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#but hope is scarce rn
searidings · 2 years
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more horny enemies to lovers BLEASE i am liderally salivating...................
it's brewing!! but while it brews, here is a miniature sneak peek of the next chap to tide you over
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thelastofhyde · 11 months
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i. the likeability paradox.
pairing. joel miller x fem!reader
synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.
warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!
word count. 12.9k
hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it
taglist. @kayleezra​​ @newavenger + add yourself to the taglist here !​
read on ao3 ! ( capitalization available )
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distaste is not new in the life of joel miller.
in particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. he is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. the years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.
if anything, he’s made himself more empty.
rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.
an apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. the man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that miller guys passed between cowardly members of fedra and the keep away from mr. miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.
this plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become dead-weight.
“so that’s all i am to ya, huh? dead-fucking-weight?” his brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving joel to do what joel does best: endure.
somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the dead-weight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.
she was an exception, his tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. they’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.
she never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.
which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of tess’ foot against his shin.
“... and then,” frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. with a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. we were finding paw-prints for days!”
joel’s unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. as if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the german shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.
“which means i was cleaning paw-prints for days.” bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.
frank is quick to shush him.
“i’m sorry, again, bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “i’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”
there you sit, parallel to him.
the sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. it hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.
you catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.
the threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which joel can account for, mouth to keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. the battle ends swiftly as you surrender to bill’s hardened stare, and frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.
“you, sit. no one should have to clean up the food they made.”
they get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.
silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and painting you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun hind a large cloud that causes such a thing.
being alone, with you, is something joel’s never mastered. the affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.
were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.
something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. the dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.
just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.
the ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. he’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.
the pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.
“he likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.
as if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.
to envy a creature that licks it own shit off its ass is a new low for joel.
“thinkin’ he might like ya more, sol.” the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.
“most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.
he takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and tess have made.
“you’ve got a whole load in common, you know? i think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”
“how the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” there he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. it helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.
“well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. he’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “and have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”
he’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.
discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘s easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”
with you as its protector.
he doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. he watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.
survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.
but i could keep you safe.
he toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. it’s not the first time he’s thought it. truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.
his memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just bill, frank and you. a few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was frank who’d prompted the question. “where were you all when... this started?” tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’ll never meet. 
he never imagined her working in a bank.
bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” he’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. she was barely out of school. “i knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.
joel had always been a good listener. being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. all this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of bill.
but you weren’t smiling.
he watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.
the desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. with each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. he’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“you’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “those we remember never truly die!”). he’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘could keep you safe. there, then, the thought did cross his mind.
he’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.
“-could fix it, you know. i’m good with my hands.”
he almost chokes on his own breath.
i'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. and he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.
“what?” the question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. in the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.
the mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face joel once more.
he sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.
“your watch, it’s broken.”
“hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “don’t need ya to fix it.”
you pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. confusion.
“don’t you want to know the time?” you ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and joel miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.
“i don’t keep it for the time.”
you smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.
the german shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.
he’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. it’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-
“ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” you’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “i’ve never heard any of the joel miller backstory, this should be-”
“i get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”
nature falls silent.
skies grow dull.
you juggle sadness.
there’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. the dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.
joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.
“sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. only, the gates have been shut in his face and joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “but you’re wrong. i don’t like everyone.”
“‘s that so.” his eyes roll. the hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal joel will always be wiling to place you on.
“yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “i don’t like you, joel.”
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the hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.
we’re staying, for tonight. tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the qz for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day
the nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading bill and frank- mostly frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. if only joel could remember which door leads to yours.
the two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.
tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a fedra agent’s wife, you whisper that frank and bill had been fighting again recently. the memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly bill and frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.
at some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. at another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.
-n’t tell me you’re a virgin.
the words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.
a protest rings true in his head and his ears.
was gonna say. knew you were young, but not that young.
it’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.
“god, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. it was alright, i guess. i just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”
he’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. a groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.
neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.
“not much to miss?! sweet christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” he’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken tess. each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. there’s no need to bother opening his eyes, joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “i’d give up a hand for some head!”
you must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of tess’ renewed shock fills the room. he wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.
late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.
“you’ve got to be shittin’ me.”
“it bores me!”
“it bores you!?”
the couch beneath joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp tess gives. the last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.
the crueler part of his mind replays your voice, i don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.
you like tess. love her, even. it’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out finally someone with a pair of boobs, i’m bored of the sight of my own. joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.
maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.
“must not have been doin’ ya right,” the bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. you’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. it’s oddly endearing, you think no one has noticed. “this fella of yours.”
joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.
he does so, regardless.
“well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “we were each others firsts.”
“that’s no excuse! trust i left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time i went down.” tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. no discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.
you scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “what, are you offering your services?”
this he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which tess had raised you to heaven while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.
“‘as sure as i am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you i like my women a little older than you.”
he knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the qz. it should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. but he can’t, and he won’t.
and you’re the one to blame.
you, with the glow of a thousand suns. you, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. you, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.
his own self being the first he’d need fight.
joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.
the next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.
he’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. some small, meaningless little things, that ripple joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. others, tsunamis. big, angry, all imposing. they’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.
amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. but the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. they catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. in the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.
the currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.
this evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. he reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. the gentle, barely-there croon of a sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. across from him is tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. snoring comes from below him, where joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.
you take up no space of this room.
neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.
there are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.
he should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. a good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.
he could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure frank wouldn’t mind. bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the qz.
he would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. he imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.
i don’t like you, joel.
those words stop him from trying.
he tells himself it’s for the best.
with a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. he swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. the door’s already half-opened, and joel nearly thanks christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. the darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.
the refrigerator.
it’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. a subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.
keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.
she never lived long enough to get either.
he catches something move beneath the artificial light. cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.
“why aren’t ya sleepin’?” the words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.
beneath the light, you shrug, “could ask you the same thing, texas.”
he curses tess for teaching you such a nickname.
he curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.
you’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, joel remains unaware.
he grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. the door behind him closes over and give the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.
“i asked first.” you laugh, at him. full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. the corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. he hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you, bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘s so funny, huh?”
“nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “just never heard the joel miller say something so childish. you’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”
you make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. a fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. uncouth and unbothered, joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.
“you know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” you call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. the thirst does not budge. he hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.
by the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.
“i’m making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “make sure you take some with you when you leave. tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”
would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. he’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.
i don’t like you, joel.
of course you would do the same. not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. all words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. they violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over joel’s entire persona.
he straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. the sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. his hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, and the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of tess, and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what joel hears.
i don’t like you, joel.
i don’t like you, joel.
i don’t like you, joel.
i don’t like you, joel.
over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. you’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.
and, suddenly, joel’s angry. at you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. the fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.
only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.
a hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise joel gifts you.
you may leave your marks emotionally, but joel’s will always be physical.
“why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “don’t ya like me?”
if not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “why do you care?” 
he scoffs, “i don’t.”
“hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody tess was playing in the living room. “sure sounds like you do.”
“yeah, well, i don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.
joel knows he cares. it’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to bill and frank’s. 
what joel doesn’t know is why he cares. there’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. he’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.
maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.
instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.
not one bit.
joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. his feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. his chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.
he inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.
“for the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘s like how i sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. no part of him should ever be compared to you. “i don’t like ya either.”
he’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.
the knife never ceases its movement. back and forth, back and forth. chop, chop, chop. blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. it’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.
the hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.
“that’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point. 
it’s his turn to respond with a hum.
“you only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. his wandering touch halts. “a little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what i think.”
this strikes a nerve. fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. the realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “d’ya know what i think?”
even upside down, your beauty is striking.
“no, unlike you i don’t care what you think about-” joel tugs on your hair once more.
“i think you’re a brat. a silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” you could. he’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.
 “you’re hurting me,�� you whine, joel growls.
animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. his gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.
your dress- red, a colour joel miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.
“you like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.
“no, i don’-” dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “joel.”
he retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. whoever joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.
“heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and tess. the blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ talkin’ bout your past.”
he doesn’t specify.
he doesn’t need to.
you give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.
“tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. his hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “i wouldn’t.”
you say nothing. joel pulls harder.
“too bad i’m-” you cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. with a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, joel watches you like a hawk. the twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. the want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “too bad i’m not offering you the chance.”
joel miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. with notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.
“who said anything about an offer?”
the descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.
a part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.
the other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. you’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.
smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs longer than any tree in the amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the himalayas. arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.
your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, joel knows how to read people. and, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.
joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.
you breathe in, you breathe out.
one knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. he revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.
inhale, exhale.
your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.
“hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. all he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. with the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “don’t move.”
where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.
lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. one flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. a wet patch, your wetness. the stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.
curiosity gets the better of him- one day, joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers curling themselves in the waistband of your panties and the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.
in and out, shaky breathing comes from above.
the lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. a heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. he makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.
delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. there’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. he wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. he thinks it must hurt.
his fist curls tighter, pulls higher.
“ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in joel’s peripheral vision.
“shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “people are tryin’ to sleep.”
you scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”
“‘s that an invitation to see how loud i can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. this, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “or a challenge?”
“it’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.
as coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. so he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. he awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.
it’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.
“you’re drippin’” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. the view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘s actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. is it cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”
he can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.
but first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.
cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.
rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.
it happens so sudden, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of tess. he wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.
so he does the same.
working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. he breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.
two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.
“so now you shut up. ‘s the matter, huh?” he’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “am i too borin’ for ya?”
“you’re the most infuriating man i’ve ever- oh!”
a tongue meets skin.
the knife clatters onto the counter.
you lurch forward.
his hand pulls you back.
“tess was right, ya know?” he can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. he pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “that boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”
the common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better, if you’d just let him.
‘could keep ya satisfied.
that’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. he’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.
“is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? what ya need is a man, a man like me!” the softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension, god it’s never sounded sweet, and joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.
“well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. he imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “but if ya insist.”
diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. the tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.
licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure. 
he’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by only experience that comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. you’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.
he’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.
what a perfect excuse you are, for joel to remaster the arts of lust.
it’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. it’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. it’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever days he shall possess on his knees before you.
and all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass. 
his only saving grace is that he can’t see you.
hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.
burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. it does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.
“n- ah,” you can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “no, don’t, not there.”
next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.
sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. the sound of whatever record tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.
and, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.
his eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within bill and frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. there’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time tess tells him they’re due a visit.
except, the oven door is made of glass.
glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. you, with hands gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.
 and then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.
the image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.
“d’ya touch yourself, sol?” you don’t answer him, but that’s okay. in a sweet change of pace, joel miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “yeah, bet ya do. late at night, right? once you’re all alone in bed. ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”
you back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.
fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “let me do the honours this time though.”
you don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. he imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.
he’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.
you’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. your expression, he can’t quite read. not sad, not happy, not mad.
your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.
the discomfort of trekking back to the qz will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.
“joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.
he swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. he’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.
“that,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. he pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “shouldn’t have happened.”
joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.
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people once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. as sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. not today, however, and joel miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.
it chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. there’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.
that dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.
he cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “no, not again. my back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the german shepherd’s head. it whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. a scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “not so bad, are ya? huh?” never in a million years did joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and tess had set out for their routinely visit to the bill and frank’s. never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.
he hears you before he sees you.
“you planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, texas?”
he tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.
the world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.
so instead, it sends you.
peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than uv ray could ever be. he’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. a few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. at the very least, he considers, i’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.
the smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. when he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. he does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.
“thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. you’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”
a queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. he’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “no problem, thanks... for feeding tess and i.”
“no worries!” you’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. he can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “oh, actually, that’s why i came out here, i was looking for tess-” of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “hold on!”
you shoot off back inside so quickly that otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. with an idle pet to his head as you pass by, joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. in your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.
“i wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. he can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “i know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”
“why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.
pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.
you show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him, “there should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”
it’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.
so he tries again, louder.
“why don’t ya like me?”
“and i’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”
he grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "answer me." like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.
"for someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. you don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “you sure do talk about my opinion a lot."
"answer the damn question, girl.”
“or, what?” you’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “you gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”
had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.
instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.
joel says nothing.
“how about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and bill make.” inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “you get me something, i’ll tell you what you want to know.”
he grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “what d’ya want? ‘cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. i ain’t messing with none of bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”
“a dress.”
“a dress?” the statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.
“yes, and don’t look at me like that!” it’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “i need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”
unaware he’d even began to lean closer, joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time. 
“joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.
neither of you dare to break eye contact. again, his name is yelled. this time, he manages to identify tess as the owner of the voice. habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of tess or you. 
his feet remain glued to the ground.
tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “think you might be needed inside, macho man. your missus is calling.”
“she ain’t my-”
“you two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.
only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. in her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. you approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms. 
“i should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. he decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “go check on the food, before it burns.”
you’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.
tess and him hit the road by noon. earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. the bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun heating the world with its rays. he walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from tess and racking his brain for answers.
answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the qz. answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven bill’s created. answers to why you don’t like him.
i don’t like you, joel.
it motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. if he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.
till then, he needs to find a dress.​
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straykeedz · 5 months
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okay so i woke up with a cold today and all i can think about is:
boyfriend chan who comes home and finds you curled up on your bed in your blanket with your fluffy socks on. and he immediately knows something’s wrong because you don’t run in his arms as soon as you register his presence in the room and he’s kinda upset at first but then he notices a couple of tissues next to your figure and oh 🥺
so he lies down on the bed next to you and notices your red cheeks and nose and he quickly understands you’re not feeling well. he’d ignore your protests when he tries to hug you.
“channie, no, you’ll get sick too.”
“i don’t care, you’re my baby and i’m gonna take care of you.”
and he’d sooo do a good job at it. he’d make you tea or hot chocolate and make sure to check your temperature every now and then. and he’d be so protective of you and he’d make you hot soups or maybe have food delivered just to make sure you eat properly because it’s so important.
“come on, it’ll make you feel better. you have to eat something.”, he’d encourage you.
you’d shake your head. “i’m not feeling hungry. i’m tired.”
and his heart would break seeing you so fragile and delicate, but he’d smile warmly at you and bring the spoon close to your lips. “just a couple of spoons, okay love? do it for me. then, we’ll cuddle in bed and maybe watch a movie or something, alright?”
he’ll help you change into a new pajamas and fluffy socks, then slip under the covers with you. not without making sure you have a bottle of water and a glass on your nightstand - he knows it’s crucial for you to stay hydrated. and maybe he’d place a couple of snacks there too, just in case you wanted to eat something.
he’d let you rest your head on his chest, and he’d brush your hair with his fingers. you’d let him pick a movie but sleep would soon find you. you’d fall asleep cuddled up with him like a koala, but he wouldn’t mind. in fact, he’d place soft kisses on your head and temple while caressing your back.
“i hate when you’re not feeling good, i wish i could take it all away. rest well, my love, i hope you get well soon.”
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okay so idk what this is bc i’m sick and i have a terrible headache that’s killing me but i was feeling soft :( so here’s my scarce attempt at writing some fluffy scenario. sorry if there’s any mistakes but my brain is not functioning properly rn
-> reblog to show your support. feedbacks are always appreciated. ♡
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azurevi · 1 year
Text
sopping wet cat & love confessions
pairing: leona x gn!reader
summary: where leona has had a long day, and you have the power to make everything bad go away.
note: this is basically just 1.8k of domestic fluff
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It had been an agonizingly long day for Leona. 
He’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed, and thus carried this dark cloud over his head the whole day. The second lesson had barely started when he was called to stop a dumb fight over an omelet between his dorm members. During his wait for the lunch delivery, Trein made a personal visit and warned him about his ghastly attendance record. While he’d taken it with a pinch of salt, the fact that his rest was disturbed dragged his mood even further down. 
Then Ruggie came with a vegetarian sandwich because the canteen was already filled to the brim with students when he’d arrived. Needless to say, Leona didn’t get anything in his stomach in the end.
Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, Kifaji messaged him a reminder of Farena’s birthday party next month, assuring him that he had more phone numbers ready in case he planned to block him. 
What really took the cake, though, was the fact that you weren’t around to chase the gloom away. You were so preoccupied with the schoolwork on hand that you’d missed his call, which you later made up for by texting him three consecutive messages. 
‘busy rn, ttyl, love u <3’
Joyous. 
It was barely four, but the sky was already dimmed by the rain that’d been brewing the whole day. After the last school bell of the day, Leona walked out into the courtyard, hands stuffed in his pockets, donning a ‘don’t touch me if you want to live’ look. He’d take a nap to get his mind off things, but they were supposed to have a club practice today.
If only it could be canceled due to bad weather...
For once, the world seemed to have heard his wish. Scarce raindrops dotted his shirt and bruised the flowers. It was a mere drizzle, but enough of an excuse.
However, he could only make a few steps before it got heavier at an alarming speed, assaulting his face. Picking up pace, he hoped to get under a roof before it could turn into a downpour, but the sky was quicker as it tore a hole in itself. The rain poured down on him in showers, dousing him in a matter of seconds before he could make it back into the hallway.
So fate really was hellbent on dampening his mood. He was pretty darn close to turning the whole campus into sand. 
As he made his way to the mirror chamber, the passing students casted bewildered yet timid looks at his permanent scowl. The uniform was suffocating him, clinging to his body like a second skin. His hair stuck to his neck. If one more person dared breathe in his direction, he wasn’t going to be the only one having a bad day.
Head clouded with thousands of ways to cuss the world out, he let his legs lead him through the mirror. He navigated the turns and corners, swung open doors in his way, and walked through corridors with muscle memory alone, until he came to a stop in front of his room, and realized that it wasn’t his room.
It was yours. Somehow, in his mindlessness, he’d ended up right at your doorstep, hand raised in the middle of a knock. And somehow, he completed the action.
“Coming!” You yelled. Footsteps chased towards the door, and then he was face to face with you. Your jaw dropped open as you took in his soaked state.
“Hey.” He said. You sidestepped to let him in, not so subtly eyeing the puddle on the floor. “Sevens, you’re drenched.” 
“What a keen observation.” he couldn’t help the sarcasm slipping through his tongue.
Stepping forward, you observed the tight knit of his brows and the downturn of his mouth, and asked, “Bad day?”
He only grumbled, finding it a bit embarrassing to admit. Instead, he leaned forward with outstretched arms, trying to pull you into one very damp hug.
“Woah, stop there,” you clasped his elbows, keeping him at arm’s length. A look of betrayal dawned on his face. “How about we get you out of those clothes first? You could get a cold like this.”
“And then what, wear yours?” He gave you a once-over, emphasizing on your height.
You made a look before heading towards the wardrobe, where you pulled out a shirt that was way too big for you.
“...So it’s you,” he took the shirt, noting the way it was bathed in your scent. “Ruggie berated me for weeks about this missing shirt, you know.”
“Yea, got it. Now go change,” you pushed him toward the bathroom. He gripped the doorframe, snapping his head toward you. 
“Would you happen to have my pants too?”
“Haha. No.” You rushed to grab your pajama pants, rolling your eyes at his grimace. “It’s either this or fish skin around your legs.”
It looked like arguments were brewing in his head, but he bit down on them and closed the door. While you waited, you grabbed a few sheets of paper towels and cleaned up the wet footprints on the ground, shaking your head when he tried to suppress a few sneezes.
The giggles that came out of you when he emerged was almost enough to make him change back into the wet clothes. He tugged at the cloud-printed trousers that reached all the way above his ankle. “Not a word about this.”
“Pity. I know a few people who would get a kick out of this.”
Shoulders slouched, he headed over to where you were seated on the bed, a towel resting on your lap. Just as he thought he was finally getting the recharging hug, you pulled his hands away and grabbed the towel. “Your hair is dripping.”
“Are you just doing this on purpose now?”
“If you mean purposefully safeguarding your health, then yes, I am.” 
“It’s just wet hair, you go to bed like this all the time.”
“Rainwater's different,” you snatched your phone from the nightstand, thumbs gliding across screen quickly. “Okay. You know what you looked like just now? This."
On the screen were a few photos of doe-eyed cats in the shower that you’d searched up by typing ‘sopping wet cat’. 
“I did not -”
“You did!” You scrolled further down, and suddenly a chortle erupted out of you, which you immediately hid by shielding your face. It didn’t stop the laughs spilling out of you though. “Oh my- Oh my goodness. Look at this cat,” 
He squinted at the photo of a kitty, face covered in milk, with the resemblance of an old, weak man. Meanwhile you were still struggling, flopping onto your back as you laughed wildly. Despite the roll of his eyes, the corner of his mouth quivered. Not at the cat, obviously, but at your poor, absurd humor.
“Fine, whatever. Do what you want.” 
You sat up immediately, still trembling at the memory of the cat drowned in milk. After wrapping the towel around his head, you started ruffle his hair, pursing your lips when his ears twitched at the brushes of your fingers. You pulled the towel toward his jaw so that only his face was visible, and burst into laughter again. Who knew what you were imagining in your head.
“Stop it,” he grabbed your wrist, but the chuckle that escaped him at the end of the sentence was indisputable. 
“Ok, sorry.” You carried on, undoing his twin braids and tousling his hair into a birdnest. On your face were remnants of a grin, gracing your features. He would very much like to see them bloom into a smile again. 
Closing his eyes, he willed his senses to focus on your fingers as they untangled the stubborn knots in his mane. From left to right, you dedicated meticulous attention to each collected strand. He couldn’t help but shiver when you moved on to his ears, wiping the water that’d collected there. The tension in his muscles relaxed along with the tightness that’d strained his face the whole day, and soon he felt his chest rumble in satisfaction.
“You’re glad I love you,” he opened his eyes at your words. “Or else I’d never spoil you like this.”
You got off the bed with the damp towel while he stayed frozen in his spot.
Right. Love. That thing. 
How in the world were you able to utter that word all the time without batting an eye anyway? Anytime he tried to tell you how much he adored you, it felt like spitting his whole heart out onto a plate. It felt like pushing something spiky out of his throat. It felt like admitting that he was very, very vulnerable, and he couldn't stomach that. Not yet.
"Do you want to talk about your day?" You said from the bathroom, voice overlapping with the running tap.
"There were these pups who only knew how to use their brawn. Trein spent a whole 30 minutes bugging me. Skipped lunch. Kifaji texted."
"Yikes," you returned and climbed back onto the mattress, leaning against the bed frame. "Alright, let's make it better then."
He half expected you to block him again as he dived in, but you welcomed him with open arms. He lay his weight on you at first, reaching around your waist, before shuffling closer. Despite just having been soaked to the bones, he was as warm as a bowl of hot soup. Sleep crept on him almost instantly, he couldn't help it. Everything around him was way too soft– your bed, your torso encircled by his arms, his shirt around his body smelled nothing like him and everything like you, your hands buried in his hair. He took a greedy breath as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, then exhaled, hot air fanning your skin.
God forbid that anyone should see him in this state.
"By the way. That thing you said earlier," his words slurred. "I feel the same."
"What thing?" You replied innocently.
He shifted. "Y'know. The thing I'm lucky for." 
"I'm afraid I'm clueless."
His head snapped up in annoyance. You weren't fooling anyone with your tone, but if you wanted to act oblivious, two could play this game
"I mean this," He moved in to press his lips to your forehead. "And this…" Another kiss fell on your left eyelid. "And this," The top of your nose. "And also this." He moved on to your cheeks, lastly sealing the spell by burying his head against your neck again. They were like stamps, his own way of showing you the evidence of his love. 
Instead of responding, you gave him a stamp of your own, sure and gentle on the crown of his head. Outside the storm was still wrecking havoc, but he was inside now, not just under a shelter, but especially in your embrace.
Leona wasn't sure how or when, but your presence in his life had made his dreams a bit more bearable, a bit more attainable. And perhaps, in this very moment when he was able to forget the world around him, they had already come true.
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angelkissiies · 1 year
Note
hocky au! abby losing a game and taking her fustration out on you in the locker rooms😵‍💫😵‍💫 god i am SICK for this woman.
emotional
abby anderson x reader
cw : PORN ITS JUST PORN, literally two mins of plot in the entire thing, cunnilingus, mommy kink, public ish sex, dirty talk, dom!abby, reader being a tad crazy, literally so many things I can’t label rn im so tired, lower your expectations to zero rn, hockey!au, modern!au, college!au.
wc : 4.3k (I have no idea how this happened)
| anon thank you for the request, i really hope I did it some justice but this probably is super unreadable. I’ve been thinking abt this nonstop for the past three days, so I hope you enjoy! |
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Abby Anderson was not a sore loser, except on the off chance your school's rival team won, but that never happened. Other than the fact that it did, in the last few seconds too. They managed to get the last- and ultimately winning- goal, leading the school's undefeated streak to come to an end. In that scenario, she absolutely took the loss to heart, becoming the world's most frustrated girl as she practically threw her skates off and disappeared into the locker rooms. 
Her teammates didn’t even dare to venture inside, deciding that wearing their sweaty uniforms home was a better fate than fucking with an angry Abby. It wasn’t often they saw her like this, but when they did it was crucial to be as scarce as possible. Being the team captain was a hard job, but being a team captain whose win streak was just destroyed.. by the rival team... Not even they could imagine the outrage. 
“Abby?” You called down the hallway, arms filled with bags before you tossed them down by the doorway. It was weirdly silent, not a sound emitting from inside as you slowly pushed the door open. 
The room seemed pretty empty, except for the tale-tell signs of Abby’s presence. Her gym bag was wide open and clothes littered the floor around it, accompanied by her (incredibly too big) water bottle. She was here, just where was the question. 
You pushed in, letting the door swing closed with a ‘thwack’ against the frame, before glancing around the mostly darkened room. It was a pretty big place, seeing as the school had gotten a pretty massive check from some surgeon pertaining to the rink and all its little bits and bobs. A nice place, that was undeniable, seeing as all of the rivaling schools chose to visit instead of host. 
“Abigaillll..” You drew out, turning a corner to find it desolate, making a disappointed frown pull at your lips. If anyone was able to calm the girl, it was you, coming in the clutch on rough games and making sure she didn’t get expelled for threatening to harm her opponents (she tended to get a little too into the game, like, all the time.) How was a mystery to most, seeing as they’d seen her take down grown men on the ice. but her little girlfriend? different story. “Wh-,”
A hand cut you off as it cupped over your mouth, pushing you back until you landed back first into the endcap of the lockers. Thinking the worst, you attempted to bite at the massive hand, earning a dry chuckle from someone you knew a little too well. 
It was her, of course, it was her, who else would it be? 
Abby licked her lips gingerly, her usual crystalline eyes taking on a darker more steely blue as she peered down at you, hand slowly moving from your mouth to the curve of your neck. “Hi.” She hummed, not really paying attention to you as her gaze followed her hand- watching as it caressed the soft flesh of your throat. 
Heat rose in your cheeks, making you let out a small covering cough. “I’ve been looking for you.” You spoke, the soft graze of her nails against your skin catching you off guard enough to halt your sentence there, watching her face as she let her gaze fall to your chest.
“Oh yeah?” She asked, eyes flickering back up to meet your own, they were filled with something else now. 
You nodded, recognizing the heat in her touch after having spent so long memorizing her personal language- something only you could decipher. “Yeah, I wanted to, uh, check on you.” Mostly true, seeing as her friends were too scared to try. 
Abby raised an eyebrow, using a free hand to push her honey-toned waves over her shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I be? Just a game, right?” She stated, words sharp enough to kill as she moved an arm over your head, using it to hold her weight as she loomed over you. “No need to be so..-”
“Fuck it.” 
You would’ve fallen backward with the force of her kiss if she hadn’t carefully kept you placed firmly against the lockers- giving you little to no room to move. Not that you’d even consider it, seeing as the high her lips gave you was more than enough to keep you complacent with her will. She knew how easily she could rush this, how wet you’d get just from this small encounter, but she wanted needed to make this last. 
Abby panted lightly as she broke away, eyes cloudy with frustration and lust as she eyed you. Something about her energy had shifted, she no longer felt like the angry girl on the ice, but instead like a predator stalking its prey. She wanted you in the most primal way but her conscience was holding her back- not wanting to do anything you weren’t comfortable with. “Baby, look at me.” She rumbled, voice dark as she took in the look of your blushed cheeks and slightly parted lips. Something about you made her feral, wild, untamable. 
Your glossy eyes darted up to meet hers, almost making you gasp at how intimidating she looked. She towered over you, hair falling carelessly down her shoulders whilst she eyed you, not even to mention her face had taken on a tinge of red from the temperature of the locker rooms. You knew she didn’t have a bone in her body that could hurt you, but in the seconds leading up to your compliance, you would've let her if she wanted. 
“What is the safeword?” 
A pang of nerves shot through your stomach, glancing around the locker room before she moved a hand to your face- redirecting your gaze back to her. “B-but Abs, we can’t.” You managed, feeling the familiar warmth enter your panties as she forced your attention back onto her with a dry chuckle. 
“Safeword. Now.” 
Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, “Mercy.” You whispered, shifting your weight from foot to foot as you watched her carefully. The room was silent despite the ragged breaths that fell from your lips, adding to the anticipation that had begun to soak your cunt. 
“Atta girl.” Abby praised, pushing forward to capture your lips again, one hand coming around to linger at your waistband. Her lips were rougher this time, chapped from the chilly air, and desperate as they delved into a clash of teeth and drool. As much as she had begged herself to take her time, there was something inside of her that begged to be satisfied, it begged to be fed. 
You whined into her mouth as she bit at your bottom lip, arms moving to lock around her neck as she used her free hand to unbutton your jeans. “Abby..” You panted, pressing your thighs together as you felt her hand dip past your waistband. “We can’t, what.. what if someone sees?” You managed halfheartedly, not wanting to stop but knowing it was the best decision. 
Abby chuckled, nudging your thighs apart with her leg, giving her access to your heat. “Then let them.” Her fingers grazed over the soft cotton of your panties, feeling the wetness that had seeped through, before pressing into the little ball of nerves gently. It was enough to erect a strangled moan from your lips, urging her to continue her devious toying. She let her thick digits skim over the fabric covering your slit, just barely adding a bit of pressure to your swollen lips. 
“Fuck,” You hissed, legs naturally easing even wider before she crudely pulled her hand from your cunt, making you whimper from the loss of contact. You’d immediately begun to think of some way to chide her before you’d processed the loss of contact, seeing as she now sunk to her knees. Her hands were focused on ridding you of your jeans, lips swollen and parted as she gazed up at you. 
The sight made you groan aloud, her demanding yet desperate touch drove you insane as she eased the jeans down your legs until she finally got them off taking your panties with them in one swift movement. With a haphazard throw, you’d found yourself in just her oversized shirt that you’d stolen from her last night, trembling slightly under her electrifying touch. “Please, Abs.” You sighed, a hand moving to intertwine with her honey locks. 
She made a show of licking her lips, keeping her eyes on your own as she dipped down to lick a stripe up your soaked cunt, arousing a satisfied groan to leave her mouth. If there was one thing she prided herself on, it was her self-control, but as she looped an arm around your thigh- she’d swear she’d been lying to herself the entire time. 
Her shoulders pushed your legs open wider until you were practically thrown over her shoulders, barely able to hold yourself up without her. Chest heaving as you gripped her hair, head coming to rest upon the cool metal of the lockers behind you. 
Abby flattened her tongue against your hole, nose bumping your clit gently as she tasted the arousal you’d accumulated after only a few minutes of being within her grasp. She dragged her tongue against the hot skin, coming up to swirl around your clit before sucking the small bundle between her lips roughly.  
A sharp gasp left your mouth as you pulled at her hair, earning an amused noise from the girl. She knew how weak you got for her mouth, how easily she could unravel you without even really trying. Anytime she could, she’d use it to her advantage. “F-fuck, Abs.” You whimpered, feeling her tongue dip in between your folds to skim over your slit. 
“You taste so fucking good.” She groaned, mouth now covered in your juices as she pressed messy open-mouthed kisses to your clit. You hadn’t realized, but her hand had left your waist, now hanging by your thigh as she pulled back slightly to watch as you fell limp against the lockers. 
She barely hesitated as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, placing her free hand between your thighs, letting one thick digit slide in between your puffy lips before coming to a gentle stop above your slit. Her finger grazed over the hole, feeling as you attempted to clench around nothing. It brought a small smile to her lips as she glanced down at her sweatpants, biting the inside of her cheek lightly before letting her finger press into your cunt. 
You whined at the sensation, instinctually clenching around it as your cunt sucked her in, attempting to buck your hips to gain the pleasure you craved from her. It was to no avail, as she used her body weight to keep you from moving. Her thick finger came to a stop before curling to massage the spongy spot that lay inside your cunt that only she knew how to reach. A string of curses fell from your lips in response, followed by a messy combination of praise and hatred for the girl as she drew it out painfully long.
Abby moved her head down to press soft kisses to the flesh on your thigh, letting a second finger join her first to stretch your pulsating walls out wide enough for her to fuck you. She made a point to ignore the spells of complaints falling from your lips as she pushed her fingers deep into your cunt, forcing a choked moan to fall from your lips as she began fucking into you with her fingers. “Like that baby?” She snickered quietly, barely loud enough for you to hear before she brought her lips back up to your clit, giving it a swirl with her tongue before pulling it in between her lips with a harsh suck. 
You could’ve screamed from the explosion of pleasure coursing through your body as you writhed against the lockers, hands lost in her hair as you attempted to keep your composure. The way she knew your body was one you’d never experienced before, as she always seemed to know how to make you snap. Abby was the only person who’d ever been able to make you cum- despite her not being your first. She liked to joke about how shitty your exes were but in moments like this, you found it hard to disagree. 
She was ruthless in her pace, picking it up once she felt your legs begin to tremble under her unyielding sexual torment. Her mouth didn’t falter, continuing to lap up the slick that had begun seeping from your sensitive cunt. “You gonna cum for me, baby? You gonna let me taste you?” She hummed in the most venereal tone, tongue stuttering over your clit. 
The band that had wound in your stomach tightened, making you clench harshly around her fingers, urging her to continue. Your mouth was ajar now, a silent cry for the girl beneath you leaving your bruised lips. “Please, oh fuck. Please, Abby.” You chanted as if you were asking God for a miracle. 
God was a woman and she answered. 
Abby curled her fingers again, using her thumb to rub rough circles into your clit as she pulled back to watch you fall apart above her, only being able to keep yourself standing with her assistance. It was her favorite sight to see, one of you cum drunk as she fucked orgasms out of you like it was easy. She prided herself on being the only girl who could see you like this, the only girl who could make you so wet it was dripping down your thighs. “So fucking pretty, baby.” She groaned, licking the slick from her lips. 
You cried out, hips stuttering as you felt the band snapping, sending your eyes rolling back. A gush of liquid could be felt drenching Abby’s hand. It was like you’d been holding your breath, as you felt the air return to your lungs, followed by her fingers easing out of your now sore hole. She was so gentle, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh before pushing herself up off of her knees to hover before you, holding you up as your legs wobbled beneath you. 
“Abby,” You began, only to hear her shush you gently, pulling you into her as she allowed you to ride out the waves of your orgasm. You let your body fall to rest, moving your hands to rest on her hips. You ran your fingers over the hem of her gray sweatpants, letting yourself drown yourself in the feeling of her. 
“Got another in you?” She asked, breath caressing the shell of your ear as she hovered above you, hands itching to have you bent over the nearest surface. She’d been holding out originally, not wanting to cross a line by bringing the strap into it, but with the wetness that’d begun to pool in her boxers- she knew she couldn’t hold out much longer. She wanted to fuck you, have you bent over the nearest surface stretched out by her cock. She wanted to be joking when she asked you but the desperation had begun to creep into her words, pushing her subconscious’s agenda. 
You wanted to say no, still mortified by the idea of someone finding the two of you here but as you went to reply your body had already reacted, sending a dull ache right back to your core. With a small nod, you answered, only to be stopped by her strong grip on your jaw. 
“Answer me, pretty.” Abby said, forcing your hazy eyes to focus back on her, giving you a small peck on the edge of your lips. Her touch was forceful yet soft as she handled you, making you fall deeper into the pit that was her love. 
You stared back at her, pulling your lips in between your teeth before you could find the words. “Y-yes, yes. Please, Abs.” You mumbled, watching as her blushed lips pulled back in a smile, making you tilt your head in confusion. 
Abby let out a soft breath, moving to press her hips into yours. “Who?”
A pang of desperation shot straight to your cunt as you gazed up at the woman, feeling the firm bulge in her sweatpants and knowing exactly what she wanted. It was something that started as a joke during the earlier portions of your relationship but soon became something much more serious, something much more personal as time went on. You didn’t think she genuinely liked it until she’d practically begged you to use it more during sex. 
“Please, Mommy.” 
She groaned in appreciation, feeling her boxers begin to stick to her legs with the arousal that had begun to build up. “Good girl, c’mere.” Her hands were guiding you, pulling you away from the lockers and towards the counter that sat nestled in the corner. It was something she’d fantasized about more than once, fucking you senseless here- a place she’d always associated with you. “I need to be inside of you, baby. So fucking bad.”
You whined at the thought, allowing her to press you up against the counter as she nudged your legs apart with her knee. Things felt like they were moving so slowly as you pressed your cheek onto the cold metal, cunt clenching around nothing as you heard her click the straps of the harness firmly into place. “Use me, mommy. M’yours.” Your voice was airy as you spoke, making the woman behind you chuckle darkly. 
“That right?” Her hands settled on your hips, her sweatpants hanging around her thighs as she pushed them down just far enough to allow the strap to break free. The purple toy hung freely as she used a free hand to grip the base, rubbing the tip along your glistening folds. It took every ounce of self-control she had not to bury herself to the hilt in your sopping cunt, just the look of it was tempting her- not to mention the spout of pathetic noises that had begun to fall from your lips. She pushed the tip towards your hole, watching as it slowly began to sink into you, earning a satisfied noise to rumble in her chest. 
Your hips jerked slightly, the newfound depth being filled by eight inches of purple plastic deep inside of your heat. It was something that made every ounce of self-respect leave your body, craving nothing but the abuse she supplied to your aching walls. “Need you.” You gasped, feeling her cold hands come back to massage your hips. 
Abby felt a rush of adrenaline course through her veins making her jerk her hips back, pulling the strap almost completely from your cunt before snapping back- burying herself inside of you. “Yeah, you do. Don’t you, pretty?” She huffed, using your hips as leverage to fuck into you. It was as if something inside of her had snapped, throwing all care to the wind as her arms tensed making her fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips. 
You gasped, fingers reaching for something to hold onto as she thrust. It was like being fucked dumb as your mouth opened but nothing legible came out, the sound of skin and plastic being drowned out by messy cries of pleasure as she looped an arm around to hook under your waist. She pulled you up off of the counter, pressing your back against her chest. 
She was breathless, the harsh change of pace sending her for a loop as she pressed chaste kisses to your exposed neck, stopping right above the neckline of your shirt- mentally kicking herself for not taking it off of you when she had the chance. “So dirty.” She tsked, moving a hand to your throat before giving it a gentle squeeze. She was so close to losing herself in the pleasure, having the bumper rubbing harshly against her clit, drawing sharp gasps from her lips as she felt the frustration from the day ease up into something she could only describe as ecstasy. 
Your stomach convulsed as she angled her hips up, abusing your core and making you let out the most embarrassingly loud moans in response, she knew exactly what she was doing. Today wasn’t any more about hockey than it was the parking ticket you’d managed to snag on the way here, it was about something that had been bubbling between the two of you for a bit now. Something that had managed to spill over into a place you’d never imagined getting your guts rearranged in. The fucking rink of all places. You made a mental note to thank the other team for winning. 
“Fuck, fuck.” You hissed as she dropped her hand down to rub harsh circles on your swollen clit, practically forcing your climax to approach. As much as she wanted to keep going like this all night, she knew the cleaner would be around in the next half-hour. That was not a report she’d like to have in her file, considering who paid for the building. 
Your mouth hung open, broken gasps and moans falling as you slacked underneath her- your body going limp as you felt a pulsing enter the walls of your cunt, an ache begging to be absolved as she rocked your hips onto the hard plastic. It always felt so sudden with her, never knowing how fast she’d be able to draw the band in your stomach to snap. “Mpfh, Abs- fuck, mommy.” 
Abby ground her hips into yours, chasing the same high she felt coming to the surface in you. Her pace stuttering momentarily as the sensitivity caught her off guard, making a whiny moan escape her lips. She felt the coil in her stomach set alight, making her thrusts rougher and deeper as her hips chased the ribbed bumper. “That’s right, baby. Mommy’s fucking got you.” She hummed, lips nearing your ear. 
A rush of heat coursed through your body, making your legs tremble as you stayed held against her body. Your stomach puffed and caved, spilling cum onto the purple plastic that invaded your sore hole, making your entire body wrack with sob-filled moans. 
Around the base was a ring of white that Abby ignored as she continued to fuck into you, feeling a similar ache rise in her cunt. She held your trembling body close as her ache turned into a burning that then began to fill her stomach. Her cunt clenched around nothing as she abused the sore nub. Her chest heaved with every thrust, drinking in every estranged moan she could pull from you as the soreness took over. She felt her hands begin to shake as her final thirst sent her over the edge, making her move a hand onto the counter to hold herself up. 
Her orgasm shot through her body, sending chills down her spine as she felt a gush of liquid soak through her boxers and onto the light material of her sweatpants. She gasped something heavenly in your ear as she did so, not loosening her grip for even a second, resting gently against your back as she recovered. 
“F-fuck, Abs.” You managed, body still trembling from the pressure against your womb. It wasn't often that she was so rough, so public. “What happened today?” 
It was almost a joke, though in some sense you really wanted to know, seeing as you were about to make her carry you to the car from how badly you were shaking. Could you drive like this? Who even knows? Though as she hesitated, you had almost begun to regret it- until she finally decided to speak. 
“Some guy on the co-ed team called me emotional.” She explained, gently coaxing the strap from inside of you- trying not to cause any more discomfort as she did so. Her hand held your hip in place, the other coming to unclasp the harness from her hips. 
You whimpered slightly at the feeling, following it up with a harsh scoff. If there was one thing Abby Anderson wasn’t, it was emotional. Probably just another man being fragile about a woman having feelings, per usual. “Who?” You asked, turning to face her now- seeing the product of your time spent. Her eyes were blown with easing lust, her face taking on a light pink hue. Her hair was now widely sticking to her face and poking up in random spots, making you giggle lightly as you used your hands to smooth them down to look halfway decent. 
“Terrance, I think that's what his last name was.” Abby recalled, placing the harness and strap on the counter next to you before leaning into your gentle touch. “No need to worry about it though, I'm over it.” 
You smiled at her, stepping up on your tippy toes to press a kiss to her chapped lips. “Oh, I'm not worried, honey. Not at all.” 
bonus !
Approximately two days later 
You walked down the courtyard towards the rink, having your earbuds in but not playing any music in hopes to avoid speaking to anyone on the way there. But as you passed a gaggle of girls sitting in the grass, you chose to slow down- having the urge to listen in to whatever they decided to gossip about today. 
“Hey, did you hear about Josh?” 
“Which josh?” 
“Josh Terrance, the one with the dentist dad.” 
“Oh, that one. No, what happened?” 
“Some crazy bitch slashed his tires last night, he doesn’t know who it was but they got three of them.” 
“Shit, that sucks. Kinda deserved it though, he's a douchebag.” 
A satisfied smirk pulled at your lips as you sped up to pass them, a new pep in your step as you made your way to tell Abby of the mysterious ‘crazy bitch’ that just so happened to slash Mr.Terrance’s tires. 
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redsugarsociety · 2 months
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18/1/2024
Progress update-ish?
I've finished some early bits of ep2 that just need a bit more editing and filling in. I'm ngl writing a dialogue-heavy update (that's what it's shaping up to be rn, it seems) is pretty intimidating--I personally love reading and writing conversations between characters but it's easy for those bits to feel scarce, for the lack of a better word, but I'm trying to ensure there's still enough meat for you guys to chew on. I do feel however that this is the best way to ease myself back into writing after a rather long break from it.
I'll be honest this probably won't be a lengthy episode, as its purpose mostly is to just set stuff up and fill you guys in a bit on some background info before we can get to the juicier stuff. If I can get this update to work the way I want it to, you'll be meeting plenty of recurring side characters I've been itching to write forever 😄
As usual, no clue when it'll actually be done but I'm taking writing it one small bit at a time. Life is still a little weird right now but at least I luckily have a bit more time for creative endeavors :) As you may have noticed I'm also trying to be a bit more active here but I do still consider myself on hiatus so don't get alarmed if I dip sometimes hahah
Hope the beginning of the year has been gentle to you ❤ Stay safe and see you soon!
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softblesses · 2 months
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Summer Colds.
In which Neal and Elizabeth suffer, and Peter is there to fix it.
Pretty much another classic sick fic of my favourite hyperfixation rn! Please don’t reblog to non kink/whump blogs. Hope you enjoy!
Part 1.
“You’re sick,” Mozzie stated matter of factly, whilst wandering alongside Neal, in the streets of New York.
“I’m fine.” Neal muttered back, rubbing a knuckle under his nose in an attempt to put a stop to the itch.
“You’re not fine! You never sneeze. Like, ever, so unless you can explain the past ten minutes? I’m staying ten steps away, my friend. Ten. Steps. Away.”
“Mozz, you’re being dramatic. It’s nothing, it’s just —“ Neal stopped walking, bringing his elbow to his face. Mozzie was right, but he was hanging on to the small dregs of hope that this was all random and he wasn’t getting sick after all.
‘Heh’kshu!’ The sneezes told a different story.
“Gesundheit. Now, why don’t we do the sensible thing and double back to June’s instead of breakfast? You can go to bed, I’ll get you some medicine and then I’ll make scarce!” Mozzie took a few steps back towards Neal, rolling his eyes at the sound of his cellphone ringing.
He folded his arms, tapping his foot as he listened to his friend speak. “The suit wants you to work?” He questioned, after Neal hung up.
“Elizabeth’s workplace got robbed,” Neal explained, pocketing the phone. “She’s okay, but Peter wants to investigate. Don’t look at me like that, Moz. It’s just a stuffy nose. It’s probably just… allergies, or something.”
“You don’t get any kind of pollen allergies, wise guy.” Mozzie pointed out. “Let me know if El needs my… expertise. I’ll be at breakfast, while you go and tango with the bureau, Sneezy.”
“Yeah, yeah. See you later, Mozzie.” Neal watched him walk away, checking his watch; Peter would be here to pick him up soon.
After almost ten minutes, Peter was parking by the sidewalk and Neal climbed into the back seat; they were picking up Elizabeth, so he naturally assumed she’d go up front.
“Hey, Neal.” Peter greeted, and it was already obvious he was stressed.
“I’m sure Elizabeth is fine,” Neal replied, buckling his seatbelt.
His handler only sighed, driving off again. “I told her to stay home today,” he continued, without acknowledging Neal’s statement.
“Stay home?”
“Yeah… she’s sick, and she already worked from home for a couple days. I just — well, El thinks I’m being too dramatic. It’s just a cold, but, still.”
Ah. That explains how Neal caught what he has. “You worry a lot,” he confirmed. “But, I’m sure Elizabeth appreciates it. She’ll be okay, and I’m sure she’ll work from home tomorrow.”
There was a long pause, before Peter sighed again. They stopped in traffic, and he took a look in the mirror back at Neal. “Maybe you’re right,” he hummed.
“I’m right? Really?”
“Alright, don’t push it.”
“Are you sure you’re not getting sick?” Neal teased, although unbeknownst to Peter he was the one feeling under the weather; Neal’s throat itched, and so did his ears, and he couldn’t breathe through his nose or he’d sniffle and it would make him sneeze again.
“My immune system is top notch, and you know it.” Peter pointed out. “I’m feeling fine.”
“Even when sleeping with Elizabeth?”
Peter shot him a glare in the mirror, and Neal held up his hands. I meant sleeping as in sharing a bed! That’s a sure fire way to get sick.” He scrunches his nose, trying his best to quell the ever growing itch.
“Huh. And, you’d know, wouldn’t you?” The man jested back, falling quiet as they neared their destination.
Neal rolled his eyes at Peter’s comment, but for lack of energy and realisation that he was about to park the car again, he stayed quiet. Peter told him to stay put, and explained that he wasn’t going in as FBI — Elizabeth had a bunch that the lead thief was one of her colleagues. It was an interesting sounding case, but right now the CI was too focused on holding back a sneeze. And, as soon as Peter had closed his car door and stepped away from it, Neal buried his face into his elbow and inhaled sharply.
‘Hh’sSHhu, k—tch’tcH. Ugh. Shit.’ He sighed, making quick work of blowing his nose into the handkerchief in his pocket, placing it back just in time for Peter to open the door for Elizabeth.
“Honey, I promise, I’m fine — hey, Neal — a little shaken up, I guess, but I feel alright! You worry too much.” Elizabeth huffed a little, waiting for her husband to get in the car beside her. She didn’t sound extremely sick, but Neal could definitely hear the congestion in her voice.
Peter climbed in the car, and leaned across to feel El’s forehead. She didn’t look impressed. “I know, I know. I worry too much! We have to take your statement back at the office, is that okay? I’ll work from home after that.”
Neal’s eyebrows raised a little at that.
“You’re coming too, Neal. You’re not getting out of work that easily.” It was like Peter had read his mind. “We can —“
‘hu’tsh, tch, tshh. . Huh’tcHoo.’
“Bless you,” Peter and Neal rang in sync, whilst the agent continued to rub his wife’s back.
“Sorry,” El apologised softly, pocketing her tissue and leaning back in the seat with a heavy sigh.
“It’s okay, Hon. Neal, I’ll explain everything to you when we get to my place. Let’s get this statement over with so we can all relax.” Peter leaned across to kiss El on the cheek, before starting up the car.
•••
The conference room was dark, with the shutters closed and the lights turned off. It was like a welcoming blanket of calm, and immediately Neal felt the ache in his head dissipate a little. He quietly closed the door, glancing over at El, who was sitting on the couch scrolling through her phone, on low brightness mode.
“Neal,” she greeted softly. “Everything okay?”
“Peter sent me to check on you,” it was only a tiny, white lie. “And, I’d much rather sit in here with you. Peter gets grumpy when he’s worried.” Neal muttered, wandering in and closing the door behind him.
Elizabeth watched him for a moment, eyebrows raised. “Really? No other reason?” She questioned, still watching him.
“No other reasons.” Neal took a seat in one of the spinning chairs by the conference room table, and rubbed his eyes. They were almost as itchy as everything else; his nose itched, his ears felt stuffy as well as itchy. . . He was starting to feel worse, and if anyone was going to figure him out, it was Elizabeth Burke.
“Neal, are you okay? You’ve been acting off since we were in the car.” Elizabeth pressed on, and Neal sighed in semi-defeat.
“If I told you I had a headache, would you stop asking?” Neal muttered, trying not to sound agitated, and somewhat failing.
There was a pause, and El coughed slightly. “No. Does your throat hurt?” She continued, and Neal spun a little in his chair.
“Maybe.”
“Stuffy nose?”
“A little.”
“So, you’re sick. I knew it.” Elizabeth muttered.
“Which means, this is my fault,” she concluded next. “I’m sorry, Neal.”
He shook his head, reaching into his pocket for the silk handkerchief he’d been hiding away. He rubbed at his nose, and sniffled; revealing the oncoming congestion he’d been trying so hard to cover up for the past couple of hours. “It’s not your fault,” Neal finally spoke, pocketing the handkerchief.
“Know anyone else with a summer cold?” El quipped back, and he could imagine the look she was currently giving him.
With a heavy sigh, Neal leaned to rest his head against his arms, on the tabletop in front of him. “Elizabeth B — wait, what’s your middle name?” Neal asked, sitting up again and squinting over at her.
“Why?”
“Just.. humour me, just for a second.”
“It’s Laura.”
Neal inhaled, and stood up. “Elizabeth Laura Burke, why are you so irritatingly observant?” He exhaled, sniffling afterwards.
A laugh fell from her lips at that, which proceeded into a cough covered by a fist. “Marrying an FBI agent might have had something to do with it,” she smiled, patting the space next to her. “Neal George Caffrey, you know it’s alright to let your guard down here, hmm?” El’s voice softened, watching him as he sat.
He shifted slightly, and El could tell that he was uncomfortable. Although, the eventual albeit very quiet “I know,” was comforting. “That’s why I told you so easily.” Neal murmured, leaning back against the couch with a shiver.
“And, because whatever meds you dosed up with this morning are starting to wear off?” Elizabeth teased, gently reaching to feel his forehead. A little warm, but nothing alarming.
“Stop being right.” Neal grumbled, before quickly leaning away and burying his face into the crook of his arm.
‘Hu—ngxT. . . HheisHhhoo—ugh.”
“Bless you,” Elizabeth murmured, rummaging around in her purse for a new packet of tissues, and gently nudging him before offering them out.
Neal practically whined, taking a moment to use one of the tissues, before leaning back against the couch with another little shiver. Elizabeth frowned, about to suggest asking Peter to take them home sooner, when the glass door behind them opened.
“Sorry that took so long,” Peter’s voice announced. “Ready to go?”
The CI’s demeanour was quick to change — he sat up straight, cleared his throat and plastered on a signature Neal Caffrey smile in greeting. “Am I still coming?” He questioned nonchalantly, scrunching his nose and trying his absolute best not to sniffle again.
“Yep,” Peter responded. “We’re working from home today. Which means better coffee and some proper rest for El.” He offered out his hand for his wife, who stood and wandered towards him. She took a glance back at Neal, that was wordlessly saying ‘are you going to tell him, or am I?’ But, the CI simply followed behind them, shaking off whatever discomfort he was currently feeling for now.
Seconds after leaving the comfort of the dark room behind them, both Elizabeth and Neal squinted at the harsh lighting that illuminated the bullpen. Barely seconds later, the pair both paused and comedically in sync sneezes caused Peter to stop in his tracks and turn. “Bless y—whoever just sneezed.” He frowned, watching his wife continue to do so, and Neal turn around to put his back to him.
‘Hhh—ngxXt.’ The CI spun back around, sniffling desperately, and faced with a quizzical look from Peter.
“What, you’re sick too, now?” He questioned, folding his arms.
Neal shook his head. “The lights are too bright, Peter. You should really get someone to — snf — fix that.” He straightened himself up, and glanced sideways at El, who didn’t seem all that pleased with the holdup.
“Right,” Peter muttered, gesturing for the pair to follow him again.
“You wouldn’t understand. Having striking blue eyes isn’t all fun and games,” Neal continued, ignoring the look he got from Elizabeth beside him. He didn’t want to tell Peter he felt lousy, not yet. It was awkward, and he wasn’t used to being so open about vulnerability… besides, he just needed some more meds and he’d be fine to work the case.
On the elevator ride back down, El wrapped her arms around Peter and rested her head against his chest. It was obvious that her meds were wearing off too, although all Neal could do was uncomfortably shift on his feet until they reached the parking garage. He shivered, rubbing his eyes again, and followed Peter and El to the car in silence. Even when sitting in the back, he was uncharacteristically quiet, and at this point Peter wasn’t very convinced that his excuses earlier were true… because, a quiet Neal Caffrey was always something to be suspicious of.
When they got back, El told Neal to wait upstairs and she’d find him something comfortable to wear. Peter waited until the CI was out of earshot, before turning to his wife with a questioning expression. He led her into the living room, bringing her into his arms and waiting a moment before speaking.
“El,” he began. “What’s wrong with Neal?” He figured that if Neal was going to tell anyone, it would probably be El.
His wife faltered, looking up at him with a slightly guilty look. “Why would he tell me?” She replied, resting her head back against Peter’s chest with a congested sigh.
“Because you’re Elizabeth Burke — kind, soft, warm and caring. I can imagine Neal would talk to you, given the right circumstances… you were alone, maybe his guard was down.”
“Well, I kinda guessed. He eventually told the truth.” Elizabeth admitted. “I feel awful about it. I didn’t want to get anyone sick.”
Peter pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Speaking of awful, how are you feeling now?” He asked, leaning back to look at her.
“A little less than awful.”
“But, not great?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “D’you still need me to help with anything in the case?” She asked quietly.
“All I need for you to do is go and change into something comfortable and lie down. We can talk work later, once you’ve rested. I’ll come check on you in a half hour… I guess I should check on Neal too, huh?”
“I’ll check on him before I go to bed. I love you.”
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venexus · 1 year
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Love Will Bring You to Your Knees
Childe x GN!Reader
word count: 3.5k
warnings: angst, brief hurt/comfort, descriptions of injuries, mentions of blood, love to the point of destruction (emotionally), lying & deception, childe referred to as both tartaglia & ajax
summary: tartaglia is a man of many secrets. as his partner, you expect to be an exception to this.
this uh... has been a trip to write PFFT i was just thinking like,,, hmm what if childe lies to his s/o about his profession the same way he does w his siblings,,, and this was born <3 disclaimer that this is. not an example of a healthy relationship btw. it could be healthy, with a lot of work, but it very much isn't rn lmfao.
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You are no fool.
You know, when Tartaglia comes home to you at three in the morning and closes the front door so quietly as not to wake you, that he will not tell you the truth about what has kept him from you. 
He takes a moment to rest in the hallway and you can hear from the sanctity of your bedroom the way that the fabric of his jacket scratches against the wall when he slouches down. All you can make out for a moment are the sounds of deep breaths. Shaky first, then once again with more repose, as though he's attempting to steel himself before facing you. 
Tartaglia has always preferred sleeping on the side of the bed closest to the door. He says that way he is the one a potential intruder would face first, that he can protect you whilst he is here. As if the scarce few times a month that he sneaks home to you like this would be the opportune moment for an enemy to ambush you, rather than the endless- and, most typically, sleepless- nights you spend alone.
From where you lay, you can see long shifting shadows below the frame of the door as he stands once more. His steps are slow and deliberate as he crosses the hall to reach you, and he takes a brief respite to blow out the candle you had left burning for him. 
Outside the bedroom door, he pauses for a third time. 
Tartaglia grasps the door handle and it squeaks upon being moved from its steady resting place. And yet he does not enter, leaving the brass knob in stasis.
Quietly, he murmurs something. To himself, you assume; some words of encouragement, perhaps. The phrase "get a hold of yourself already, Ajax" slips through the unintelligible muttering and you take it as your chance to feign sleep in preparation for his entrance. 
The door creaks open and he verbally shushes the poor thing, like it'll have any effect. A soft sigh escapes him as he closes the door again and pads across the bedroom floor to reach you. 
He does not tuck into bed straight away like you assume he will, like he typically tends to. Does not immediately shuffle up behind you, wrapping an arm gently across both yourself and the blankets you are nestled under, and drift off to sleep just like that. There is no firm kiss placed to the back of your head, protective and reassuring to tell you even in your slumber that he is here now. 
Instead, he walks all the way around to your side of the bed. To where you had deliberately rolled over to face the window so that you did not have to risk looking him in the eye when he entered. 
You think to yourself that, if you face him when he comes home like this, you will surely spark up an argument. 
There is a conglomerate wash of emotions that broils away in your stomach when you wait up on nights like these. (Which is every night, you remind yourself. Just in the hopes that it will be one of the nights he appears.) A fierce and tempestuous mixture of anger, longing, confusion, betrayal and love. 
You love this man so painfully that you are willing to lay there and just let him embrace you until the morning. Let him wake before you and pepper butterfly kisses across your cheeks to rouse you to the whims of the rising sun. And when you finally face him, when he smiles at you and the corners of his eyes crease up because he simply cannot contain how much he cares about you within the tender glance in his bright blue irises, you allow yourself to fall in love with him again and forget the night before.
So, when Tartaglia does not do it this time round, you cannot help but let the raging torrent of emotions that typically brew within you twist around and misalign and be replaced with a sinking worry. 
Worry about what exactly, you're unsure.
Part of you frets that he plans to try and wake you, to ask for your attention before you have settled enough to give it to him. Another part fears he has news to deliver, news you'd much rather not hear. And yet another part still is worried that he is simply going to leave again, that because he hasn't immediately come to cling to you then he will be gone again without even staying and you will be left with an empty bed once more despite how very close he had been to joining you.
Still, despite it all, you cannot bring yourself to open your eyes and look at him. Not even when Tartaglia kneels down before you, passes the back of his hand so gingerly across your cheek. His knuckles are rougher than usual and you can feel the telltale signs of split flesh and dried blood across them as they run along your skin.
He utters your name quietly, "I love you… and I'm sorry," as he leans in to place a kiss on your forehead. Even his lips have been bloodied and bruised, you note, as something cold and wet smears in his wake and he tuts to himself as he tries to dab it away. "I'll never be what you need from me. You deserve so much more." 
The spittle that has welled under your tongue as you hold yourself together for long enough to maintain the facade of sleep starts to burn at his words. If you weren't trying so hard to keep your breathing calm, you'd surely have choked on it as you swallow it down quickly. He doesn't seem to notice, or at least he is pretending that he hasn't, because he decides to keep talking. The hum of his voice within his throat, whilst he struggles to get the words out in a whisper, wobbles as he continues.
"I never thought I'd love someone-" he can't help the shaky huff that passes his lips as he pushes down a derisive laugh- "and yet here you are."
You crack an eye open slightly and notice that he has turned away from you now, directing his gaze to the little photo you keep on the bedside table. There is no frame for it, kept propped up against the body of a brass lamp. The edges are worn and browned from constant contact and the corners have started to crinkle and smooth off with how often you pick it up. Part of the image itself has faded where the morning sunlight hits it in such a specific way when you leave it on the bedside like this, just a sliver snaking across one corner to another that follows the path of the warm light that has lifted the vibrancy away. 
It depicts the pair of you, the photo. Taken with overeager hands that have left the outlines of your bodies blurred. You are smiling and he has his lips firmly to your cheek, squishing the soft flesh up until it is tickled by the lower lashes of your closed eyes. Tartaglia is the one taking the photo, arm outstretched to angle the Kamera as best he can. Which, despite his best efforts, was clearly not enough. You had ended up off-center and closer to the lower left corner of the photo, with the golden Liyuean landscape taking up the main focus of the composition instead. 
And yet, even so, you have cherished this little photograph. Turned it over in the early hours of the morning so many times, fondly thumbing against the edges until it began to degrade. 
You suppose it does that, fondness. Destroys things if it isn't shielded by a protective layer. 
The photograph would be better off handled with silken gloves, or kept locked away by the thin glass and sturdy wood of a frame. But you just can't help the fondness that creeps through your veins when you touch it for yourself, when you dig the edges into your fingertips and feel the memory for yourself.
And with Tartaglia, you would have been better off swaddled up in a thick layer of suspicion and interrogation. Better off if you questioned him whenever he showed up like this, confronted him and forced him to tell you the truth. 
But your fondness for him is what has stopped you every time. Has let the man who needs you so desperately in the quiet moments like this relish in the warmth of your company and indulge in your presence without the addition of you blowing up at him. You love the visceral feeling of his vulnerability, of knowing you help him when he shows up to steal your affections in the night, because you are fond of him. Because you know that he knows he is loved when he is in your arms, or when he can have you in his. 
Because, so long as you can avoid facing the harsh reality that Tartaglia lies to you, you can stay up every night and hope that it will be one of the few that you get to feel the warmth of his body beside yours.
You can continue to convince yourself that this man is just a businessperson, that the late nights he spends away from you are part of the job- meetings and trips and whatnot. Can ignore the new scrapes and welts that smatter his pale freckled skin, ignore the guilty and distant look in his eyes when you notice them for the first time in the mornings. 
Tartaglia reaches out to pick up the photograph and turns it in his hands, like you have done countless times before. He frowns as he rubs a thumb across your tiny face, as though he's using your visage like the worry stones you have seen on sale in the harbor marketplace. There is a magnetic urge to pull yourself up and embrace him, to kiss away the downturned lines of his features until he is smiling and laughing at you in the playful way that is captured in colour on the paper in his grasp. 
"I know you're awake," Tartaglia says, gaze still fixed on the photograph.
Blinking away the shock of his words, you shuffle until you're sat upright. "Sorry," you offer half-heartedly. "I didn't want you worrying you'd woken me." 
"No, I'm… glad you're awake." He smooths the photo out again and allows it to rest back in its place against the lamp. "I need to tell you something." 
A bubbling rush of anticipation sinks into your stomach. It is putrid and heavy, but you cannot deny how desperately you are hoping that your assumption about his next words will be correct. You want him to tell you the truth about the life he leads, open up to you finally and show you that he trusts you.
"I've got to leave," he says. 
That's not what you wanted to hear.
"Leave?" you echo feebly. "You just got here."
"I know." 
He reaches for your hand. 
You want to refuse it, bat it away and shout at him- because how dare he have the audacity to show up for the first time in weeks only to tell you he's going again. How dare he leave you like this when you spend night after night waiting for him to come home, unable to sleep because there is a chance you might get to see him. 
And most importantly how dare he be so kind and comforting to you as he does this, squeezing your hand gently. 
"My work needs me to move away. Locate me back home in Snezhnaya. I won't be able to keep travelling back to Liyue to see you."
"Oh," you say. It is a buffering oh, a static oh that will give way to more words in time, but for now it acts as a dam for the anger that resurfaces like a tidal wave.
Your spare hand clenches into a fist that balls up the bedsheets at your side and quakes with the adrenaline building up within you. The one that remains with Tartaglia flexes uncomfortably, seeking escape. 
He holds on tighter, squeezes you again. 
He can see you’re mad, he’s no fool either. And you can see that words linger on the tip of his tongue as he opens and closes his mouth, gaping like a fish. His brows are furrowed and his worried expression searches against your own for signs of acceptance- hoping you’ll quietly accept his excuse like you always do. 
“Ajax…” you sigh, turning your joined hands over so that yours is the one on top, so that you are holding onto him. “You’re not really moving away, are you?”
In lieu of a verbal response, he sheepishly shakes his head. Looks at you like a child being scolded, with his eyes downcast and lips drawn tight.
And the tension that has been brewing in you dissipates once more. It is that fondness again, that devastating little feeling that sympathises with the man before you right now- the boy who looks scared in your presence for the first time that you’ve known him. 
Your voice doesn’t raise like it might have seconds before. “Are you going to tell me why you’re really trying to leave?”
“I can’t,” he chokes out, his composure cracking under the temperate gaze of the calm facade that you have slipped into. “Can’t tell you, you’ll hate me.”
“I could never hate you, Ajax,” you swear. You bring his hand to your lips and place a kiss atop his scraped knuckles, delicate enough not to irritate the wounds too much. “Just tell me the truth.”
“You’re not gonna like it,” he whispers.
“I don’t have to like it,” you assure. “I just want to know.”
Tartaglia- no, in this moment he is absolutely and unequivocally Ajax as he speaks to you- utters your name softly for the second time tonight. “I’m not a businessman. When I’m not here, I don’t go to meetings. Well… not the types of meetings you think I do.”
“Then, what do you do?” you ask, and he looks at you as though his fears are already coming to light. As though by virtue of this very question, you are already perceiving him as a lesser man.
The words are mumbled out first and you have to subtly urge Tartaglia to repeat himself, before he coughs and continues. “I’m a harbinger.”
“You’re with the Fatui?” 
“I am.”
It isn’t the truth you had anticipated. Although, if you think about it, you aren’t quite sure what you expected from Tartaglia as a sufficient explanation for why he always shows up to your place all bloodied and battered. Something like involvement in petty crime, perhaps. Or underground fights. 
His fingers tap against your hand nervously as your grasp upon him falters, as if reminding you to clutch onto him once more. As if, if you choose to let him go now, it will be the last time he ever feels the tender touch of your palm against his. 
Not that he is an elite soldier amongst the upper ranks of the Snezhnayan militia. 
Though it makes sense, you suppose. A better explanation for things than you had come up with yourself. With the added bonus of explaining just why the name that you knew him by best, the one he had first introduced himself to you with (which he had told you was an office ranking; dear archons, why had you fallen for that?) happened to be in line with the names of the Harbingers you had heard rumours of circulating through Liyue Harbour over the years.
“Say something,” he urges. “Please.”
No matter how hard you try to get something out past your lips, they are shut tight like a fortress’ tall iron doors. Tartaglia’s eyes lock with yours and he is desperate now as he waits for you. 
“What is there to say?” you offer at last. You sink back against the pillows behind you, the weight of the night’s tension rolling from you in waves as you rest your weary bones. “Even if you are someone else outside of this house, whilst you’re in here you are still my Ajax.”
Your Ajax. That’s right. Though you may not be fond of the hours he keeps, you are fond of him. So destructively fond that you can accept him no matter what he admits to you. You know he’d never do something reprehensible, something you couldn’t excuse or forgive. 
“Shit…” he says quietly. “I really don’t deserve you.”
“Come here,” you say, beckoning him to join you upon the bed. He is slow as he rises to his feet, turning to walk round to his side before you stop him, opening your arms for him. “Here.”
Tartaglia is hesitant as he clambers over you, legs angling to rest either side of your own as he hovers in a half-squat above your thighs. You reach up to cradle his face, drawing him slowly down until he is pressed against you, head resting against the shallow curve of your collar. His arms brace on the outside of your shoulders, elbows digging into the bed to hold himself steady. It is an awkward position, all things considered, but he releases a breathy sigh all the same and finally sinks against you as you begin to comb your fingertips soothingly through his hair. 
You can smell the blood that embeds itself into his clothes and cakes the wounds he has refused to bandage properly now as he leans on you, full-bodied and encompassing. He is warmer than usual, a side-effect of his body working on overtime to patch up the injuries he has sustained. 
“You know,” you hum into the crown of his head, nose being tickled by some flyaway ginger strands, “I had always wondered why you seemed so skilled at combat whenever you tried to play-fight with me.”
“Wasn’t play-fighting,” he counters against your neck. “I was actually trying to fight you.”
“Not surprised,” you chuckle. “You’re pretty weird.”
“Rude.” He shuffles, cranes his neck so he can look at you again. 
Tartaglia looks so pretty like this, eyes wide and glistening at you behind thick lashes. Face framed with tousled hair, he regards you with such a fond look that you are certain in this moment he must think you are the most precious thing in the world. 
He touches you like you are, too. Fingers delicately tracing patterns along your arms, mindless shapes with no directions. Your skin prickles with sparks under the movements, the feeling of his warm hands ghosting over your bare arms like electric in your veins. 
“I love you,” he confesses, speaking your name with such reverence that you would have half a mind to believe he has renounced his distaste for the gods. “I love you so much.”
“Ajax…” you breathe. “I love you too.” 
Your arms are abandoned as he reaches for your cheeks, squishing the sides of your face together to make your lips pout. 
“Can I kiss you?” 
He asks this like he thinks you’ll say no, like you’re not the one who has just learned about his past and decided that through it all you will stay by his side. There is another flash of vulnerability now in his eyes, knotted between his brows. This look is softer, laced with something sweeter and more innocent. 
A quick, eager nod brings him to you, heat blossoming as he kisses you like he has never done it before. It has all the same passion as the first kiss you had ever shared, unbridled and intense, juxtaposed against such a gentle pressure as he tries to remain delicate with you. 
You can feel the scars on his lips more easily now, the fresh cut that has half-healed in the corner and a tender plumpness that can only come from festering bruises. Familiar marks lay alongside them. The little mark that crosses his cupid’s bow and dips the divot even deeper, the freckle along the lower line of his bottom lip that rests slightly raised and passes across your mouth as you kiss him with a growing hunger. 
“I love you,” you repeat, pulling away for long enough to plead to him. “Don’t hide anything from me again.”
“I won’t,” he says between kisses, having rushed back greedily for more. “I promise I won’t.”
And you believe him, because of course you do. Because why wouldn’t you, when he has made such progress with you tonight? 
But Tartaglia is a selfish man at heart. 
Selfish in the way that he wishes to preserve the image of him that remains in your mind. It has already been tainted now, he fears. Bleached in the light that radiates from the white-hot intensity of your love, browning and rounding at the corners from excessive indulgent handling. Yet, with any luck, he might still be able to salvage the pristine version of him that you first came to adore. 
And whilst you certainly are no fool, you might as well be when it comes to Ajax.
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taglist: @x-zho @irethepotato @pochipop @applejuiceistired @falling4fandoms (send an ask/dm or check my pinned to join/leave taglists <3)
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shelternmberone · 5 months
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your art inspires me so much and you have such a natural knack for comics and compositions it makes me go AAA!! do you have any strong artist influences on you in general, and what are your favourite trigun artists rn? id love to see the kinda stuff you get inspired by🥺
🥺 im glad u feel inspired by what im putting out. To me its mostly a labor of passion, so im not moving deliberately to develop my art, but draw as a way to communicate with people. Best reward is if someone wants to create something after seeing my art.
Artist influences are a bit scarce with me for aforementioned reason lol, but I've got a few.
Unsurprisingly, Makoto Tsuchibayashi, you might know his work from MGS concept art, but I found him through his work on Sengoku Basara, where he designed majority of the cast. His artstyle really helped me get over having some mess in my sketches and finished works.
Then theres Mike Mignola. I know him mostly from his work on Hellboy, and i really like the simple-shaped and striking style he uses there.
Then, ofc, Yasuhiro Nightow himself. I really felt a bit freed by his art in that he often draws something in a way that might be not anatomically 1:1 with reality, but it is conveying a movement, or creates a striking pose that works better than realistic portrayal. Its not much of a revelation for most people i feel, but it was big for me.
Trigun fandom rn is honestly poppin' so the list of artists whose work i follow will be a bit long, so I'll only namedrop a few. I'm not gonna tag em bc im shy and i basically never spoken to most of em.
Desert_Fox (i know they are on here but i cant find them and it vexes me, but they are on twitter too. the colors. THE COLORS MAN their every drawing exudes that hot late summer evening in a dusty town energy)
lno-x (insane facial expression skill and extremely silly goofs)
myuminji (the Shapes and also the way they can draft up a story thats so heartwrenching. oh and also microwoofs that are so eatable),
ruporas (again, storytelling skills, beautful colors, INSANE productivity hope his handses are ok)
leona-florianova (trigun is only a small part of their work and they are killing it with how certain they are in their lines, and how Shaped everything is. i fr wish they were discworld books illustrator)
saltlog (doing so much with minimum strokes. composition always so good. the energy is like nightows own work bc you read it and are like huh and then like a minute later it gets to you and you are like OUCH MY HEART thanks)
j0an-na (the eerie vibe all their arts exude is exquisite. its like in abandoned silo in here (extremely excited about the abandoned silo))
Theres also two artists which i group up in my mind bc they both make extremely poignant silly art in addition to just being technical w it - waterwizardcat and valdrickvile (98 gang understander. to me).
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crowtrobotx · 5 months
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I'm on a huge Kris x Karl kick rn please tell me more about these two losers I love them
Anon. Beautiful anon. I am so sorry this is late lmao. I wanted to actually give you something in response to this ask, not just muse for a few sentences. I hope you enjoy this ficlet (is it a ficlet if it's over 2k words??? whatever) involving the aforementioned losers, and I'm so very glad you love them as much as I do. :) ******************************************** Tunnel of Love Pairing: Karl Heisenberg x OC Setting: No Village AU, maybe set in Check Engine's universe if you've read my fic Genre: Mostly humorous fluff Warnings: Swearing if that ain't your thing, some heavy petting but nothing I'd classify as too intense. ;) Word count: 2243
“Next. Next, please.”
Kris could scarcely think of a worse summer job than manning a boat ride at the county fair, and she couldn’t blame the exasperation evident in the teenager’s voice as he tried to explain a laundry list of safety precautions to the already-too-handsy couple boarding their swan-shaped vessel. The line staggered ahead lazily as the enticing smell of funnel cake wafted from somewhere nearby. She wondered, if only for a moment, if she could convince Karl that eating more fried monstrosities was a better idea than getting in a completely non-seaworthy watercraft with peeling paint and God knew what staining the moist cushions, but given the way he was already bouncing on the balls of his feet to see how many more couples were ahead of them, she abandoned the hope all too quickly. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to, or that she was afraid of water - quite the contrary, under normal circumstances she would have agreed to it with no reservations. If you ignored the questionable sanitation, a slow boat ride through a quiet, dark tunnel sounded almost divine. But these weren’t normal circumstances; she was exhausted. How long had they been here? Twelve hours? How many rides had Karl dragged her on against her will, how many cheap beers had she downed to quell the anxiety of getting into a giant metal death trap over and over again? The ride looked exceptionally dark against the backdrop of the neon carnival lights, the distant ferris wheel in particular drenching the night sky in a sort of kaleidoscope effect that sent Kris’s already uneasy stomach churning. The larger problem, though, as she saw it, was that they were the oldest pair in line. By at least two decades. They were the only middle aged couple in a sea of overly horny teenagers and they looked like lunatics - particularly because Karl also had the “overly horny” part covered. Kris had swatted his hand away from her backside more than once now, the cover of night blessedly shielding her burning cheeks and ears from prying eyes. The line moved again. She shuffled forward, arm in arm with Karl, trying to look as small as possible - a feat that was next to unthinkable given the gargantuan stuffed puppy tucked under her free arm. Yet another ingredient in the stew of her agitation, her boyfriend had made it his God given goal the second they’d arrived to win her the biggest prize possible. It was cute, at first - adorable, even. Karl had scrutinized each game at least twice, asked her opinion on each of the potential spoils and finally landed on the strength-tester after some intense negotiations. “But there’s bigger stuffed puppies at the basketball game over there - don’t you want one of those?” “Babe, they’re bigger than me - are you gonna carry it around? Besides, these ones have bow ties, and everything’s better with a bow tie.” It had been a partial truth. Mostly Kris didn’t want to see Karl get dunked on - literally - by someone half his age. The last thing she needed was him dedicating the following year to avenging himself and trying to become a sports phenomenon with knees that sounded like snapping crab legs every time he stood up. He’d made her laugh, at least, as he put on a show of exaggerated stretches and warm-ups before his attempt. Kris had expected him to fail, to be honest. Karl was strong but she knew most of these games were rigged. Still, she didn’t have the heart to kill his excitement and if he wanted to go for it, who was she to stop him? If he couldn’t do it, she’d happily settle for a more manageable sized prize - perhaps one of the tie dyed teddy bears - and she’d nearly looked away when he’d at last swung down the hammer against the block. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised when the bell rang out. Kris had gestured slack-jawed at the black and white puppy with the purple bow tie while Karl grinned like a smarmy tomcat. 
Her poor therapist was going to hear another earful of musings about why exactly she’d fallen in love with this greasy asshole - no one could explain it, least of all her. “I think we’re next,” Karl’s excited voice barely restrained to normal levels. “That kid up there chickened out at the last minute.” Probably because they realized these boats are one splinter away from sinking, Kris thought miserably. She turned her head over her shoulder and grimaced at the hordes of teenagers waiting behind them - bright eyed and fashionable and looking nothing like her, with her ever darkening under eye circles and Karl’s ill-fitting oil stained hoodie thrown over her shoulders.
“Oh boy,” she said, straining to match his energy. At last they stepped forward onto the dock, its wet surface shimmering under the cascade of surrounding colors. The ride operator, the only person who looked even remotely as tired as Kris, turned a dead-inside gaze toward them. If he had any thoughts about the weird older couple hopping on a ride notorious for awkward first kisses and wandering hands, he blessedly kept them to himself. “You’ll have to leave the stuffed animal here, ma’am. You can pick it up when the ride is done.” “Oh, yeah. Thanks,” Kris’s arm practically cried out in relief as she plopped Karl’s oversized gift down next to a collection of other toys and purses left behind for safekeeping. “How, uh, how long is this thing? Usually?” The kid sniffed. “I dunno. Five minutes, tops. That is, if no one falls overboard and we have to stop it for an hour.” “Great.” Karl nudged her, practically vibrating with excitement despite the banality of it all. He’d pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, apparently deciding that it would be too dark in the tunnel even for him with them on. His eyes were almost brighter than anything else around them, and Kris nearly felt like complimenting him until he opened his stupid, annoying mouth. “Bet you a corn dog I can get you off before we come out the other end.” The ride operator sighed. Kris wanted to drown herself.
“Please keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times and in a place where we can all see them. And please no inappropriate displays…” he sounded like he wanted to get hit by a stray meteor at all costs. 
“Define inappropriate.” Kris had known Karl would say something once they got up here but she hadn’t been sure what. She rolled her eyes and elbowed him in his soft midsection, earning a snicker and a feigned offended exclamation. “I was just asking!” The operator stopped their boat with his foot just long enough for the pair to clamber in. Karl, ever ungraceful, managed to splash water onto the floor when he flopped down next to Kris with zero regard for the integrity of the vessel. He flung an arm around her shoulders and waggled his eyebrows suggestively as the boat lurched forward, setting off into the black light filled tunnel ahead at a lopsided angle. “You’re obnoxious, you know that?” Kris booped the end of his nose with her index finger and pretended to be more interested in the neon paint on the walls than him. “Yeah,” he said, proudly, before scooting a touch closer. “And you’re pretty.” Was he…. Oh no, was he being romantic? “Tell me something I don’t know.” Kris leaned back a bit, forcing Karl to lean in even further. The sounds of the carnival outside began to deaden the further in they traveled, until all that was left was the lapping of the water against the sides of the boat and the crackling sound of public domain piano music warbling out from hidden speakers. To her horror and private delight, Karl decided to put his mouth to use on something better than cheesy pick up lines and infodumping about motorcycles and cars for once. He brushed aside her dark curls from the shoulder closest to him and set to work leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses on the exposed skin of her next while Kris subconsciously shifted, the ache in her feet from walking all day replaced by an ache of another sort, higher up her body. Jesus Christ. She was mad. Mad that she’d agreed to this, mad that she was letting him act like a hormonal sixteen year old on a shitty fair ride, mad that she was getting into it. She had been a respectable person, once. Then her lizard brain had taken over and she’d gotten the hots for her mechanic, and with every passing day she was turning into more of a clown. “Karl–” it came out breathier than she would have liked– “Karl, stop. We’re going to– oh – we’re going to get in trouble, you buffoon.” “Who’s gonna tell,” he murmured against her ear, before tracing her jaw with chaste kisses and bringing a hand up to turn her face to him. “You don’t think they have cameras on this thing?” “Sure they do,” Karl shrugged, “but you think anyone’s actually watching? These guys don’t get paid enough to give a shit.” He was probably right about that. Before Kris could come up with another excuse, Karl captured her lips in his own and settled his hands near her waist, filling her senses with him. She sighed and surrendered herself to the action, too tired and too stupidly in love to fight it. She threaded her fingers through his silvery hair and dragged him closer, pretending to ignore the victorious smirk she felt him pull while his scratchy beard undoubtedly reddened her skin. Jackass. Whatever hastily painted designs littered the walls of the tunnel, neither of them noticed. Kris decided that because the fair was closing in an hour anyway, it wouldn’t matter if they got kicked out - she’d already indulged so much today, what was one more thing? She slipped a hand underneath Karl’s collar and toyed gently with his chest hair, earning a deep growl in response. “Two can play at that,” he muttered before quickly sneaking up the back of her shirt and unhooking her bra with practiced ease - much better than the first time, when Kris had thought he was about to burst into tears trying to figure out how it worked. Some engineer. “Karl!” “What? I’m just following the rules. He said nothing inappropriate - inappropriate would be if I tore your clothes off and did what I’m actually thinking of doing right now. No one’s gonna know I just gave the girls some room to breathe…” “Fuck you.” “Please do, doll.”
Stupid,  stupid man with his stupid unkempt beard and his stupid uneven grey hair that he cut himself while drunk in the bathtub. She was angry at how much she liked him. Furious. Kris decided that when they were done sucking each other’s faces off, she was going to throw him overboard in the nasty ride water and make a comment about how he needed a shower anyway. She dragged him in again, with such force that the boat wobbled this time, and let him content himself with his wandering hands and probing tongue. She hated to admit she was enjoying herself. Maybe, maybe, if he behaved, she’d even admit that he’d been right about this whole thing. He’d never shut up about it, but maybe he deserved it… just this once.
The moment never came, though. All too soon the light at the dock beamed around the corner and he pulled away after one last kiss, punctuated by a nip on her lower lip. Kris gasped as if coming up for air, and to her horror she subconsciously leaned after him, trying to capture the moment before it slipped away into the night. She practically crawled into his lap, ignoring the self-satisfied look on his face. “That’s not fair– Karl, you can’t do that to me and just– get back here!” 
“Ma’am, please don’t make me call security on you.” Kris froze. When exactly they’d pulled up and stopped, she wasn’t sure. What she was sure of was the fact that there were now a bunch of judgemental teenagers looking at her, someone technically old enough to be their mother, on top of someone who looked like he’d been pulled out of a dumpster, and her hair was undoubtedly askew in such a way to make it obvious what they’d been doing. Karl exited the ride as if nothing was amiss and clicked his tongue in mock disappointment.
“Yeah, pumpkin. So sorry about her, can’t take her anywhere,” Karl gestured in Kris’s direction with a smug grin that made her want to punch his throat. “Let’s get you home to sleep off those beers. You’re kinda obsessed with PDA, you know that?”
Kris clambered out of the boat, quickly snatching the stuffed puppy and tucking it back in its rightful place under her arm, patently refusing Karl’s outstretched hand. The swan boat’s faded eyeball regarded her in a way that was somehow both lifeless and mocking, as if it had seen so many such instances over the years but never got used to them. Her cheeks flared as she stormed past into the yellow glow of the night ahead, ears roaring so loudly it almost drowned out her partner’s guttural laughter. 
“I’m going to skin you alive, Karl Heisenberg.”
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seakicker · 8 months
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i didn't mean it to pressure you to write D: i just missed your sillyposting hehe, i hope you're doing well!
- plane anon (?)
NOOOOO IT WASNT PRESSURING AT ALL PLS DW i just wanted to explain why i’ve been so scarce these past few months :] my life has been changing a lot since about december last year!
things could always be better but they could also always be worse too; i’m doing pretty alright ☺️ i wish i could be here posting content more frequently but it’s just not on the table for me rn. life’s ebbs and flows are normal i suppose…. i hope you had a great trip!!! i’ll be flying to arizona on the 6th and ofc i’m excited to be on a plane again (it’s a 737-800) ☺️
jobs and moving out are temporary, seakicker is forever 😊
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lastleggysee · 1 year
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Substitute Lovers (Sage Lesath) pt. 3
Hey anyone remember this fandom and Catman?
Part 2 here!
Word count: 1,581
Warnings: This one's just softcore p*rn so if you're not into that then skip. Minors DNI.
Sage can fall asleep almost anywhere. It would have been an impressive skill, had he not developed a habit of showcasing this talent during, objectively speaking, the worst times possible. Scarcely a Starsworn planning session, the end of a night of drinking, or early morning training went by without the telltale sound of Sage’s deep breaths disclosing his slumbering “secret” (can it even be called a secret if he never even attempts to hide it?) - the rhythm of his breaths deep and steady as if he’d never even arisen from his bed. 
You’re able to recognize those same deep, steady breaths now, even with your eyes closed. Even as the cold, rigid bricks of the alleyway scrape against your shoulder blades. Even as you attempt to claw yourself out of the whirlwind of exhilaration and panic, desperately reaching for the part of your brain that remembers - is this how it went?
There’s a sense of urgency in the way Sage holds you, betraying the deliberate slowness he takes in moving his lips against yours. The air around you hums, not in a particular tune, but with an apparent, unseen electricity. That, or he’s purring. You’re so close now, you’re not sure if there’s a difference. 
The faintest taste of something unfamiliar on his mouth - it tastes like finally, like what were you waiting for, like what was I so afraid of. Like returning home. Like the start of a new adventure. Like Sage. 
His long hair tickles the side of your face, threatening to pull your attention away from this moment, from the whole of him. Your hand moves of its own accord, taking the strands between your fingers and holding them away from his face, the back of your fingers lightly grazing the flushed skin of his cheeks as you move. He’s so warm, so much so that the threat of him having a fever briefly flashes across your mind. Your other hand moves from the sturdy leather of the belt on his chest to rest upon his cheek, his jaw flexing slightly under your palm. Whatever sickness he’s got, he’s transferred it to you by now. You feel your face heating up. Something is very present and very wrong inside of you, but you don’t feel sick. 
Hunger. The desire you feel for him is ever-craving, all-consuming. Never to be satisfied. You stare into the pit of it now, pondering its gravitational pull. L'appel du vide. 
The shaky inhale he takes when he pulls back slightly from you is so vulgar, so much more lewd than any joke or innuendo you’ve heard from him before that it shocks you. The earnestness of that one noise, and you’re powerless against him. It feels like peering through the crack of a door to see some secret in a  house you’re not meant to, to see this vulnerability from him. It feels like that same house is on fire. 
You open your eyes hoping to meet his, hoping for some sort of clarity, or confirmation, or whatever that this is actually happening, but his attention appears elsewhere. 
From your place between the waterfall curtains of his hair, here’s some quality in his gaze you don’t recognize. If you weren’t pinned between his body and a wall - a literal rock and a hard place - you’d have wriggled away and asked what was wrong. There’s a far-off look in Sage’s half-lidded, honeyed eyes. His gaze appears fixated on some part of your face, but his mind appears elsewhere. Something similar to his “thinking” face, but not quite. His right hand rubs up and down your lower back, a few inches shy of your spine, while he breathes open-mouthed against your cheek. Nerves like live wires underneath your skin run their circuits up your back, and you wait for him to say something that doesn’t come. 
Some days the banter you share with Sage feels like the only normal part of your life in Astrea. The only thing left of yourself that you’d recognize from before you awoke in Felix’s arms after the failed spell - experiment - that brought you here. 
An absence of words, especially at a time like this, threatens to send you into a spiral. 
“Are you sure?” Your voice is more breath than words, and once more insecurity is the anchor that tethers you to the present moment. Faces, bodies, noises - the ghosts of Sage’s past lovers dance through your imagination like wisps of smoke. How he must’ve held them, kissed them, touched them - how easily he must have embodied those same rehearsed motions with you. 
Sage says your name, his voice is almost raspy. His hand under your shirt traces lines across your sides, a whisper over the bare skin there. 
“You don’t always have to be sure, y’know,” Sage’s lips brush the heated skin at the top of your ear, and you’re grateful for the wall supporting you. “It’s alright to just accept what comes sometimes. To accept what you want.” He must have realized the distraction his hand trailing across your body created, now deciding to rest his hand, in all its gentle hardness, against your hip. What a juxtaposition it must seem, with the way you grip the back of his neck for dear life. You wish for that wave of exhilaration to come once more and steal the breath and words from your mouth, but Sage is careful to only gently work his mouth against your neck; waiting for something. 
“And is this what you want?” You cringe at your words, the sharpness of your neediness stinging against the moment. “With me?”
His stillness briefly alarms you, and for a moment you believe you’ve finally done it - you’ve curdled the sweetness of the moment you shared. Sage pulls back from you, his brow furrowed, and fixes his gaze slightly to the left of your shoulder. He swallows thickly.
“You said it,” he releases a chuckle that’s halfway a sigh. “Whatever it is, long as it’s with you.”
And trying to hold yourself back now would be holding back the sun from rising.
You hold his face in between your hands, lips meeting his like a car crash. His move against yours, the answer to all the questions asked and unasked you’ve had for him the past months. Sage presses further into you, his tongue sliding past your parted lips, both the balm and catalyst to the ache radiating through your body. 
When you open your eyes again, you’re in a corridor at Fathom. Sage is bare-chested and backlit by the moonlight, his hands working against your chest underneath the red coat you’re wearing. He pulls away from your lips slightly, his breaths unsteady.
“I’m not the type of man to do things I don’t want,” his knee slides between your thighs, and you gasp at the sensation the pressure provides. “But if you had any doubts, I’m sure you can, uh, feel how badly I want this with you.” 
“You’re terrible -” you start, but the pressure of his tongue against your collarbone stops your thought in its tracks. 
“Maybe,” he purrs, running his thumb across the fresh sheen of saliva against your neck. His cheeks are flushed, but the gleam in his eyes is shameless nonetheless. “You should tell me more about it while we get you out of those freezing clothes.” 
Your fingers grasp the liquid expanse of his hair as he resumes his place at your neck, and Sage groans. He rocks his knee against you, the friction working electricity throughout your body as you grip him impossibly closer. Your eyes shut tightly as you whisper his name again. 
When you open them again, you’re in your room at Fathom. Sage is pulling the last of your undergarments from your body like removing petals from a flower, half-reverent. He whispers something you don’t catch, and you’re met again with the pleasant view of the crown of his head. You smooth the expanse of hair between his ears, and he purrs, resting his cheek against your inner thigh. 
Sage sits back on his heels for a moment, resting his elbow on the top of your thighs while moving his gaze (with considerable effort) to your face. The tip of his tongue flicks to toy with one of his incisors, and he chuckles. 
“What?” you smile back at him. The lines of his face appear softer in your shadow, almost like the remnants of stress and sorrow had never touched him in the first place. His breath is slow and steady as he takes you in from his place between your thighs. 
“You’re too good for me, you know that?” His tone is surprisingly gentle, which belies the way his lips move closer to just the spot you need him in. “And you taste so godsdamned-”
THUD-THUDTHUD.
* * *
The shock of awakening is not what disappoints you. It’s the red coat draped across the chair next to your bed, instead of him, that stares back at you. 
Anisa had come to check on you, since she didn’t see you return last night and you were late for breakfast (the true tragedy, all things considered). You try not to resent her for this. 
You leave it draped across the doorknob to his room, taking a moment to carefully concentrate on the wood expanse before your face to see if the panels will divulge to you Sage’s deep, steady breaths from the other side. 
You hear nothing but the building settle.
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lovesick-joey · 6 months
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what is sneakers the valiant crusader cats origin story? how did he get his powers?
Before becoming the Crusader Cat, Sneakers grew up a stray; living in the streets of Gotham City his whole life with his mother, Pillow (his father, Buck, went missing not long after Sneakers' birth. He's presumably dead). Life as a stray cat was very difficult for many reasons. Food was scarce, the humans they often meet are violent thugs and gang members who see animals as nothing more than pests, and of course they are exposed to diseases and illnesses. Not only that, there are a lot of groups of cats - and other animals, such as dogs - who tend to fight over territory.
Sneakers was extremely close to his mother. Pillow taught him a lot of things, and one of them is to always be kind to others, no matter the circumstances. Sneakers always kept her words in mind throughout his life. But after months of being together, Pillow was captured by humans, leaving an adolescent Sneakers to fend for himself.
Despite losing his mother, Sneakers kept positive and hopeful - after all, that was probably what Pillow would want for him. As he grew and grew, he started garnering a reputation by constantly helping the other strays, even other animals at some point.
One of the strays that Sneakers had helped in the past was an old cat named Mangrove. Mangrove was a local tom who Sneakers often assisted by hunting him prey and grooming him - they even consider each other as friends due to how frequent their meetings are. Unbeknownst to Sneakers however, Mangrove was unlike any other critters.
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Mangrove is actually a pet, belonging to a mysterious sorceress who lives in an abandoned apartment deep in Crime Alley. Despite his "pet status", he prefers staying outside to observe everything that happens in the city. With this, he notices the heroic acts of Sneakers and how much he impacted others' lives. (the images above depicts Sneakers saving orphaned kittens from a hawk, Sneakers nurturing an elderly cat, and Sneakers managing to stop a leak in a wall by gathering sand bags the humans had abandoned with the help of other strays - thus stopping a flood)
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One day, Mangrove stumbles upon a weak Sneakers. He was starving, and with the infection on his leg there was no way he could possibly stay alive any longer. Sneakers had spent his days getting food for others and putting his needs aside.
Mangrove believed that this fate is unjust for such a selfless cat, and so Mangrove carries Sneakers back to his master's place. With her magic, the sorceress understands everything that Mangrove is telling her. She agrees that this shouldn't be the end for Sneakers.
She revives him, and not only that, she gifts him special abilities that will assist Sneakers so he could pursue more heroic deeds. Sneakers was sent back to the streets, and that was the last time Sneakers ever saw Mangrove.
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And thus he became the cat that he is now! a courageous tom who will risk life and limb for the weak and vulnerable. It took Sneakers a while to figure out his new set of powers, but he has since gotten the hang of it. Humans call him the Crusader Cat, but the animals know that he is truly Sneakers.
--------- and that's his story! sorry if there's any grammar mistakes, English isn't my first language. Sneakers' story is still a work in progress, but at the moment I'm very happy with his origin. I'm planning on writing backstories for his family, especially with all his kits. Again, feel free to ask more things about him in the ask box! (btw i am aware of how ugly the sketches are. I'm really sleep-deprived rn lmao)
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esotericdescent · 7 months
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Hey friends, I just wanted to give y'all a heads up since it's right around the corner — I'll be leaving on vacation ( with @athrecs, whom I'm meeting in person for the first time and I'm SO excited!!! ) on SEPTEMBER 12TH and I won't be back until the 27TH. That means during that time, I'm not going to be here and I'm going to be extremely scarce on discord, too, as we're gonna be busy and wanting to give each other our full, undivided attention. I'm going to do my best to reply to as many things as I can that I owe beforehand, in hopes that I won't have to make y'all wait too long, but ya kno. I've still got some last minute preparations ..... and my excitement is all pent up rn so lmao. Thanks so much for your patience and understanding!! ♥️
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hi kat, how are you? i'm sorry to spring this on you but i'm just, i don't have anyone else.
so, my boyfriend and i went a little wild the other day and we had sex, it was actually good and fun, considering we were both virgins. the thing is, his spend in the contraception slipped out quite a bit afterwards, but we continued doing it for like a minute or two, until he noticed and stopped. we're both very nervous rn since, even though i didn't cum, his' wouldve made way inside, right? i did pee afterwards but didn't really get the chance to wipe it down properly. i've also taken the morning-after pill, or the closest alternative to it, since abortion is illegal in our country and sex health medicines are scarce. i really don't want to raise a child while in uni, and i don't think he does, as well, we both still live with our parents and i'm really scared 'cause they don't know i have a boyfriend- they would flip out- and more so if i told them what we've done.
can you offer me some comfort in these trying times, please? i'm really scared and confused and i feel like off-ing myself if i did find out i'm gonna be pregnant. i also have my period irregularly so i don't know what to look for. it's only been 2 days since it happened, and i looked up that you can take pregnancy tests like, a week after? and that your body will also only show evidence around that time, and i'm dreading everything
It's technically not physically impossible, but it is VERY unlikely. I absolutely get why you're scared and I'm so sorry this had to happen after an otherwise good experience. That fucking sucks. But odds are you'll be just fine. Especially if you took the morning after pill. And I hope a pregnancy test will soon be proof of everything being okay. Obviously it's really scary to not know for sure yet, and my heart goes out to you both. But the odds are in your favor. And I'll keep my fingers crossed that nothing happened
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jackpotgirl · 6 months
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Hi Ellie! Sorry to disturb out of the blue like this - hope you're doin alright and had a superb summer! 😊 I just wanted to ask if you still plan to continue The Trials of Mairon fic? Missing your wonderful writing so much!
Helloooo :) yes, very much! Through progress is admittedly slow, I have the next chapter about 60% ready and am chipping away at it. Unfortunately (in fic writing terms but fortunately for me professionally), I am investing a lot of time rn into developing my own original stories and pitches for tv and film, so the fic writing muse and time is scarce - but TOM is not abandoned and I still plan on finishing it! :)
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