiar in these casual touches, they don’t even make your heart lurch in your chest anymore.

“It’s fine,” he says, clearly reading disappointment in your indifference. The timbre of his voice is ambiguous, but somehow you don’t really think it’s fine. He must be losing his patience with you. His arms slip around your waist like two coiling serpents. “Plenty of time for you to start over.”

Still, he wants you to fix it. Burned eggs don’t suit this idyllic fantasy.

Why bother? you wonder. He peppers light kisses on your neck, lips brushing over a kiss-bruised patch of skin. The heat of his mouth makes you shiver, makes your belly feel tight and hot. You can’t tell anymore whether the heat is anger or arousal. You’re not even going to eat it.

Nevertheless, you scrape out the botched eggs and start over, keenly aware of your pulse echoing faintly between your thighs, and the weight of Homelander’s gaze on you.

Predictably, you eat, and he toys with his food like it’s all a silly game of make-believe. Plastic eggs, foam toast, pretend girlfriend. Homelander’s obsession exists not in what’s real, but in the performance of domesticity. Every day, the idea of what’s real becomes a little more subjective. A little more abstract.

When he goes to leave, he kisses your cheek.

“Thank god it’s Friday,” he says, your chin pinched between his bare thumb and middle forefinger knuckle. He’s taken to touching you more and more without his gloves on. “I made sure I don’t have any weekend obligations, which means you–lucky lady–finally get me all to yourself.”

That’s new. Normally his weekends are even busier than his week.

Sensing his anticipation for your positive reaction, you smile faintly. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

His eyes widen just a fraction, as does his smile. It’s something of an experiment, a deviation from your automatic daily “Have a good day,” and you see the excitement of it written plainly in his expression.

“I won’t,” he says, softer, grip flexing minutely on your chin. He tarries just long enough that you begin to think he may not leave after all. Instead, he takes in a breath and drops his hand to the door panel, using his print to disengage the lock. 

“This will be good for us,” he says quietly, lingering in the doorway for just a moment longer than usual.

The door closes behind him. The green circle turns blue, and the locking mechanism re-engaging is the last bit of noise you hear. The door is thick enough that you don’t even hear his steps echo down the hallway.

Crossing your arms, you stand there for a while, staring at the door. The number pad is shiny from disuse, the buttons a gleaming silver. You’ve never seen him bother to input the code. Testing them without pressing, they’re cool to the touch under your finger, and after a beat, you input a code.

0476. America’s birthday.

The blue circle flashes red, and you sigh. You would have been angry with yourself if it’d been that easy anyways. 

For another day, you whittle your hours away on nothing, distant from yourself and your feelings. Music drones in your ears like static. Television feels alien and incomprehensible. The whole world is upside down, but it’s as though you’re the only one who’s noticed, who’s being forced to adapt.

Terrible as it is to think, the days are better when Homelander’s here.

You walk the penthouse in familiar patterns like a zoo animal in a too-small enclosure, bereft of enrichment. Knowing what you know about him, it feels like giving him too much credit to think the deprivation is intentional, that he’s putting in an effort to make you miss him in the time he’s gone. It seems more likely that he really is just incredibly ignorant of the basic needs a person has.

You’re not an animal. You’re more like a doll that he puts on the shelf until he’s ready to play with you again.

Coming to the balcony, you pull open the door and step outside, hand tight on the door frame. The wind lashes at you, stealing your breath for a split second in the way it always does before you adjust. It’s bright out today, the sky a crisp blue. It’s the kind of rich blue you’d never normally see through the smog on ground level, which always leaves it desaturated.

The clouds look near enough to touch, were you brave enough. Even standing just outside the doorway, your bare feet against the ice cold cement, is enough to make you weak in the knees. Your heart knocks against your ribs like it means to escape, but the feeling has grown so familiar, you don’t back away.

The fear, you realize, is the only thing that makes you feel present in your own body. 

Living with Homelander has forced you to swallow back your instincts so frequently, it comes more naturally now to take a step forward than to run away, your hand slipping from the doorway.

Your heart is in your throat as you near the middle point of the balcony, more and more of the city below coming into view. Your breaths grow shallow, and despite how calm you think you are, your stomach launches into a series of violent somersaults, your eyes glued to the thinning edge of the balcony.

No matter how tattered your thoughts and feelings are, your body reacts. It knows how to keep you safe. It screams and screams and screams as you press on.

There’s nothing around you to steady or brace yourself on. You feel imbalanced, top-heavy in a way that makes you sway, your poor heart lurching with it. You’re too scared to blink, unwilling to risk even a split second of darkness for the fear you might pitch forward.

Closing your eyes only makes it worse, reminds Homelander, his voice unbidden in your mind.

It’ll pass.

It’s worth it.

Trust me.

“Why?” you snap aloud, startling yourself. Why, even now, is he with you?

What’s your alternative?

The air is thin out here. Your eyes water, buffeted by the winds. Your chest feels tighter now, and every breath you take is more hard fought than the last, your lungs constricted. Tears start to roll down your cheeks, though the wind is quick to wick them away.

Your whole body sings with your fear. The adrenaline feels like an extra layer of skin beneath yours, filling your veins with tension and strength. The longer you endure it, the more aware of yourself and that change you become. You take another step towards the edge. Your mouth is sandpaper dry, pins and needles prickling your skin all over. 

Don’t look down. Look out.

You lift your gaze to the horizon, exhaling a shaky breath. You take another tentative step forward, relieved when your foot hits solid ground. You can’t see exactly where the ledge ends anymore. Another step, and then another. There’s nothing to hold you back. Nothing to keep you from walking.

Finally, you close your eyes, and move to step forward.

You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?

You gasp, eyes snapping open. Your balance waivers, and as your gaze drops, you see the empty space where your foot was about to fall.

 If not for yourself, you’ll do that for me, yeah?

You pitch yourself backwards so hard that you fall, landing on your ass with a pained noise. You choke on the tension in your throat, your whole body shaking as you haul yourself backwards, bare feet scratching against the pavement. You flip onto your hands and knees and clamber back inside, hastily slamming the door shut behind you before you let go a gut wrenching sob, the sound of it strained, agonized, barely enough breath in your lungs to birth it. 

You put your back to the door and you cry until your voice runs hoarse, until all the muscles in your stomach hurt and your tears run dry. It’s an ugly, visceral cry that leaves you dizzy and weak-limbed, the space behind your eyes throbbing in a dull headache.

There is an alternative. You’re going to find it.

Eventually you manage to drag yourself up from the floor and to the bedroom. The exhaustion that hits in the wake of your–what, lapse in judgment? Temporary insanity? Whatever you call it, it’s left you so worn out that all you can do is collapse on the bed, your muscles aching.

From the ceiling, your reflection stares back at you. You hardly recognize that face as yours anymore. Time and time again she makes choices that aren’t yours and experiences the world in a way you never could have imagined.

Homelander may have convinced you to look at yourself, but only now do you think you’re starting to see yourself as you are. As you must be.

You close your eyes, exhaling a slow breath. You begin to forget the balcony, the steps forward, the fall. It slots into a distant place somewhere in the back of your mind–where all things like it go–and after a time you’re left with nothing but the thrumming of your own body.

The echo of fear and thrill. The memory of adrenaline coursing through you like fuel, like poison, like divinity. Never before have you felt the kind of power you did when you took those steps. Fear has no control over you. It wasn’t even what stopped you.

You stopped yourself. You took control.

It leaves you electrified. You touch your tingling fingertips to your lips, where the numbness of them makes them feel like someone else’s. You trail them down your chin, your jaw, your throat. Instead of fighting it, you lean into the idea of this other you.

Hand drifting lower, you close your eyes. Instantly that haunting night comes back to you: Homelander’s mouth on your neck, your chest, your lips, his fingers curling inside you while you–that stranger behind your eyes–gasped in pleasure and kissed him back.

You try to replicate his touch. Slow, firm, full of desire and intent. Your stomach flips at the memory of it. How he kissed you like he meant to devour you, how enraptured he became with your pleasure. 

I’ll make you happy if you’d just let me.

Swallowing, you skirt your fingers along the waistband of your pants, teasing the exposed skin there. He had taken your fear, your anguish, and twisted it into something with teeth. 

Something inside you that hungered.

You have no idea how fucking good I can make you feel.

Slipping under the fabric, you push your fingers into your underwear and touch yourself in every way you remember him touching you.

The chill of your fingers–still cold from the balcony–is stark against the heat between your legs. Your pussy feels velvety under your fingers, soft and slick with arousal. 

Look who’s all wet.

You let out a shuddering breath. Trying to replicate his touch only drives home how wholly inhuman he really felt. The unyielding strength in him, how his fingers felt like anchors inside you, grounding you, keeping you so entirely at his mercy that you had no choice but to let go, to give in.

There’s no such plausible deniability here. He’s gone, and yet here you are envisioning him, imitating him, allowing the version of him in your mind to have what you’d been sure he would always have to take. You screw your eyes shut tighter, exhaling a throaty noise as you push your fingers sharply in.

Your hips rock steadily. The harder you try, the less right it feels. You attempt to relax, to let yourself focus on what it feels like now instead of what it felt like then, what it felt like with him. How relentless he was, peppering insistent kisses everywhere he could reach. You touch your neck, press into the tender mark he sucked there. Your pussy clenches at the sensation, and finally you feel as though you’re on the right track.

Something electric begins to crackle inside you. A low, dull pressure that builds gradually. You deepen your breaths, finding a rhythm, losing yourself piece by piece to the dozens of hands pulling at you in your mind. Tearing your clothes, sinking into you, holding you pinned, all of it impossibly happening at once while you’re simultaneously ravaged by lips, tongue and teeth.

Your eyes snap open when a grip like steel snatches your wrist, shocking you out of your fantasy.

Homelander stands over you.

His vibrant blue eyes are dark and glazed over, his lips parted. He’s not looking at you, but instead at your glistening fingers. He tilts your hand, enraptured by how the wetness of them catches the light. 

A visceral rush moves through you, heat and shame and excitement and outrage all in dizzying measure. You move to yank your hand back, but despite the looseness of his grip, the curl of his fingers is unyielding. He doesn’t even seem to notice.

With his other hand braced on the headboard, he leans in at the same time he pulls you closer, his eyes falling shut as he sucks two of your fingers into his mouth.

The heat of it shocks you all over, makes your stomach drop in a hot and sudden broil. His tongue slides up the seam between your fingers, pushing between them, licking away every single trace of slickness from them.

“Homelander,” you rasp, tone ambiguous in the flux of your inner turmoil.

His eyes open part way, landing on you heavy and hungry. He pulls your fingers from his mouth with an obscene, wet noise. His tongue moves over his top lip in a slow slide, dipping around his sharp canines. His breaths are shallow, nostrils flaring on every heavy inhale. He’s barely tasted you and yet he looks drunk on it, cheeks flushed red.

“What were you thinking about?” he asks, his voice guttural, raw with open and eager desire.

For once, the truth and what you know he wants to hear are one in the same. It sits on your tongue with the weight of an anchor, his expectant gaze a bottomless ocean. 

If you give it to him, are you prepared to sink?

What’s your alternative?

“You.”

Homelander groans. 

He releases your hand and takes hold of your hips instead, yanking you to the edge of the bed with such ease of force it makes you gasp. He yanks your pants off with a sharp pull, though he manages not to tear them this time.

The feverishness that he touches you with makes your whole body sing, instantly sparking the ember you’d been tending into a blazing fire. Your blood races with adrenaline, desire surging alongside instinctual fear, the two intermingling to the point where you can no longer discern one from the other.

“I was thinking about yesterday,” you say, breath hitching for the way he kisses his way down your stomach, fingers biting into your hips.  “The way you touched me.”

Like gasoline splashed over a flame, your words intensify the ravenous fire of him. He sinks to his knees, your legs hitched over his shoulders, peppering kisses along your inner thigh, hands cupped under your ass, which he’s pulled completely off the bed.

Your heart thunders in your chest while his hot huffs of breath so close to where you’re wet and wanting make you shiver. His fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, the thrum of his restraint an effortless reminder of all that he is, all that he’s capable of. The awareness of how easily he could tear you apart is no longer frightening. Instead, it’s the understanding that he won’t that thrills you. 

In the same way you couldn’t stop him when he wanted to please you, if Homelander wanted to hurt you, you couldn’t stop him. There is a surreal freedom in that, a permission to let go of the weight of fear and responsibility for yourself, for your actions.

Reap the reward.

He kisses all the way to the core of you, where his mouth closes over your clit, hot and wet and devouring. His tongue slides around and over, the rolling pull of his lips coaxing a deeper pleasure. 

All the while he holds you firmly in place, trapping you in relentless euphoria. His mouth is just as merciless as the rest of him, never needing to pause or take a breath. He’s machine-like in his rigor, but the fervor of his consumption is decidedly animalistic.

You can hardly catch your breath in the onslaught. Reaching down, you thread your fingers into his hair–it’s softer than it has any right to be–and pull hard. That earns you a throaty moan from him, the vibrations of it adding an entirely new element of sensation.

Your grip on his hair tightens sporadically, sharp little tugs that match the staccato cadence of your breaths. His tongue moves down, focusing instead on fucking you in shallow but powerful thrusts. The strength of it, the underlying hum of barely contained power that courses through him, and the sheer relentlessness of his stamina drives you wild against his mouth.

Between plunging his tongue into you and sucking on your clit, he drinks you down noisily, a parched man gulping from an oasis. You use what little leeway his grip allows to grind against his tongue, riding the tidal wave of your building release all the way to the top. 

His hand slides inward, fingers splayed to support your weight while his thumb dips deep enough to slip into you, finally giving your pussy something solid to squeeze. It’s enough to tip you over the edge. You push your other hand into his hair and hold on for dear life, arching your back with a cry that fills the entire penthouse as pleasure overtakes you, crashing down on you like a tsunami.

Like before, Homelander doesn’t take your climax alone as an invitation to stop. A man possessed, he licks, sucks and kisses your throbbing clit through every single aftershock of your orgasm. Pleasure eventually trails into discomfort, a slight tingling burn that finally gives you the strength to push him away.

He doesn’t relent right away, too lost in you to feel the meager protest. You push harder, making a noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper, overstimulated, and he finally withdraws, giving one last noisy slurp before setting you back on the bed and rising. He’s painting, face is shiny and wet with your slick, his pupils blown completely black.

In your euphoria addled delirium, the look of him makes you want to run far away as much as it makes you want to kiss him.

Licking his lips, he crawls up your body, his gaze still predator hungry. You catch his face between your palms, your breaths still shallow, and marvel at how raw he looks. 

For all your fears about what he could be hiding from you, Homelander has never been anything but brutishly upfront. He told you who and what he was the moment you woke up in his bed. You can understand his logic now–why bother muddying the waters with needless lies? He never deceived you because he wanted you to know who he was, and who he expected you to be.

Even now, he is an open book to you. Your pleasure is mine, his expression declares. The claim is in his eyes, shining on his lips, in the heady scent of it on his breath. You are mine.

And he is, without a shadow of a doubt, yours.

You trace his bottom lip with your thumb, transfixed by the way he followed it, pressing wet kisses to the pad. You tilt your thumb forward, grazing his teeth. His bottom canines are sharp, and when you press your thumb down on one of them, he closes his lips around it, sucking on it with a needy little noise that lances heat straight through you. 

Despite the immensity of his power, he’s malleable in your hands. You pull, he follows, huffing out shallow little breaths. You pull your thumb away and he looks at you with cloudy eyes, brows tightly pinched. Between your bodies, he fusses with his belt until it clicks loose.

“Stop,” you breathe, pressing a hand to his chest.

His expression twists, damn near wounded. “Wha–why? I thought–”

You kiss him before he can put himself in another rejection induced spiral, licking the words right out of his mouth before you say, “Take the suit off.”

Another soft groan from him before he’s lifting off of you, unfastening his suit. You take the opportunity to shed the last of your layers, your heart racing. You half expected him to rush, to fumble in his hurriedness, but despite his obvious excitement, he’s methodical in removing his suit, placing it on the rack in the way he always does.

It’s almost long enough to give you time to think about what you’re doing, about whether the pounding in your chest is thrill or not. That same primal part of you is shouting to run, and you are running, just not away. You’re tired of running away. This time, you’re running headlong into Homelander.

And he catches you.

He’s upon you before you can examine it any further, bare skin hot against yours. He kisses the column of your throat, breathing you in.

At the first nudge of his cock, a breathy little noise escapes you. He savors grinding the head of it tantalizingly against your clit, moving through the mess he’s made of you. You’re soaking wet, thighs coated in saliva and slick. He presses his chest down against yours and the heat of him makes you shiver. 

He isn’t putting his full weight down on you, but the sheer force of him over you is suffocating. Breathing makes you feel as though you’re pressed against a brick wall, stifling you. Trapping you. You start to shake your head.

“Wait, wait, hold on,” you say, fighting the welling panic in your throat. “Roll over. On your back.”

Confused but not opposed, he does as he’s told, moving off of you and onto his back. You swing your leg over him, and he instantly understands, grasping your hips to help gather you into position over him. His lips split into a wide grin, dark eyes glinting wickedly.

“Fuck yes,” he breathes, squeezing your hips. There’s a giddiness to him, like part of him didn’t believe that this would happen, much less that you would ever be the one leading it.

Straddling his thighs, sitting just behind his cock, you can feel the tension of his excitement thrumming throughout his body. With control on your side, you move forward, reaching between your legs to angle him into the right position.

His grip on you flexes as he fights with himself to stay still while you descend slowly, the swell of him splitting you open in one slow, hot slide.

Gravity brings you down most of the way, but a jerk of his hips that he pulls you into bottoms him out, and you both gasp with the suddenness of it, your body locking up around his throbbing cock.

“Sorry, sorry,” he pants, but his grip doesn’t ease. Like he’s lost control of himself, he holds you firmly in place while he fucks you, watching you through heavily lidded eyes, lips parted. “S’good, s’fuckin’–so fucking good,” he moans, expression twisting in pleasure. 

It’s too much all at once–Homelander always is–but you take it, gripping his wrists. He fucks like a machine, each thrust a shock to your system, momentum building into quicker, harder thrusts.

“S-slow down,” you half moan, practically choking on the overwhelming fullness of him inside you. He isn’t thrusting in and out so much as he’s grinding into you in shallow bursts, carving out the shape of himself within you like he intends never to leave.

“Take me so good,” he murmurs, and if not for the slight slow down of his thrusts, you’d think he didn’t hear you. He sits up, the ease with which he moves even with you on top of him still throwing you for a loop. “Knew you would, knew you’d be mine, all mine. Made just for me.”

His hands slide up your body, one arm moving around your waist while his hand slides up to cup the back of your head. He kisses you, pins your chest to his, ensures you feel every ounce of his desperation to be with you, near you, inside you.

It’s more than being fucked–it’s like being taken apart so that you can be put back together around him. A permanent emptiness in his perfect image.

You were not made for him. You have been remade.

The next thing you know, Homelander is standing up, your legs hitched around his waist, ankles locked behind him. You wrap your arms around his neck and gasp for the way the position brings him in deeper yet, every bounce on his cock heavier now.

“Look at me,” he rasps. You don’t remember closing your eyes, but you open them at his prompt, looking at him through the delirium of heat and pleasure. His dark eyes are glassy, and he’s looking at you with such raw, vulnerable love that it makes your heart twist in agony. “I love you.”

You take a breath, your own eyes welling with tears, and you kiss him.

I believe you, you think, tears rolling down your cheeks while the pressure of climax builds steadily back up.

It isn’t love like they tell it in fairy tales. It’s love the way the poets write it. It’s blood and tears, a gnawing hunger that eats you from the inside out, leaves you empty and clawing to cram something into yourself as replacement.

It’s love like an infection, a fever that never fades. It’s devotion and yearning that runs so deep it turns into violence. It’s desperation and the all consuming desire to be accepted for what you are, no matter the ugliness of it. It’s the most raw form of need a person is capable of.

It’s survival.

The kiss breaks and he presses his forehead to yours, your shallow breaths mingling hot and wet in the narrow space between your mouths.

The rest of the world falls away in jagged pieces–circumstance, fear, pity, hatred, pain–and narrows only to the two of you; your bodies joined, your gazes fixed on one another, and the electric pleasure of the friction between you.

“I–” you gasp, choking on your own words as he fucks you to the razors edge of release. “I love you, too.”

Maybe he’s broken you, or maybe it’s impossible to live in madness without going a little mad yourself. 

He makes a noise like you’ve gutted him, eyes screwed shut. He slams in once, twice, thrice more and you lose yourself to the heat of it all, breath stolen from your lungs by the crash of release that overwhelms your every sense.

You lose track of time, of the hammer of his body against yours. He comes shortly after, stilling deep inside you with a rush so hot that it makes you gasp into the crook of his neck, where you let yourself collapse. You’re dead weight in his arms, but you may as well weigh nothing at all for the toll it takes on him.

Sinking down to sit on the edge of the bed, he embraces you like that for a long while. Your euphoria keeps you on a cloud somewhere high above, serving as cushioning between how you feel and what you know. Just like yesterday, mindless pleasure is an intoxicating reprieve from reality, and you’re thoroughly drunk on it.

He rubs your back in slow familiar patterns. You idly toy with the hair at the nape of his neck, which prompts him to pepper you in languid kisses. Touching you like this comes to him as naturally as breathing. Your bodies slot together like two pieces of a puzzle that were long lost from each other.

“See?” he whispers, easing your bodies down onto the bed, under the covers. “I didn’t break you.”

You offer a dazed smile, not quite as certain that he didn’t. Your pelvis aches slightly, an overall tenderness to you akin to the pain you’d feel the day after a particularly hard fall.

That isn’t the ache you’re concerned about, though. It’s the one in your chest that gives you pause.

“There’s still time.”

His brows furrow while he processes the words, but after a beat, he smiles, taking it as a playful challenge.

“Aren’t you just full of surprises?”

Yes, you think, settling your head on his chest, listening to the steady pound of his heart. I certainly am.

Exhaling a deep breath, you close your eyes, content to allow yourself this respite, however brief.

In hindsight, you will always remember this moment as the quiet just before the storm.

[divinehedons]

you're losing me.

navigation: how reader broke her ankle

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

word count: ~4.2k words

summary: at one point, you think you've found something with joel. a moment of peace, a fragment of joy. now, you're not so sure.

warnings: this is an explicit fic, minors DO NOT INTERACT! hurt/comfort fic, LOTS of angst i'msosorry, implied age gap (somewhat mentioned here and there), a play on the miscommunication trope with an uncommunicative joel, angsty make up sex, explicit p-in-v sex, oral sex (f receiving), anal sex, aftercare, occurs somewhere after the events of season 1.

a/n: i'm incredibly thankful for all the love this fledgeling little hedonist got from such a community. thank you so so much for reading!

likes, comments, and reblogs much appreciated! please let me know if you have any requests, just shoot an ask and i'm certain to see it!

Life, as you imagined it in the days that came after, was much simpler before you and Joel arrived in Jackson. It was a description you settled on, long after you’ve combed through your mind’s vocabulary, through the haze and vertigo of heartbreak. Easier was simply a lie. Nothing was nice nor easy in those autocracies from the QZs. When you look back to those days, painted only in broad strokes of inhumane bloodshed and secret dealings in the dark, he remains, nevertheless, at the center of the shell of empires you had once deemed eternal. Your gruff, quiet Joel, with bloodstained fists and sharp eyes, always strong to rage battle with the days and emerge victorious.

Perhaps life was easier pre-Jackson because you and Joel never truly defined what you had back then. You lived next door to him. You suggested he hid his contraband with you because, God, why would they ever search there? You still try and figure out when the fucking started. When you stopped sleeping in your bed and started waking up in his. Whenever it was, shortly thereafter, you followed him in his dealings, tried to look for some damn car battery that seemed to excite him so much.

You remember waking up at dawn one morning, drenched in sweat as the shadows receded in your mind, his hand on your shoulder as his eyes searched yours. You don’t remember the nightmare, you remember the panic in his eyes. “You good, darlin’?” You’d nod and watch him open a window. It was autumn, you remembered, and the breeze cooled your burning skin.

“Who’s the guy I’m meeting today?” you tried to ask, sitting up in his bed and watching the way his eyes seemed to look at anywhere but you. You tried to ignore the subtle way his brows furrowed, the grinding of his jaw. “Talk me over the plan again.” When he returned to you, his hands pull you down by your legs, spreading you wide open as his mouth kisses the questions out of your mouth.

“We’re not talkin’ ‘bout business when I can still have you for a few hours, sweetheart.”

So he’d take you, with your neck stinging from razor burn, legs thrown over his shoulders, his shirt which you wore pushed up while he bites your nipples as his hard cock dives into you in one languid thrust, moans reverberating from the both of you at the feeling.

When Joel fucks, he does so with the candour of a greedy child in a candy shoppe. He takes whatever he can get. You still remember the aftermath of when he first fucked you, one that broke a few years of celibacy, according to the man himself. You remembered the teeth marks, the broken skin, burst capillaries, and fingerprints imprinted wherever he felt the need to. He had been bashful, then, muttering about how he didn’t mean to be so rough. You remembered laughing and pressing his fingers to your aching cunt, smiling at him. You were still wet. He hardens there and then.

Even when you were neck deep in each other’s affections, he never quite lost that eagerness. You remembered that morning because you remember gushing against his cock. You remembered it because it was the morning you realised it was never like this with anyone else. Actually, you realised as his hips stutter and the familiar warmth of his spend fills you, since Joel, there had never been anyone else.

Perhaps everything was simpler then, when you look back at it. You’d fuck, wash up, go do your jobs for some rations. Sometimes he’d nod at you from across the street, and you wouldn’t see him again until he knocks on your door at night, taking you by the hand and pulling you into the night. You always stood in his corner, kicking and punching with so much vigor that he’d chuckle and mutter something about the “youth, nowadays”. He’d wash the blood from your hands, wrap you up in bandages, and tell you to not be so reckless next time. You never really listened.

Sometimes, when an exchange ends early, he’ll take you to some empty building, tell you about some renovation of one decade or another. You’d laugh and climb over him, chasing to get a taste of his cock in your mouth. You never addressed the elephant in the room, never asked what you meant to him.

It was the unspoken rule, however, that there was never going to be anything that came between the two of you. By hell or high water. He walked you home every night you did your business, even if he still had things to do. He never forgot to hand you a share of meat whenever it came his way, sometimes finding you wherever you were stationed that day just to slip it in your hands without speaking.

It was the same rule that prevailed when he woke you one night, telling you he’s leaving. You packed a bag, shook hands with the kid he was with, and followed.

No questions asked. Through hell and high water.

–

Somewhere between those days and arriving in Jackson, he does start talking more. You learn about Sarah, the worries he tries not to tell anyone, the pain in his bones.

In easy silences while the kid slept and vulnerability left you both awake, isolation made you complacent, vulnerable. It made you believe something good still existed in this world. It made you believe you and Joel could survive unscathed from the same love that had burnt others.

“Stay with me,” he whispers in the cradle of darkness, hand on the trigger as he watches you pace back and forth, trying to tire yourself enough. You look at him, blinking momentarily as you try to comprehend as to whether or not you imagined the words from his mouth. “When we get out of here–if we get out of here–promise me you’ll stay with me.”

Of course you will. That was how you ended up in Jackson, too.

Looking back, when you try and trace everything back to a singular point in space and time when the end of all things began, it began when you stand in stunned silence, watching what seemed to be a sanctuary in the midst of mortal damnation. Laughing children, playing, men lifting, hammering, building. People chattering in the street. The tipping point, however, was none of that. The tipping point was Joel recognising his brother from the crowd and embracing him with a smile you had never seen on your face before.

For a moment, you feel guilt— you knew how long Joel had wanted to see Tommy. You knew, too, that this had been everything he had worked towards for. It warms you, to finally know Joel was still human, after all. At least for a moment. Then the uncomfortable thoughts trickle in.

Perhaps, you thought once in a microsecond, perhaps you just weren't enough for him to be that open with you.

Just like that, the isolated bubble from which you had adored, and perhaps (definitely) even loved Joel, dissolves, leaving you exposed, vulnerable, and somewhat alone in a sea of people. You supposed Ellie felt it too, from the way she held on to your arm, worrying you’ll disappear too.

“I’m here, kid,” you murmur as you pretend not to see. “You’re all good.”

Even when your little group left and came back from the Fireflies, even when Joel pulls you out of a burning building and kills men for you, you can’t shake off the feeling. Can’t shake the knowledge that you weren’t as important to him. Not even a little, not even at all. You swallow it whenever he pushes aside your underwear and lets you take his fingers. You ignore that itching feeling when you take him for yourself, seating yourself on his lap and fucking him needingly, kissing him as if his lips were everything you needed, chasing your orgasms with the same greed you had in those early days.

Sometimes, you couldn’t stop it.

“Tell me you want me, Joel,” you whisper, fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, pulling, teeth gnashing.

“‘Course I fuckin’ want you, peach. This fuckin’ cunt is all mine.” He’d flip you over, lay you on your stomach, fucking up into you as your back arches and your eyes roll back in the sweet symphony of skin on skin on skin. “No one else knows how to even make you feel as good as I do.” His fingers would reach down. Thumb and forefinger. Pinching your clit until a squeal escapes you.

“Yours, Joel.” Your gasps, his grunts, the fleeting ache in your chest as these moments become less frequent, turning few and far in between. “Yours, yours, yours.”

–

It all comes to a head one evening, over some stupid argument. Even now, when all is said and done, you can’t seem to remember the trigger that set things off. When you think of that night, only a fragment of the conversation comes to mind.

“The truth is, Joel, I just don’t know what we are,” you had been saying, separating from him like shrapnel. “I used to stupidly think that maybe you wanted me to stay because you were working up some fucking courage to do something about us.” He looks at you wide-eyed, pupils blown. You could hear his thoughts from that distance. Where was all this coming from?

“It never mattered t’you before,” he muttered, leaning against the wooden table as his eyes bore down on you. A beat drops, and he is striding towards you, taking your shoulders in his gruff hands as his tired gaze met yours. ”I don’t understand, why the fuck are you tellin’ me this now?”

I know you don’t. I never asked you to.

For a moment, you struggled in his arms. The feeling of his fingers against your skin was too much. It felt too close, too intimate, too little, and nothing all at once. You whine, trying to avoid his gaze and control your tongue before it is you who eventually did ruin things.

Just tell me. What’s in that head of yours?

“Because you never touch me anymore!” Your small fists, his broad chest, hitting what you could as you finally sob and tear yourself away from me. “I’m glad for you, I really am. But you barely even look at me anymore!” When you did free yourself, your feet take you backwards by a few steps, just enough to see the quirk of his lips at your confession. “But God, it makes me feel so fucking small- like I’ve turned into some nagging bitch, the shrew at home.” You hiccup once, twice. You see him about to speak and you jump in again. “It’s like you found your life and I never had a place in it, so you forgot me.”

The last confession lay on your lips, escaping before you could stop it. “Like I was never enough for you, Joel.”

Your back hits the wall as you look him in the eye, eyes blurred from the onslaught of tears that finally stop you. “I have always stood by your side, I’ve followed you blindly across this fucking wasteland. I never asked for anything, never wanted anything but you, and yet…” You wait for Joel. As you always have. You wait for him to say something. Anything that might finally end your misery. When he doesn’t, you wait for him to do something.

You sigh. “I… I lo-”

“I’ve had enough of this,” he finally says, catching you off-guard as he moves away, grabbing his coat as he shakes his head. “Tommy’s waiting for me.” With that, he leaves. The pit in your stomach swallows you whole, remaining there, in the strange hallways of your memory, as the moment you finally understood the misery that walked hand in hand with love.

–

That was how you ended up with the singular backpack of your things, moving across all of Jackson and putting the entire commune between the two of you, and moving into the small apartment near the shops. You know the jobs he works, asked (almost begged, actually) for Maria to keep her as far away from him as remotely possible. And you did so before he returned from patrolling– some two day affair beyond the gates.

The first night proved impossible. In the darkness, you heard the arms of your watch ticking by as time moves ever so slowly. Without noticing it, you counted the minutes before he and Tommy should be back. You tried not to wonder if he ever thought of you on jobs like this. When all there is to kill is time. Did he ever touch himself in the darkness? Did he ever think of you touching yourself wherever you lay, too? 

Then you remember his dining room. “I’ve had enough of this.” No. You know he wasn’t thinking of you.

You fuck yourself with your fingers until your wrist aches from the effort; and still yet, nothing. You cannot reach the places he does. Your hands too soft to mimic the sensation of his calloused fingers forcing orgasm after orgasm out of you. The sleep that comes, therefore, is uneasy,

You dream of him, lying beside you in the bed you shared back in the QZ, his gruff hum signalling he was awake. “You’re not happy, are you?” he whispers, and you look to him, hands reaching in the darkness.

“Of course not,” you whisper. "I’m in love with you and you don’t even want to see me.”

–

Joel sees the empty house first before he heard the news. It is only in your absence that he finally understood how empty his home was without you.

Without the books on the coffee table. Without the flowers you picked yourself. The bathroom felt barren without your little luxuries– the lotion you had found back on the road, the smell of your shampoo long evaporated from the room. His bed, most of all, felt inhuman without the shape of your frame imprinted on it.

Ellie rushed in when he stood in the living room, looking over in silence. “What the fuck happened, man? I tried to stop her but she was crying, all over the place. I don’t even fucking know how she left the place so pristine the way she was running around-”

“Where is she, kid?”

–

When he finally does see you, you look far worse off than he is. The apartment Maria pointed him to is nice, it’s warm. Bright, even. As if anywhere you go turns into a sanctuary. You’re reading when he sees you. With your back turned to him, you roll your shoulders in a way that tells him you slept wrong. If you even slept at all. The slight tilt in your gait tells him you overworked yourself and your ankle is giving you hell for it.

He leans against the doorway until eventually, he finds the strength to speak. “So you don’t even say goodbye? Some people would think it’s just good manners.” You turn around just enough for him to see the swooping shades of exhaustion beneath your eyes, tinged by the reddening of your nose, your sore eyes. You had just been crying. He could tell, even when no traces of tears are left on your skin.

Now, he waits for you. Attempts to weed out the silence as if it could tell him something. 

“Ellie said you cleaned up. Thanks for that, darlin’.” He sighs, moving closer in an attempt to bridge the gap between the two of you. He doesn’t notice the way you tense, the way you prepare yourself to flee. “I found somethin’ for you, It’s out-”

“Just stop it, Joel.” He looks to you, sees the way the tears bead in your eyes before you look away, rising from your seat as you allow a shaky breath. “You said you had enough and I’m- I wanted to respect that.” He tries to hold you and your arms fly out, pushing him away before he gets too close, shaking your head. “But I can’t do it when you’re always around.”

He calls your name, and it stops you in your tracks. He says it again, and you realize why. He says your name with so much emotion, the teeth-gritting ferocity of the riptide. “It was never you that I had enough of. I can never have enough of you-” When you look at him, his brows furrow, eyes soften, reaching for you, hands on your wrists as he slowly brings you toward him. He calls your name, and for a moment, you feel as you did back in the old days of the small rooms in the QZ. You remember the whistling of the wind between the window shutters, white noise that soothed you to sleep.

His confession comes spilling forth in an uncontrollable gush. “I never wanted to make you go, peach,’ he murmurs, almost incomprehensible, rough hands pulling you against his chest as he finally breathes in that familiar scent of your hair. He smells of snow and pine–the same smell of the soap you bought for him last week. “I don’t know how to do this… to feel–” His thumbs cup your cheek as your gaze returns to his own tear-filled face. “Losing you is like cutting my fingers off, sweetheart, I can’t bear it.”

He kisses you, and you feel the desperation of a man starved. He doesn’t stop, does not want to stop. If this was a dream, he thinks, he’d rather consume you than wake up somewhere without the warmth of your skin on his. You kiss him, too, and it’s nothing like what you had before. When you kiss him in that quiet little apartment, it’s wanton, messy, your tears melting into his own, your whines swallowed and consumed before you can even actuate them. You only break apart when you feel his lips move to your cheek, his beard rubbing against you as you sniffle and tug him closer by the loops of his belt.

Joel continues to speak. In disjointed whispers, murmurings you try and decode. “Always wanted you to stay, darlin’. Always dreamt of you, always-”

“I thought you dreamt of ten-month summers,” you manage to tease between tears, catching his lips as his arms lift you, pressing you to the nearest wall to wrap your legs around his waist, thrusting his clothed cock against you. You remembered that dream particularly because it had been a miserable winter, one that he confessed to have felt in his very bones. How he grumbled then, in the silences when he thought you wouldn’t hear.

“Even with that summer, without you there, I don’t fuckin’ need it, sugar.”

You both make up that afternoon, slowly, lovingly, with him begging you to stay as he pushes your bottoms off and you promising that you will. The burning stretch of his girth makes you tear up again, just as he cups your face and soothes you through it. “Doin’ so good for me, baby. Let me make it up to you…” You let him do many things. You let him take you again. You let him regain control over himself again. 

Oftentimes you wonder if uncertainty struck fear into him. Perhaps it was why he had always kept himself at an arm’s distance, even when you slept in his bed and wore his shirts. Perhaps that was why he had never allowed himself to feel. Never allowed himself to name that love he had for you.

“I love you, Joel.” The whisper comes between moans as his lips mark your neck in rough kisses, taking you again as he had taken you everytime. “I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.” He groans at the sound of your promises, a low guttural sound, just as his lips nip at the skin of your neck, making you whine and squeal against him.

“I fuckin’ love you, peach,” he finally manages to say, hips pistoning in and out of your weeping cunt as he makes you look at him. “I could never have enough of you… fuck!” He doesn’t care if the whole of Jackson hears you, sees the two of you locked in this embrace. As long as he had you, he knows, nothing else mattered. Gently, he lets you down to turn you around, manipulating your hips as your hands keep you balanced to the wall. He sinks so easily to his knees, tongue swiping from your clit, your weeping hole, your perineum, and even up to your ass, spreading your wetness and his precome with a low chuckle. “Tell me you need me, darlin’, come on.”

You do tell him. “I need you, sir, please,” you whisper, with such gentleness that he chuckles. He loved the way your begging sounded, the way you called him sir, like you did in those shy beginnings when you could barely look him in the eye. Loved the way you whine and try to reach down to touch yourself, only for him to tsk in warning, your hand immediately returning to the wall. “Please let me cum, sir, I just want you, please!”

Finally, he indulges you. His tongue fucking you, hands spreading your asscheeks, beard digging into your skin and his nose, his nose, just teasing your asshole enough to make you clench down in expectation. He does not stop, does not pause even when you buck against him, clenching your teeth as you feel his tongue reach there, that point that makes you fucking feral, bucking until he pushes you off the edge, and continues to push you over the edge, knees weakening and trembling in the aftermath of pleasure. You thank him, louder than you’ve ever thanked any deity for each day of survival. If you were honest, you didn’t care so much about religion, about believing. Not when everything you ever believed in knelt before you, asking you if you’d let him take your ass.

You nod breathlessly, pressing your cheek against the cool wallpaper. “It’s yours, sir. It’s all yours, and you know it.”

He smirks, kissing the small of your back. His perfect, willing girl.

He slowly draws you into it, knows you’ve never done anything like this. He starts with his tongue, helping you relax around him, helping you relax when you take one finger, then another. You had never felt so empty and yet so full at the same time. You feel the walls of your cunt stretched out over nothing, your fingers digging into the plaster as he finally stands, lips pressing kisses and assurances into your shoulders. And there, just there- you feel the head of his cock entering you, your body welcoming him so willingly, without much effort nor pain.

He fucks you with renewed vigor, your moans intermingling as his hands trail on separate directions. His left hand trails from your neck, to your chest, and quickly to your nipples, pinching, tugging, His right trails from your stomach to your wanton clit, rubbing concentric circles softly and gently prolonging your pleasure to match up with his stamina. Even as he batters your walls, his lips are so gently, praising you and kissing you. “Of course I fuckin’ love you, sugar. Always fuckin’ did.”

It’s the confession, you would think later on, that pushes the both of you over the edge. You beg him to let you, and he chuckles at how needy and willing you are in his hands. “Together, baby, yeah? Come on, be a good girl and come with me.” HIs fingers intensify his efforts, so do his cock, and it’s even more easier, You feel yourself gush at nothing, his hands the only thing holding you up now as he finds his high, rolling off with you, fucking his spend deep within your ass. “Fuck, yeah. Just like that, princess. Fuck!”

You cry for him and cum even harder, clenching and collapsing, saved only by his trembling frame. It is then that you feel his teeth biting down against your skin, guttural groans escaping and reverberating against your sweat-slick skin. You call for him, hand reaching back to tug against his hair, giving him the consent to sink his teeth deeper against your flesh.

You exchange words of love, you kiss slowly, gently. Joel carries you gently to the small cot you had been resting on, his gaze scolding you for putting your body through this uncomfortable surface every night. You whine when he leaves you, but he smiles. “I’m not goin’ anywhere again, sugar. Promise.”

He makes good on that promise, returning with something to wipe you clean, slowly, gently, not wanting to make it any worse for you. He praises you, nonetheless. So good f’me, baby. My perfect girl.

You fall asleep, slowly, gently, to the same words, your hand on his, his mouth on your cheek, kissing you all over. It’s the most peace you ever felt in a long time.

[hanasnx]

vertigo flowers.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: the header is from @/teefumz on tiktok and instagram. i couldn’t find anything about their rules on reposts used for personal reasons such as this which is why i really stress go check out the original artist on their platforms linked. WARNINGS: human!mordecai | fem reader | unestablished relationship | sexual content | premature ejaculation | praise | handjob.

"That's a cool shirt, by the way."

The compliment draws your gaze down to glance at the graphic on your top, cut-up and worn Fist Pump merch. "Thanks." you respond, voice raised over the natural din of the party. The guy who's been talking you up—said his name is MORDECAI—stands awkwardly tall alongside you, long ringed fingers messing with the rim of his red solo cup. There's an obligation to keep the conversation going, and you're not actually interested, but you ask anyway, "Who do you know here?"

His brows peak in question, and when you sigh with a roll of your eyes he's taken aback by how you don't walk away, instead you lean in. Tentatively, he mirrors you, afraid to make the wrong move as you incline towards his ear, and he lends it to you.

"Who do you know here?" you repeat, and your breath washes over the sheen of sweat on his neck, weighing down the black hair at his nape. It sends a shiver down his spine, and he would've audibly swallowed if not for the loud music. Your body heat radiates onto him, he can feel the sensation of your presence inches away from him, and you're hot—not just in the temperature sense. His jeans hurt.

"Uh," He scans the party until he comes across the unmistakable spotlight of his coworker, shirtless and lassoing said shirt above his head. "Muscle Man." he replies, glancing back at you before realizing how close you are still. His eyes widen and he straightens abruptly, smoothing a hand over his dyed blue hair, and a curl forms to your lips. To avert his eyes, he refocuses on the cocky display of his peer in the center of a circle of partygoers. Muscle Man knows how to entertain a crowd. "D'you know him?"

"Yeah, I'd say so." you reply in a way that pushes Mordecai out of his own mind for a second. Muscle Man also has game.

"Why'd you say it like that? Did you date him or something?" he jokes, scoffing at first. As if Rigby were right next to him, he's expecting some form of banter, momentarily slipping his mind he's in the company of a pretty girl. His lips part, snapping his neck in your direction, anticipating your twisted expression of confusion. Instead, it's the first time your countenance melts into an easy smile, hitting him softly on the arm.

"Shut up, I did not." you tell him, and relief washes over him at his stroke of good luck.

His disbelief at that good luck only grows when later on you lead him to some dark corner of the party by his skinny black tie. Somehow, he'd stumbled his way onto charming you, and he thanks whatever god is smiling down at him for sending him a hot girl that's not afraid to make a move.

"I like your voice." you tell him through heated kisses, using the collar of his white button-up to tug him to you. "Keep talking to me." the command in your sweet voice makes his eyes flutter as he draws his snake bites through his teeth, letting you slot yourself between his neck and shoulder to leave a trail of open-mouthed kisses down.

"What should I say?" he asks, clutching onto your waist to ground himself as your teeth scrape against his pulse point.

"Anything you want." you goad, your nose grazing his sensitive skin. You suck on him, tonguing the reddening spot in your mouth as he goes limp under your touch, head lulling back.

The panic in his chest to get this right urges him to think of something, but his blank mind betrays him. Kneading your flesh in his hands, he presses you to his crotch incidentally, and a deep moan reverberates from low in his throat at the contact. You hum against him, kissing on the tender area you created by your ministrations and he sucks in a breath. "You're hot. You're so hot, I can't believe you're talking to me." he rambles, and he feels you chuckle on him squished this close together. He uses the wall behind you, easing you against it as his hand treads to your hip, dragging your skirt down an inch. The exposed skin against the heel of his palm sets it on fire, and he hopes you can't feel him sweat. Between the heat of this party and bodies melting together, he's still embarrassed. He occupies that nervous energy doing as he's told. "You're way out of my league, no one's gonna believe me when I tell 'em what I'm doing right now."

His pathetic babblings make you grin, and you overlay your hands on his, directing them for him. The strings of your thong lay high over your hipbones, cresting underneath your Fist Pump top. So you show him, curling those long fingers under the strings and his breath hitches in his throat. Standing on your toes, you roll your abdomen to grind on him, demonstrating what you want. Loud guitars grate your ears as you move against him, and his fist forms around the waistline of your panties as if to ground himself again. He's too excited, hard in his pants which you can feel through your clothes, and it encourages you.

A thump sounds next to you, and you glance up at the source. His forehead is stamped against the space next to your head, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration as he humps you. Lips near your ear keep talking to you, "Kinda wanna fuck you right now." A thrill shoots through you, but you let him run his mouth. "I don't care it's a party, I don't care if someone sees. Couldn't care less about finding a bathroom, I wanna fuck you right now."

You bite down onto your lower lip, craning your neck to keep yourself afloat above his shoulder. He's so much taller than you, but you're able to reach down, wedging between your impossibly close bodies to fiddle with his jeans. He retracts his pelvis, letting you do it, and when you palm him another one of your favorite noises pours right out of him. Hyper-sensitive and completely pliant, he lets you feel him up, massaging him through his plaid boxers. "Oh, my God." he exhales, raising his arm to bang his fist against the wall. You jump from the noise, and your eyes follow the lean muscle of his bicep and the corded veins and tendons of his forearm.

Unconsciously, you squeeze, and he whimpers, rutting into your hand as you cup him. Fucking himself using your hand as he speaks nothing but incoherent grateful praises, mixed with desperate "Just like that"s. He's swollen as he can be, and he doesn't realize it before he's pushed himself over the edge, full body contractions pass through him as his dick twitches in your grip, painting the inside of his boxers with his cum. A string of curses leave his lips, humiliated that he'd do such a thing, but you give him your number for another chance.