#backbreaking work though

[parastish]

I just changed my winter tires today which really shows how little I trust Canadian weather.

#smidgereen #backbreaking work though #canadian life

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Seams

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part II: Threads }

Rating: M

Summary: Joel has a problem. Having settled into some semblance of a 'normal' life in Jackson that no longer involves running for his life and living off scraps, his clothes are getting a little… tight. Self-conscious, he deals with it the way he does most things - he ignores it.

That is until one day, the zipper on his jeans finally gives up after one too many desperate tugs, leaving him stuck. With neither Tommy nor Ellie anywhere to be found to get him out of the tight spot, Joel begrudgingly heads to the clothing store he’s seen in town for help - and a new pair of jeans.

There, he meets you.

Warnings: Spicy thoughts, sexual tension, sexual innuendos, body insecurity, some language, Joel being unkind to himself, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!Joel, no use of Y/N

Word count: 6k

Notes: I haven't written anything this fast for a hot minute. It's both exciting and terrifying, especially as Joel is so new to the fandom. So this is a one-shot as it stands, but I'll be lying if I say I haven't thought about where this story can go. Please be gentle with me, Joel is easily the most intimidating Pedro boy I've written for so far. I hope this doesn't disappoint 🥺

‘TommmMMMMMYYYY!’

His voice echoes in the empty street, gruff with irritation. He can feel eyes on him - he always does, wherever he goes in this damn place - covert stares from behind curtains, peeking out of windows from the neighbouring houses.

The polished wood thumps hollowly under his fist. Head bowed in surrender, his forehead makes contact with the surface of the door with a dull thud.

‘Fuck,’ he mutters under his breath.

Trudging back to the house that’s been allocated to him - he still struggles to think of it as his - he slams the door shut behind him so hard that the sound rings in his ears. Well, more in his left than his right.

Tossing the keys onto a chest of drawers in the hallway, he yells in a last-ditch attempt, ‘Ellieeee!’

The house is silent.

The one time he needs either of them, neither can be found anywhere. Even Maria has made herself scarce - not that he’d ask her for help for this.

This being these stupid fucking jeans. 

His trusty jeans that he’s worn for years, other than on laundry days, which were few and far in between. They’ve literally seen him through thick and thin - the knees are so worn he can almost see the web of white thread beneath the denim.

Tess had gotten him these jeans. Stole them, if he remembers correctly. Once upon a time, he needed a belt to hold them up, or they’d hang down to his ass crack. By the time Ellie came into the picture, they fit well enough to render the belt redundant. He could still easily fit things into his pockets though, like a map or a switchblade.

But now - 

Now he’s stuck, and he can’t get them off.

If he’s being honest with himself, the jeans haven’t fit for months. The jobs in Jackson don’t come anywhere close to the backbreaking work in the QZ or being on the road with Ellie. The food is plentiful even during the harsh winter, and as much as he looks down his ideological nose at it, Maria deserves credit for the thriving commune.

He had a late start this morning. Ellie had already vacated the house by the time he came to. He was on autopilot, distracted by his thoughts about the porch steps that have rotted and need to be replaced. 

He was making plans in his head to nip down to the workshop to get the wooden planks when he started getting dressed. Stepping into the legs of the jeans, he pulled them up, hopping to stretch them over his thighs. Out of habit, he sucked in his belly to button them up, the waistband seemingly even tighter than usual. 

He relegated that to the back of his mind, the same way he’s ignored the fact that the jeans have been uncomfortably tight for months - to the point of hindering his movement when he lays bricks, or cuts off his breathing when he sits down. But he’s gotten used to it, like he does everything else. He’s Joel Miller with the stiff upper lip, after all.

The zipper was next. As usual, he met resistance about halfway up. Baring his teeth, he gripped the tongue of the zipper and yanked upwards. 

Except this time, it didn’t budge. Grumbling, he pulled harder, feeling the burn in his biceps -

It happened so quickly that he wasn’t even aware until he was wheeling backwards from the force, his arm flying up in an arc - and a metallic clink behind him registered faintly in his good ear. 

Disoriented, he glanced down at the zipper. The slider had come clean off.

‘Fuck,’ he swore and turned to the full-length mirror on the wall to inspect the damage. Running an experimental finger along the seam, it was clear that the zipper had somehow snagged on the denim. It was stuck. Dead stuck.

Turning the house inside out, he couldn’t find a single pair of scissors, and there isn’t enough space to fit a knife in without slicing himself open, at which point he left on his ultimately fruitless search for reinforcement.

Joel scrubs a tired hand down his face. He’s never been a vain guy - Tommy is that sibling. But he’s never needed to stress about his looks either, with contracting keeping him in shape before the outbreak, and the fight for survival after - until now.

Grabbing his jacket, he shrugs it on, hyper-conscious of whether it’s a tighter squeeze than usual (fortunately not) - and heads into town.

Main Street Outfitters, the only clothing store in Jackson, sits in the middle of the high street, sandwiched between the pub on one side and the welder’s on the other. For the most part, residents come in to trade in old clothes for new ones, but there’s also a nicer selection for the occasional party that one can barter for.

You’re in the workshop at the back, the afternoon sun filling the room through the skylight. 

With your skill in thread and needle, you were the obvious candidate for the job when you arrived in Jackson. Over the years, it has become your sanctuary. The walls are lined with wooden shelves, where neat - though mismatched - boxes of buttons, trimmings, thread and trinkets slot perfectly into place.

You spend the days checking over incoming clothes after they come back from the laundry, making sure they are in reasonable condition and mending those that are not. The shop also charges for adjustments and repairs, and the tasks easily fill your working hours.

It’s a Tuesday, and it’s usually quiet this time of the afternoon. If you’re lucky, you can be undisturbed until you clock off at five - which is why you’re surprised when you hear the tinkle of the doorbell.

The footfall is heavy, it sounds like a strong work boot. You hold your breath and your fingers hover mid-air as the door shuts with a slam. You hear the customer clear his throat - definitely a man - as you wait in vain for the front of house to greet him.

But of course Lucy has sneaked out again. She’s a sweet girl, but manning the counter has always been too dull for her.

‘Hello?’

The voice is deep and gravelly, and despite your reluctance, it doesn’t sit well with your work ethic to keep a customer waiting. Sticking the needle into a pin cushion, you noiselessly rise from your seat and make your way to the front of the shop.

Your first glimpse of him is his back. Standing in front of a rack of jeans, the grays in his hair catch the light streaming through the shop front windows. You study him for a minute, curious eyes running over the width of broad shoulders under a beat-up, khaki jacket. Lower, his jeans are… well-worn, to put it kindly. And from sight, a sitting a bit tight on his hips -

You must have shifted your feet without you noticing. At the minutest creak of wood, the man whips around, one hand reaching behind him in search of the butt of a loaded gun or the hilt of a knife. It’s your good fortune that you see neither on him. The intensity of his gaze is just as effective as a blade on your neck to pin you to your spot.

There’s no question that he’s a newcomer. You’ve seen the same kind of intensity in everyone who’s braved what’s out there to get here.

But even if that didn’t give him away, you already know who he is. He’s Tommy’s brother. Joel, if you remember correctly. Maria approached you for some clothes a few months back when he arrived with his kid for the second time. They’ve been the talk of town since - not that you listen. In fact, you try not to, but you can’t help it if someone talks loudly enough at the next table in the canteen to interrupt your lunchtime reading.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles as the tension in his body recedes. ‘You’re very quiet.’

You duck your head. ‘Sorry.’

‘You work here?’

Wringing your fingers nervously, you nod and take two timid steps towards him, hoping he doesn’t hear the tremour in your voice. ‘How can I help?’

You’ve heard things about Joel Miller. The words most frequently whispered as he ambles by in town include ruthless, cold-blooded and steer clear.

You can’t exactly reconcile the man in front of you with those particular words right now.

There’s nothing that speaks to ruthlessness in the way he averts his eyes and shuffles his feet, the blunt tip of his shoes catching the wooden floor. You also find it hard to believe that a truly cold-blooded person would willingly cross the country and all its horrors in search of his brother, or take a teenager under his wing.

You might not think much of yourself, but you know that your judgement of character has kept you alive so far. And your instinct isn’t telling you to steer clear of this man - quite the opposite, in fact.

But that’s neither here nor there.

He rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortable with your scrutiny. ‘Just lookin’ for some new jeans.’

‘Alright,’ you reply, taking the remaining five steps to the other end of the jeans rack, a safe distance away from him. ‘What’s your size?’

To your surprise, he huffs a sardonic laugh. ‘At least one up from whatever I have on right now.’

Sucking in a breath, you gesture vaguely at him. ‘Um, do you mind if I take a look at uh - you? So I can guess what size will fit you?’

You’re used to being the most awkward person in the room wherever you go, but this man is  giving you a pretty good run for your money right now. While you divert your gaze as he unbuttons the front of his jacket, he fixes his somewhere over your shoulder to the right, grinding his teeth, as if he wishes he was anywhere but here.

Dragging your eyes back to him, you take stock of your customer as he sweeps the lapels of the jacket to the side. Underneath, the green flannel cuts off at the top of the jeans, and you see the soft pouch of his abdomen beneath the fabric. While the shirt is well-fitted, the jeans are obviously too small. The waistband bites into his sides, you can see the subtle overhang of his love handles. Even by the way he’s standing you can tell he’s uncomfortable, packed in way too tight in the denim.

And then… you really shouldn’t, but you stare at the front of the jeans. Now, you know for a fact that the fit will be just as snug there even if he goes a size up…

‘Sorry, not much to look at,’ he grunts, breaking the silence.

Taken aback by the self-derision in his voice, the words leave your mouth before they register, sharper than you mean them to be. ‘Don’t say that.’

He blinks at you. ‘What?’

You gape at him. Does he really not see? His tall, solid frame? The strong columns of his thighs? Is this man blind on top of being frustratingly attractive -?

But of course you can never say that. Instead, you pull out three different pairs of jeans in quick succession and all but throw them at him, heat prickling the tips of your ears as the disbelief that you spoke to a customer like that sinks in.

‘The dressing room is there,’ you squeak, pointing at the far corner. ‘I’ll be at the back if you need any help -’

You turn on your heels, in a hurry to get back to your workshop, but you only get halfway through the spin. It takes you three seconds to realise why - his calloused palm is on your wrist, holding you in place.

‘Actually, I do need help - I broke the zipper, and I’m stuck in these damn jeans.’

You ignore the clench of your stomach at the way he spits out the word damn. You’re not big on swearing, but the cuss word sounds good rolling off his tongue in his Southern twang.

To your horror, a giggle bubbles up your throat before you can slap a palm over your mouth.

‘I’m so, so sorry,’ you apologise profusely, heat flooding your cheeks. 

You stare in consternation when those broad shoulders of his quake, a half-smile on his lips as they part in a scratchy chuckle. ‘Trust me, I’m glad I found you first. My brother or my kid would have given me a much harder time. Probably would’ve pissed their pants laughin’.’

Despite yourself, you smile back with a weak attempt at a joke. ‘I mean, I’ll try not to -’

He smirks, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘That’s all I can ask for.’

You lead the way to the back of the shop and Joel follows three polite steps behind, pausing by the doorway. Running practised eyes over the space, the contractor in him appreciates the well-built skylight and the sturdy furniture in the room, pieces that were clearly built to last. He places the jeans you picked out for him on the big work table, made of strong timber and aged with time. 

He picked up a change in your demeanour the moment you crossed the threshold into the workshop. There’s a quiet confidence in your measured steps, the way you move speaking volumes - this is clearly your place, and you’re so much more comfortable in your skin here.

You point at the spot marked by a round, cosy rug directly beneath the skylight. ‘Could you stand there for me?’

Doing as he’s told, he startles when you march straight up to him, sliding your palms under the shoulders of his jacket to push it off. Your front brushes his chest briefly when you reach around to catch it, but not brief enough for him to ignore the soft swell of your breasts pressed up against him.

Joel is all too aware of his pulse going from zero to a hundred at the fleeting touch, the collar of his shirt suddenly a bit too tight. For fuck’s sake, Miller. It’s been an embarrassingly long time since his head has gone anywhere near there, but of course it has to happen at the most inconvenient moment.

At least you don’t seem to notice, draping his jacket over the back of a chair before retrieving a pair of tailor’s scissors from one meticulously organised drawer.

Just when he thinks he’s gotten a handle on himself, you hit him with a non-sequitur. ‘Are you wearing underwear?’

Only when Joel splutters wordlessly does the full weight of the question seem to hit you. You stutter, ‘Oh god, I didn’t - I mean - I only asked because if push comes to shove, and I have to cut through the jeans, I don’t want to ruin any underwear you’re wearing -’

You trail off, and it’s his turn to stammer, scratching an invisible itch on his elbow as he struggles to remember what he usually does with his hands.

‘No, no, I get it. I’m ahem -,’ he pauses with a cough. ‘I’m not actually wearin’ any underwear right now. Not out of habit, it’s just that I’ve been barely squeezin’ into the stupid jeans even without it.’

His honest answer seems to put you at ease, and you purse your lips. ‘Sounds uncomfortable.’

He shrugs. ‘Have been for months.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He arches an eyebrow. ‘What for?’

‘That you’ve been uncomfortable. That’s one thing clothes shouldn’t be.’

Not quite knowing how to answer you, he watches you grab a velvet cushioned footstool from under the work table and place it squarely at his feet. Then, without further preamble, you sink onto your knees in front of him, knocking the air clean out of his lungs.

As he stares down at the crown of your head, your nose at the level of his waistband, he muses that he hasn’t seen this view for a long time, a very long time. His fingers twitch at his sides, and he closes his eyes, fighting the base instinct to cup the back of your head in his palm and to pull you close -

He breathes out hard through his nostrils and clenches his jaw, casting his gaze heavenwards through the skylight as he actually prays for the first time in years.

Don’t you fucking dare get hard, Miller.

You chew on the inside of your mouth as you consider what’s before you. It’s tricky. The jeans are unbuttoned and zipped up most of the way, but the denim has been caught tight in the metallic teeth, and the handle of the zipper yanked clean off.

Cocking your head to one side, you think out loud. ‘I think we should at least try and unsnag the zipper before cutting. But we’re going to need some lubrication, and we’ll need to give it a really good, firm tug -’

The man chokes on nothing above you, and you frown up at him in a question.

Clearing his throat loudly, he asks through gritted teeth, ‘Do we have to?’

‘I mean, I can just cut open the jeans, but then you’ll definitely have to trade in something extra to cover the costs of the repairs -’

He interrupts, ‘That. Let’s do that.’

‘Alright, your call,’ you say with a nod. ‘Can you hold up your shirt?’

You try not to gawk when he draws up the tails of his flannel, revealing his soft stomach underneath. The mid-rise jeans cut off beneath his belly button, and you eye the trail that sneaks full and dark under the waistband. He’s obviously sucking his tummy in, and you catch yourself wishing he doesn’t feel like he has to.

You bite your bottom lip. ‘Do you think you can fit a couple of fingers into the waistband so I can slide the scissors in? They’re sharp, I don’t want to cut you.’

You watch as he tries, first his index finger, then his middle, but he can barely squeeze in beyond the nail, which turns completely colourless from the pressure. He sighs in surrender. ‘Mfraid you’ll have to, sweetheart.’

You have to close your eyes for a moment, your head swimming. You’re not sure whether it’s from the sweetheart, or the fact that he wants you to stick your hand down the front of his pants. 

Well, not exactly that he wants you to. And not your hand. But still.

You squeak. ‘Do I have to?’

He pins you a sarcastic arch of his eyebrows. ‘Well, if you’re sure that you won’t cut my dick off -’

Your face heats up at his blunt words, falling back onto your haunches. ‘Great, now you’ve got me worried -’

Palms up in apology, he shrugs. ‘Sorry -’

‘No, no, you’re right. I don’t want to accidentally castrate you,’ you sigh. ‘Are you - um - well adjusted in there?’

‘I’d go down the right side of the zipper,’ he answers diplomatically.

Taking a deep breath, you ask, ‘Ready?’

‘Whenever you are, sweetheart.’

The first contact is the brush of your knuckles against his stomach, the skin warm and soft on the back of your fingers. You don’t dare look up, but you can feel his eyes on you as you burrow your index finger under the waistband. Though it’s a squeeze, you manage to wriggle in nail side down, creating a small gap - still not quite enough to get the scissors in without nicking him.

Talking more to yourself, you mumble, ‘Better safe than sorry. Let me just get one more finger in -’

Joel chokes so hard that you almost jump back in fright, frowning at him as he catches his breath. ‘Are you okay? Do you need some water?’

His voice tight, he shakes his head. ‘No, I’m fine.’

You wait a beat to make sure he doesn’t go into another coughing fit. When the coast is clear, you gesture at his jeans. ‘Can I just -’ 

‘Get one more finger in?’ he finishes your sentence in his raspy baritone. 

You finally hear it when he says it like that. And oh god, your ears burn as you stare up at him, lips parted, torn between outrage and a very disorienting arousal. ‘You - you -’

A wicked smirk tugs unexpectedly at the corner of his mouth. ‘I already tried, sweetheart. My fingers are too big to fit inside.’

The touch of playful condescension in his tone has your jaw going slack, and your brain practically short-circuits at the thoughts of where else they are too big to fit inside of -

So as it turns out, you’re brave, or just downright stupid, when you’re turned on. Next thing you know, you hear yourself telling him off. ‘I could just leave you in those jeans you know.’

Joel smiles wider, and retorts, ‘I don’t think you would.’

‘Just because I’m shy doesn’t mean I don’t have a mean streak,’ you shoot back.

He seems pleased to have lured you out of your shell, grinning down at you. ‘Believe me, I’m shakin’ in my boots, sweetheart.’

It’s really unfair that he looks this good from where you are on your knees. His eyes are hooded, curls flecked with grays sweeping his forehead. Even though the apocalypse has left its marks on him in wrinkles, frown lines, and smudged bags under his eyes, it has clearly not taken away from that proud nose or plush lips -

Steadying yourself with a deep inhale, you shake yourself out of it. With an in, it’s slightly easier to push in your middle finger into the waistband to widen the gap. Happy with the quarter inch of space, you hold up the scissors. ‘I’m ready to cut if you are.’

He nods his acquiesce. ‘Do your worst.’

Opening up the scissors and carefully fitting the blade beneath the denim, you carefully begin snipping away. They are sharp, but the fabric is tough and you’re conscious of the very tight fit, so you take it slow.

You pause when you’re a couple of inches in, when Joel lets out a groan of relief. Absent-mindedly, you run a soothing thumb over the angry, red indents the waistband dug into the soft pouch of his tummy, sending a shudder through him. 

‘Sorry,’ you squeak, snatching back your hand as if he burns you. 

Too preoccupied with the relief of being able to breathe, Joel shakes his head. ‘Don’t be. Just keep going. Please.’ 

Why is that one word - six letters - making your breath hitch?

Gripping the top of the now open fly and pinning it against his body so you don’t accidentally see anything you’re not meant to see - whether you want to deliberately is a completely different matter - you hunker down and keep cutting along the zipper. 

Each snip gets easier as the jeans release their death grip on him. The right side of the fly falls away as you cut, the denim peeling back slowly to expose the skin underneath. Your eyes drift to the curve of the pubic bone that’s now completely in view, and it’s taking everything you have to not lean over and run the broad of your tongue along it -

How long has it been since you’ve been with a man? When was the last time you had someone stand before you, pants unzipped and hanging open -

With tremendous fortitude, you tear your eyes away to check on him, ‘All good?’

The grunt of respite that he lets out is almost guttural, going straight between your legs. ‘Feels so fuckin’ good to breathe.’

‘Before I keep going, do you want to - uh - rearrange yourself?’

You expect him to turn around, or at least give you a second to turn around to give him some privacy, but he’s obviously been too deprived of oxygen to think straight. One big palm snakes down his front, right in your face, and he cups himself through the denim.

You stop breathing, eyes wide as he adjusts himself. 

Holy fuck.

When he’s done, he gives you a thumbs up. ‘All good.’

This is it. You’re not making it out of this alive.

You can barely get the words out, your throat suddenly drier than sandpaper. ‘Can you, um, hold up the other side of the fly?’

When he does, you stare at his hand next to yours. How is it so big? The veins are prominent on the back, leading down to thick fingers, the nails neatly trimmed and clean - but you bet there’s residue gunpowder underneath.

There’s still a slither of skin peeking through the V of the fly as the scissors slice through the denim, following his happy trail. The lower you go, the thicker and darker the curls, and goddamnit - what is wrong with you - all you can think about is burying your nose right in there, nudging through the hair, lower and lower and lower still -

A sharp pain on your left finger makes you yelp, the scissors falling from your other hand to the floor with a loud clang. A small bead of blood wells up on the tip where the sharp blade nicked it, and in a panic, you let go of his jeans.

‘Shit,’ Joel curses and covers himself up quickly, his brow furrowed in concern. ‘You okay?’

You nod in embarrassment while you get on your feet. ‘I - my hand just slipped. It’s nothing, the smallest cut, I’m fine -’

Well, to be fair, you were fine - until he grabs your left wrist, brings your hand up to his face and sucks your bleeding fingertip into his mouth. 

As if it’s the logical thing to do.

Your knees buckle, and you collapse into his front, but he doesn’t even budge, as if you weigh nothing. Taking a deep breath - wood smoke, simple soap and man fill your lungs. Peering up at him through your lashes, you spot the silver flanking the hinge of his jaw, leading down to a peculiar bare patch on the left side of his beard.

He watches you back as he releases your finger with a wet pop. Tracing his bottom lip with his tongue, he pronounces, ‘Just a small cut. You’ll live.’

Will you though? Because it feels like you’re on the verge of expiring from breathlessness. 

He glances down at his front, which he’s still holding up. ‘I guess I can get out of these now.’

It takes you three seconds to catch up before you stumble backwards. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry.’

‘Thank you for freeing me,’ he says with a lopsided smile.

You duck your head, unable to meet his gaze all of a sudden - hypocrite, you had no problem perving on him a minute ago - and nod at the jeans on the table. ‘Why don’t you try those on?’

He clears his throat. ‘I, uh, should probably put on some underwear first.’

You barely manage to hold back from smacking yourself on the forehead. ‘Of course. We do have some in stock. Boxers or briefs?’

He looks amused. ‘What do you think, sweetheart?’

You hesitate, but you force yourself to be brave and venture a guess. ‘Boxers.’

He winks, and you grin back.

Joel hovers uncertainly in front of the mirror in the fitting room, having exhausted all the angles he can see twice, and wonders if he’s been dithering for too long. He’s not even sure what he’s looking at anymore, so he bites the bullet and draws back the curtain.

‘How do they feel?’ you ask.

He was counting on some hint from you, but you give nothing away. So he shrugs, hands on hips. ‘I honestly can’t tell you.’

‘May I?’

At his nod, you step into his space, and he watches as you hook your fingers into the belt loops on either side of the jeans and pull them up, as if gauging the size. He holds his breath as your hair grazes the front of his chest.

‘They’re a bit loose, to be honest,’ you tell him.

He scoffs self-decrepatingly. ‘Probably not for long at the rate I’m going.’

You take a step back and level him with a glare. ‘Stop it.’

He frowns, hackles rising. ‘What?’

‘Stop putting yourself down.’

That he didn’t expect. He protests, ‘I’m not putting myself down -’

‘Yes, yes, you are,’ you interrupt him with a boldness that has his eyebrows reaching for his hairline. With fire in your eyes, you go toe to toe with him, poking him in the chest with a firm finger. ‘You’re alive, you’re safe here, and you’re fit as hell. If you’re going to make fun of yourself for putting on a bit of healthy weight, you can go ahead and get out of my shop.’

Warmth blooms in his chest as Joel stares down at you, breathing heavily after your little speech but showing no intention of backing down. You don’t know him, but for some reason, you’re fighting his corner.

That shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

Pursing his lips, he towers over you as he teases, ‘You think I’m fit as hell, sweetheart?’

With a roll of your eyes, you walk backwards to the shelves, rummaging through the sizes before returning with a pair of dark wash jeans. You quip, ‘Don’t fish for compliments, it’s unbecoming.’

You snap the curtain shut in his face with a flick of your wrist before he can answer, and he chuckles to himself as pulls on the jeans you picked out for him.

When he pushes open the curtain again, Joel doesn’t miss the way you pause as you stare.

The waistband sits on his hips without cutting into his stomach, and he’s pleased that he can comfortably slide his hands into the pockets. The denim wraps firmly, but not tightly, against his backside, holding his thighs comfortably and falling straight down to the ankles. The wash is dark and flattering, smarter than his old ones.

When the silence has stretched on long enough, Joel shifts on his feet and asks, ‘Well?’

You turn the question back at him. ‘What do you think?’

He shrugs. ‘They’re alright, I guess.’

With a tilt of your head, you prompt, ‘You can say it, you know.’

‘Say what?’

‘You can say that you look good.’

Joel huffs, shaking his head and catching his reflection in the mirror as he does. At your look of insistence, he reluctantly parrots back, ‘Alright. I look good. Happy, sweetheart?’

Then you smile, really smile, and he feels himself soften - his eyes, his face, his mouth, his fucking old, rickety knees -

Suddenly, the bell over the door rings and a woman bustles in. ‘I’m so sorry, Pin! I know I’ve been gone a long time, but I got your favourite tea to make it up to you -’

She stops abruptly when she spots him. ‘Hey! You’re Joel Miller, aren’t you?’

Before he can answer, she crosses the shop in a bundle of energy, sticking her hand out. ‘I’m Lucy, I’m a friend of Tommy and Maria’s. It’s so nice to finally meet you.’

He lets her shake his hand, then she continues without skipping a beat. ‘How are you settling in? You got that house in the street near the stables right? It’s great, it’s quiet but not too far from everything -’

Since she doesn’t seem interested in his participation in this conversation, he doesn’t. But he notices, with regret, the way you start to retreat, the shyness making a return in the shadow of her clearly more outgoing friend - like a bad habit.

He’s suddenly aware of a lull, and that Lucy is looking at him expectantly, like she’s just asked a question that he didn’t hear.

‘Yeah sure,’ he replies dismissively, stopping you with a hand on your wrist just as you try to slink away unnoticed. ‘Hey, wait a second -’

To Lucy’s credit, she picks up on the snub and the energy between the two of you at the same time. Instead of taking offence, she gives you a knowing look and points towards the back diplomatically. ‘You know what Pin, I just bumped into Maria and she asked me something about our fabric inventory, so I better go check it out. I’ll see you around, Joel.’

With a wink in your direction, Lucy makes herself scarce, leaving the tea on the counter for you.

Joel’s quiet for a beat when you’re left alone again. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to run off your friend, but I just wanted to uh - thank you. For all this.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘Like she said, I’m Joel. Probably should’ve introduced myself before I asked you to cut me out of my jeans.’

You quip, ‘There’s always next time.’

He chuckles, and asks, ‘Did your friend just call you - Pin?’

‘It’s just a silly nickname,’ you explain. ‘As in pins and needles, for obvious reasons.’

Then you give him your real name and your hand, his palm warm and calloused against yours as he shakes it firmly. When he lets you go, you notice the watch on his wrist, the veins of broken glass on the face catching the light. 

Nodding at it, you ask, ‘Do you need that fixed? There’s a repair guy down the road who can fix anything.’

Confused for a moment about what you’re referring to, Joel pauses before realisation dawns on him. His answer is suddenly polite, a stark contrast to the light-hearted conversation just now. ‘No, I - I like it this way. But thanks.’

You don’t miss the emotional weight behind his words, and the air thickens with unspoken meaning, but you know better than to ask. 

‘I understand,’ you say simply.

Everyone has something like the watch is to him. God knows you do. A moment of quiet understanding passes between you, one that needs no words.

Breaking the silence, he says, ‘So, you mentioned I’ll need to trade in something else for these jeans -’

You dismiss that notion with a wave of your hand. ‘Oh no, it’s ok. I got it.’

‘You don’t have to -’

You shut him down. ‘It’s not a big deal, it will take me two minutes to replace the zipper.’

He hesitates. ‘And the boxers -’

Passing him his jacket, you insist, ‘Seriously, Joel, don’t worry about it.’

His fingers brush yours when he takes it from you and shrugs it on. You try not to look too conspicuously when the bottom of his shirt draws up, flashing a bit of tummy, but it’s gone too quickly. With a nod, he concedes reluctantly, ‘You really shouldn’t, but thank you. I owe you one.’

You roll your eyes with no real exasperation as you walk him towards the exit. ‘I know you haven’t been here for long - that’s just how things work around these parts. We do things for each other, you don’t owe me anything.’ Pulling the door open, you give him one last grin. ‘Welcome to Jackson, Joel.’

‘Thanks, Pin,’ he says as he crosses the threshold. He pauses on the porch and looks around the high street slowly, as if he’s taking it in for the first time. He then turns to you with a parting wink that is charged with easy confidence. ‘I think I’ll like it here.’

You linger by the door, leaning against the frame as he jogs down the front steps with a swagger, watching in appreciation at the way his new jeans frame his backside. You smile when he slides his hands into his pockets as he walks away, the afternoon breeze ruffling his curls and the sun warming his broad shoulders.

You think you’ll like him here as well.

Notes: As I was writing this, I couldn't help thinking that it reminded me of Grays 🙈 What can I say? I want to give middle-aged men in need of self-love all the reassurance that they need. I hope you enjoyed Pin and Joel's meet-cute, I'm honestly so nervous about this fic I had to stop myself from compulsively over-editing.

Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated as always 🥰

P.S. Apparently, there is a Main Street Outfitter in the game, so I ran with it.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

#tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fic #joel miller imagine #joel miller oneshot

[fakeboy-breeder]

sir but like i’m a knight and you’re my squire. you want so desperately to be a knight, but you’re a girl. or at least your cunt says so, you’re blatantly convinced your a man in a woman’s body. so, you disguise yourself, chop your hair, and bind your chest down with fabric wraps. you’re able to pull off scrawny young boy well enough, despite being years older than any other squire, and you’re elated. you’ve found a way in. you’ll just keep your slowly growing tits and pretty pink cunt hidden until you’re the strongest knight in the realm so no one can stop you anymore.

but then you’re assigned to me. i’m known for being brutal and going through squires like mugs of ale, breaking boys quickly so they understand they’ll never be a true knight unless they work for it. i’m also known for fucking my way through every town we enter, leaving every girls pussy gaped, needy, and flooded with my cum. even the kings best mathematician couldn’t begin to predict how many bastards of mine are running around the country and i take pride in it. cunts are to be bred, are they not?

after a few weeks of backbreaking labor and constant jabs at your feminine face, your clear weakness, your insufficiency with a sword, i’d start to take a liking to you, though you’d never guess. my treatment stays exactly the same, but i privately think i’d like to keep you around for a while, as you’re pleasant company. one day, your chest wrap breaks. you’re in the middle of doffing my horses saddle and you feel a rip, the cloth falls, and your tits begin pressing at your tunic. you try desperately to angle yourself to hide them, but in the couple months you’ve been binding them down they’ve grown enough that it’s impossible. and i’ve seen.

in that moment i push you against the outer wall of the castle. my quickly hardening dick rubs against your plush ass while i force your face into the stone. i’d ask you how you possibly thought you’d become a knight with udders like those. i’d strip you if your ill-fitting squires’ clothes and inspect your pretty cunt. i’d almost start laughing. the pretty little squire i liked is truly a delusional whore.

i’d fuck you then and there. force my fat cock into your virgin cunt out in the open, where any knight, servant, squire, or nobleman could stumble across your defloration. i’d keep my armor on, let the metal bite into your ass and thighs. when i finished, i’d be to force it deep in your cunt, flood your womb so you can make me another bastard

if you were good and learned your lesson, maybe i’d convince my king to allow me to take you as a bride. if you didn’t, if you tried to tell me some nonsense about being a man, i’d ride you down to the nearest whorehouse myself and sell you for barely enough to fund my next night at the tavern

#ftm detrans kink #detrans kink #ftm misgendering #forced detrans #medieval kink

[gothhabiba]

What makes most "uninhabited wilderness narratives" more similar to like. The European settlement of the Americas than the Polynesian exploration of islands. Like I also get that vibe but I can't form a coherent ideological reason and you seem like maybe you could put it to words.

You’re getting it backwards if you think that the criticism of the “terra nullius” narrative consists of “it’s unethical to go to, poke around, or settle a place that was actually previously uninhabited by human beings.”

Rather, "terra nullius" is a set of concepts and frameworks created and disseminated by Europeans over the course of European settler-colonisation. It consists, roughly, of ideas about land (it is inactive, to-be-acted-upon, eternally stagnant if not acted upon; it must be 'worked' and this work is backbreaking, unpleasant, and a moral and religious duty; 'working' the land completely transforms it; the land is valuable and ownable insofar as it is worked and transformed; land can be bought, sold, and traded)—

—ideas about exploration (another way to act upon land, which is to-be-acted-upon, is by 'exploring' it; 'exploring' land, naming it, mapping it, viewing it from above, even painting landscapes of it. are activities that give you authority and ownership over the land; 'exploration' produces knowledge about land, which only Europeans can produce and disseminate)—

—and ideas about Indigenous peoples (they have not 'worked' the land or claimed ownership in a way we recognise; thus they have no control, authority, or ownership of the land; because of this they are the land, part of the flora, fauna, and landscape to be explored, mapped out [as in linguistics and anthropology], controlled, moved, worked [read: enslaved], and killed; and, crucially, in a final move, once they have been moved or killed, they were never here in the first place).

These ideas arose variously in European scientific, literary, religious, legal, and literary discourses; in sermons, in travel narratives, in paintings, in memoirs and folk stories written by settler-colonists and sailors and traders. They arose partly as a development of things that had already been happening in Europe in the transition to capitalism (enclosure and other forms of primitive accumulation that rendered once-public resources, including land, private property), and partly as a response to the fact that this land was not empty of human life.

Plainly, there were people in the Americas, in Oceania. In fact, they had altered the land in various ways. The scientific and anthropologic majority, at least in Europe from the 17th to the 19th centuries, even held that they were descended from the same stock as Europeans were (though there was debate on that score). Nevertheless, there were resources and money and land (among other things) to be gained through colonisation and genocide.

The idea that these lands, then, were terrae nullius, empty lands, arose as justification for said settling and genocide. There were never people here, and if there were, then they didn't really have the right to be here; they didn't claim the land in ways that Europeans or their descendents legally recognised (in other words, Europeans created property laws on purpose in such a way to deny Indigenous peoples property rights); perhaps they didn't work the land because they were inherently lazy, or promiscuous, or gluttonous, or savage, and that's how a legal discourse becomes a 'racial' one.

So the answer to your question is basically: because Europeans are the ones who wrote "uninhabited wilderness narratives." Because (the peoples who would become) Polynesians in 3000 BC did not invent a bunch of related popular, religious, scientific, legal, and literary discourses in order to deny or justify the fact that they were enslaving, driving off, or slaughtering millions of human beings, this just has nothing to do with them.

#terra nullius #colonialism #imperialism #colonization

[llamagoddessofficial]

What about the noble trio from the pride and prejudice au falling for a servant girl at one of the parties they attend. Among all the noble women in their fancy gowns, there is a hardworking lady in uniform making sure everyone is tended to and everything is going well

😳 Anon how did you know that this dynamic is my weakness

Sans: A servant/maid Mc would have a much more favourable view of Sans than an Mc who was of his class. He might even be her favourite out of the skeleton trio. Despite his frosty nature with people in his own social standing, he's very genial and kind with servants, going out of his way to call them all (even those not of his household) by name- that kindness has made him very popular with the local servant population, Mc included. When he sees her, he doesn't dismiss her, he invites her to talk with him... if he ever sees her in town, he stops to politely chat with her as if they're the same standing. She enjoys his company greatly. If she's working for someone else he regularly compliments her work ethic, politeness, tidiness, etc. She's realistic, but... her favourite daydream is the one where Sans gets down on one knee.

If she worked for him, she'd be directly promoted to position more akin to a personal assistant than a maid. She helps him manage his finances, oversee his household- he wants her close by, and he openly expresses to her that she's the only one he trusts to help him with the things important to him.

Red: Though Red definitely has a reputation that makes some want to avoid working for him, his servants also tend to have the most fun. Unlike other noblemen, his servants have a lot of time off, and he openly allows gambling and drinking. He hires people who have a hard time getting other jobs, like the elderly or socially outcast- his reputation is wild anyway, he can afford to hire whoever he wants. Nobody is surprised.

She has the best rapport with Red. He breaks down the walls she built up from a lifetime of fearing the retribution of the upper class, he can make her laugh until her sides ache. He actively encourages her to speak her mind with him; she'll yell at him for beating her at cards and rather than losing her livelihood, she gets raucous laughter from him. After years of silent servitude it feels so good to speak freely with someone.

... She wouldn't work for him, though, unless he was her only option. Does she like him? Yes, so much. But his track record of wooing servants and nobles alike makes her unwilling to risk it... especially when he's so clearly fond of her, and she can't honestly say she doesn't like him too.

Skull: Skull is beloved by his household. Staff only have one rule; don't go into his room when he's in there. He never throws big parties, so no need for massive preparations, he's quiet and gentle in temper around humans, his only regular guest is the ever-popular Red. His staff are immensely defensive of him, and won't hear a word against him despite his unusual reputation.

She'd probably end up working for Skull, one way or another. One look at her, and he'd throw an obscene amount of money at whoever was employing her, he can't bare the thought of her not being his. She arrives to his household expecting the backbreaking work that tends to come with being the maid of a higher class family, and yet finds herself... not really working at all? Her only 'jobs' are what come with being the only person allowed into Skull's room. He keeps giving her nice clothes, rather than a uniform. Why are all the other servants so nice to her? Why do they keep manufacturing reasons for her to be alone with Skull? Why do they all smile like they know a joke she's not in on?

#skull's staff ship it #how could u not #theyve never seen him so happy or so enamoured #red works in tandem with skull's staff to get him and mc together #while sans provides some semblance of normalcy #llamagines #p&p au

[aheathen-conceivably]

Part of Zelda loved the last few years of their lives. At its simplest, it reminded her of being in England again, of standing in the fields with her father and making every recipe from scratch with her mother. Life felt warmer here than it had in New Orleans, calmer and quieter and more akin to something she had envisioned for herself. 

Of course there was pain as well, backbreaking constant pain and endless drudgery. Sometimes it reminded her of how much she liked standing in a crowded cafe or club and feeling everyone’s energy come together in one tumultuous surge. Compared to that, it often felt like she had only known two extremes in her life, and she had swung between the two without ever really finding herself in the middle. 

Then there was the desperation, constantly turning and monitoring the soil, adding any and every shell or skin she could spare, and hauling countless buckets of water from the nearby stream. It was knowing that living or dying fell upon your back and the roof over everyone’s heads relied on your efforts. But in doing so it sometimes felt like a spirit overtook one, one that actually understood her purpose and called her Little Robin on even his darkest days.

Only recently the desperation had taken on a new tone, one independent of Gio’s debts or her child’s hunger. One that even her father wouldn’t have understood. It was her burden, and her burden alone, seen and shared by Antoine but really only felt by her. Because she could till this soil; she could monitor it and will the crops to grow as though through sheer willpower and knowledge alone. Only she couldn’t do the same for herself. 

Because at least this seemingly barren soil was growing something. There was life and hope in it, fully grown plants and crops on the edge of being harvested. She had poured her soul into it, and it had responded in turn. She needed them to grow, not only for the reasons everyone else did, but because she couldn’t seem to grow anything within herself.

She was walking the fields, picking away dead leaves and checking under each one for bugs when she saw it: a sapphire glittering amidst the greenery in the ever-present sunshine. She reached forward slowly, moving each leaf aside hesitantly as though half expecting to look down and see yet another dashed hope that had existed only for a moment.

But then she bent down into the soil and it was real: a perfectly grown ear of corn. Untouched by bugs or drought or heat. She had done it. It had grown. In an inaudible whisper she called out to Gio across the farmyard. Realizing that he was probably preoccupied still trying to dig out their well she called out again, and again, until her amazed voice finally rose to an audible volume.

He rounded the fence, his eyes filled with apprehension that another bud had been eaten in the night or the leaves inexplicably wilting. Instead he saw Zelda standing there, an ear of corn in her hand and a smile on her face. 

He immediately threw his shovel into the dirt and ran toward her, “We did it, Zelda! We really fucking did it!” For a moment he just held her in shared amazement, and Zelda could swear that he was going to cry. All of his emotions poured out onto her so that she could feel he had no way to contain his gratitude, until he picked her up and swung her amidst the tall verdant plants growing all around them, “Jesus Christ who am I kidding, you did it! This farm…it, I was nothing until you got here, until you made all this happen!”

Zelda let herself be swept off her feet, lost in his characteristically infectious joy. Because he didn’t know why she had worked so hard on these fields, or that she often walked the rows thinking of them in relation to herself. He only knew she had given him something, everything he seemed to dream of in that moment, and that together they had actually done it. They had made life grow from nothing.

Across the farmyard, Josephine watched them, and a small fire started in her heart. With a jolt she realized that this was what jealousy must feel like. She had never given a fuck about who Gio or any of her partners had danced or laughed or flirted with, so long as she knew and they didn’t use it against her when the time came. But it couldn’t be, not here, not now. Not her. 

This was Zelda. Her best friend, her sister. They worked and lived there together day in and day out, but then he set her on the ground and her laughter rang out through the farmyard, and Josephine realized that it was her. It was the joy she and Gio shared over a goddamn ear of corn. One single ear of corn. It was as infuriating as all of life was here, because it didn’t feel like living at all. It felt like a constant game of survival that transformed your life into a series of meaningless tasks without purpose or delineation rather than something that was actually yours to live.

Because life here wasn’t simpler for Josephine the way it was for Zelda. There was nothing nostalgic or calming about it. No sound of her father’s voice to guide her through the pain or personal drive tying her to the constant, backbreaking work. She tried, every goddamn day she tried, just like she promised Giorgio and herself that she would; but it felt like the land itself was draining her soul bit by bit.

Yet here was Zelda, who seemed like some sort of old world fertility goddess standing amongst the plants she had grown from soil that wouldn’t yield for anyone else. For years, she had done nothing but give and give as she worked alongside Giorgio to make his damn dream come true, all the while thoughts of running away continued to plague Josephine in the night. Zelda had poured her soul into the desolate land to make it grow. Josephine dreamed of setting it on fire. 

Jesus, she didn’t want to. She wanted to fall onto the orange sands of Strangerville and somehow sprout into the perfect farm wife too. That’s why she was jealous. She wanted to be that happy when a single goddamn ear of corn had grown, to share in the simple joy of the man she loved over something she couldn’t help but find infuriating. It seemed like he was happy because he had someone to share that joy with now, someone who could make his dreams come true and give him all of herself so totally. It made her think that maybe the problem was her; she had simply not given enough of herself to be happy. But she didn’t quite know how.

#1932 #sims 4 historical #ts4 decades challenge #ts4 historical #sims 4 decades challenge #the darlingtons #sims 4 legacy #ts4 legacy #sims 4 story #ts4 story #1930s #Zelda darlington #Josephine Duplanchier #Giorgio Mistretta

[kisskiss-slashslash]

Slashers when you say “I love you” for the first time

Jason Voorhees

He freezes up and disappears for a while. But don’t interpret that as rejection, please. He is just utterly overwhelmed by the idea that anyone not blood-related to him could ever actually *love* him.

You, of course, are left confused and maybe a little heartbroken by that reaction. Did you do phrase it wrong? Was it too soon? Does he just not feel the same?

He returns a little while later, once he had a moment to process it, and immediately sweeps you up into a backbreaking hug. Good luck getting anything done for the rest of the day, because he won’t let go. Are you hallucinating or is there water dripping from under his mask?

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent knows just enough about love and romance by watching people getting caught in Bo’s charming web, so he sees the signs in the way you are acting around him. Still, when you finally gather all of your courage and confess your feelings to him, he pauses, surprised by how open you are about it.

When you want to start listing all the things you love about him, he takes your hand to stop you, and you see the expressionless mask shift as the mouth underneath curls into a gentle smile.

“So does that mean you feel the same?”, you ask softly.

In lieu of an answer, he gets out a sketchbook that has obviously been recently used, and hands it to you.

You flip through it and find it almost entirely filled with sketches of you, each sketch coming with little notes meant to draw attention to all the little things he loves about you; and there is a lot, from the way your eyes light up when you smile, to the shape of each of your facial features, to decidedly more intimate details.

“Aw man, that makes my confession look kinda lackluster in comparison”, you quip sheepishly and hand the sketchbook back to him.

Freddy Krueger

Be prepared for him to turn it into a joke. “Of course you love me. Look at me. I’m amazing.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m serious!”

“Hi Serious, I’m Freddy.”

“Really? A dad joke?”

��So why are you coming out with this now of all times?”

You open your mouth and close it again a few times. “I don’t know? I just felt like it was about time one of us say something like that?”

“Eh, talk is cheap. The fact that we’re putting up with each other is already enough of a love confession, don’t you think? And that’s way better than all that corny stuff about eternal love or whatever.”

You chuckle, despite being still sort of frustrated at him blowing you off like that. “If you say so.”

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba drops his chainsaw as soon as the words leave your mouth. He looks at you, nervously licking his lips, then clumsily tries to pick the saw up again. The sudden confession has his hands so jittery that he is really struggling though, so you eventually crouch down and pick it up for him.

“Sorry for just saying that out of the blue.” You hand his weapon back to him. “I guess I just… want you to know.”

Now *you* are the one dropping the chainsaw, mostly because you find yourself a foot or so in the air, held up by the vice-like grip of Bubba, who is pressing you against his chest and happily blubbering what you generously interpret as a reciprocation of the confession into your shoulder. Sometimes you really wished you could understand Bubba as well as Drayton did. But then again.. a loving gesture like this doesn’t really need words.

Brahms Heelshire

Self-absorbed as he is, he naturally assumes that you love him, so he doesn’t act too surprised when you tell him as much. Instead, he pulls you into a hug and replies:“And I love you.”

However, the fact that he expected it doesn’t mean that he takes it for granted. In his mind, the love confession is what actually begins a relationship. That’s how it works in stories, after all, and stories were the only real window to the outside world he has had since he was eight. Meaning that now, he views you officially as his significant other, rather than just a caretaker he just so happened to kiss and have the occasional fling with. Which also means that he at least tries to do a bit more for you instead of only ever taking.

The first results of his attempts at being helpful are disastrous, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?

#slasher x reader #brahms heelsire x reader #bubba sawyer x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #jason voorhees x reader #freddy krueger x reader

[angel-of-the-moons]

hii!!! i love ur work!!! i was just wondering if u could do a part 2 of the hobie x reader where they have no strings attached when they were both reallyyyyy horny

(if u could, could they be like uhh either reader or Hobie somehow is close to getting a relationship [or is acc just going to answer someone asking one of them out and wants to be exclusive] and is talking to the other abt it and it could change their little f buddies relationship or something maybe angsty?? maybe fluff?? or maybe like yeah no congrats lets do this one last time until you break up)

thank u v much!!!

No Strings Attached Pt. 2

Hobie x Fem!Reader

(Hobie and Reader are obviously adults in this fic.)

TW/CW: NSFW, Smut, PiV sex, counter sex, condom usage, safe sex, wee bit of angst, feelings, a whole lotta feelings(?), marijuana/pot usage (bro nobody can convince me Hobie seriously doesn't smoke it), some alcohol, bad date

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: Spoiler alert: Strings got attached. A bit shorter than the first chapter, but I like it like this

🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸

You and Hobie had agreed to be "friends with benefits" on the account that the biggest rule was it wouldn't affect your friendship, that you wouldn't lose each other due to petty bullshit.

And it was a system that worked. Mostly.

Hobie couldn't deny the twinge of... of something inside him when he saw some loser bloke try to rizz you up with cheap pickup lines. He would crush it by downing a cheap shot of whatever liquor he had, and remind himself that you could do whatever--or whoever--you wanted.

In the end he never had to worry, though. Whenever you needed that "itch" scratched, you two would hook up. Most of the time in his flat, or yours, sometimes he'd park his van somewhere and you two would do it there.

One time you two were in the middle of something and some coppers started pounding on the van doors. You two were quick to make sure they knew they were interrupting something, and peel out before they asked too many questions.

Man, the look on their faces when you swung the door open while only dressed in your panties and one of Hobie's almost-too-tight tank tops was priceless...

You two were hooking up more and more often, the relief and euphoria of just having rounds of backbreaking sex was almost enough to distract you from everything that occurred during the day.

Almost.

Right now you were bent over your kitchen counter, Hobie's long, nimble hands gripping your hips as though his life depending upon it as he stuffed his cock into you at an earth-shattering pace.

"Gh--fuck." You groaned, wiping the drool from the corner of your mouth. "God--fucking--damn it." You bite out after each punishing thrust, stuffing you full in a way that only he has been able to manage this far.

"Ey? What's what?" Hobie chuckled breathlessly as his hips smack into your ass, sending the skin ripping as he fucked into you. "Got somethin' t' say, luv?"

The moment he angled his hips at just the right angle, your body went rigid, your gummy walls crushing down around him as you came around his cock, squeezing him tight as he kept pushing and pulling into your hot cunt.

You buried your face in your arms as they folded on the counter, whimpering as Hobie gritted his teeth and pounded into you at a less coordinated, frantic pace, instead focusing on his own release and need to cum, now.

God damn was Hobie a good lay. He was probably one of the better sexual partners you've ever had, always making sure you cum before he does, taking the time to learn what makes you tick; taking you apart with every swipe and stroke of his fingers and cock.

You wondered how in the fuck Hobie hadn't gotten a girlfriend. Had half the women in the city known how endowed and how well-versed he was in sex, he'd had every eligible bachelorette (and not) breaking down his door to have a chance for a romp in the sheets with him.

You felt Hobie slam up into you in a way that knocked air from your lungs in a choking gasp, eyes rolling back as you felt the condom swell with his cum as he fucked you through his high.

"Fuckin' shit." You sigh, laughing softly as you relax as the last few waves of his orgasm ebbed.

"Mmm... Now what were you sayin' earlier?" Hobie laughed, swatting your ass playfully.

"Ugh. Don't do that!" You laugh at him over your shoulder.

"Mmm, fine fine." He said, cock still sheathed inside you as he put his hands up dismissively. "Now what is it?"

"Oh, right. I have a date tonight."

🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸

You'd gotten all dolled up, your best dress, nice comfy heels, makeup... The works.

Your dress was a deem emerald green plunge, v-neck that revealed the right amount of cleavage; the hem of the dress ended just above your knees, a slit cut up to mid-thigh, revealing the sheer stockings you wore that hugged your thigh.

You had been asked out by a man who looked far too out of his element in the punk pub you both met in, but he seemed charming and relatively well-mannered. Better than half the drunk idiots who hit on you when you went out.

And being brought to a four-star restaurant? Yeah, you were an idiot to say no to that. You weren't shallow, but hey, you've never gone anywhere this fancy before.

And he seemed nice, you really hoped that maybe, just maybe, you could have a sincere relationship with him. Like, as in, keys to the flat, boyfriend material kind of relationship.

Yeah. You were wrong.

An hour into the date and you were tempted to slip an SOS to the waiter to distract him long enough for you to slip away from Garrett (your date).

He was arrogant, a snobbish prude who, upon inspecting your dress, crinkled his nose and said he expected someone as "refined" as you to dress more conservatively. He also said that women should not be involved with such "heavy" music such as punk, rock, or metal; which happened to be some of your favorite genres.

Garrett had also admitted that the last woman he was with wasn't forthright about her previous "dalliances" in bed. That she was "used goods" and couldn't "satisfy his needs" in a way that a woman lacking would be able to do.

Translation: he was so shit in bed he wanted a woman who had no experience to compare his miserable excuse of a forty-second orgasm, bean dick to.

A misogynistic prick who had a virgin fetish.

Yeahhhh... No.

You finally got sick of it, standing up and splashing your chocolate martini all down his expensive suit, the brown liquid staining the white of his button-up.

"Blood hell, are you insane--?!" Garret spat at you, standing up to glare at you.

"I'm fucking my best friend." You say, flipping him the bird after slapping a wad of notes on the table for the poor wait staff. "So you can take your weak ass dick and fetishes to some club where women can point and laugh at you, since you think women who have "given themselves" to men before you are disgusting."

Your heels clicked as you spoke over your shoulder, "And you can lose my number."

The whole restaurant went quiet, aghast and amazed, breaking out into excitable murmurs about the scene that unfolded.

The staff gossiped about it for days.

🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸

"Bloody hell!" Hobie laughed as he slapped his knee as you retold the story. "Wish I coulda seen that bloke's face!"

"Ugh, I was so close to skewering his eye with a champagne flute." You sigh, taking a drag of the joint in-between your lips, puffing the smoke out of your nose with practiced ease.

"Ah, if ya did that I'd have to bust you free from the goddamn cops." Hobie snorted derisively as you passed him the joint.

"My hero!" You say, clasping your hand under your chin and batting your eyelashes theatrically.

Hobie laughed, choking on the smoke as he puffed the joint. "You li'le shit! Don't make me laugh while I'm smoking!"

You giggle and kick your feet at him as his spindly hand swats at you.

Once your laughter dies down, you lay your legs across his lap, and you both fall into a comfortable silence, smoking and drinking as you watch the television.

His thumb caresses soothing circles into your ankles, your heels long discarded and tossed by his door.

Surprisingly, to his credit... Hobie didn't slide his hand up your thigh and under your dress like you anticipated he'd do. He kept his hands low, massaging you.

And you stayed like that, for almost two hours until he spoke up as the credits began to roll, your name tumbling out of his lips awkwardly.

"Yeah?" You say, stretching and arching your back as you reclined on the couch.

"Shoot me if this is crazy." Hobie said, rubbing the back of his neck, looking somewhere else in the flat.

You blinked at him, sitting up like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on you.

Was Hobie Brown nervous?

"I know you said when we started this you didn't want anything serious..."

"Hobie...."

He held his hands up to stop you so he could continue, "But hear me out. We get along great, we've got a shitton of great chemistry. You're funny as shit, and a badass..."

You lean forward, tucking your knees underneath you.

"You're fuckin' smart as hell, got no business bein' around me, but--"

"Hobie!" You snap, leaning into his face.

His eyes go wide and lock with yours, his thick, full lips opening and closing as he struggles to find the words to speak.

"Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?"

He awkwardly looked to the side, and you gripped his jaw with your hand, jerking his face to look at yours once more.

"Hobie. Again. Are you ask--"

"Yes."

You weren't sure what knocked you off more, the fact he interrupted you with such a matter-of-fact answer, or the fact you knew he was serious. And Hobie was rarely serious about much in his life.

But this?

You lean back, blinking at him, looking at your hands as you dropped them in your lap.

The seconds tick by at an agonizingly slow pace as you carefully make your decisions, pick your words like a farmer selects the best, ripest crop from the vine.

But at the same time... Maybe the decision had been made for the two of you all along?

A grin slowly creeps up your face and you look back at him. "Fuck it. Why not?"

What was it Miguel said? Canon events, and all that?

#🌙 answered #hobie brown x reader #hobie x reader #hobie brown x you #hobie brown #hobie spiderverse #atsv hobie

[archangeldyke-all]

blue collar butch Sevika coming home after a long shift to her housewife. whew 🥴😵‍💫

grrrrr... bark bark bark! sorry, i'm sorry.

men and minors dni

hhhhnggggg anon... fuck.

she's got a union job-- great pay, great benefits for both of you, a 401k, and up to 3 weeks of paid time off a year-- but it's constant backbreaking labor.

she loves it. she's a physical person, so working with her hands and body all day is something she's happy to do. especially since it means she can take care of you.

but just because she likes it doesn't mean she doesn't get tired.

she comes home every evening exhausted, sweaty and stinky.

and every night you're there, running to the door to scoop her up into a hug and kiss (despite the visible stink lines emanating off her body) to welcome her home.

you help her out of her heavy boots and drag her to the bathroom, where you've already set out her pajamas on the sink for her to change into after her shower. you help strip her down, giggling at the salacious little wink she gives you when she catches you staring, then send her to the shower so you can make dinner.

sevika used to be one of those people who uses like a 10 in 1 bottle of soap for her entire shower routine. face and body wash and shampoo and conditioner and moisturizer all in one little blue bottle.

after meeting you, though, she was bullied lovingly encouraged to try out different products until she found one she actually enjoys, not just things that 'get the job done.'

some nights, when she's particularly exhausted, you'll strip down and help her shower, pressing kisses into her skin as you scrub her down, then helping her dry off and apply various lotions and potions so her skin's baby soft and her hair smells like flowers. she loves it.

dressed in her warm jammies and relaxed and clean from her shower, she'll wander into the kitchen.

this might be her favorite part of the day--and she has lots of favorites, since meeting you (like in the mornings when she's awoken by your gentle kisses instead of her alarm, or when you send her off to work with her lunch pail and a kiss followed by a quick smack to her ass, or when you both finally crawl into bed together after a long day...) but she's pretty sure this-- watching you cook dinner as she leans against the door way, music softly playing throughout the house as you dance and stir and scrub-- this is her favorite.

you always catch her, and you always roll your eyes at what she assumes must be the cheesiest, sappiest look on her face before you stride over to her to kiss her.

you rarely eat at the table. sevika prefers to cuddle up on the couch with you, the both of you eating off of one big plate, alternating feeding each other bites.

she'll tell you about her day and you'll tell her about yours. sometimes she'll have a drink, sometimes she'll have a smoke, sometimes she'll turn on the tv, but she always keeps you tucked against her, an arm wrapped around your shoulders.

she tends to fall asleep on the couch, her head slumping on your shoulder. you have to nudge her awake and pull her to bed, helping her sleepily navigate the short walk when you're not pressing kisses against her sleepy face.

you tuck her into bed with a kiss before you go off to do your nighttime routine.

and no matter how deep she's sleeping, or how exhausted from the day she is, she always wakes up when you crawl into bed beside her an hour or two later to turn over and cuddle up against you, nuzzling into your tits as she mumbles out a sleepy, "i love you, honey."

taglist!

@lesbeaniegreenie @fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

#sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika #any lesbians out there with a union job want a housewife??? #i'm right here...

[sashimiyas]

the sky looks the same as yesterday, the day before, and even the day before that. it’s crystal blue just as clear as the diamond kita had gifted you almost a decade ago.

this season’s stalks are taller than previous years though not as tall as the year kita began courting you. as your husband sways to the left to avoid a pothole that the town has still yet to fix, you reach your hand outside the open window to feel the wind flutter past your spread fingers.

kita hums once. a delighted sound. that as you jostle in your seat because his truck’s suspension is not as kind as it used to be, you turn your head to him.

he simply gazes you from the corner of his eyes with a small, upturned lip.

“beautiful,” your husband says simply with his eyes on the road.

“thank you,” you tell him because you know he’s not talking about the weather.

kita reaches over the middle console for your hand. blindly, he still finds you quickly because at your side hes been for over a decade. his palm folds over yours and buries itself into the softness of your lap.

your thumb is already grazing the back of his hand, and as you look down, you notice sun spots speckling his skin. it’s proof of the backbreaking work he’s committed to. upon closer inspection, you notice how wrinkles have formed around his knuckles like deep crevices.

you know him like the back of his hand, down to the blunt edges of his nails and grooves of his fingers. there’s so much change, so much time that has passed through the both of you that you can’t help but ask.

“do i look older? you know, since we first started dating?”

“no,” kita’s response is level in a way only he has mastered and yet, it’s spoken without thought. “not to me. time ain’t mean a thing when it’s forever.”

the way kita embodies simplicity makes you smile to yourself. overjoyed, you lift your joint palms to your lips and fill the spaces time has created on him with your love.

#reinas.inretrograde #reina.writeshaikyuu!! #about me really #how many times will i be filled with love whenever i notice my husband aging #so thankful for the life we’ve already had a chance to live

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Bastard’s Mistress ~ A Don John x Servant!Fem!Reader Fic

So I caught the don John brain rot this weekend…very contagious, 10/10 recommend. This might be @scarlettspectra ’s fault, from all her beautiful gifs she’s been posting!😆 I didn’t go full Shakespearean here but had some fun with the syntax. I apologize in advance. Reader is properly deferential for the time, but she’s got a little spunk.😬 

Warnings: the line between dubcon and noncon here is VERRRY thin. I don’t even know. So if that bothers you do NOT read this! What else. Period correct misogyny and degradation. Corruption. I’m so bad at itemizing these things. Please take care. If u have squiks i probs wouldn’t read this…

You are a chambermaid in His Excellency don Alejandro’s hacienda. It gives you a certain distance from things, as you come and go, doing your best to keep the country house clean and stay out of sight. But don Alejandro’s bastard, the fire-eyed boy with such a burning contempt for the world, has always seen you. 

When you were young children, don John would play with you all, the offspring of the servants who were too young to work. Not because he enjoyed your company, but because he delighted in ordering you all about. Luckily in those days he ignored you as often as he tormented you. 

Then there was a time, when the two of you hovered on the precipice between childhood and adult responsibilities, that you had almost been friends. Or at least, not enemies. He, the bitter outsider with the privileges of a full blooded son, but none of the standing. You, unmoored in your fatherlessness, the fever having taken your sire when you were just a babe. 

Don John goaded you into shirking your chores one day to go play in the hills. He’d only taunted you a little, as you played your silly games, which mostly consisted of him manipulating you, ordering you to do this and that, always testing just how far he could go before being met with rebellion. It was still better than working your hands raw in the laundry. “We should run away,” he’d said in that devil-may-care way brash young boys have, so sure the world is destined to fold for them. You, however, had begged to go home, for all it won you. Upon returning your mother absolutely tanned your backside, and you never associated with Don John in such a familiar way again.

You saw him around the grounds, of course, as you scurried from one backbreaking chore to the next, and as he went through the motions of learning how to become a gentleman. Amidst his riding lessons he would wink at you from astride his fine black horse, but the cruel turn of his mouth never failed to halt you in returning it, even if your heart quickened in your chest.

That did not mean you didn’t think of him later though, on your lumpy cot of straw, as urges began to awaken in your body that was well on its way to becoming a woman’s. You saw his face at night, so achingly handsome you could hardly contain your longing. It felt like madness, and so you shoved it down in the deepest dungeon of your heart, as far as it could go. 

It was not helpful, or good, the times when young don John passed you in the halls, and you felt that he would like to just eat you up. He would tug at your apron strings with a smirk before striding on to whatever lark he plotted for the day. The unholy feelings just a look from that man called up in you had you reaching for your rosary–and late at night, when all others lay asleep, between your legs.

You’d felt a certain relief when he went off to war with don Pedro. Even though your heart ached for the inevitable change, a part of you hoped he would never return.

As it turns out, your hopes were not to be realized. He has returned to his father’s country house, on the tails of some scandal in Messina. His temper is even fouler than you remember. His scowl, crueler. He has met with some disappointment, out in the world. You hope he will not take it out on you blameless servants.

Perhaps that is too much to ask of the upper caste.

You feel his eyes upon you again, as in the old days, but different. There is a weight in his gaze that makes you uncomfortable in your own skin, as though it no longer fits upon your own bones. It makes you ache for something no pious unmarried girl should yearn for, something you cannot name, only feel in the darkest hours of night when you lay awake on your mattress of straw, your sinful fingers exploring the bud of flesh between your legs.

You decide don John carries the flames of Hell in his burning dark eyes.

You dream of him, as though he has possessed your flesh in your sleeping hours.

He corners you one day, as you are changing the linens in one of the many airy rooms of the hacienda. You eye him warily, as he shuts the door, his large and forbidding form blocking your exit. His dark eyes upon you are black as night.

“What a flower you have blossomed into, y/n,” he muses, stepping slowly into the room with the measured calculation of a predator stalking prey. “No longer the knees and elbows girl I remember.”

“You…have also changed, my lord,” you offer cautiously. No longer the awkward, rail thin youth, his shoulders have the breadth of a man who rides a charger and wields a sword. You have tried not to notice.

“How so?” he fishes, canting his head with a smirk.

Your face feels as though you have caught on fire. “You are…taller,” you offer, winning a cruel little chuckle.

“Oh? I do like the sound of that. What else?” Another step closer, his booted heel clicking on the floor, and you are veritably boxed in between the walls and the oversized bed.

“My lord?” you stall, mortified.

“Did you miss me, y/n?”

This question also takes you aback, and perhaps that is why you answer honestly.

“Sometimes.”

“Well. That is more than any of my relations here will bother to claim,” he answers bitterly. In that moment you still see a boy just striving, yearning for his father’s recognition. Perhaps it was ridiculous, but you always felt bad for him, in a way.

“Did you hear the happy news? Don Pedro has taken a wife, and opts to dwell in Messina,” snarls don John with a mocking brightness.

“How…fortunate for him.”

The man before you makes a sound that suggests he barely restrained himself from spitting upon the floor in his half brother’s name.

“Indeed.” He takes one more step, and you know you are done for, your heart in your chest. There will be no escaping now. “What of you, fair y/n? Assumed the yoke of marriage yet?” The disdain in his words hangs bitter in the air.

You are tempted to lie, but know no good should come of it. “No, my lord,” you answer, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

“How fortunate for you.” 

Perhaps in your fear, you forget yourself. “John, please–”

He moves to strike, and you are but a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf, quick but not quick enough to evade him. His arm is like a band of iron about your waist, lifting you off the floor in his fury. He slams you down–albeit upon the feather mattress–a luxury you’ve never experienced for yourself, your back accustomed to scratchy tick straw.

“Insouciant wench! How familiar you are, to address me so.” He sounds so cruelly delighted by it, wedging his lean body like a knife between your legs, his narrow hips locked against yours. When you attempt to sit up he easily pins you down, his large hand spanning two of your wrists with ease, his other pressed lightly over your throat. You can hardly hear, hardly think, over the sound of your heartbeat thundering in your ears. He can surely feel it in your pulse, fluttering against his fingers. You are filled with fear–and the sharp ache of desire, God save you.

“Please, my lord…”

He makes a low sound in his throat, his lips tracing your jaw. “Please what, pretty maid? I have a mind to make a meal of you.”

“Please…don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you? That is up to you, my dear. I will have you. Sweetly, or by force, tis your choice.” Your heart lodges in your throat. Your mother warned you about this, time and again. Men are dogs and gentlemen the worst of them. Never let them catch you alone.

And in your darkest heart of hearts, you know that a part of you hoped don John might do just that.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, surprisingly gently for such a villain, but you attempt to turn away. It only wins his annoyance, his large hand turning your face back to him. Before he can press his mouth to yours you say, “You merely seek to make sport of me in your boredom here. It is not right.”

He laughs at that. “Sport, I shall make,” he muses, hiking your skirts above your thighs. “Let us test the truth of your righteous outrage?” Boldly his fingers climb the trail of your leg, to the apex where he finds the damning evidence of your treacherous loins. “My lovely girl, so wet for such a reluctant quarry.” His long fingers dip inside your weeping center, and the sound you make does not resemble protest at all. He smirks down at you like the very devil. “And a virgin my little rabbit is not.”

Javi the stableboy took care of that for you, in a quick and disappointing tumble in the hay. His touch…had felt nothing like this, if truth you tell.

Ashamed, and burning, you look away. Tears trail out of your eyes, and a part of you wishes it shall just be over soon. He frowns at the shining tracks of water upon your cheeks, a menacing scowl that makes your eyes screw shut tight.

“Do not seek to engage my sympathy or my better nature, for you know I have none,” he growls above the dip of your throat, his lips searing as a brand upon your chest. 

“That wasn’t always true,” you dare, winning naught but a growl from this ravenous beast of a man above you.

“You are the only one who thinks so.” For the barest moment you see a flash of vulnerability in his eyes–the ghost of the memory of the boy he once was, there and gone like ripples in a pool. It is as though this second of softness spurs him on in his deed, as though he must shove it aside to enjoy his sordid pleasure.

Clever fingers tear at the laces of your stays; you are freed to breathe, but you are bared to his hungry gaze as he tugs down your shift for his delectation. “Such lovely fruits, just ripe for picking,” he muses, cupping your breast in his hand, suckling upon a nipple.

You never knew how such a thing could make your insides clench, your sinning cunt tightening in its aching emptiness. Your hips move against his of their own accord, your legs wrapping about him as you mindlessly seek some relief from this madness. He withdraws with a dramatic pop, laughing at your body’s treachery.

“You are a fiend.”

“Pray, tell me,” he taunts you.

“I hate you.”

“Is that any way to speak to your master?”

He is enjoying this far too much.

“You forget your place, don John, as ever.” 

That is when he slaps you. Not hard, nay, your own mother has hit you harder, but it certainly gets your attention. “I will rule here someday, y/n. Have a care with that tongue. I can think of better uses for it.” His piercing eyes fix upon your lips, a moment before he falls upon you, kissing you as though he means to devour you. You tense, thinking to bite him for being so cruel, so conniving, for just using you for no other reason other than he can.

He plays a very dirty trick on you, though.

That dexterous hand slips under your skirts again, swiping up your slick before circling that small nub of flesh that causes you such great tumult and shame. You moan into his mouth, and you feel him smile wickedly against you.

This man is the very devil, you are sure of it.

“Now who is ready to forget?” he taunts you, rubbing you in slow circles that drive you mad, make you writhe for the unbearable tightness coiling between your legs.

You can only manage a small cry, words escaping you. You’ve never felt anything like this, not at your own hands, and certainly not with Javi the stableboy.

“Please,” is all you can manage, and you’re not even entirely sure you know what you’re begging for.

“I like to hear you beg so sweetly.” He reaches to free himself from his breeches, his swollen tip hovering at your entrance. “So beg, wench, what favour is it you ask of me?”

You should entreat him to leave you be–you should beg for his mercy. But the delicious weight of him atop you, this dastardly man whose touch is such sweet sin–you are not sure you wish for him to leave you be. Your whole life has been such a march of drudgery. Even just the possibility of feeling something that is not pain or exhaustion makes you willfully forget every lesson your mother ever taught you, every fiery sermon the Padre ever flung down from his pulpit. Tis easy to renounce the Devil, until temptation has you in its clutches.

“I know not what to ask for,” you answer cautiously, and that at least is true.

Don John smirks down at you, a wicked gleam in his dark eyes. 

“Ask for my cock, you stupid girl, and if your quim pleases me perhaps I may be moved to share in the spoils.”

“Yes.” You strain your hips towards him, craving that satisfying, stretching burn of a man’s first thrust. That, atleast, you know something about.

“Yes, what?” he taunts you, delighting in your torment as he holds himself just out of reach.

“Yes, my lord,” you whimper, hating yourself as much as him in that moment. “May I have your cock?”

His smile widens in his devilish delight, almost showing teeth. “Remember that you asked for it.” But he taunts you no further, his thick head penetrating your weeping hole, the fullness of him stealing the very breath from your lungs. He groans once fully inside you, burying his face in your neck. 

“I’ve always known you would have the sweetest little cunt in the sierra,” he growls against your skin, and he begins to thrust.

If there is one thing you have always known about don John, it is that he loves to hear himself talk.

“You are mine, little maid,” he goes on, filling you so deeply you fear he must be in your belly. You are not sure you like it, and you only whimper in answer, straining for a better angle against him, seeking that certain friction that made you see stars.

“Say it,” he demands, understanding what you seek very well. You whine, turning your eyes to the ceiling. You know you are a mere peasant, and you know you do not own anything, much less yourself. Yet some small defiance rises in you, for his demanding tone.

“Perhaps I shall, if you make it so.” 

You wait for him to strike you again, but to your surprise he smirks with a sort of dark delight, only turning your gaze back to his with a rough hand upon your jaw. “There is the saucy wench I remember of our youth. Do you remember how you used to defy me?”

You don’t very much, recalling that he usually always emerged the master and victor of your games.

“No, my lord.”

“You do not recall striking me with a stick, in defense of a hapless bird?”

You blink, finding it rather unfair of this man to expect you to command the capacity to think in this situation. But then you do recall. You had all been small children. The boys sought amusement in throwing rocks at an injured sparrow. You had taken exception to it. 

Don John had sworn he would tell his father and have you executed.

You’d cried for days, but the sword never fell.

You’d nearly forgotten all about it, perhaps willfully burying the memory out of shame and fear. Mostly fear.

The bastard had deserved it.

He never forgot a slight, it seems.

“I always told myself I would have my revenge for that,” he tells you with a smirk, pressing his thumb into your mouth. You try to shrink away, but he has you like a fish on a hook. “Suck,” he commands you. You do not understand why those jetty black eyes boring into yours, paired with that unyielding tone, makes your needy cunt clench around him, only that it is extremely satisfying to see his eyes flutter closed, even if just for a moment.

You do as you’re told.

He uses your own saliva against you, reaching between your legs with that spit-wet thumb to touch you again. 

You forget everything else, but the carnal heaven that is his clever fingers with his manhood inside you. The sounds the two of you make are barely human, as you strain and writhe against each other, chasing your release from this hell. Those full lips made for sin devour you–his mouth on your breasts makes you see God, a searing pleasure crashing through you in a spine-cracking rush. How can something that feels so wonderful be so forbidden? Only then does don John truly let himself go, the sound of flesh striking flesh filling the room as he takes you with all his pent up fury. It is not long before he roars his release, filling you with ropes of his hot seed, his powerful body trembling in its tangle of limbs with yours.  

For just a moment you wished would last, his fingers lace with yours rather than pin you, his head heavy on your chest as he catches his breath. Yet when he lifts his gaze to you, his eyes gleam with their usual malevolence. 

“You will come to my chambers tonight,” he orders you. “For I am not finished with you yet by half.”

When your mouth opens–indeed to give protest–he silences you with a hard but heart-melting kiss, his long fingers tangled unforgivingly in your now loosened hair. 

“Do as I say, servant girl. Though if you don’t, I may enjoy making you.” That proud mouth ticks as he seems to imagine it, that fire igniting once more in his mesmerizing eyes. The thought simultaneously makes your blood run cold–and a thrill of desire run raucous down your spine.  

This man is the very devil. You are as sure of it now, as you know when the household goes to sleep, you will find your way back to his merciless embrace.

#don john #much ado about nothing #don john x reader #don john keanu reeves #keanu reeves #keanuverse #keanuverse fic

[fatehbaz]

[The British imperial imaginary conceives] of Bermuda as a tiny paradise in the North Atlantic. But long before cruise ships moored up, prison ships carried hundreds of convicts to the island, first docking in 1824 and remaining there for decades. [...] [T]he use of Bermuda as a prison destination is less well known. For 40 years, British prisoners worked backbreaking days labouring in Bermuda’s dockyards and died in their thousands. [...]

[T]he notorious floating prisons known as hulks. [...] [I]n addition to locations across the Thames Estuary, Portsmouth and Plymouth, the British government used these ships as emergency detention centres in colonial outposts across the 19th century, detaining convicts in Bermuda between 1824 and 1863 and Gibraltar between 1842 and 1875. England has a long history of banishing its criminal population. In the 18th century, criminals were typically sentenced to seven years overseas in America. Many worked as plantation labourers in Maryland and Virginia [...]. Britain [...] turned to hulks to cope with rising [prison housing] numbers. Each could hold between 300 and 500 men, and they were nicknamed “floating hells” for their unsanitary and dangerous conditions.

---

[T]he government felt that convict labour could be put to use in other colonies [in addition to Australia], and so began an experiment in 1824 to send men to Bermuda. [...] Though only 20 miles long, the island was already extremely important to naval strategy. It was used as a refuelling station for British ships travelling to colonial outposts such as Halifax, Nova Scotia and the Caribbean. But the naval dockyard needed modernisation, and rather than employ local workers, convicts - a cheap and easily mobilised workforce - filled the labour gap. [...]

[M]en lived on board the ships they had sailed on (seven in total). [...] Many were injured in the dockyards, others went blind from the reflected glare of the sun as they quarried white limestone. [...] They were burnt by scorching temperatures and suffered sunstroke [...]. Bermuda also received people convicted in other British colonies, including Canada and the Caribbean. During the years of the great famine in Ireland (1845 to 1852), thousands of Irish convicts arrived on the island, many suffering from malnourishment. [...] The experiment ended after 40 years, in 1863, when dockyard repairs were completed. The remaining hulks were scuttled or broken up for scrap, and convicts were transported to Australia and Tasmania, or home to England [...].

---

Bermuda’s history as a prison island has been largely forgotten, but this story shares parallels with today. Prisons are suffering from overcrowding, and governments still detain prisoners and others on islands and modified ships. In Dorset, the Bibby Stockholm ship is housing asylum seekers [...].

The convicts who lived, worked and died in Bermuda are part of a larger global story of coercion and empire.

The product of their labour was imperial strength, but for those sent thousands of miles from home and buried in unmarked graves, the brutalities of their experience should also be remembered.

---

All text above by: Anna McKay. "Britain's forgotten prison island: remembering the thousands of convicts who died working in Bermuda's dockyards". The Conversation. 27 March 2024. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

#abolition #ecology #landscape

[wildelydawn]

Him

If anyone asks, Kim denies the unsubstantiated claim that he is, indeed, like a cat.

Chay claims the evidence is stacked against him. But cat ears and the weird selfies that Chay makes him pose for (hands up, nose scrunched) hardly hold up. Not to mention Chay’s bias.

Kim scowls while looking out the window.

The comparison started with Chay, of course.

“Awww,” Chay cooed, at a family gathering, when Kim perched himself onto one of the garden chairs. Kim ignored him, turning away from the lunch that was served and opting to, instead, watch Tankhun and Arm race remote controlled trucks. Kim’s eyes carefully followed the twisting racetrack. “So cute.”

“Not cute,” Tankhun complained. “Getting his dirty shoes on the cushions. Ridiculous. Who sits like that?!”

“He’s like a cat.”

Kim snapped his head up. “What?”

“You’re like a little cat!”

“No, I’m not-”

“Yes! Exactly!” Tankhun screeched his approval. “Nosy, sneaky, arrogant little kitty! I see it!”

And though Kim has begged, the nickname stuck. And Chay has no intention of stopping. 

Kim doesn’t see it. So what if he likes to crouch on chairs? Or that his schedule consists of 10-14 hours of sleep? Being a popstar and mafia princeling is backbreaking work. 

Kim also doesn’t see any sign of Chay’s car pulling up. 

Kim squints through the blinds. Where is Chay? He was supposed to be home twenty minutes ago.

He paces, staring at the front door before parking himself back on the couch and flipping through TV channels. He lands on the Discovery Channel; Kim then sits still for a grand total of two minutes before he leaps up and decides to mess around with a guitar. He plucks one from its stand, sits back on the couch, and begins to play a familiar tune. 

But it only occupies his mind for a moment. 

Kim sighs in defeat, putting the guitar down and flopping belly side down on the couch, his arm dangling off the side. The TV blares something about local birds. 

Maybe Chay just forgot about their plans. Or about him. 

Kim tries not to become a twisted jealous mess when Chay hangs out with the others. He’s just a little clingy, especially after they made up. 

And Kim’s not dramatic. But if Chay doesn’t come home right this moment, he’s going to start throwing-

The door knob begins to turn. 

Kim sits up at the edge of the sofa. He pretends to be very interested in his nails when Chay walks through the front door. 

“I’m home,” Chay calls out. 

Kim stays on the couch, ignoring him. 

“Kim?” Chay enters the living room. “There you are.”

Kim huffs, but goes back to watching whatever’s on TV. 

“Aw, are you mad at me?”

Kim stays silent, but gives Chay a healthy dose of side eye. 

“I think someone missed me,” Chay muses. He sets down his bag and reaches for Kim’s head. Kim closes his eyes as soon as Chay starts scratching, but he refuses to give in that easily. 

“Come on, Kim,” Chay whispers. “There was traffic.”

No answer. But Kim does lean in slightly to Chay’s hand. Damn, that feels good. 

“Whatever,” Kim retorts. The irritation he held against his boyfriend melts away with each pet, much to his dismay. 

“Put your head in my lap,” Chay murmurs. “Let me comb your hair.”

Score!

Kim keeps his displeasure plastered on his face, but curls up on the couch so that his head is comfortably in Chay’s lap.

“Such a good kitty. My cute little kitty.”

Kim hums. He doesn’t see it. 

#Ask #answered #KimChay #Shou #KinnPorsche #lmao my bad #I threw up words again #Here take all of my words shou #Shou-jpeg #Myfics #my fics #kim theerapanyakul #Dawn's ficlets

[aidiscoursebingo]

the bingo card template ^^

(breakdown of each box under the cut)

IP brain: several arguments against AI art hinge on IP and copyright law: e.g., accusations of plagiarism or copyright infringement, navel-gazing wrt "ownership" of art, etc. this means nothing to anyone who doesn't believe in the virtue of copyright lol

all art is hobbyism: anti-AI types frequently pretend that all art is something done solely for fun and/or personally meaningful to the artist and/or not labour

the hands/teeth!!!!: a common argument against AI art is that the hands or teeth look uncanny or unrealistic (even though that's one of the coolest things about AI art lmao)

we NEED overworked animators. To Save Human Artists: many argue against the use of AI to automate more menial aspects of creative labour (e.g., background art in animation), even when the work in question is famously backbreaking. (animation is only an example, and this box can apply to other art-related jobs)

art requires intentionality: a bizarre and common argument--"AI art isn't art because real art is 'intentional'." ignores (a) that there are intentional aspects of AI art (even setting aside the formation of prompts, the decision to choose a generated result and share it publicly is an undeniably intentional one) and (b) that several other art forms (photography, documentary, collage, etc) also preclude artists from having that flavour of foundational "every-brush-stroke" control over the piece

art requires a financial transaction: "it's only real art if someone got paid for it" (in other words, the opposite of the all art is hobbyism argumetn. thank god for the consistency of the anti-AI movement o7)

hyper-conventional conception of what makes "good" art: the manner in which opponents of AI target perceived flaws in AI art (blurriness, spatial abnormality, "count the fingers!", etc) tends to betray deeply reactionary values wrt "good" art as art that pursues representational realism.

"techbros": "-bro" is a commonly used, ill-defined pejorative that generally means "any person the speaker doesn't like." opponents of AI tend to cast what they call "AI advocates" as "techbros" interchangeable with NFT shills. besides being implicitly gendering, it's also hilarious--which side in this debate is closer to saying "i own this image so you can't right click it"?

"soul"/"humanity": there are frequent pseudo-spiritual appeals to art (even corporate art, apparently!) as having an essential "soul", "humanity", or even "godliness" that AI art lacks. this is of course meaningless to people who don't see any value in spiritualism

motte & bailey/strawman: opponents of AI frequently switch gears whenever they get cornered--when they realize that "we need stronger copyright law" is an indefensible position, they say "well REAL art requires effort!!", and when they're defeated on THAT front too they switch to "well AI is making artists lose their jobs!" and they keep doing this ad nauseam instead of acknowledging the flaws in their arguments. really it's less motte & bailey and more bailey & bailey & bailey & bailey &

ableism: people critiquing AI frequently choose to be ableist for some reason. the most common trick is inspiration porn (i.e., "so-and-so disabled person learned to paint with their teeth, what's your excuse?!")

"stolen"/"theft": two of the three favourite words of the anti-AI crowd. even if you accept the fundamental IP-brain premise (which, to be clear, you shouldn't), a baseline knowledge of how training datasets work should still make claims of theft fall flat.

reactionary BS (free space): arguments against AI tend to rely on several foundationally reactionary concepts, be they luddism, copyright, or the ~essence of humanity~

(in)directly insults collage/readymades/photography/etc: a massive portion of diatribes against AI include arguments that also lock several other mediums (the above plus music sampling/covers, choreography, film direction, etc) out of "counting" as art. frankly, a massive portion of them are indistinguishable from the reactionary outrage against duchamp's fountain

"you know it's not even ACTUALLY AI right??": people love to point out that "AI" is a buzzword and that computer programs are not actually sentient, and then pretend they've done something

AI artists are immoral/lazy/etc: several pejoratives tend to come out. see also: stupid, talentless, heartless, abusive, etc

"collage": the third favourite word. to be clear, AI image generators are NOT "collage machines", and if they were, that would be a good thing

classism: another thing that jumps out frequently. right-wing ideas about labour and poverty abound

art requires effort: another bizarre idea--the implication that more effort = better art. surely by this logic the amount of labour hours behind Avengers 16 must make it the ultimate opus

"just commission an artist": an annoying adage

stealing jobs from artists: same argument as self-checkouts

childish insults directed at AI: lots of people love making juvenile jabs at the AI. there's no sweeter irony than seeing someone write a diatribe about how AI is Not Really A Person then act as if they've just humiliated it

petty bourgeois artists = underdog: a lot of commission fanartists are convinced that aligning themselves with (petty-)bourgeois interests is going to help them in the long run

acting like AI operates independently: everyone seems to think that no humans are even involved in the process and that AI generators just sit in a dark room operating themselves, spitting images into the void

no understanding of how machine learning works: self-explanatory. opponents of AI don't seem to even know the bare minimum about the subject they argue about

(also yes i do consider diagonals to be a bingo, i dont care if it's not proper lmao)

#template #ai discourse bingo

[whumpshaped]

cast of my robot story (i made 2 of every big hierarchical level but obviously theres like. More lol but i figured i wouldnt rly need more than 2 of each? maybe i wont even need that many. as u can tell i dont know what the fuck i wanna do)

picrew

two of the members of the seventh earth council, the group that controls the spaceship and literally everything on it. it's funny they're called that, none of the members have seen earth with their own two eyes. it's been a long time since any human has walked on that planet...

levendula (she/her), dorel (he/him)

two of the techies. the tech department is where all regular folk want to end up at. there's a very slim chance anyone could get into the council, it almost functions like a royal family — but the tech department? well... okay that kind of functions like that too, the children of techies usually end up as techies, and there's little class mobility otherwise. BUT there's a bigger chance for any regular person to become a mechanic than to become a council member!

they handle maintenance work on the spaceship, on the equipment, on the robots, they write code, they design new and improved versions of any sort of tech. they enjoy much more personal freedom than regular workers.

kikinda (she/her), szoren (he/him)

two of the workers. the workers are manual labourers who handle all the work the techies haven't yet managed to automate or don't have the resources to automate. farming, mining, all that stuff. backbreaking labour. on top of that, they get paid very little, and now with the new SSRCU models already created, they're HOUNDED by the stupid bots too.

kara (they/them), hanga (she/her)

i chose hungarian names/spellings for all of them, if you wanna know exactly how they're pronounced please use a translator app because my phonetic spelling SUCKS. but i think they're all very straightforward :)

rambling about zaps copied and pasted from discord:

so about zaps. the tech guys call it zaps 100%. affectionately (mostly). its primary and default disciplinary action is administering shocks, and well, sometimes it goes haywire and just shocks a bunch of people at the workstation. hence the name.

the workers usually refer to it as anything derogatory. the thing, the beast, the monster, the attack dog, the painbot, the warden. officially though they address it like they would any superior, with either sir or ma'am. but they rarely have to (if theyre good <3 )

council members refer to it as the bot, or if they need to specify theyll say the serial number, 01.

zaps' full official name is self-sufficient riot control unit or SSRCU-01. it was the first of its kind and its been around the longest

#levendula #dorel #kikinda #szoren #kara #hanga #riot (story)

[aemondslefteyeball]

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi (1)

[Modern! Aemond x fem!reader. Yellowjackets inspired.]

[Warnings: Substance use, violence, plane crash, Aemond is such a dickhead y'all, allusion to eating disorders, eventual smut, eventual cannibalism, more warnings to come as we go on, shit's getting dark babies]

[Summary: Loving husband sends wife on fun happy vacation with 19 of her whackiest friends! What Artemisian cult antics will they get into? Let's find out!]

(I haven't written any fanfiction in like 8 years so if this blows my bad lol. Also does anybody have a link to a guide explaining how to format fics to look all pretty? Either way let me know what you think lmk if you guys also want to throttle Aemond ily all)

Word Count: 4k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 1:

You pulled your hoodie as low over your face as it could go, eyes downcast. Lowering your shaking hand, panic gripped your senses at a foreign touch. White-hot terror struck through you and in a second you reacted, shoving the reporter as hard as you could before retreating closer into the safety of the group. Dozens of simultaneous questions and journalists battered the haggard group as they boarded onto the plane. You kept your eyes low to the ground as your friends disappeared into the vehicle. Despite your overwhelming anxiety, you were glad for the first taste of civilization you had in nineteen months. As your hands seemed to shake beyond control and your throat clenched, you turned around. Your mind began to float somewhere safer. Having stepped up to board the plane, you got a clear view of the press gathered around. Flashes of vultures picking at the carcass of a bear overwhelmed you. The rot. The smell. The crowd. Everything burst forth at once in a scream that didn’t register as having come from your body. Disoriented, you came to when Sabitha pulled you in, muttering something about fucking harpies and guiding you to sit. A dark shade was cast over the plane, and the uncomfortable silence never broke. Curling into the seat, your body pulled your legs to your chest while your mind drifted off somewhere else. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The house was as cold and dead as it always felt whenever you came home. You didn’t want to let the austere environment get you down though. The semester was finally over, and your backbreaking work had culminated in graduating Summa Cum Laude at Barth University in King’s Landing. You had a few weeks off before your summer internship started. Thousands of hours in the labs finally culminated in Professor Gerardys recommending you for a summer research internship studying extremophiles in Antarcticos before you started at King’s University in the fall.  You couldn’t wait until you were gone, and you knew your husband would feel the same. If you could truly call him that. The only reason the two of you married was so you could become a Westerosi citizen. Aemond as awful as he was would be the key to your future. His closest concept to a love language was sending some expensive gift as an afterthought. No sentiment, of course. This time in particular was strange though. He offered to send you and 19 of your friends to one of his family’s estates in the Vale. The estate itself was stunning, nestled into the Mountains of the Moon overlooking green valleys. Something about all of it just didn’t sit right with you. Some nagging voice whispering about a danger you couldn’t quantify. You weren’t naive, you knew that he only wanted you out of the house so he could have his girlfriend over the entire time you were gone. At this point, you just could not bring yourself to care. You led your life, and he his. A notification pulled you out of your thoughts, and you set your stuff down to go greet your girlfriend. You met Emerson a few weeks before your arrangement with Aemond was put in place. You didn’t pursue anything with her at first, wanting to give your marriage a genuine shot. After it became clear Aemond barely recognized you as a person, you two got involved. Wrapping your arms around her willowy frame, you nuzzled your head into the soft curve of Em’s neck. “I’m going to miss you.” you mumbled, coming up on your tiptoes to press your body further into hers. 

“I know lovey, ‘m going to miss you too. I’m sorry I couldn’t get the time off.” Emerson said, drawing a small circle on your shoulder blade with her thumb, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Don’t be.” you murmured. “You tried.” The two of you lingered in each other’s grip for a few moments more, basking in the familiarity before you headed to your room to pack for the trip. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aemond poured out a finger of hundred year-old bourbon. He casually sipped on it, silently musing about his upcoming vacation. He was still working as per usual, but you would finally be out of his fucking hair for once. It wasn’t enough for you to marry him for citizenship or live in his house, it seemed you also wanted to be his best friend and have fucking pillow fights. Though you stopped intentionally bothering him you still just couldn’t help but annoy him. From making your stupid little coffees every morning, to obnoxiously loud facetimes to friends back home, incessant piano playing, purposely walking around the house in a t-shirt and panties like it was the most casual thing in the world. Even his cranky old cat loved you, sleeping in your bed as soon as he left his. At least with you gone he could have some peace of mind to finally get all the employee reports in before the bonuses were decided. Aemond finished his bourbon, still sober but a little less tense. He locked up his office for the night, nodding a goodbye at his secretary before heading to his car. The drive home was long, and he bristled as his phone connected to the bluetooth. My Chemical Romance blasted over the boosted speakers and he switched the song as quickly as he could. He only listened to it because you couldn’t stop blasting Middle Schoolcore in the shower. He finally came to settle on Paranoid by Black Sabbath. Pulling into the driveway, Aemond grimaced. Emerson’s car. No doubt the two of you would be cloying and obnoxious, oblivious to how irritating your little Hallmark act was. He turned his car off, but sat for a few minutes longer. Worries about work pressed on him until he noticed a twinge in his hand. A cramp from gripping the steering wheel as hard as humanly possible. He relaxed his grip and stepped out of the car, his teeth clenched as he walked in. He followed his routine to a T, pausing in his office when he heard the two lovebirds warbling at each other. 

“I don’t know Em. I was excited earlier but I’ve just been getting a really bad feeling you know? Like something really bad is going to happen. And you know the last time I-” Y/N’s voice cracked and he stepped closer to the door. His blood pressure rose as he stalked closer, trying to catch as much as he could through the distance.

“Y/N, it’s okay. If you want to cancel the trip then just tell Aemond.”  Emerson’s voice rang out confidently. Aemond’s blood boiled. Of course your stupid fucking girlfriend was telling you to blow off the trip like she paid for the bookings. 

“Yeah but you know how he is. Any time there’s a problem the world just stops spinning on its axis.” came the soft reply from Y/N. A sharp chuckle came a second later from his wife’s girlfriend. Aemond could practically see the wry grin splitting her face. Clenching his fist, he burst out of the office into the kitchen where the two of them were talking over a bowl of pineapple. He glanced over Emerson– the taller of the two women– disinterestedly to focus his singular gaze on his wife. 

“What were you two talking about?” His voice cracked out sharply, he wanted to feign indifference but that ship sailed. He watched the panicked look spread across Y’N’s face, something predatory curling deep in his gut at the doe eyed look. Her mouth moved as if she was thinking of multiple different answers all at the same time. He watched expectantly as she blinked for a second. The silence weighed heavily until she softly spoke. 

“I don’t think I want to go to the Eyrie anymore.” Her tone wavered slightly at the end, clearly stumbling to find her nerve. Before he could interject her girlfriend piped up. 

“Trip’s off.” Emerson’s tone was far more sure, and she locked her hazel eyes onto Aemond’s and set her jaw stubbornly. Y/N fidgeted with her hands lightly, looking not at all surprised when a low laugh erupts from Aemond. 

“Everything is booked, and we can’t get our deposit back. You’re going.” The words hung in the air with a finality he thought was clear. Apparently the tone kicked something into gear, amusement bubbled up at the sneer pulling across your cute little face. This was going to be adorable. 

“You could cancel and pay for this trip five times over and still not noti-” He refused to let you finish, putting up a hand as if shushing a noisy toddler. 

“Why exactly?” He questioned, pulling his hands to clasp each other behind his back. He took half a step towards Y/N, relishing in the way she took half a step back. He watched Y/N’s face stiffen, before she lowered her gaze. 

“I just have a really bad feel-” Again cutting her off, Aemond laughed. Relishing how small she looked after he started, he put up his hand again. 

“So you want to cancel a trip I have spent thousands on because of a bad feeling.” He spat each word out with more venom than the last, before he spared a second glance to his wife, watching resignation fall over her face. 

“Good talk.” You mumbled, keeping your head down and quickly exiting the kitchen. Aemond went to the bowl of pineapple and popped a piece in his mouth, chewing it while maintaining eye contact with Emerson who stood there a second longer. He didn’t need the last word, he had already won. Eventually she rolled her eyes and walked off too, muttering something to herself. Aemond simply grabbed the pineapple and returned to his office. He had work to do. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

‘Three years after her disappearance, two fishermen spotted her body floating on Lake Crescent. What they found was horrific. When taken to the medical examiner her flesh sloughed off in the same way Ivory soap woul-’ 

“Okay I know it’s literally in the name but this is getting pretty morbid.” You chimed, loading the last of your toiletries into your bag. Flipping the lid over, Emerson followed your silent cue and pressed down on the top of it while you zipped it shut. 

“What’s morbid is you packing enough clothes for a month.” Emerson teased, tracing her fingers up your waist lightly enough to almost tickle. “Seriously, are you planning on pissing yourself repeatedly every day you’re there?” Digging her fingers into your flesh lightly, she pulled you in. You relished the feeling of her slender arms around you, and the cascade of her chestnut hair over them. “I know you’re nervous about this, but try to have as much fun as you can. If nothing else to spite Prince Zuko.” You couldn’t contain the laugh that rang out of you at that, you knew it was below the belt but you couldn’t help but lean into it just a little. 

Covering your left eye you summoned the most grave expression you could muster. “I must capture the CEO position of Targaryen Tech to restore my honor.” You grumbled out as best you could, quickly giving way to giggles. “God how did we never see that until now?” You questioned, leaning your head back against Em as she kissed your forehead. 

“Well, inspiration only strikes around my muse I guess.” She quipped, pulling you in tighter before you sighed. You wanted to stay in her arms like this, softly rocking back and forth to a rhythm that wasn’t playing in your bedroom forever. The pit of dread in your stomach only grew, and you squeezed the arm she held across your chest gently. Picking up on the cue, Emerson dropped her hand and turned to face you full on. Grasping your face in both her hands, she pressed a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. “I love you.” She whispered quietly, pressing her lips to yours for a sweet few seconds. “I found a website that lets me track your flight as it's happening. I know you probably won’t have wifi..” She trailed off. You smiled softly, leaning your cheek into her right hand. 

“You’re the prettiest stalker I could ever hope to have.” You teased, watching Emerson fluster for a second before the realization that you were fucking with her dawned. You two finally split apart. The ride to the airport was quiet. The two of you kissed in the car before she helped take your suitcase and carry on out of the trunk. “Bringing bricks along to your mountain getaway.” She grumbled as the suitcase landed with a heavy thud. The tech who took your bags at the gate didn’t flinch at the weight. You took that as a silent victory over Emerson and boarded the plane, the gnawing fear taking deeper root in your gut. You sat near the middle of the plane at an aisle seat, you couldn’t explain why but something told you that you had to sit there. Suddenly aware that you probably look weird, you lock eyes with Sara and let out a relieved sigh. Before you could greet her, the blonde piped up. 

“Your husband set all of this up?” She asked, gesturing to the rest of the cabin with a bewildered expression. When you nodded she whistled and let out a teasing “Thank you Mr. Targaryen.” She was quick to follow it up with “Does he have any brothers?” you held back a laugh at that. She and Aegon had been dating on and off for a few years now.

“It’s pretty much the only nice thing he’s done since we got married. I can definitely hook you up with his brother though.” Venting about Aemond felt freeing. Venting about Aemond on a plane that he was paying for was fucking cathartic. 

“Strictly dickly, no dice.” Sara replied teasingly, her face contorting in an exaggerated frown. 

“I’m sorry to hear about your condition.” You shot back, knowing that Sara wasn’t the type to take it to heart. She laughed again before awareness slowly crept across her face, by now she had to feel the anxiety radiating off of you. The others in the group had already started to pour into the plane. Most of your friends were already there, along with Baela’s creepy little sister and your in-laws. Jacaerys and Lucerys were both nice enough, Jace a bit reactive but not unkind. When they heard of the trip they had asked if they could join, and Aemond looked furious at the thought of them coming so naturally you extended an invitation. 

“Nervous flier?” She asked, her brow softening as you paused for a second. “Here.” she said, grabbing your hand and dropping a small white tablet into it before you could give her an answer. “I swiped it from my Mom’s medicine cabinet. She has like a million,” Sara paused to shake her head, shifting her gaze from yours. “She won’t even notice it.” You nodded at her, understanding the full implication.

“My Mom is the same way.” You reassured her. Grabbing a water bottle and downing the pill you grimaced for a moment at the bitter taste. 

“Almond mom?” You laughed sharply, nodding heartily as you passed her the water bottle. Sara popped the pill in her mouth before unscrewing the lid and downing some water with the pill.  

“Oh my god yeah, always announcing to the world that she only sniffed half of a string cheese for breakfast.” Your eyes involuntarily rolled at the memory. Sara was one of few people who could make anything better with a little smalltalk. The valium certainly didn’t hurt either. Eventually the chatter dies down between the two of you, and you both sleep deeply in your respective aisle seats. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the chat bubble popped up in the upper-right corner of his computer for the third time, Aemond started to grind his teeth. 

‘this is important jackass’ 

‘its emerson’ 

‘theres something wrong with the flight’ 

Aemond exhaled sharply, taking a sip of black coffee and failing to hide his annoyance at the messages. He kept working, it was just like her to be dramatic about nothing. He didn’t have time to deal with her theatrics. Aemond left his phone on his desk and went to his morning meetings. They droned on, and the more his half-sister spouted off business terms she didn’t fully understand the more his mind wandered to Y/N. Had he been too harsh in his dismissal? Did it even matter? You weren’t actually his wife. The only thing that connected the two of you was a legal agreement. Why should he spare your feelings when you weren’t even his? You didn’t even acknowledge him these days. His knuckles ached as he released a fist he kept clenched under the table. Flexing his hand he chimed in when appropriate, relaying the quarterly metrics. After the meetings finished he returned to his office, placing his fresh cup of coffee on his desk and grimacing at the notifications on his phone. As if she could sense his avoidance, that was the exact moment the call bubble popped up. Pressing accept, Aemond couldn’t even get his one-liner out before he heard Emerson’s panicked voice. 

“They’re too far north!” Aemond paused in place for a second, awkwardly hovering over his desk, he never heard Emerson use anything less than a disdainful tone with him. He felt genuinely taken aback. “Did you hear me?” She demanded impatiently. There it is. 

“They’re too far north.” He repeated dispassionately, taking a purposely loud slurp of coffee. 

“Gods you’re so fucking.” Aemond smirked, practically hearing Emerson grind her teeth. If nothing else could be accomplished with this phone call at least he could make her day that much worse. You were fine, and that she was just pushing her drama off onto you again. He would wager she was the culprit behind your bad feeling at the very last moment. You needed somebody who wasn’t so tightly wound. Not like her. “200 fucking miles too far north Aemond!” The worry in her voice started to seep into him, before he shut it back out promptly. Now she was pushing her drama onto him. 

“I’m sure it’s just a refueling issue or something.” He mused, his tone flat. This was apparently not good enough of an answer since Emerson let out an exasperated huff. 

“So why would they be flying over fucking White Harbor when there’s a massive fucking airport in the Eyrie?? Seven hells use your fucking head something is wrong here.” Aemond found himself taking another sip of coffee, this one more of an act of discomfort than mockery. “You chartered the plane. Just call the fucking airline and see if they can get in touch with the pilots or something. If I turn out to be wrong you can make fun of me for it until the end of time. Just fucking call.” Aemond exhaled heavily, trying his best to convey annoyance. Suddenly glad for the barrier created by the cell phone, he kept his tone disinterested. 

“If I get around to it.” Aemond clicked the end call button before Emerson could debate further. His hands ached, and he reached into his desk to grab a small remote. Pressing a button, a few of the windows in his office glided open. Placing the remote back and grabbing his pack of cigarettes and a lighter, Aemond leaned against the windowsill. Inhaling and savoring the sweet sweet taste of future cancer, he breathed it all out into the streets of King’s Landing. The cigarette helped let off some of the tension, but he mentally cursed Emerson for the worry she instilled in him. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he texted Alys. 

‘1845. My place.’

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You dreamt of Aemond. You hated it, but you did. Ignoring him gave you a sense of control, but it also stoked the lingering worry that you did it because you didn’t want him to leave you alone. He was yelling again, while you cried tears that grew into little bundles of holly. Aemond grew angrier, shaking you half feral. Suddenly his body pressed upon you so hard you wheezed, an aching in your head as you felt your eyeballs press into your skull. You felt like bricks were being piled atop you for a few more agonizing moments before you inhaled sharply, your mind starting to waver in and out of consciousness. His eye locked onto yours, and he lifted the eyepatch above his missing left eye to reveal a triangular symbol. You started to register a rattling noise, and Aemond shook you harder, yelling about how you no longer belonged. You wavered between your conversation and bleary eyesight. Displeased at this, your husband gripped you as tightly as he could, his arms placing a crushing weight on your waist. 

“If you won’t listen.” He said, his violet eye blazing as he moved to grab your face. In his other hand he held a gag, and you resisted as much as you could. Finding yourself unable to speak or move, you mumbled “Get off.” weak as a kitten. Aemond didn’t relent, placing the muzzle on you. 

When the cold plastic finally sat against your face you came to. The rattling noise from your dream grew to a deafening roar, and the warning bells started to flare in your drug-addled brain. Your father was a test pilot for the Lysene Navy and had taken you flying in his Cessna whenever he was stateside. The rocking of loose baggage against the overhead containers was too hard, and the dips of the plane too steep. Klaxons sounded and you foggily tried to recall what the individual sounds meant. The nose. As if on cue, your blurry line of sight dipped about 20 degrees and up even more. Somebody behind you screamed at the last dip. You watched as the figure you hazily recognized as Laenor Velaryon held on to the seat ahead of him as best he could. He snapped a mask over the sleeping Floris, grabbed ahold of the armrest and tried to propel himself back into the aisle. That was the exact moment that your line of sight tips back up, before dipping back down again at a steep enough angle that it sent your eyes painfully digging into the sockets again. Your eyesight blurred once more, only to clear just in time to see the drink cart slam against the emergency exit. A grinding noise soon echoed in your ears as the upper left wall of the plane tore open and off. The wind howled and tore at any exposed skin it could. You could only watch in dazed horror as Laenor was sucked out of the plane to wherever he would land. Your senses started to return to you as adrenaline kicked in. Making a conscious move to control your breath, you tried to remember everything your father had told you. When the pressure weighing on your chest abated enough that you could move, you raised the shade of the window to look out. Your throat dried instantly as you saw the tops of pine trees scraping against the wings of the plane. The terror at the realization that you had slept through most of this crash was quickly dawning on you, as was the realization that the plane was still coming down too fast. As the screeching engine rocked you to the point of vertigo, you remembered your father’s words. 

‘Put your mask on. Stay calm. Cover your head and lean forward.’ You obeyed his commands, trying to fight off the last of the valium lingering in your mind. You knew you needed to remember everything he had told you. Your fingers dug into the nape of your neck hard enough to break the skin. You shut out the panicked sounds of screams around you. As the sensation of pain registered, one last thought came before blackness enveloped you. 

It’s been waiting for us. 

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #hotd x reader #aemond fic #hotd imagine #aemond x reader