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#I really want the book of his letters
aroaceleovaldez · 24 days
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Something something Jason feeling like he doesn't quite fit as "Greek" or "Roman" as a metaphor for bisexuality, particularly the semi-canonical bi-coding in his half of experiences during the Cupid scene and how Favonius and Cupid speak to him in parallel to the scenes confirming Nico is gay.
Something something the camps as metaphors for traditionally acceptable forms of relationships and Nico living as a rogue outside of them, rejecting expectation (ergo in himself representing a metaphor of queer identity and living outside of boxes and defined/usually hetero-allonormative/binary ideas of what love/relationships should look like) versus Jason struggling with the expectation to conform to a label and even discussing with Nico both of them remaining at CHB together.
Something something the inverse of Jason shifting away from the camps after he breaks up with Piper, feeling lost and unable to find a place between the camps as he begins to explore his queer identity properly for the first time versus Nico only remaining at CHB because he has entered a relationship. In this essay I will-
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titsthedamnseason · 4 months
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“it was a fun job, wasn’t it? when you remember me, please remember that. remember to smile.”
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wings-of-sapphire · 2 months
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Ok ok so THOUGHTS
We did not get Persassy and the free appliances sad face
Dam Olympus is huge and also more dark oak-esque than I expected
YES WE GET PERCY SEEING LUKE’S SIDE
Aww he just wants to protect his baby brother
I WAS WAITING FOR THE SCORPION
Annabeth knows?
WHERE’S THE SCORION
Annabeth knows?!
S C O R P I O N
Why is the Searcher’s License lettuce. What. What if Grover eats it.
Also side note. We did not see Grover eat any cans
A bit disappointed we didn’t see Sally interact with Gabe and see Percy get all “storm in eyes” rage about Gabe hitting her
WHY THE FRICK
WHY
WHY THE FRICK DID SALLY NOT DO IT
Ok yay they got divorced but—
First of all she gets courage now because? Percy knows who he is?
BUT ALSO SHE SHOULD’VE BEEN THE ONE TO DO IT
I GET HE’S AN ASSHOLE AND IT’S HIS OWN FAULT BUT COME ON
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i-bring-crack · 7 months
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I'm not dying until either I finish all my fics or there is an animatic adaptation with Spiderverse levels of animation about A True Story from Lucian of Samosata.
Look man this thing is like 20x more crazy than any sci-fi movie and I need it adapated. IT'D BE GREAT.
"But Maracuya why do you think we need one our society is healthily functioning without it—"
River of wine
Cheese islands
Women trees. Or is it tree women?
Men that procreate and can take out their eyes
PUMKING PIRATES
Sea milk
Civilization inside a whale
There is a sort of hell for writers that claim their stories are true (oh how funny the main character is)
The Banquet of Beans– an actual chapter title.
A Frick ton of other weird things AND ALL OF THIS IN OUTER SPACE—
The book ending with a To Be Continued and then never continuing it (he's just like me fr).
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hecksupremechips · 11 days
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I love to imagine Rebecca as trans like it just has become so ingrained in my mind it feels weird it’s not canon. She realized at a young age and her parents were supportive and let her present how she wanted and they used her name and pronouns, but they weren’t around enough to go the extra mile for her and make sure she was being protected. She was the target of some pretty bad bullying at school, both from the students and the staff, and Ashton was the first person to defend her. Ashton is cishet (cuz I think it’s funny) and hes kinda ignorant at first but he tries his best and he just likes Rebecca and wants good things for her and he’s so emo he scares away the bullies lol. And this was definitely a big part in Rebecca gaining feelings for him he just showed her this special kinda care that no one else ever did, and it’s what makes her extra insecure as the years go by. Cuz she wonders if maybe the reason Ashton never seems to reciprocate her feelings is because she’s trans and he just never thought to see her as romance material as a result. Which is a line of thinking that gets out of control really bad and she never gets to have the closure she wants with it either
She tells Isabella that’s shes trans just cuz they’re best friends and it sorta comes up eventually. Isabella was a tomboy growing up so she can definitely relate to the bullying shit pretty well and they are very protective of each other and vow to beat up anyone who talks shit about the other. They also just open each other’s minds a bit, Isabella helps Rebecca feel more comfortable in knowing there’s many different ways to be a woman, Rebecca helps Isabella maybe explore her feelings about her own gender and whether or not she’s really attached to womanhood. Zach finds out in a more casual way, it’s just something he learns cuz it felt weird that he was the only one who didn’t know and well. He’s a good guy, he wouldn’t mind. It’s not something the two of them ever talk about really, aside from bonding over a few shared experiences with having to deal with assholes. And really, being trans just isn’t something Rebecca wants to talk about too much, just because she’s gotten to a point where’s she’s experienced being stealth and she knows how quickly people can turn on you when they know, and she understandably doesn’t wanna deal with that shit. But because her friends are so supportive, she doesn’t exhale and let herself just exist naturally around them and it does help her feel less insecure about who she is
Sexuality wise I think she’s "straight" I think she’s spent most of her life looking at Ashton and just assuming she’d be with a man but once she finally gets to give up on him she has Moments with Isabella or like a certain fondness for Marianne and their shared love of history and other nerd shit and shes just like. Uh Oh 😟
#the letter#rebecca gales#my beloved my bestie my wife etc#ive also just written like in a scenario where she gets with luke shes gonna like get that dick and then shes like oh fuckkkkk#and its pretty frightening cuz luke is a notorious asshole but hes about to find out so she just lets it out#and hes weirdly chill hes just like ‘hnnnghh does it look like i fucking care about that right now daisy’#they uh. arent exactly a match made in heaven alkskf the way i write it like they are genuinely good for each other in a lot of ways#like i think they both can just help the other see important sides to themselves and improve#but i dont see them being like this happy long term couple i think rebecca can do soooo much better i think theyd get together when shes at#rock bottom and feels like no one will ever love her and she forms a bond with luke and she relates to him in a weird way#and this makes her feel worse like luke is the only one who sees the real her and she wants him because shes afraid hes the only one whod#tolerate her its just a very unhealthy situation and he has enough good in him to keep her on the hook#but enough bad in him to never satisfy what she needs and to make her feel like shit#its like. i dont think its IMPOSSIBLE for luke to be a good partner to her but hed have to do a LOTTT of changing that im just not confident#hed do plus like i mean hes literally a murderer and all of rebeccas friends hate him i dont think shed really be able to see past that#plus like hed be transphobic like maybe he isnt opposed to having sex with a trans woman in the moment but he certainly wouldnt be an ally#its all about whats convenient for him i think at best hed be like ‘youre one of the good ones!’#i kinda love lukebecca lol not in a ‘theyre cute’ way ew just in a. ‘their interactions are really funny and interesting’ kinda way#i want them to fuck nasty and i want rebecca to almost sink to his level but then rise above and kick his ass#and i want rebecca to be the one who got away for luke like losing her is the biggest wake up call of his life#and then rebecca lives her best life with her awesome friends and they work on communicating properly#and she realizes she doesnt need a man to complete her and then she writes a book and is loved pleaseeee
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idiopathicsmile · 6 months
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you know what really grinds my gears?
okay, bear with me: so as you may know, harry houdini and arthur conan doyle were friends, at least for a while.
by the early 1920s, both arthur conan doyle and acd's wife jean, aka lady doyle, believed whole-heartedly in spiritualism, talking to ghosts and all of that. (sidenote: this was of course right on the heels of a devastating world war and a devastating pandemic, both of which had created a huge population of grieving people, so spiritualism was having a moment.)
lady doyle sincerely thought she had the ability to go into a trance state and pass along messages in writing from the dead. she offered to do this for houdini. houdini agreed.
lady doyle attempted to channel houdini's late mother. she basically drew a cross at the top of the paper and filled it with generic platitudes addressed to "harry." houdini's mom was jewish and didn't talk like that, so houdini knew the jig was up, even if lady doyle didn't. but not wanting to make the situation awkward, he kind of went along with it to their faces.
then acd decided to publish a glowing account of the seance, and since both he and houdini were super famous, it got a lot of attention, and letters started pouring in for houdini, asking if this was true. ultimately, houdini couldn't lie about it. so he essentially said, like, "yeah, i think lady doyle THINKS she can talk to ghosts but she absolutely can't." and it ruined his friendship with acd forever.
and then of course a lot of the people running seances weren't even well-intentioned like lady doyle, they were just simple charlatans taking advantage of traumatized people mourning loved ones. in houdini's youth, he and his wife had traveled the carnival circuit where he did an act pretending to commune with spirits, so he knew all the tricks of the trade AND he had lingering guilt over having done this, AND he was infuriated by this increasingly popular wave of con artists so he decided to assemble a team of anti-grifting grifters and together they went on the road exposing whichever spiritualists were preying on the locals.
houdini's best agent was a young woman named rose mackenberg, who donned disguises to visit the fraud de jour and then importantly sussed out what non-supernatural thing was actually happening, and then houdini would demonstrate the techniques onstage to packed audiences.
(if you want to know more, check out episode 175, "ghost racket crusade" of the podcast Criminal or read Tony Wolf's book The Real-Life Ghostbusting Adventures of Rose Mackenberg.)
but yeah, what really gets my goat is that all this happened and as far as i know, we still don't have like four seasons of a Leverage-style historical procedural about rose mackenberg and the rest of the crew having adventures in the 1920s as they unmask craven hucksters all over the united states. (what we do have, apparently, is one season of a show called "houdini and doyle" which is about the oddball friendship of two contrasting men solving sometimes-actually-supernatural mysteries, and whose premise does i think at the very least a real disservice to houdini's whole quest and also totally erases rose, who is arguably the most interesting part of this story to me.)
i am just steamed about this. steamed.
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UPDATE What's up, it's the proposal guy. You said you wanted to know how this turned out, so I figured I'd tell you. First some context though, because I'm mean and I wanna keep you in suspense longer.
1- I don't wanna doxx us so I'm not telling you where we live, but suffice to say, neither of us are American, and gay marriage has been legal here for less than five years. For both of us, this is the first relationship we've had where marriage was even an OPTION, and I think that's where we've been getting some of that whole 'this has to be a REAL proposal with EVERYTHING' idea.
2- I gotta figure out how to explain this properly. So, I'm pretty used to being the GUY guy in relationships? I was always the one who did the nice gestures, not the one they got done for. Before I met my dream guy, I didn't really notice or care that it was such a thing, I just assumed that's how shit worked. Also, I promised I wouldn't talk a lot about his stuff here, but his last boyfriend before me SUCKED. Anyway point here is, it turns out we both REALLY like feeling swept off our feet sometimes, and a big part of finding each other has been getting to feel special for once? That's a stupid sappy way of putting it the point here is I think all that's what morphed into "I need to be the one getting proposed to, also it has to be completely perfect", and then our Petty & Extra genes got involved.
So I'm sitting in bed thinking about all that up there, and watching all the comments coming in basically being like "Dude, you are BLOWING this" on repeat, and telling me to compromise, and I look up and see him flossing in the bathroom and making all these doofy faces at the mirror, and it's like a switch just flips in my brain, and I'm like "Oh, I'd rather he gets to have his perfect proposal than we both have an okay one". I'm gonna do it.
Morning rolls around, and while I'm 'out for my jog like normal' I hit up a pawn shop for a temp ring (the ring pop thing is cute but NOT HIM). I found one I was at least confident wouldn't get ruined the first time he got his hands greasy (he fixes old machines as a hobby it's hot as hell), got back home, and hid the box in the toe of my nasty ass workout shoes in the bedroom closet, since I figured he'd check there last.
He was still asleep, because he stays up late no matter what and then is SHOCKED he's tired the next day, so I called and booked a table at our usual anniversary spot. (Side note about the 'he picks bad restaurants' thing. This isn't an 'I like Greek, you like Chinese' situation, dude's just BAD at finding places. He either assumes pricey is tasty and I get to eat some overrated gourmet bullshit, or he'll try and find something hip and underground and risk giving us food poisoning again, and he REFUSES to give up and pick somewhere we've been before when it's his turn to plan date night. I'm obsessed with him <3.) Date was set, I'd propose on the 21st.
Some of you might have noticed this, but fun fact! It's currently the 16th.
Last night I'm doing dishes and he's been sent to our room for mug collection duty, and he's taking FOREVER, so I go check just in case he found the ring, because the man's a gift tracking BLOODHOUND. Turns out he hasn't, he's found my Angry Box.
I assume other people have an Angry Box? Basically, we had this huge messy fight right when we first moved in together, and I never wanna let it get that bad again, so I have this shoebox where I keep a bunch of our stuff I can look at if we're fighting and hopefully cool off. There's one of those photo booth roll things, letters we wrote when he moved back with his parents for COVID, the wine cork from our first date, shit like that. Anyway, he's just sitting on the floor staring at it, and I explain about the Angry Box, and then he! Proposes!!! Kind of.
He definitely didn't have anything prepared, because by 'propose' I mean 'ugly cried & rambled at me for several minutes before I figured out it WAS a proposal', but once I got on the same page it was amazing. I said yes, and he had to admit he didn't have a ring for me because he was CONVINCED he'd win and I'd do it, so I grabbed mine because, yeah, he was right. He was like "this is the ugliest ring I've ever seen" and I was like yeah well the plan is to replace it later and he went "No. You can pry this off my cold dead fingers. After I'm buried with it." So I guess it's not a temporary ring anymore.
I'm just gonna go ahead and skip to this morning. I pointed out we still have the reservation, and he said I should propose there anyway because "We can get a free dessert. They have those creme brulee shot glasses you like. And for love, or something" and I said ok deal, but that means you gotta get me a ring to keep it fair, and his eyes LIT UP. When I swung by his work for lunch he was still on the phone with a jeweler and he had a whole page of notes on three other ones. Pray for me.
OH PS: I was RIGHT that he'd been the one behind the cat biting me, but it wasn't about the proposal stuff, it's because I paid my baby sister three dollars to shout 'fuck you' every single time he enters a room she's in for (if you ask me, he should be madder at my sister for charging so little), and he did it by giving her a bunch of treats for biting his hands too, so now neither of us can pet our baby girl without oven mitts on. HOLY SHIT I love this man.
Oh my goddddddd I love everything about this <333 I awwww'd out loud on a voice call, like, six times while reading. You two are friggin perfect for each other and so obviously smitten with each other and I wish y'all all the happiness in the world
PS Are y'all planning to have a big wedding? If so oh boy I can't WAIT to get that one in the inbox
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munsonsbtch · 6 months
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okay but can what about reader who loses her mind during doggy style, she’s got a “cock drunk” button and her mouth just won’t stop so she mostly sticks to being on top or eddie on top because she just gets so embarrassed until one day they are play wrestling and Eddie pins her face down with her hands behind her back and she hears his belt coming undone and she just goes “uh oh i’m in danger”
dirty girl - e.m.
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eddie munson x shy fem reader
nikki i am dead pls send your condolences. also thank you dolly and gia for the smutception idea ilysm
18+ ONLY MINORS FUCK OFF!!!
warnings: reader is secretly a horny shit, fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, squirting, creampie, dirty talk, daddy kink, eddie is too stunned to speak
divider credit: @firefly-graphics
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You were never one to be very vocal in the bedroom.
Mostly because you felt too shy to do anything other than moan. Your boyfriend on the other hand was an absolute menace, he couldn’t stop talking when he was buried inside you. But the truth of the matter was you could be extremely vocal… but Eddie has only gotten it to come out once. And even then it was very tame compared to what you had actually wanted to let escape. It was the first time he’d taken you from behind, and it was the most you’d ever spoken whilst tangled in the sheets. Since then it’s all Eddie could think about, but he never wanted to pressure you into anything.
So you stuck with riding him or him being on top, knowing you’d be mortified if you let him in on all the dirty thoughts swirling through your head. It was just something about that position that made you lose any semblance of self control. And it was something that your boyfriend was desperate to have happen again. You just both weren’t fully prepared for it to happen so soon, and so unexpectedly. Or for such an absolutely embarrassing reason. You had come over to help him study for his English exam, the book was The Scarlet Letter, one you knew well.
You felt so sad that he didn’t get to graduate with you the year before, so you were determined to make sure that 86’ really was his year. You currently found yourself in his kitchen, attempting to prepare a snack for the two of you. Eddie had taken it upon himself to dig through your bag, to grab out your copy of the novel. But what he found instead made your ears burn with embarrassment. It was a stupid romance novel, one with a bare chested man clutching a scantily clad woman on the cover. The ones with the horrendously written sex scenes, that you found yourself reading anyway.
You could hear your boyfriend giggling in the other room, and you immediately knew he had found something that wasn’t meant for him. With a groan you took the bowl of popcorn and your sodas into the living room. All the blood rushing to your cheeks and ears as you saw the book open in his hands. His nimble fingers flicking through the worn pages until he seems to find the perfect one. His chocolate hues look up to meet yours, a mischievous smile on playing on his lips. When he spoke he used his dungeon master voice, causing you further embarrassment.
“His member was throbbing against her thigh, her breasts pressing up against his bare chest…. Her body was quivering in need for him. ‘Please take me sir knight! I cannot wait another minute more!’ .”
He was really playing it up, as you basically dropped the snacks onto the coffee table before rushing over to him. The popcorn had spilled over, but you didn’t have time to care. Eddie was quicker than you though, the book now being held hostage high up above your head. Due to your stark height difference you were not able to reach it, attempting to jump up and grab the pages from his grasp.
“Eddie come on! Give it back!”
You whined as he just laughs, running around the living room as you continued to chase him. The constant circles were making you both dizzy, but it gave you the opportunity to grab the book from his hands. You didn’t make it very far though, as the brunette basically tackles you to the ground. In your tumble to the carpet he had gotten the book again, now straddling your hips. He sat his full weight down onto you, as he continued reading.
“His hard member finally thrusted into her, her body sprawled out on the silk sheets. Her moans filled the knight’s chamber—”
You bucked your hips up with as much force as you could muster, knocking your boyfriend off of you. Eddie was stunned for a moment, back laying flat on the carpet. The abrupt movement caused the book to go flying out of his hands, quickly flipping yourself over to crawl towards it. But his hands had grabbed your ankles, pulling you back towards him. The action startled you, as your fell face first onto the carpet. Eddie is quick to grab both of your wrists, pinning them behind your back. He’s able to hold them with one hand, as you continued to struggle beneath him.
In an attempt to get back up, your back was now arched with your ass in the air. You were both out of breath, panting as you felt Eddie shifting closer to you. His crotch was now flush against your ass, and you instantly felt how excited this had made him. You couldn’t help but whimper slightly, as he pressed his erection further against you. The clink of his belt unbuckling behind you made you clench your thighs together. Feeling the wetness already pooling between your legs at his actions. Through your aroused state you couldn’t help but panic slightly.
It was hard enough the last time he had fucked you in this position to hold back, so you knew you were in trouble. But you were already in too deep to turn back now, you wanted him too badly. Eddie groans as you rock your hips back, his free hand flipping up the fabric of your skirt. You hear his zipper pulling down, his hand releasing yours to pull your panties aside. Your breath hitches as his fingers slip through your wet folds, easily finding your bundle of nerves.
“You like that huh?”
His tone has shifted, all the silliness from moments before now completely gone. Your hands have fallen by your face, in an attempt to hold yourself up. Eddie’s fingers have now slipped inside you, a soft moan escaping you as they fill you to the brim. You are holding yourself together pretty well, but you didn’t trust your voice just yet. But your boyfriend was desperate to get something out of you.
“Come on my shy girl, can you tell me what you want?”
His fingers curl up and hit that sweet spot inside you, your barriers beginning to crack with each thrust of his fingers.
“Fuck me Eddie.”
He hums in approval, removing his fingers from inside you. You whimper at the loss, hearing him sucking your arousal from the digits. The noise was absolutely filthy, but it made you shiver in anticipation. Eddie’s hands don’t leave you for long though, yanking your panties down your thighs. He’s clearly in a rush as he doesn’t bother to take them off fully, as the fabric pools at your knees. You can feel the tip of his cock brushing through your folds, slightly teasing you. But the feeling of him slowly thrusting inside is what breaks you, a loud moan ripping past your lips. Eddie stills at the sound, a little shocked by the volume.
“Don’t f-fucking stop.”
You mewl, pushing your hips back to take him even deeper. Eddie seems to snap out of his surprised stupor pretty quickly though, grabbing your hips as he thrusts harshly into you. Your fingers are digging into the shag carpet beneath you, his cock burying itself so deep inside you with each snap of his hips. You felt absolutely drunk off of the feeling already, grinding your hips back. Any semblance of a filter was now gone as he continued to ram into your sweet spot repeatedly.
“So deep Eddie… god can almost feel you in my fucking throat baby.”
Your boyfriend can’t help but still his hips again, shock crossing his features at your dirty words. It was so out of character compared to your usual shy personality. This was the most vocal you had ever been for him, but little did he know you were just getting started. You groan in frustration at the interruption, starting to fuck yourself back onto his cock. Eddie just grips your hips tighter, watching as you desperately take every inch of him. But your actions weren’t giving you the same relief, needing him to move.
“Need it harder, please fuck me daddy. Wanna cum all over your cock.”
Now you had definitely never called him that before, but it stirred something deep within him. Eddie almost liked the title better than his own name. The brunette nearly growled, his hands gripping your hips so hard you know you’d find bruises the next day. But you certainly wouldn’t mind the reminder, as he thrust himself back into you. Your eyes nearly roll back at the feeling, a borderline pornographic moan falling from your lips. This was the most quiet he’d ever been while inside you, if you weren’t so turned on you might have been concerned.
“Fuck right there daddy… god you feel so good.”
The sounds of your skin slapping together and your arousal fill the small trailer, Eddie thanking whatever higher power that was out there that his uncle had taken an evening shift. Your sounds were only getting louder the harder he fucked you, feeling that tightness in your lower belly. You weren’t going to last much longer, this angle letting him hit areas you didn’t realize existed until now. Moving a hand down to your clit you start rubbing at the sensitive nub, clenching harder around him. Eddie only picks up his pace, hitting that spot that has you seeing stars.
“Fuckfuckfuck gonna c-cum Eds.”
That’s all the warning you can give him before your orgasm tears through you, the force of it pushing his cock almost out of you completely. There was an overwhelming wetness now coating both your thighs, and his jeans. Your brain is too fuzzy to realize what just happened, legs shaking as you slump forward onto the carpet. Despite the mind numbing orgasm he just gave you, you needed more. Your hips move back again, a whine spilling from your throat.
“Jesus fucking Christ sweetheart… you need more?”
You wiggle your hips, attempting to get your brain to function properly before answering him. But he doesn’t give you much time, sliding back inside your soaked entrance. The wet sounds of his thrusts would have made you blush under normal circumstances, but it’s only turning you on more.
“More… n-need you to cum inside me.”
You whimper, feeling a little overstimulated but needy nonetheless. He is once again stunned into silence, focusing all his energy on not busting his load too quickly. He’s gotten you this vocal and he made you squirt… Eddie feels like he’s won the fucking lottery. His pace has slowed down slightly, mostly so he could make you cum again. The male doesn’t even care as much about his own release, desperate to make you scream for him.
“God you’re so sexy… think you can cum for daddy one more time sweetheart?”
The sound of the title falling from his lips makes you lose any sanity you had left. Desperately fucking yourself back onto his cock. Eddie seems to regain some of his confidence, grabbing your neck to pull you flush against his chest. The new position only brings him deeper inside, your head falling back onto his shoulder.
“Faster! Need it faster please.”
Eddie’s lips have now attached themselves to the skin of your neck, his hips quickening their pace. His thighs are already starting to burn from the effort but he doesn’t care. The male would do anything you told him to right now. His fingers are sliding down your hips, slipping up under your skirt to rub at your bundle of nerves. Your eyes squeezing shut as you feel your second orgasm approaching. With how much you’re tightening around him, Eddie isn’t going last much longer. You feel him twitching inside you, groaning into the skin of your neck.
“Atta girl…”
You whimper in response, gripping his forearm as that wave of bliss crashes over you again. Your thighs are trembling, nails digging so hard into his skin you know you’d left your own marks on him. You don’t realize you’ve screamed his name until Eddie starts cursing, his hips faltering in their movements.
“God yes… fill me up daddy, wanna feel your cum dripping out of me.”
That’s all it takes for your boyfriend to fall apart, a strangled gasp leaving him as he spills inside you. Eddie continues to fuck his cum into you, as he rides out his own high. His thighs however have finally had enough, as he finally stops keeping himself buried at your deepest point. You shift a little, feeling a little too sensitive. Eddie gently slips out of you, coaxing you back onto the carpet before he joins you. He eagerly pulls you onto his chest, your head now resting against it. You can hear his heart racing beneath his shirt, his chest still rising and falling as he attempts to catch his breath.
“Why in the hell have you kept that hidden away from me sweets?”
You feel yourself flush, the reality of what just happened finally setting in. As you attempt to bury your face in his neck he stops you, gently tilting your chin up to meet his darkened hues. Eddie’s grinning from ear to ear, dimples making an appearance on his face. You’ve never seen him so giddy, except for maybe if he had a new campaign he was working on. But even then, this has him way more excited.
“I was embarrassed… you know how shy I am.”
You whisper, feeling his chest rumble beneath you as he chuckles. Eddie’s thumb brushes over the hot skin of your cheek, leaning down to press a firm kiss to your lips.
“Well you aren’t hiding that away again baby… Jesus.”
You can’t help but giggle at his reaction suddenly feeling a little bold.
“Is that so… daddy?”
You can feel him beginning to harden against your thigh, another giggle escaping you as you straddle his waist. Eddie stares up at you in awe, his hands resting on your hips once more. His chocolate hues filling with a familiar hunger.
“You’re going to be the death of me sweetheart.”
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tagging: @onegirlmanytales @probablyin-bed @xxhellfiregirlxx @lilthbunny @changemunson @xx-ghostiebxby-xx @tlclick73 @thebejeweledwatercat @tylevx @shifts-for-men
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prokopetz · 10 months
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Not posting this as a reblog because I don't want to screw with somebody else's notes, but the whole "theological implications of Tolkien's orcs" business has some interesting history behind it.
In brief, a big part of why the Lord of the Rings Extended Universe™ is so cagey about what orcs are and where they come from is that later in his life, Tolkien came to believe that orcs as he'd depicted them were problematic – albeit not because of, you know, all the grotesque racial caricature.
Rather, he'd come to the conclusion that the idea of an inherently evil sapient species – a species that's incapable of seeking salvation – was incompatible with Christian ethics. Basically, it's one of those "used the wrong formula and got the right answer" situations.
In his notes and letters, Tolkien played around with several potential solutions to this problem. (Though contrary to the assertions of certain self-proclaimed Tolkien scholars, there's no evidence that he ever seriously planned to re-write his previous works to incorporate these ideas.) In one proposal, orcs are incarnated demons, and "killing" them simply returns them to their naturally immaterial state; in another, orcs are a sort of fleshy automaton remotely operated by the will of Sauron, essentially anticipating the idea of drone warfare.
Of course, this is all just historical trivia; any criticism of The Lord of the Rings must be directed at the books that were actually published, not the books we imagine might have been published if Tolkien had spent a few more years thinking through the implications of what he was writing. However, the direction of his thoughts on the matter is striking for two reasons:
Tolkien's orc conundrum is very nearly word for the word the problem that many contemporary fantasy authors are grappling with fifty years later. They want epic battles with morally clean heroes, and they're running up against exactly the same difficulty that Tolkien himself did – i.e., that describing a human-like species who are ontologically okay to kill is an impossible task.
After all the work he put into solving this impossible problem, one of Tolkien's proposals was literally just "what if they're not really killing the orcs, they're just sending them to the Shadow Realm?"
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nkogneatho · 4 months
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𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘'𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐀 𝐖𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐄- 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎
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—cw: fem!reader, male and female masturbating, fingering, fistfucking, pillowfucking (put me in a cage pls), desperate gojo because i'll never shut up about that. not proofread.
—a/n: i wish his seiyuu had an asmr channel just like nanami's so this drabble would've been longer. enjoy though <33
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You're used to stalking the social media of people you go out with. It comes naturally. Well you live alone in this city, and you sure as hell don't want to stumble across a creep with no defense. You never know what's crippling it's way across this sinful city at night. The questionable news reports just added the oil to the fire of your anxiety. So it was natural that tonight, you were stalking another one of your dates. Gojo Satoru. You knew he was pretty popular when those hand had to leave yours to dap or fist bump his peers on your first date. It's almost as if fifty percent of the city knew him, like a celebrity. If he was really so popular, it would be easy to dig up info about him.
That's what led to you eagerly scrolling past his Instagram, flipping through each highlight as if you were a child who just found the greatest comic book.
party,
party,
and parties.
it was like his mantra the way his entire feed was just him dancing under the influence, in outfits too expensive and champagne to rich. He bathed in the luxury and the people around him were pleasuring off the drops sprinkling. So perfect that he had everyone wrapped around his finger. But won't he do the same to you? Overpower you. All those riches and he decided to go out with you, just so he could make you one of his whores, you were sure about that.
"Ugh, fuck it." You groaned, tossing your phone away. "Guess i'll have to use my hand again."
You opened your laptop, went incongnito typing the first letter, but your autocorrect knew better. It's like it has memorised what you do at this hour. But autocorrect works on algorithms so you were sure it's your fault that you visit the site so frequently.
The porn website was open and you clicked on search button, specifically typing "hot men jerking off webcam." It was one of your favorite things to watch.
You scrolled through the popular videos you had already watched maybe a million times. There was a reason they were popular. So you just changed the filter and selected "new to old". After rummaging through some of the boring videos, your eyes landed on the preview of one with the most beautiful cock. longest even. Curiously, you click on it. The video starts with the man rubbing his boner through the boxers. You put a hand inside your panties, and all you want right now is for him to take his boxers off. After a few minutes, he does and his long light peach cock springs out. when he leans back, your eyes do a double take.
is that gojo fucking satoru??
And indeed it was. The man who earlier gave you the rich spoiled misogynistic son vibes was now moaning like a slut, begging his viewers to ride their imaginary pussy. He had zero shame. Although...why didn't you log out?? Why did you not switch to some other video?
Because holy shit he is fistfucking his cock like an animal in heat. The chair is shaking and making squeaking noises but fuck who cares about that. Listen to his moans. His fucking whimpers. He changed his placement and now he was on the bed, had the pillow folded in half only to start ramming his dick into it. God! Is this the real Gojo Satoru? Is this what he is? A camboy whoring his body out. Because he has generational wealth so there's no way he is foung that for money. So the only logical answer is because he is such a fucking pussywhore that his exhibitionist cock only cums when there are others watching it.
Your fingers starts vigorously pumping in your cunt. They weren't long enough to reach and you were actually wishing Satoru was fucking you instead of that pillow because look. Look at that long dick. Look at the pretty flushed tip with his precum glistening. Fuck, how'd he taste on your? Sweet? Sour? But you know it would taste warm and filthy for sure.
The man in the screen increases his pace and so do you, imitating him. you want to cum at the same time. you want to see what his cum looks like on the gray pillowcase. your middle finger starts stimulating your clit even more while Satoru in the screen is now snapping his hips rougly against the bed, in the pillow. you imagine yourself in the position. Prone Bone. Never tried it but if it is what he is doing, then you're sure as hell down. It's the way his thrusts can be heard banging against the wood under the mattress even if there's not skin for his to slap against. compared to what other camboys do, talk about how they're going to ruin your dirty little pussy, gojo's is different. he does say he'll ruin your pussy but it's hotter because it is followed by endless pleas.
"fuck—lemme ruin this pussy—anh! please, yeah? gonna make you feel so good, baby please?" almost as if he is actually fucking someone. and you don't think twice before assuming he is talking to you. It's okay to be delusional sometimes. Specially when his words make you cum so hard, that you are whining at the lack of more girth to clench around. you look at the screen and Satoru came too. And he was whimpering. Like actually whimpering because it felt so good. Hot strings of cum now soaked in the pillow. Shit.
When you come back from the bathroom after washing yourself, you hear a notification. you pick up your phone to find a "Free tomorrow night?" from the same man who indirectly made you cum so hard tonight. And after what you saw today, you would be a fucking idiot to miss a chance like this.
"Yeah, Of course. Can't wait to see you tomorrow."
*Sent*
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saetoru · 5 months
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BEWARE OF PHAGOCYTIC RAIN — AL-HAITHAM.
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kinktober day three — aphrodisiacs ; find masterlist here
synopsis. the akademiya textbook reads as follows: consecrated scorpion stings are not deadly, but it is advised to proceed with caution in the event of encountering one. possible side effects of stings include swelling, pain, nausea, and mild sexual arousal. except the textbook lied. it’s not mild. al-haitham and you might need to pause your desert trip for a moment
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length. 4.3k words (omg this is the shortest one so far)
contents. minors do not interact, fem! reader, aphrodisiacs + dub con, mentions of injuries and blood (al-haitham gets stung by a consecrated scorpion), reader sits on his lap, hand jobs, unprotected sex, no prep, riding, creampie, implied (future) multiple orgasms, reader is mentioned to have a dendro vision + is a haravatat scholar
notes. i made this up. the new consecrated scorpions lore is that their venom can be a sex stimulant thanks
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“haitham,” you complain—although, you probably really shouldn’t. in fact, you definitely should not complain. al-haitham has so graciously allowed you to accompany this trip to the desert, and you should not get in the way. still, your feet ache, and the sun is blaring, and god—would kill you both to have a break? “can’t we just stop for a bit?”
but with you, al-haitham is always patient. you can see him diligently take the time to be patient as he stills and sighs quietly, not letting himself ever get frustrated with you. “it’ll get cold if night falls,” he reasons, “c’mon, you’ll definitely want to rest inside the ruins instead of outside tonight.”
“but baby,” you protest, “my feet hurt.”
“i know,” he nods, like validating your feelings will make them any better, “but the safest option would be to camp inside the ruins instead of out here—”
“hey, haitham?” you cut him off, suddenly whispering quietly as you huddle closer, “what…what’s that?” he looks over his shoulder to where you point—and then he stiffens.
“oh, great,” he hisses, groaning under his breath, “seriously? now?”
what looks like a giant scorpion seems to be pacing in the distance, the large, sharp stinger on its tail clear as day, even from where you stand, a good range away. you’ve never seen one of these before, never even heard of giant scorpions that roam the desert. al-haitham has certainly never told you about seeing them, with all the times he visits the desert himself. he seems rather familiar with them, too, staring exasperatedly off at the beast as it circles the territory you absolutely have to pass.  
“why is there a giant scorpion here? are there always these things in the desert? i’ve never heard of—wait,” you pause, “i have a textbook from the akademiya on desert exploration. i brought it just in case!”
“we don’t need that,” he insists, “i’ve dealt with these plenty of times. just leave it to me.”
you’ve never been to the desert—but al-haitham always mentions the ancient letters he sees in the ruins he explores. it’s tempting; being a scholar is always the never-ending temptation of knowledge—and you are both haravatat scholars, after all. studying an ancient alphabet is enough to make you plead with al-haitham to take you with him on his next trip.
he can’t say no to you, of course—he never can. but it’s your first time here, and evidently…it’s not going exactly as planned. 
you open the book, skimming through the pages before your eyes land on a sketch that looks strikingly similar to the same beast you see in the distance. the textbook reads as follows: consecrated scorpion stings are not deadly, but it is advised to proceed with caution in the event of encountering one. that seems like complete and utter bullshit—this seems rather deadly. 
“haitham,” you whisper, “i think we should leave. this doesn’t seem—”
“we can take it,” he argues, “i’ve taken them before on my own quite a lot in the past.”
“but baby, this one seems a bit big—”
“it’ll be fine,” he assures. 
you sigh, looking back at the book and scanning over the section that goes into detail about its attack patterns. “okay, fine—let me just read over how they attack so i know what to expect.”
phagocytic form—beasts enter phagocytic form immediately when in combat, resulting in an increase in resistance to all elements. there is double the resistance to electro attacks. well, you think, it’s a good thing cyno isn’t the one fighting today—otherwise, you think you might be screwed. 
this is fine. everything is fine. you and al-haitham both have dendro visions; this shouldn’t be too bad, right?
melee combo one—beasts perform a two-part combo with their claws. alright, not too bad. you can easily dodge that, you reason. melee combo two—beasts perform a three-part combo consisting of a single strike with both claws, a flurry of claw strikes while rushing forward, and a projectile fired from its stinger. now that seems a bit troublesome, but you’ve dealt with worse. 
“i’ll take care of it,” al-haitham calls over his shoulder, catching your attention as he draws out his sword. you look up from the pages frantically. 
“wait, i really think we should handle this together if we’re going to take this. just let me read on the attack patterns a bit more—”
he’s already made the first attack. you can hear the angry hiss of the scorpion, can practically see the fury in its beady eyes from behind the thick skull covering its head. al-haitham, to your slight comfort, dodges melee combos one and two expertly. 
maybe he was right—maybe you’ve been panicking for nothing.
you look back at the book. dig—beasts dig into the ground and attack the target from below, staying within the range of a visible electro ring. alright, as long as you leave the ring before the scorpion pops out of the ground, you should be fine. nothing to worry about. spikes—beasts plug their tails into the ground and rapidly produce spikes around themselves to shock targets. another easy dodge—you just have to make sure you escape the vicinity.
you look up, and al-haitham has already easily leapt from the ring and landed himself on higher ground. he waits, watches as the beast emerges from underground, and plants its tail into the ground—this must be the spikes. al-haitham is rather excellent at fighting these things—you have to admit. as soon as the spikes are gone, he takes his chance to plunge down, perfectly landing a hard hit to its head with the edge of his sword, making its body slump to the ground.
he might just finish this alone like he said. 
“there,” he nods, flashing you a smooth grin, “i told you i’d handle it. now then, let’s—”
the loud, sinister hiss from behind cuts him off—it makes you watch in abject horror as the scorpion rises and does a rapid spin. 
you look over the pages as quickly as you can—is there more? there’s nothing else on the page, is there? you quickly flick your eyes to the next page and—oh. 
oh no.
phagocytic rain—beasts rapidly spin and scatter many stingers into the air before slamming their claws and unleashing stingers down from above. these stingers, once pierced into the skin, can cause side effects as a result of consecrated venom.
“well, it’s never done that before,” al-haitham holds up his sword, getting ready to fight. 
no. he has to get away—he needs to get away. the words don’t come quick enough from your throat as you scream, “haitham, no! you have to get away—”
it’s too late. you can hear him let out a strangled groan of pain, clutching his arm as his sword instantly falls to the floor, a gash already decorating his skin from a stinger he didn’t manage to dodge. before you can even think, you grab your weapon and run, leaping between al-haitham and the scorpion and landing another perfect blow to its head—just before that giant, deadly-looking stinger on its tail can plunge into him.
it goes limp, falling to the floor with a thud, the glow of its body dimming instantly.
“fuck,” he curses—al-haitham rarely curses. this is not a light sting. “since when do they do that?”
“since forever,” you hiss, grabbing the edge of his cape to press on his wound and stop the blood flow, “maybe if you’d just listened to me and read the attack patterns with me, you’d have known that.”
“i’ve fought these plenty of times,” he says indignantly, teeth still grit in pain, “they never do that.”
“maybe if you weren’t such a know it all,” you grumble—but then you gently reach over, cupping his cheek as you trace a thumb over the skin comfortingly, “is it too bad?” you ask, concern evident enough in your tone that he feels slightly bad. 
al-haitham shakes his head, sighing quietly as you kiss his jaw. “i’ll be fine. i’ll just patch it up before we camp for the night.”
“are you sure? maybe we should—”
“it’ll be fine,” he hums, “their venom isn’t deadly anyway.”
—————
you and al-haitham manage to make it to the ruins by nightfall. somehow, miraculously, the two of you are able to trek towards the pyramid and seek shelter indoors for the night, right before it gets too dark and too cold.
al-haitham seems to act stranger and stranger as time goes on, quietly sitting in a corner against the wall and patching his arm up himself as you set up the fire by the tent. you look over at him and watch as he shudders and groans lightly. 
“are you sure you’re alright?” you ask in concern, walking over and sitting as you curl up next to him, raising a brow as his body seems to stiffen at your touch, “baby, you seem…”
“i’m fine,” he says curtly. 
you don’t seem to be convinced, furrowing your brows before pressing a palm to his forehead—hot. incredibly and unnaturally hot skin that’s flushed a shade of crimson you hardly see on al-haitham, even when you tease him in that cheeky, flirty little way of yours that dusts blush over his face every time. 
“haitham,” you gasp, hand brushing back his bangs to feel more of his skin—it’s only then, do you realize just how sweaty his skin seems to be, too. “you’re burning up!”
“i’m okay—”
“maybe you should take your shirt off,” you say quickly, wiping the sweat from his forehead as you sit up straight, “it’s just the two of us here, anyway. it’ll be fine—”
“no,” he grits, voice strangled, “i’m—hah” he cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, “—i’m okay. just leave me alone, please. i’ll just go walk it off in a bit.”
he’s panting. you can hear the way his voice is strained and the way his chest rises and falls rather rapidly. you should check the book again, just to see if there’s anything about the side effects in the event you do happen to get stung. 
“hmm, the textbook says—”
“do not read the textbook,” he practically begs. 
you do anyway. “possible side effects of stings include swelling, pain, nausea,” you start, glancing up at him and eyeing his patched arm, “well, there was some swelling. are you nauseous?”
“no,” he almost wheezes out. 
“let’s see, and it also says it can cause—oh.” 
possible side effects of stings include swelling, pain, nausea—you pause and swallow thickly as you read over the final part—and mild sexual arousal. sexual arousal. well, that would explain the heated and flushed skin, you suppose. and the sweat. you glance up at al-haitham—he does anything but meet your eyes. 
“i told you,” he says stiffly, muffling a groan as he crosses his arms and hunches forward, “i’ll be fine—”
“baby,” you hum, chuckling slightly as you run a hand through his hair—he gulps, still avoiding your gaze, “why didn’t you just tell me?”
“don’t,” he warns, jaw clenching as he looks up and stares at you with that same look of hunger you’ve seen so many times before. it’s clear al-haitham is trying to fight off whatever he’s feeling—but the reality is clear. 
he’s very quickly losing himself to his desires. 
“but it’s just us in here,” you insist, hand trailing down his chest slowly before settling on his thigh. his breath hitches, following your hand with his eyes as it rubs along slowly and moves closer and closer inwards. “these ruins have been abandoned for who knows how long—and we’re the only ones from the akademiya cleared to explore them.”
“don’t,” he says again—there’s a warning tone to his voice this time, slightly more raspy and entirely more breathless, “if…if i start, i don’t know if i’ll be able to stop.”
“oh, but haitham,” you pout, slinging a leg over his waist and seating yourself on his lap. you stare down at his crotch—wet. there’s a very noticeable wet patch over the bulge in his pants. you wonder how you didn’t notice it sooner. “who says i’d want you to stop?”
“love, i’m serious,” he closes his eyes and swallows, panting as a bead of sweat rolls down his temple, “you should sleep. i’ll be okay—o-oh, fuck,” he cuts himself off with a gasp, hissing as you reach past his waistband and free his strained cock from the confinements. 
it’s thick, his erection—probably far more swollen than you’ve ever seen it before. it almost looks painful, with how red it is at the tip, with how it twitches from nothing else but the cool air hitting the heated skin. you think it might just be aching, in fact, from how he whimpers as you wrap a hand around it, just barely squeezing, just barely applying pressure to really relieve anything.
“hmm,” you look down, inspecting, “seems sensitive.” you give it a slow, experimental stroke, instantly making him groan loudly as his head falls back, a stream of pre cum leaking from the tip enough to coat his already slick cock. 
“fuck, fuck—more,” he rasps, hand grabbing your thigh and squeezing hard to ground himself.
“okay,” you murmur, nodding to yourself, “very sensitive. guess we’ll just have to get this out of your system.”
you drag your hand over his length, slow at first, before building up a quick, steady rhythm—just the way he’s always liked it. you lean in, kissing along his jaw as he writhes under you while you squeeze around the base of his cock, rolling your palm over his tip before repeating the motion over and over and over again. 
his mouth is parted, low groans and the occasional soft whine fall past his lips, making the ache between your own legs worsen as you watch him fall apart. there’s a dull throb in your core, and you can feel the fabric of your underwear dampen, but all you’re worried about for now is the man before you. any other time, you’d think it’s a bit shameless, doing something so dirty, so filthy, so inappropriate in the middle of the desert like this–especially while on a research expedition, no less. but you couldn’t just leave your boyfriend to suffer like this, could you? what kind of girlfriend would you be then? and you’re not so cruel as to leave al-haitham to suffer like this all night, or longer, even—who knows how long before the side effects wear off? it’s the wisest choice to just help him, to take care of him like he always takes care of you.
that’s right, you think to yourself—you’re helping him like any doting lover would. you’re not at all interested by this predicament of his…or aroused, for that matter. no, you’re simply worried for him, and it’s up to you to relieve him of the painfully frustrating tension he must be suffering through after he so graciously fought to protect you from the dangers of the desert.
“jus’ like that,” he gasps as you touch him, chest still rising and falling as quickly as before—his shirt is damp too, a noticeable wet patch forming over most of it as the sweat collects on the fabric, “d-don’t stop—fuck, feels so good.”
“c’mon, haitham,” you murmur, taking your other hand to tug at the end of his shirt, “take this off—i told you, you’ll feel better.”
he listens—whatever is in that venom must be something strong because al-haitham is the most stubborn individual you’ve ever met. under normal circumstances, he’d refuse to take his shirt off even if, deep down, he knew himself it’d help. but right now, he quickly reaches at the hem before pulling it off, tossing it to the side as his bare chest is exposed for you to admire. his usual pale skin is flushed, a soft pink that glistens from the sweat that he can’t seem to get rid of, even as you work his swollen cock with your fist. 
it’s pretty, the way he sounds, the way he looks. you run a thumb over his slit, and he whimpers. not too often of times have you heard al-haitham whimper—but today, he seems to have lost any and all control, too busy thrusting his hips up to meet your strokes as he moans lowly. 
“when’d you start to feel it?” you ask curiously, pecking his forehead as you leave scattered kisses along his face, “how long have you been trying to play it off?”
“s-since…” he starts, but he trails off as your thumb traces over a thick being along the underside of his length, letting out a soft whine at the feeling before bucking his hip into your hand more desperately. you don’t think you’ve ever seen al-haitham so worked up—so needy and riled up and painfully fucked out before he’s even cum yet. “since i f-first got stung,” he admits through labored breaths, “just got worse slowly.”
“you should’ve told me,” you coo, “not like i don’t see you like this anyway. poor thing,” you pout softly, eyeing the way his cock twitches in your hand, more beads of pre cum oozing from the tip and leaving a stream down his length, “looks like it hurts.”
“it does,” he rasps, “feels…feels like ‘m gonna pass out.”
“don’t worry,” you hum, squeezing tighter around him, working him quicker as your hand jerks his aching cock off with a tight fist, “i’ll help you cum. ‘s what you deserve for fighting that thing for me. my strong baby.”
“c-close,” he says through a cracked voice, like the praise is enough to send him hurtling over the edge, “‘m so close—sh-shit.”
“yeah?” you ask sweetly, pecking his forehead, “then cum, baby. think you’ll feel much better.”
you roll a thumb over his nipple, hard under the pad of your thumb, and enough to make him gasp loudly before he lets out a deep grunt, cum spilling from his sensitive tip. it’s more than you’ve ever seen from him—thick, endless ropes of hot, sticky cum coating your hand and his abs as you pump his cock through his orgasm. you’re glad you made him take his shirt off—this would’ve been an even more unpleasant trip if he’d had to walk around in a soiled shirt.
“fuck, f-fuck—so g-good,” he stutters, his head thrown back against the wall that supports his body, legs spreading apart to give you better access to working his cock through his high. one hand reaches to play with his balls as you milk his cock, squeezing as you stroke upwards and watch every thick drop of cum shoot past his tip. 
it feels like forever, his orgasm. it’s long, and his voice is strained from calling your name over and over by the time he’s finished—but he’s still just as hard as before. no—in fact, you think he might be even harder. 
“well…” you start, staring at his erection as it rests against his sculpted abs, “i don’t think that did much.”
“no,” he pants, staring at you through lust-hazed eyes, “it didn’t. but i have an idea that might help, though.”
“yeah? what is it, oh wise grand sage?”
al-haitham, for the first time ever, doesn’t correct you that he’s the acting grand sage. instead, he lifts you up slightly and pulls your pants down to pool at your ankles before lining your dripping cunt over his cock. you bite your lip, moving to ever so slightly drag his tip along your clit, making the both of you shiver with a desperate gasp at the ghost friction.
“i think,” he starts, finger circling your clit slowly as you whine before letting your head fall to the crook of his neck, “that perhaps fucking you might be the only way to get this out of my system. what do you say?”
“haitham, please,” you whine, fingers digging into his shoulders as you clutch onto him, “need you.”
“yeah?” he chuckles breathlessly, replacing his finger and teasing your folds with the tip of his cock, coating the head with the slick of your pussy as you quiver over him, “need me, huh? i thought i was the one who got stung. shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
you would scoff if you weren’t aching to feel the burning stretch of him intruding your neglected cunt—al-haitham always finds a way to be himself at the end of the day. always so frustratingly confident and painfully good at teasing. 
“fuck me, haitham,” you plead, pushing your hips down until the first few inches of his length push past your entrance, dragging his tip along your folds and pulling a whine from you as he chokes on a low groan.
“f-fuck,” he grunts, “so tight—a-always so tight.”
his hands grasp at your hips, slowly guiding you to sink all the way down on his cock, taking it inch by inch until he’s buried all the way, his tip nudging perfectly against that sensitive spot in the back of your walls. al-haitham feels like he’s been made just for you like that—fitting you perfectly enough that he hits all the right spots without even trying, without even having to angle his hips in order to give you what you need from him.
you feel sweat collect on your own forehead, mirroring the same glistening of his own skin as you bite your lip and whimper out a pathetic, “h-haitham, more—please.”
“it’s a good thing i brought you with me,” he pants as he snaps his hips up, his hands still guiding your hips to bounce on his cock as you pull up before slamming back down, your walls hugging his thick girth tightly while his fat tip presses against your sweet spot. “imagine where i’d be if you weren’t here. j-jus’ wouldn’t feel the same if i was fucking my fist instead of this sweet cunt.”
the stretch is too good—the way he splits you open as he bullies into your pussy, pushing past your folds and dragging his thick veins along your walls, makes your head spin, pleasure burning up your nerves and spreading across your entire body. your lips attach themselves to his neck, kissing and sucking along the skin as he groans and tightens his bruising grip on your hips.
“b-baby—fuck, ‘s so good,” you mewl, “h-haitham—oh.”
“take me so well,” he says breathlessly, face falling slack as your walls flutter around his length and relieve the ache that was all too overwhelming just a few moments ago—being buried into your pussy is enough to turn the tight grit of his jaw into a loose, parted lips as he moans your name. “taking it so well, like the good girl you are. you—ngh, fuck—you want to make me feel better, don’t you?”
“i do,” you nod, sobbing as his thumb finds your clit and rubs harsh circles into the delicate bundle of nerves, “i do, i do—please, haitham. faster, need more.”
“yeah?” he lets out a strangled chuckle, biting his lip and groaning as you snap your hips down particularly rough, squeezing around him tightly, “you need more? i’d almost say you were stung instead of me.”
your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving angry, red marks in their wake as his fingers dig into the plush skin of your hips. you slam down on him with every roll of your hips, his own meeting you halfway as he bucks up, fucking into you—you can feel it, the impending high that you reach closer and closer to, every circle of his thumb on your clit and every brush of his cock against your walls bringing you close to falling off the edge.
“‘m…g-gonna cum, haitham—fuck, a-almost there, baby,” you pant, mewling as you throw your head back while he leans in to kiss your neck, biting hard enough that you almost wonder if there’s blood.
“me too,” he groans, “you…you’re so perfect,” you feel his head bury into your shoulder, his forehead digging into your shoulder as you cradle the back of his head with a hand and whine, “i’m bringing you to every trip—fuck you in every ruin i explore. you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“yes, yes—please,” you babble, nodding as your back arches before you feel the coil snap—you gasp his name, a repeat of haitham, haitham, haitham, falling from your lips as he fucks into you through your high. the spasm of your walls around him sends him hurtling into his second orgasm—even more earth-shattering than the first.
“that’s it,” he moans, his voice deep and raspy as it cracks in the middle, “can’t even be mad i got stung—not when you let me fuck you l-like this. so…feels so good—’m c-cumming.”
it’s not the first time al-haitham has cum in you—but it’s never felt like this before. it’s hot, his cum—it spills into you and coats your walls in a sticky mess that forms a ring at the base of his cock as it pumps into you. the mess of his release and your arousal coats both of your thighs, leaking from your abused cunt and smearing along your skin. you can feel him twitch with every rope, can feel the way he throbs as he spills into you and paints your walls white with his release. it’s desperate—needy and so, so filthy, just like the sounds he makes into your ear, breathless pants that make your stomach do flips as you listen to him fall apart and break. 
he slumps as he finishes, your body falling against him as you both pant harshly and catch your breaths. he kisses your neck delicately as you stroke his hair, admiring his spent form under you.
“as much as i hate that you got stung,” you mumble, “this…this might not have been the worst thing.”
“oh yeah?” he snorts, looking up and raising a brow—it’s only then that you feel it, the twitch of his still hard cock, still buried deep in your abused cunt, “are you sure? because we aren’t nearly finished yet—i really hope you’re prepared to take it.”
the textbook may have lied, you think—this is not mild at all. this might delay your trip quite a bit.
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i would go with him hoping he gets stung every time so i could suck the soul out of him tbh
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sunnami · 2 months
Text
❝time will tell.❞
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[credits to the original artist of the photo!! can't seem to find their @ anywhere. title is taken from jane austen's persuasion, as was the first part.]
summary. ❝you are loved. and harry thinks there is no better description that that.❞
pairing/s. poly!mauraders x reader. (james potter x reader, sirius black x reader, lily evans x reader, and remus lupin x reader.)
word count. 9.5k.
tags. reader is referred to mum, with she/her pronouns[!], canon-typical violence [!], canon-typical deaths mentioned[!], very brief marauders as soldiers of the order[!], creepy old men being creepy[!], child abuse[!], pureblood arranged marriages, a minor character expresses wanting to die[!], Depressed and Traumatized Slytherins, the capital is important[!], themes of misogyny [!], teen boys fuck around and find out there are consequences to their actions, THERE IS ACTUALLY A LOT OF FLUFF, I PROMISE YOU, angst, children lose their baby teeth up until the age of twelve!! google said so!! not proofread we die like dobby the free elf
note. damn, i cried, you cried, we all crode. tbh, the first part was only intended as a oneshot, sdfkhdf, but when i re-read it, i thought that i could have expanded on more details,, so now here we are!! i love it more than the first part ueueue. thank you all so so so much for the kind comments :((( please please enjoy the second part to this installment!! part one
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HARRY JAMES POTTER was only a few months old when you died at the hands of Voldemort — or as strangers have told him every time they ravaged his personal space and ogled at his scar. They said it was a quick death, better than what had happened to Alice and Frank Longbottom. But that was all they’ve ever said about your death. Unfortunate; caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, entirely different from the pedestal James and Lily have been put on by the wizarding society. 
At first, Harry had wondered if it was due to your blood relations, being the daughter of a renowned Death-Eater, heiress to the fortune of a pureblood House. Harry can’t even count the amount of conspiracy theories he’s read or heard to his face that it must have been you who betrayed James and Lily, and not Sirius Black. 
Even Hermione’s shared to him a theory that your death was faked to surrender your loyalty completely to Voldemort — of course, Hermione was eleven at the time, head full of books and her favorite theories, and Harry’s already forgiven her. But there’s a part of him that despises the way he’s never known the full truth about his parents, just bits of information dangled in front of him like bait for people [read: the Dursleys] to get him to do what they want, to act like the way they want. Until Remus and Sirius, you were a stranger to him, really.
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)
IT IS RATHER UNFORTUNATE that Madam Pince has already taken her position as the unbearable librarian at this point in time. The woman gives Harry and you a pointed look as you slam the large book onto one of the tables — to Harry’s surprise, you glare right back at her. You’re awfully flushed, however, blushing cheeks betraying the fire in your eyes; it must have been from when Remus escorted the two of you to the library; he had tried to brush your hand with his pinky, to which you had responded with a startled hiss — Remus only smiled and chuckled at you, and Harry swears he’d like to forget that entire interaction because he saw literal stars in Remus’s eyes.
Jumping back in time and potentially causing chaos? Fun. 
Meeting your parents? Definitely fun, in the strangest of ways. 
But watching them pine and fall for each other? Not so fun. 
Nonetheless, he hesitantly takes the seat across yours and watches you flip through the pages until you land on a chapter with the large, bold letters: THE CURIOUS CASE OF ELOISE MINTUMBLE — Time-Travel and Its Many Dangers. He meets your gaze with a sheepish grin, mustering a look of innocence; except the puppy dog eyes only worked when he was nine — you are not amused. 
You slide the book towards him, scarily resembling Molly Weasley when she’s miffed with the twins. “You are aware, right, that just by existing here you’ve changed the future? Your future? And, that’s not even the worst thing that could happen.” 
Harry sulks. “Yes, mum.” He prefers not to think about it, actually, it makes his head hurt. 
“Don’t call me that in public!” You whisper heatedly, looking over your shoulder to check if anyone had heard him — to your luck, the library was empty, save for a Hufflepuff that was passed out on top of his books. “The less people that know about this, the better. It’s bad enough we told Potter about you. Do you even know what you’re going to do?” 
“Considering I was thrown here against my will, no.” Harry shrugs. “And to be honest, I was just going to obliviate the people who asked too many questions.”
You reach over to smack his head, scowling.
“Ow! That hurt!” Harry rubs the sore spot as he grumbles petulantly. “This is technically child abuse, did you know that?” 
You roll your eyes. “Do you at least have a plan to get home?” 
“Of course I do,” Harry retorts with a scoff, “Her name is Hermione Granger.” 
“Hopeless.” You groan exasperatedly. “Absolutely hopeless.” 
Harry only grins in response. For a brief moment, he forgets about the present — his reality where the skies are bleak and home is where he knows the feeling of loss more than the warmth of his own parents’ embrace. He lets himself forget, and pretends he isn’t the Boy Who Lived. Just some random boy who’s pestering his mother — even if she likes to deny the inevitability of being romanced by the Marauders, (except for Wormtail because Harry would eat troll slime before he ever lets that happen.)
“Right then,” You say after your tangent — which Harry tuned out when he hears the words, be responsible. “If I’m going to help you get back home—” 
Harry’s heart drops to his stomach; as selfishly as it sounds, he didn’t want to go home just yet — not to where people just took and took from him. He’s exhausted. Still, he puts up a front of being excited to be returned to his timeline. It’s for the greater good, of course, because his existence — present or past — is always somehow a threat to the wizarding society. 
“—you need to answer this one question for me.” Your voice drops lower as you stare at him intently, lips pressed firmly. 
Harry nods slowly. “As long as it’s within reason, yeah.” 
You inhale sharply. “Do I outlive Dolores Umbridge?” 
The wince escapes Harry before he can even stop it. 
That’s all the answer you need, apparently. Your mouth hangs open in disbelief, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you slam your hands down onto the table surface, shrieking.
“That slimy bitch!” 
Needless to say, the two of you are kicked out of the library.
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1970; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)
YOU ARE ELEVEN when your father introduces you to Ferguson, commonly known as Fergus, Bulstrode. He smiles at you with a leer, eyes hungrily dipping to the neckline of your dress. You grit your teeth as you hold out your hand for him to take — you almost shudder at the feel of his lips on your cheek. You eagerly take a step back away from him, hoping your father won’t notice the way you shy from Ferguson’s touch. You’re not dull, you fully understand the implications of this introduction and the way Ferguson is complaining to you about his third wife’s passing — as if you were the solution to his loneliness. Bile rises to your throat, and you shove it down with a forced laugh at your father’s jokes about Mudbloods. From across the room, Allegra Greengrass stares at you in sympathy, and you send her a glare — you do not need anyone’s pity. 
The corset your mother laced on too tight is suffocating you; this whole Yule extravaganza made for elitist purebloods is suffocating you; and yet, you smile and greet every red-lipped witch your mother introduces you to. For hours, you pretend, and you pretend. By the time the guests have left, you wonder if you have any more of yourself to give. 
You manage to convince your mother to let you slip away for the night. Without missing a beat, you rush outside and into the garden labyrinth, lest old Ferguson snatches you up for a dance and let his gaze wander elsewhere. For the first time since the sun had set, your aching feet finally find some relief. You drop onto the edge of the stone fountain as you toss your heels to the side. You begin working your fingers through your hair, ripping the glittery ribbons from your head. It’s not until you’re unclasping your necklace that you realize you are crying. Tears fall from your eyes, and they sink deep into the fabric of your dress. 
You barely hold back your sobs. Your chest heaves as you hiccup; your vision goes blurry as your fingers grow numb. There’s nothing you can do but cry. 
You’ve used up all your smiles for tonight. 
But then, the sadness turns into resentment and then turns into indignation. Harshly, you wipe the tears from your eyes as you rip a violent scream from your throat. 
You sink to the ground, perfectly polished nails digging into the soil as you gather patches of grass and tear them from the roots. You throw a handful of mud at the marble statues. You grab another fistful of mud, scream, then bash your head against the garden floor. You let out another cry, whimpering as you curl into yourself; shivering as a gust of wind brushes against your skin. Surprisingly enough, this is the most human you’ve ever felt. This is the most you have ever felt — period. 
When hiccups regress into soft sniffles, you lay on your back, watching the stars float above. As the last of your tears slide down your cheek, you lift a shaky hand to trace the constellation in the sky. It’s not a familiar one to you, but then— 
“That’s Sirius.” 
You sit upright in a snap, wiping away the wetness from your eyes as you muster a mean glare at the newcomer.
Sirius Black.
“Oh, none of that,” He tells you when you move to stand. There’s barely any emotion on his face and it irks you that you can’t figure out what he’s planning. What you don’t expect is for him to sit beside you, thereby ruining his expensively tailored suit. 
“You’ll get creases,” You scold him instinctively, nose scrunched — but your voice is hoarse; too tired to put up any pretences. “Your mother will be cross with you.” 
Sirius scoffs, laying his head on the dirt, making sure to smear his sleeves with grass stains. “Walburga can go fall in a ditch and die for all I care.”
You gasp. “That’s horrible!” 
Sirius gives you a look. “You don’t believe that.” 
You really don’t, but you don’t have the courage to admit it either. 
After a few moments of silence, Sirius asks, raising a brow, “So who was that?”
“Who was who?” You stare at him with knitted brows, toying with your fingers. You still can’t wrap your head around how weird this is — sitting with Sirius Black in the middle of your mother’s hedge maze, your once bright blue dress now sullied at the ruffles, eyes bloodshot and your hair a frizzy mess. (Sirius thinks you look cute, though; especially with your missing front tooth that peeks out every time you talk to him.) 
“Bald guy, older than Merlin himself.” Sirius makes a face. “Looks like a troll. Smells like one, too.”
A giggle flutters past your lips, and your hands fly to your mouth. You really shouldn’t be bad-mouthing your guests, but Sirius was right — Ferguson really did act like an ugly troll. You sigh, letting your arms fall to your side. “My betrothed.” 
Sirius nods in understanding. “My mother tried to set me up with my own cousin once.” 
You grimace. “Which cousin?” 
He sits on his knees to face you, and with a very solemn face, he says, “Bellatrix.”
This time, you laugh freely, throwing your head back as Sirius pouts at your amusement. “O-Oh, that’s golden.” 
“No, it’s not,” says Sirius, lips twitching as he watches you snort like a pig through your giggles. “It’s horrible. A literal nightmare. You should feel awful for me.” He pokes your stomach, and it just makes you laugh harder, eyes disappearing into your smile. “Oi. I said feel awful, not take the piss out of me.” 
“S-Sorry.” You wheeze, batting away his hand pulling at your cheek. “I just can’t imagine Bellatrix in a white wedding dress and saying her vows to you.”
“That’s disgusting.” Sirius gags. “You’re horrible, I hope you know that.” 
When you finally calm down and Sirius tickles your bare feet until you cry in surrender, the two of you lay on the grass as he points out each constellation to you. Later, he fishes a small box of sugar mice from his pocket and offers it to you, opening one for himself. “Here’s to shitty parents and the one day we get to decide our own future.” 
You bump your squeaky candy mice against his. “Cheers, Black.” 
“Will you go to Hogwarts next year?” He asks you once he’s bitten off the tail of his mice. 
You nod. 
Sirius shifts on his side, holding his pinky out to you. “We’ll be friends when school starts?”
Again, you nod, wrapping your pinky around his. “Friends.” 
The next September comes, Sirius finds a compartment and one James Potter in it. You sit with Allegra Greengrass and Endora Lestrange on the way to Hogwarts. You are sorted into Slytherin, and Sirius finds freedom and a home in Gryffindor. You play the role created just for you; you lift your nose at those beneath you, adorn yourself in custom-made silk clothing, and carry yourself with the etiquette of a pure-blooded lady. Perfect grades, perfect hair, perfect clothes, always picture perfect.
You pretend that Allegra doesn’t throw up in the evenings from the fear of getting married to a man twice her age. You pretend that you don’t notice Endora sleep-walking and begging for her mother to save her from her father. You pretend that under your blankets, in the Slytherin dungeon, you are safe. 
You pretend that it doesn’t hurt when Sirius looks at you in disappointment when you shove a Hufflepuff student to the ground for getting a higher score than you in Charms.
They call you an ice-princess behind your back, and you overhear some of the fifth-years calling you foul words as well, and no one steps in to stop them; there’s no defending a Slytherin, after all. But you are keeping your head above treacherous waters, and you suppose that is all that matters.) 
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)
“SO ACCORDING TO THIS, Eloise was stuck in 1402 for five days until she was retrieved to the present, which means we only have four days left to figure out a way for you to get back home.” 
Harry sinks into his chair, arms crossed over his chest. The two of you had found an empty classroom to discuss your plans away from inquisitive ears. “What’s the rush?” It’s unfair, he’d only just met you, and now he’s losing time with you. 
You sigh. “Harry, Eloise Mintumble spent five days in the past and when she came back, her body aged five centuries, and she died in St. Mungos. It’s not just about altering the whole timeline, you could actually die.” 
When you are met only with silence, you close the book, frowning. “Harry? What’s wrong?” 
Harry swallows the lump in his throat, looking out the window to avoid your gaze. “What do you know about the Mirror of Erised?” 
Your head tilts in confusion. “That it shows our heart’s deepest desire.” 
“Yeah,” says Harry, nodding. “I was eleven when I found it.” 
“Oh, Harry. . .” 
It’s almost pathetic how quickly his eyes water. “Did you know, before today, I hadn’t known at all what your voice sounded like?” 
You stay quiet, and Harry sucks in a shaky breath. 
“When I looked into the mirror, I saw my parents—all of you. There I was, in the middle. You were behind me—happy.” Harry swipes a tear from his eye. “I wanted to stay in that room, stare at that mirror forever.”
“It’s—”
“Dangerous, I know.” He laughs bitterly. “Just like finally being able to meet you all here.”
“Harry, you aren’t supposed to be here in the first place,” You say quietly, eyes drooping sadly. 
“I know that!” He exclaims desperately. “But is it so selfish to just want some time? I don’t want an illusion, I want the real thing. A real family. Why can’t I have that? Bloody Malfoy gets everything he wants, and what do I have?” 
“Your friends,” You tell him firmly. “Your friends who must be worried sick that you’re gone and must be going great lengths to bring you back.” 
“I know.” Harry wilts. He’s got Remus at home, too, who probably needs him more than ever after Sirius’s death. “I know. But can’t I just have this one thing?” 
You purse your lips for a moment, brows furrowed in thought. Then, you break the silence with: “Do you want to hear a story?”
“What?” Harry croaks, peering at you through wet lashes. 
Shrugging, you say, “Stories to remember us by. I’ve got six years worth of stories and then some. I know it’s not much, and you’ve probably heard some of these already from the others in the future, but it’s better than nothing, right?” You lean against the back of your chair, glancing at the wall clock before grinning at Harry. “We’ve got time to spare, anyway.” 
Harry manages a smile, setting down his glasses before rubbing his stinging eyes with the handkerchief you offer him. He figures this is what Remus means when you’re the gentlest creature he’s ever known — just not gentle in what the world expects you to be. 
“What do you say, Harry? I give you tidbits of the past, and you tell me if you know anything about the next Triwizard champion, so I can place my bets in advance.”  
Harry snickers. “Not a chance, mum.” 
“Worth a try.” And the smile you give him is nearly blinding. 
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1977; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)
YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND what it is about Gryffindors and their hobby of invading others’ personal space. 
A year into dating and James likes to shove his head under your shirt, claiming he loves the sound of your heartbeat — but you know really what he wants to nestle his head in between. The amount of cashmere blouses he’s ruined is absurd! Sirius has a hobby of tracing runes on the plane of your stomach. Lily prefers it when you sit in front of her, just within reach where she can wrap her arms around you and rest her head on your shoulder. Remus tends to lag behind the group when he notices you walking slower due to your leg flaring up. He kisses the side of your head and promises to chase the pain away — sappy poetic that he is. And in the moments where all five of you are together, tucked under a wide alcove, you can best believe there is no escaping what they like to call, a cuddle pile. Limbs are tangled, kisses are shared, and confessions of love are whispered. 
Before them, you hadn’t really known the different ways to love and be loved. 
Onto the pressing matters at hand, you discover that the brazen show of affection extends to their parents as well. Particularly, the Potters. After a year, you finally caved into James’s requests for you to spend the holidays at their manor, since the others have already made a space for themselves there, and James had said it would be an honor for you to feel at home with his parents, too. Honestly, you spoil them too much — one look into his bright, wide eyes and you gave in. James didn’t even care that you brought two luggages for clothes alone; he lifted each bag with delight and with ease. 
(Remus had the audacity to laugh when he caught you and Sirius staring at James’s flexed muscles, mouth wide open. 
“As I have said, Remus Lupin, I do not drool!”
“Sure, dove, whatever you say.”)
But now, you really aren’t so sure of your decision. 
“Oh, she’s beautiful, Jamie!” Euphemia encases you in a bear hug the moment you step inside the manor. You’re engulfed in the scent of cinnamon and burnt sugar. You stiffen as she cradles your face in between her palms, smiling ever so fondly at you, cooing about how precious you look, much like a mother would — and how your mother never did. You wonder if this is what you’ve been missing all along — the thought stabs you right in the heart. “Please excuse the mess, dear, we haven’t had the chance to clean up yet, Monty and I are excited to try the recipe Lily owled to us the other day, you see.” 
“I-It’s okay,” You rasp, struggling to hold back the tears. 
“Oh, what a darling you are!” Euphemia smiles and ushers you further inside. “Come, come. The others are right upstairs. You must be tired from the train ride. It is so lovely to finally meet you. Make yourself at home, dear heart — James Fleamont Potter! Give your mama a kiss this instant! Don’t think introducing your girlfriend will distract me from the fact you didn’t owl me letters for two months straight!” 
James whines as he hides behind you. “Mum, I’m seventeen, stop embarrassing me.” 
Euphemia scoffs, hands snapping to her hips. “You’re going to be my baby boy forever, now come here.” 
With a shy smile, you step away to surrender James to his mother — you don’t understand which part of this is embarrassing; you wish for a mum who’d welcome you home like that, with unconditional love and kind eyes. James squawks and calls you a traitor, just before his mum attacks him with loud, exaggerated kisses to his cheek, leaving lipstick stains all over his face. You hide a laugh behind your palm, ignoring the way your heart pangs at the sight of their unrestrained smiles. Euphemia lets her son go after a few more seconds, cackling at the masterpiece she’s created on a grumbling James, who’s rubbing his skin to erase his mother’s affections. She hugs you once more before setting you off, telling you to meet Fleamont after you’ve unpacked. 
Just as you reach the foot of the stairs, you hear a girlish squeal, then the sound of rapid footfall against each wooden step. Lily greets the two of you by jumping off the last step and wrapping each arm around yours and James’s neck. “Welcome home, Jamie!” She captures his lips with her own before doing the same to you, cupping your cheek lovingly, “So happy you made it, princess! How was the ride here?” 
You were never a fan of traveling by Floo; it made you nauseous after, and left you with a pounding headache for hours. Without hesitation, the others offered to accompany you on the train, but you insisted they Floo ahead to Godric’s Hollow — it took a lot of convincing, but they finally agreed, (they’re not the only ones spoiled; they couldn’t refuse you, too.) With the exception of James, who wanted to be there when you saw his home for the first time. You nearly cried when you saw how well-loved their manor was; rose shrubs dipped in snow, Sirius’s motorcycle parked outside, a mailbox with poorly painted shapes, the fences covered in Christmas lights, and the amount of shoes by the door. From outside, you could hear the laughter and warm conversations. 
“It was fine,” You say in a daze.
Lily sees right through you — and frowns sadly. “You alright?” 
Were you? 
You catch sight of the moving photographs of James and you finally reach your breaking point. There’s a swell in your throat that you can’t seem to push down. There’s a photo of James, Lily, Remus and Sirius; James is in his Quidditch jersey, raising the Golden Snitch high up in the air, Remus is twirling Lily, his arms around her waist, and Sirius is holding up a charmed banner that says: Gryffindor Rules! Slytherin Sucks! Except For My Darling Angel Love Of My Life Most Beautiful And Gorgeous Perfect Brilliant Girlfriend! 
There are hints of life all around the manor. Remus’s textbooks and scarf are laid by the coffee table. Lily’s O.W.L. marks are framed on the wall, along with Dumbledore’s letters to James and Lily awarding them the position of Head Girl and Head Boy, as well as McGonagall’s previous letter to Remus that came with his Prefect badge years ago. There’s a spot dedicated to Peter, filled with a photograph of him awkwardly holding his Herbology test, one that he scored a hundred and twelve percent on. It’s a wall dedicated to them, you realize. 
Then, you find it. 
Right there, up above James’s spot, and beside Sirius’s display of beyond perfect Transfiguration exam marks, and a picture of him and Remus kissing each side of your face. 
It’s a space on that wall just for you. 
James follows your gaze and rubs the back of his head, ears tinged with a shade of deep pink. “Mum left a space when I first told her about you. I-It’s yours, you can put anything you want there.” 
“I can’t,” You whisper, lips quivering as your heart cracks into a million pieces. It’s too much. 
James blinks. “Can’t? It’s yours, I promise. Mum won’t mind. You can even hang your dumb Montrose Magpies poster and I won’t tear it down — Marauders’ honor. I can help you if you want. I-I’m not good as decorating as Lily, but I paid attention to your boring explanation of color theory and I know that you hate this shade of—”
“James, I can’t do this.” 
That’s all you say before you run out of the door. 
(And you’re absolutely delusional if you think James won’t follow you out that door and into the brewing snowstorm.) 
You hear James call out to you, but you opt to ignore him and clutch your winter coat tighter around your body, shivering in the blowing wind, trudging through the deep snow through your heeled boots — designer couldn’t help you now even if you tried. You sniff, the salty taste of your tears dripping to your lips, chest tightening with a foreign kind of pain, and the frost nipping at your fingers. You give up after a few minutes, falling to the ground with an anguished cry, hand clutching the front of your chest as you struggle to breathe. 
James reaches you in a matter of minutes, draping his jacket over you, barely flinching as the cold welts his bare skin. Frantically, he wipes the tears from your eyes, a pained expression on his face as he sees you cry helplessly. “Come on, dove, it’s not safe out here. Let’s go back home, yeah? I’m sorry for upsetting you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, dove, please don’t cry, it’s killing me to s–see you like this.” Tears fall from his eyes, and he begins stuttering from the cold, but you can’t go back to the manor. “What did I do? Please tell me so I can fix it. I love you—I’m sorry.”
You bat his chest. “G–Go home, Jamie. I’ll just take the train back to the castle.” 
“What?” He shakes his head, grabbing onto your hands. “Y–You can’t. Not in this weather. You’ll get sick if you try to walk back to the station.” 
You withdraw from his hold as you back away from James, slipping into the ice-cold mask you know so well. 
James rises in an instant, reaching for you. “No, no, no, no, no. You don’t get to do that. Not now. Not with me. Please, just come home and I-I’ll fix it.” 
“Goodbye, James,” You tell him firmly, clenching your jaw as you look him straight in the eyes. 
He grimaces. “That won’t work on me, princess, and you know it. Don’t push me away—please.” 
“Go home, James!” You yell bitterly, pivoting on your heel as you march through the thick inches of snow, hearing Remus and Lily’s voice grow louder in the distance. “Just go!”
He grits his teeth, nails digging deep into the palms of his hand. “You’re a coward if you walk away from here—from us—right now!” James shouts through chattering teeth and stray tears. “And I hate cowards more than anything!” 
You don’t look back. 
(Later that night, James stares blankly at the fireplace, tossing twigs now and then. He’s all out of tears. Remus crosses his legs as he sits beside James and offers him a steaming mug of hot chocolate. 
“Don’t want one,” He mutters, words coarse from earlier, head turning away from Remus’s gift. “Just want her.” 
Remus sets the beverage on the ground before pulling James’s head down to his chest, gently wiping the tears from his eyes as he wraps the blanket around both of them. He presses a soft kiss to James’s hair. 
“I said I hated her,” James says weakly. “I don’t—I never will. I just hate that she’s out there spending Christmas all alone. She could be here—with us. I hate not knowing that she’s safe, or that she thinks I don’t love her anymore—that’s a bloody lie, Moony. I adore her. If anything, I don’t deserve her.” 
James finds out that he does have more tears left in him. “I miss her. Bring her back, Rem, please.”
“You’ll cry yourself sick, love.” Remus wipes each tear away. “Let’s go to bed, yeah? Mornings do have a way of bringing miracles to us.” Because after a night of excruciating pain under the moon’s command, he wakes up to sunlight, and there you all are — smiling down at him like he is deserving of love; and maybe Remus can’t fault you for running away.
You’d kiss him gently and tell him how proud you are of him for coming back to you. 
Remus only hopes you come back to them, too.)
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)
“AND THAT, dear Harry, is how I humiliated Lucius Malfoy in fifth-year.” Your eyes gleam wickedly as you rest your arms on the school desk. “If he ever bothers you in your time, just mention my name—oh, I wish I could see the look on his face when he realizes I’m haunting him from my grave. Tell him, okay?” 
Harry nods excitedly. “Definitely.”
“Got anymore stories?” He asks. 
You cackle menacingly. “Boy, do I ever. Let me tell you about the one time Beckett McLaggen took me out on a date to Madam Puddifoot’s!” 
Harry grimaces. “Do I even want to hear about this?” 
“Oh, pish-posh.” You dismiss him with a wave. “You do, this story is hilarious. Now that I look back on it, Sirius was quite cross with him for the rest of the day—how strange. I wonder why.” 
Harry stares at you in disbelief. “You’re joking.” 
“I most certainly am not, Harry Potter.” 
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1974; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)
AN EAR-PIERCING scream wakes you up in the middle of the night. You snatch your wand from under your pillow, heart thudding against your chest in fear — last year, the Prewett twins decided it was funny to break into the girls’ quarters at midnight; you get a month worth of detention for hitting Gideon with the Expulso curse and suspension from class for two weeks, while the twins get away with a slap on the wrist and have the time of their lives spreading rumors of you being a Death-Eater. 
Endora shoots up to her feet as well, staring at you in panic — then the girl screams again, and you realize it’s Allegra. 
You sigh in relief, lowering your wand before saying to Endora, “I-It’s alright. I’ll handle it.” 
“Are you sure?” Endora asks timidly, gnawing at her lip and wincing when Allegra wails once more. 
“Certain,” You respond, yawning. 
As Endora climbs back into her bed, you slip into Allegra’s side, holding her head to your chest, brushing your fingers through her hair and untangling the knots. Like most of the Greengrass women, she was of ethereal beauty — silky blonde hair, smooth and fair skin, deep blue eyes that enchant wizards and witches alike. But her cheeks have gone sallow from exhaustion, eyes devoid of any emotion, and her skin now sunken into her bones. 
“I don’t want to marry him—I can’t! He’s old enough to be my father!” Allegra sobs violently, desperate for anyone to hear her, but no one really ever hears their cries from the dungeon. “They said they’d wait until I graduated—they promised! I’m supposed to marry him this summer!” 
Your heart breaks for your friend — there’s nothing you can do but hold her until she’s cried every bit of her soul out. 
“I hate them,” Allegra whispers to you; she had been shedding tears for hours, trembling in your arms until morning finally came. 
“I know,” You say defeatedly. 
“I wish I was dead,” She replies lifelessly. “He can’t marry a dead bride.” 
“Don’t say that,” You beg as you hug her tight; afraid to lose her to the world that has worn her down. “Please.” 
Allegra sinks into her pillows, and you follow in suit, hesitantly laying your head beside hers. She stares at the ceiling dully. “The world is so, so cruel to us daughters sometimes. And it’ll be cruel to our daughters, and their daughters. When will it end?” 
“I don’t know,” You say honestly. 
Allegra hums, neither disappointed nor surprised, and turns away to lay on her side. “Pansy,” She mumbles.
“What?”
“If we lived in a better world and I married for love, I’d want to name my daughter Pansy — like the flower.”
(Later that day, you are given detention for beating Evan Rosier to a pulp. He makes a joke about dirty blood, and you snap — you are tired of laughing and pandering to the arrogant men in your life. This is the first time you publicly defy your parents, and it felt good — more than good, it was liberating. It’s like breathing fresh air for the first time. Then, you earn a second detention for storming up to the Gryffindor common room and punching Fabian Prewett in the face — because fourth-year boys had no business sneaking into the girls’ dorm in the middle of the night for some stupid prank — and you threaten him by pointing the tip of your wand deep into his neck, demanding they apologize to you, Allegra, and Endora. 
You get what you want, naturally — as princesses do. You decide then that you’re going to create a world where girls like Allegra don’t cry anymore.)
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.) 
HARRY TWINGES WHEN he hears the end of your fourth or fifth story of the afternoon — no wonder you had been so angered by his being in your room. “I-I’m sorry—” 
“Yesterday was hardly your fault,” You interrupt him. “There’s no controlling where magic brings you, not in your case. You didn’t know, but now you know. I don’t hold it against them — anymore. Fifteen-year-old boys can be stupid, and at least they’ve learned from their mistakes. You should have seen your mother — erm, Lily — she looked like she was ready to kill them after finding out what they had done. Even Molly was cross with the twins, and you know how loyal Molly is to her family.”
Oh, Harry knows.
And Hermione knows it all too well. 
“Others call us evil, conniving and cruel, Harry,” You tell him grimly, “But I will protect my own, no matter what I have to do.”
At that moment, Harry thinks he understands why some people come to fear Slytherin. 
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1978; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.) 
“LOOK, LILY-PAD, the princess is drooling again.” 
You open your eyes to glare at Sirius. “I don’t drool, idiot.” 
Lily chortles as she presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Of course you don’t, princess.”
Currently, you’re lying on a shabby loveseat that is too small to hold the three of you; it’s the only furniture in the new cottage you call home, where Potter Manor was right across the street. (Euphemia was ecstatic to have you all nearby — the lovely woman was sprite for her age, but you notice the way she stops to sit and catch her breath, Sirius and James hovering over her attentively; you’re good at pretending, so you pretend that the Potters will be around forever.) Some rooms are dusty with cobwebs, walls unfinished, with the floors creak under your feet, and there’s no other place you’d rather call home. 
You’re in between Sirius and Lily; your lips swollen from their kisses, cheeks flushed and the column of your throat graced with love marks. It’s the most beautiful set of jewelry you’ve ever worn, not even burmese rubies could compare. Lily’s hand rests under your jumper, Sirius’s thigh wedged between your own. While peace blankets the three of you, James and Remus have yet to come home from their task given by the Order. 
“You need a haircut, my love,” You mumble drowsily, pulling at one of the dark ringlets — it’s gone past his shoulders now. He captures your hand and leaves a delicate kiss on your fingertips. 
Lily buries her nose in your hair. “She’s right, Siri.” 
“I’m always right.” You pout. 
Sirius, love-sick fool that he is, smiles as he tilts your chin with his finger and ensnares you in a kiss that leaves you breathless. “Course you are — our girl’s bloody brilliant, isn’t she, Lily-pad?”
“Without a doubt.”
You roll your eyes at their antics, rolling around so that your back is pressed to Sirius’s chest — they’re not fooled, however; Lily sees the way your eyes flicker in amusement and the way your lips threaten to curve up into a smile. She traces the swell of your lips with her thumb, to the dip of your nose, and to the apples of your cheek. Sea-green eyes beam at you.
“I love you,” says Lily, committing every inch of you to her memory as she wears a melancholic smile. “I don’t know who told you that you don’t deserve to be loved, but they were wrong. You are so precious to us, dove, you don’t even know how much. This right here is real — and nothing could ever change that.” 
As it turns out, you did have more smiles to give — only the happy ones; not the fake, courteous smiles that you had given to your mother’s friends in the past. You come to intertwine your hand with Lily’s, the one that had been resting on your cheek, tenderly wiping the tears that pooled within your eyes. Your heart could burst from your chest. They had a habit of wringing every emotion out of you; of making love feel real, not just a myth from a Muggle storybook. And you find, that you didn’t mind this particular habit of theirs. In the comforts of the place you call home, where you irrefutably belong, you are free to seek their arms and fall into their love, and the best part is where you get to love them right back. 
How lucky you are. 
“Let’s get married,” You blurt out, holding your breath, feeling Sirius’s hand on your waist stiffen. 
“What?” Lily gasps breathlessly. 
You smile up at Lily. “Let’s get married. All of us. I don’t care where, o–or about the rings, let’s just get married. With the war going on, we deserve s–something good.” 
Lily sobs as she nods excitedly. “Yes. Oh my Gods—we’re getting married!” 
Sirius stares at you in wonder. “Bloody hell, dove, give a guy some warning, would you?”
You grin. “Is that a yes?” 
“It’s a yes — forever.” Sirius dives in to kiss you senseless. “Couldn’t get rid of us now even if you tried.” 
“I don’t think I’d want to, anyway.” 
Right then, the rickety door slams open, and you hear the loves of your life calling out for the three of you. Followed by the heavy thud of Dragonhide boots plunking down onto the floor
“We’re home!” James announces in the entryway. 
Lily wastes no time in shooting up from the sofa and welcoming them home with quite a unique greeting:
“We’re all getting married!” 
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.) 
“That ring is an heirloom passed down to the children in our family,” You tell Harry, pointing to the band around his finger. “It’s meant to symbolize our loyalty and duty to our House. My mother said I would have earned it only when I became a wife to Ferguson Bulstrode.” You chuckle at Harry’s perturbed grimace. “No, I didn’t marry him — thankfully. After Allegra. . . I—I. . . I couldn’t bear it. If I was going to marry, it would be on my own terms, and it would be for love, nothing less. Then, if my child wanted it, I’d give them this ring. I want to leave behind a legacy that I created. When I was younger, I’d resigned to a fate that was forcefully carved by someone else’s hand.” 
You shake your head. “I want to die being remembered by those who loved me. Otherwise, I was never truly alive.” 
Harry won’t let that happen, he won’t ever let your name be forgotten. He’ll share of your kindness to his friends, of your bravery and loyalty. Hermione will love your fondness of Muggle musicals and how you stood up to Lily’s defense in a world that ostracized her for being different. He’ll remind Remus of your love for him, that he had brought you hope in times of despair. Harry is going to make sure the world knows you had been so full of life with endless love to give. You are going to be remembered in the way Voldemort never will. 
“What do the words mean?” He stares at the writing: Tempus Edax Rerum.
You smile. “Time, devourer of all things.”
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1978; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)
“REMUS—THE MUGGLES ARE stuck in the telly again!” 
Remus snickers as he takes the vacant space beside you on the loveseat, now sewn up with care and spattered with knitted quilts and throw pillows — still too small to carry three people but hasn’t given out yet, anyway. He takes Lily’s legs over his lap, swiftly stealing a kiss from your lips. “It’s a film, dove, they’re acting.” 
You purse your lips. “They’re trapped inside, then?” 
Lily snorts into her tub of chocolate fudge ice cream. “Not quite, princess, it’s recorded. Movies are like moving photographs — but they’re an hour long with sounds.” 
“Oh.” You turn your attention back to the screen, back to the film Lily had been watching. You had to admit — the story of Sandy and Danny was an interesting one. “Lily-pad, she’s singing — again.” 
Sirius hushes you from where he was cuddling James on the other couch. “She’s supposed to sing, dove, it’s a musical.” 
“Well, yes,” You begin, and James groans into Sirius’s chest, “But they should just talk instead of singing all the time — Sandy’s got a lovely voice, though. I just don’t understand why Danny’s treating her like that! Truthfully, I don’t like any of Sandy’s new friends, other than Frenchy — she’s harmless. If I was Sandy I’d move on from Danny — but then again, that hair and those muscles, and his leather jacket! I can’t blame her.” 
Sirius glowers at you. “You like his leather jacket?” 
“His hair?” James exclaims in horror. 
Remus chuckles as he tucks you in his side, kissing your temple. “If I were you, dove, I’d be quiet and just watch the film.”
“Oh, no, no.” Sirius barely glances at the television as he pauses the film and stands up to point an accusatory finger at you. “Since when were you into leather jackets? Do you think those are cool? Since when? Jamie, should I get one? Let’s unpack this, right now. And his muscles, really?” 
Your eyes roll to the back of your head. “Play the film, Black, I want to see the end of their love story.” 
“I’m telling Euphemia on you!” 
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.) 
“—and then we realized that we accidentally locked Hermione in with the troll.” Harry’s arms flail about as he shares some of his adventures with you — it had only been fair. He felt like a young boy again, entering Hogwarts for the first time as he watched you listen to him intently, gasping at tale of the vanishing glass and scolding him when he says he and Ron had decided to go searching for Hermione, and by extension, the troll. 
Your eyes grow wide. “A troll? In Hogwarts? They can’t have, not unless—”
“Someone let it in—I know!” Harry grins. “You’re not going to believe who let the troll in the castle.” 
You snap your fingers, “Malfoy, the older one. I know that lump’s got something to do with this. Can’t have been Snape or Quirrell.”
“Just you wait.” Harry’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “—and so, Professor McGonagall finds us, and can you believe it? She awards us for dumb luck! Then. . .” 
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1979; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)
IT HAD COME AS A surprise when you volunteered to join the Order of the Phoenix. You wanted to scoff at their shocked faces — was it so surprising that you wanted to protect your family? They let Severus Snape join their ranks, and you’re fairly certain that you’re a better fighter and survivalist than him — not the better liar, however, he can have that one. The week before, you and the others had an argument that lasted for the whole day. They did not want you in harm’s way, and you would rather die than stay at home, waiting idly for them to return, when you could be out there alongside them. 
(“It’s not some game out there!” Remus runs through his hair in frustration — he had always been so careful to never raise his voice at you, but this one time, he needed you to back down. “Every time you step into a raid, there’s a possibility of you dying, don’t you understand that? And even if you survive — you’ll have blood on your hands, and it does not wash away no matter how many times you try, trust me, we know.” 
“So what?” You throw your hands up in the air, equally aggravated. “I just stay here like some. . . some pet waiting for their owners to come home?” 
“Yes!” Lily angrily replies. “That is the whole point of us joining the Order — so you get to live another day. So we all have a chance at this new world without a war. Let us protect you!”
You grind down on your jaw. “You have got another thing coming, if you think I’m not going to fight tooth and nail for my future.” 
James slams a fist onto the kitchen counter. “There are horrors out there you can’t even imagine. I-It’s worse than we thought. It’s our every nightmare come to life.” 
You raise your chin defiantly. “Then we face it together.”)
Each day, you survive, and each day the five of you return home — scarred and bruised, but safe within the arms of one another. When you collapse and crumble, it is only for the walls of your home to witness. 
Now a month into autumn, you are on your first task without Sirius, James, Lily or even Remus. Instead, you are assigned by Dumbledore to Knockturn Alley along with Peter Pettigrew and Gideon Prewett. How strange time was, years ago you’d never associate with the proud Gryffindors, and now you had to trust them to guard your back. Everyone had to grow up quickly during war, even pranksters. 
The alley was quiet — too quiet for your liking. You had been on alert since the moment you apparated into the area, wand at your ready. The back of your neck prickled with goosebumps as you kept an ear out for any sign of movement. 
Peter shivers and you glance at him — he’s become far too skinny, constantly shrinking into himself out of fear. And while you want to comfort him, you keep your eyes up ahead. Still, there's a nagging feeling that you can’t quite make out. It’s different from all the other times you’ve been asked to search and rescue. 
“Don’t you feel like there’s something wrong?” You ask Gideon, eyes snapping to the flock of crows flying overhead. 
“Dunno, kid,” Gideon says, nudging your shoulder with pressed lips. “Everything about this is freaking me out. The place is too empty.” 
“I get what you mean,” You reply, swallowing your own nervousness. Without waiting for the rest, you speed up your pace. “I’ll scout ahead, who knows what’s been here before us. I don’t want to risk any of our lives, so let’s be careful. Gideon, ward the area while I check for any cursed objects, last time you almost got your arm cut off by a newspaper of all things. And Peter, could you. . . Peter?” 
When you turn to check behind you, it all happens so fast. 
“Avada Kedavra!” 
You scream as Gideon’s deathly pale body falls to the floor. 
“No!” 
You aren’t given a moment to rush to his side — someone digs their wand in the side of your neck, and you stiffen in their hold. It’s not until they hiss in your ear that you recognize the voice. 
“Rosier.” You spit, biting down on your lip when he presses the tip of his wand further into your flesh. 
“Stupid witch,” He taunts, eyes dilating with vengeance. “Where are your lovers now?” 
“Jealous?” You claw at his arms, chest heaving up and down. “We don’t have room for one more, sorry.”
“Shut up!” He pushes you to the ground in blind rage, and that’s all the opening you need. 
“Expulso!” 
Each curse you send his way lands on his cloaked body, sending him staggering backwards. With ease, you deflect each spell he counters with. You’re winning, he is growing tired, and perhaps that is why you let your guard down. 
“Accio wand!” 
The magic fizzles out, and the spell dies on your lips. As you swivel your head to find out who’s stolen your wand, you expect to find another Death Eater — except it’s Peter. Just Peter Pettigrew, quivering in his boots with tears and snot dripping down his face, your wand in his free hand. You furrow your brows — it doesn’t make sense. 
“Peter?” You call out. 
“Crucio!” 
The curse finds its home in your body — and it sinks deep into your flesh, grinding your bones until you slump to the ground, wriggling as you draw blood from your lips, refusing to let them hear an ounce of your pain. Blood trickles down your nose as you hear Evan Rosier dancing around you in glee. You know this curse well; the sound of your father condemning you gleefully echo in your head. You crawl over to Gideon — hand desperately reaching for his shirt. 
“Crucio!” Rosier grabs you by the hair and howls with laughter. “Scream for me again—Crucio!” 
It’s as though someone had begun to rip you in half. Your bones shift and crack with every uttered curse. The veins in your eyes have popped and through bloody vision, you see Peter cowering away from you.
“You—fucking—traitor,” You gurgle, throat welling up with blood that’s risen from your stomach. “They’ll—never—forgive you—never.” 
“Crucio! Crucio! Crucio! Come on, witch — SCREAM! Look at her go, Pettigrew, crawling like some pathetic worm.” 
You lay in your owl pool of blood, wearing a body that is marred and lacerated. But you see something in Gideon’s hand. I’m sorry, you want to tell him. I’ll get you home to Molly, you promise, please lend me your magic this once. With every last bit of your strength, just as Rosier directs another curse at you — one you know you won’t survive — you snatch the wand from Gideon’s hand and tear the last of your magic from your throat. 
“Defodio!” 
You wait with a bated breath as silence fills the alley; lucky to have remembered Professor Flitwick’s quick remark as to how the slight difference in pronouncing a charm could alter its effect. Rosier stands on shaky legs, a stream of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. You watch as he looks down to his chest, where a gaping hole now lies instead of where his ribcage and heart should be. As Gideon had done before him, Evan Rosier crashes to the ground. 
That just leaves one more problem. 
Peter scurries to your side the moment Rosier can hurt him no longer. “I-I’m sorry—I’m sorry. I had to. . . T–They killed my mum, they killed M–Mary, and t–they said I would die too if I d–didn’t do this. I’m sorry. Y–Your father was there, too. He said he would take you in, let you l–live if you joined us. W–We can live, t–there’s still a chance for us to survive.” 
Your fingers are bent at unsightly angles, the remnants of the Torture Curse still flowing through your veins, but your face contorts in anger as you let your hand curl around his neck. He sobs louder, and though your grip is weakening — you make sure he looks into your eyes, that he feels your touch.
“I’d rather—die.” You say through gritted teeth, nails drawing blood from his grimy skin. “You’ll die too—you’ll feel my blood on your skin—everywhere you go, Peter.” 
Peter shakes his head, now clumsily pushing his wand down to the center of your chest. “Y–You were the only o–one who d–didn’t laugh at me. N–Not like the others.” 
“When they find out—you’re dead, Pettigrew.” You laugh darkly as more blood exits your body through your lips. “There’s nowhere you can hide—you’re a dead man.” 
“P-Please die,” Peter cries out, each killing spell coming out as a garbled whisper. “Please die,  s–so I can live. I c–can’t fight anymore, I’m tired.” 
Your vision goes a hazy shade of white, Peter’s silhouette fading away to the familiar scenery of your cottage in Godric’s Hollow. 
Oh.
Dying is less painful than you had expected it to be. It’s like coming home after a day’s work. 
You just wanted to rest now. 
The world caves in on you, and you barely hear Peter’s next words. 
“Avada Kedavra.” 
(It’s past midnight when Peter Pettigrew arrives at Grimmauld Place, where it’s been altered to host the members of the Order, Lily sobs in relief and gathers him in her arms. 
You’ll feel my blood on your skin.
You’re a dead man. 
Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. 
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re home safe — welcome home — thank the Gods you’re alive,” Lily blabbers through her tears, checking his face for any major injuries. “Merlin, what happened? There’s too much blood on you. It’s on your shirt and your face.” 
“It’s not mine,” says Peter hoarsely. 
Sirius’s gaze darkens, arms crossed over his jacket as he leaned against the wall. “Where is she?” 
Lily nods, standing on her tiptoes to search for any sign of you. “Peter? I–Is she alright? Has something happened to her?” 
Peter stays silent for a moment too long, and he finds himself slammed against the wall behind him, Sirius snarling in his face as he seizes the front of Peter’s soiled shirt. “Where the fuck is she, Pettigrew?” 
Peter begins to weep. “I–It was an ambush. None of us saw it coming. Gideon r–ran. She was taking on two Death-Eaters at once and I–I was too far away.” 
Lily collapses to the ground with a heart-wrenching scream.
Sirius growls as he drives his fist to the wall, inches away from Peter’s face. “Where is her body?” 
“It was a disintegration spell.” With Severus Snape — brought to the Malfoy Manor to be made as an example of what happens to blood-traitors. 
James pushes Sirius out of the way and grabs a hold of Peter, knocking his head against the concrete. “It should have been you—” James snaps at Peter. “If it came down to you or her—you should have saved her!” 
“W-What?” Peter stammers, eyes wide. “She chose to save m–me.” 
James sneers at him. “You should have just died.”)
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1996; CURRENTLY, IN THE PRESENT.) 
ST. JEROME’S GRAVEYARD had exactly one visitor. Remus Lupin sits in between James and Lily’s graves, a bottle of firewhiskey in his hand — four empty at his side. He must be going crazy. There’s no funeral for Sirius as there’s no body to actually bury, Harry is presumed missing after an attack in Diagon Alley, and your name stares back at him mockingly. He tries not to dwell on your passing — there have been too many holes, too many details left unsaid; and he knows just the rat who has all the answers. Unfortunately, Wormtail won’t come out of whatever hole he’s crawled into. Either him, or Severus. 
He sighs, rubbing the temples of his head to ease the growing pains. 
You are the first to be buried of the five. Like Sirius, there had been no recovered body to lay to rest, but they asked for a compromise instead. Your name is engraved under Euphemia’s in her tombstone, and Remus figures it’s the fitting place to leave you be — with your mother, welcoming you home with open arms. He hopes you’re at peace, wherever you are. (Because, honestly, at this point, he might just fucking follow you.) 
Remus takes another swig of his alcohol, laughing bitterly to himself. He glances at James’s headstone and raises his bottle to him. “Not even in death, huh?”
He downs the last of the drink, rising to his tremulous legs. Remus gathers the flower bouquets he had bought earlier this morning; lilies-of-the-valley for Lily, white carnations for Euphemia, forget-me-nots for you, and for James — Remus leaves a moving photograph of him and Sirius; it’s a snapshot taken by Lily during the wedding as James dips his head low to kiss Sirius. Remus thinks it’s a wonderful memory to remember them by. 
“Take care of them for me, Jamie.”
And that is all the goodbyes Remus has the strength for. 
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end note. i think i was crying the whole time i was writing this part, LMAO. i should be able to wrap things up in the next one. important!! there is actually a scene i was hesitant to include, but i ended up writing anyway. it's the whole part where allegra greengrass breaks down, and it was difficult for me to decide because i knew the implications; that i had a strong underlying message in that part, and i don't want it to be misconstrued or anything. pls pls tell me if it comes off as offensive, i definitely don't want to hurt anyone. nevertheless, thank you again so so so much for reading!! if you spot a plot hole, no you didnt!! i hope the time-jumps weren't too confusing! again, thank you so so much for reading!!
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inkskinned · 1 month
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most writing advice is good as long as you know why it is good, at which point it is also bad. the hardest thing (and most precious thing) about being an artist is that you gotta learn how to take critique. i don't mean "just shut up and accept that people hate your work," i mean you need to learn what the critique is saying and then figure out if it actually helps.
i usually tell people reading my work: "i'm collecting data, so everything is useful." i ask them where they put the book down, even though it's too long for most people to read in 1 sitting. i ask them what they thought of certain characters. i let them tell me it was really good but i like it more when they look a little stunned and say i forgot i was reading your book, which means they forgot i exist, which is very good news.
sometimes people i didn't ask will read my work and tell me i don't like it. and that is okay, you don't have to like it. but i look at the thing that they don't like and try to figure out if i care. i don't like that you don't capitalize. this one is common, and i have already thought about it. i do not care, it's because of chronic pain and frankly i like the little shape of small letters. you use teeth and ribs in all your work. actually that is very true. i don't know what's up with that. next time i will work to figure out a different word, thank you. you're whiny, go outside. someone said that to me recently and it made me laugh. i am on the whine-about-it website as an internet poet. you are in my native habitat, watching me perform a natural enrichment behavior. but i like the dip of whiny, how the word itself does "whine" (up/down, the sound out your nose on the y), but i don't know if i want to feel whiny. maybe next time i will work on it being melancholy, like what you would call a male writer's poetry.
repeated "good" advice clangs in a bell and doesn't hold a real shape, dilutes in the water. like sometimes you will hear "don't use said." you turn that around in your head and it bounces off the edges of your brain like it is a dvd screensaver. it isn't bad advice, but it feels wrong somehow, like saying easy choices are illegal! sometimes i will only use "said." sometimes i will just kick dialogue tags out to the trash. sometimes i make little love poems where the fact that i do not say "said" is very bad, and makes you feel bad in your body, because someone didn't say something. i am a contrary little shitbird, i guess.
but it is also good advice, actually. it is trying to say that "said" sometimes is clutter. it makes new writers think about the very-small words and very-small choices, because actually your work matters and wordchoice matters. "i know," you said. "i know," you sighed. "i know." we both know but neither of us use a dialogue tag, because we are in a contemporary lit piece.
it is too-small to say don't use said. but it is a big command, so it gets your attention. what are you relying on? what easy choices do you make? when you edit, do you choose the same thing? can you make a different choice? sometimes we need the blankness of said, how it slides into the background. sometimes we don't.
i usually say best advice is to read, but i also mean read books you don't like, because that will make you angry enough to write your own book. i also mean read good books, which will break your heart and remind you that you are a very small person and your voice is a seashell. i also mean you need to eat books because reading a book is a writer's version of studying.
my creative writing teacher in the 7th grade had a big red list of no! words and on it was SUNSET. RAZORS. LOVE. GALAXY. DEATH. BLOOD. PAIN. I liked that razor and love were tucked next to each other like birds, and found it funny that he believed we were too young to know the weight of razor in the context of pain. i hated him and his Grateful Dead belt, where the colored teddy bears held up his appraisal of us. i hated his no list. it is very good/bad advice. i wasn't old enough yet to know that when you are writing about death you are also writing about sunsets and when you write about love you are tucking yourself into a napkin that never stops folding.
back then my poetry was all bloody, dripped with agony when you picked it up. i didn't know there is nothing beautiful about a razor, nothing exciting about pain. i just understood sharpness, which he took to mean i understood nothing. i wrote the razor down and it wasn't easy, but it was necessary. that's what i'm saying - sometimes it's good advice, because it's not always necessary. and sometimes it is very bad advice, because writing about it is lifesaving.
hang on my dog was just having a nightmare. i heard that it is a rule not to write about dogs - in my creative writing mfa, my teacher rolled her eyes and said everyone writes a dead dog. the literature streets are littered in canine bodies. i watched the rise and fall of his ribs (there is that word again) and had to reach out and stop the bad dream. when he woke up he didn't recognize me, and he was afraid.
it is good/bad advice to say that poems and writing have to mean something. it is bad/good advice to say they're big feelings in small packages. it is better advice to say that when my dog saw where he was, he relaxed immediately, rubbed his face against me. someone on instagram would make fun of that moment by writing their "internet poetry" as a sentence that tumbles across a white page: outside it is sunset and my dog is still in a gutter, bleeding a galaxy out of his left paw. or maybe it would be: i woke the dog up/the dog forgot i loved him/and i saw the shape of a senseless/and impossible pain.
the dog is alive in this one, and he is happy. when i tell you i love you, i know what i said. write what you need to write, be gentle to yourself about it. the advice is only as good as far as it helps. the rest is just fencing. take stock of the boundaries, and then break them. there's always somewhere else you could be growing.
i love you, keep going.
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dep-priv · 1 year
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*cries* *pukes* *sobs* *wails* How Howard is Kim's Chuck
#WHO WANTS TO TALK ABT HOWARD AND KIM AND HOW BOTH HAVE THIS SIBLING RELATIONSHIP#how Kim in the later season took one too many pages from Jimmy's book#specifically from season 2-3ish Jimmy#like im puking and crying fr#'I saw a chance to hurt my brother and I took it' its such a line for both Kim and Jimmy#also SPOILERS BUT:#How Chuck to his mother passing so stoic#and Jimmy took Chuck's suicide as that too stoic like it didn't even bother him#how Chuck wrote a 'basic' suicide note as cruel as that sounds it sounds more like a recommendation letter than a final goodbye#AND THEN WE HAVE KIM AND HOWARD#HOW CHUCK'S DEAD FUCKED UP HOWARD REALLY BAD#death*#blamed it all on himself he was the one to push Chuck away from the firm after all#he cries in camera is in shambles for a long time he is not okey but he has go keep living he works on himself tries to live again#NOW KIM#OMG HOW HOWARD'S DEATH AFFECTED KIMMY L#it really did changed her it really fucked her up she did everything Jimmy did in the first season deflect her own grief into others#like this doesn't affect her (in Howard's memorial lie abt his addiction)#but then he comes crashing down she understands what she must do which is keep living get better that means take away Jimmy for good bc#together they're poison#later when Kim finally breaks down uncontrollably in the airport transporter???#she had a similar process to Howard but in reverse got better. kept living and finally grief.#its just#how both Kim and Jimmy are responsible of their brother/brother figure' death#how they're so similar and different too#i want to bite someone
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joelsgreys · 8 months
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fall into temptation | one
Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Preacher’s Daughter! Reader
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series masterlist
summary: Of all the women to catch Joel Miller’s attention—it just had to be one of the goddamned preacher’s daughters.
warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. JACKSON ERA. SLIGHT PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER, mentions of her hair which she can put up into braids as well as her style of clothing. despite the nickname Joel gives her, it does not speak to her body type or size. AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 56, i know, i know but this is self indulgent because my birthday is next month idk just let me have this one) canon language, canon violence, several mentions of religion, terms pastor and preacher are used interchangeably here and there, mentions of the bible and religious symbols (cross), innocent/virgin reader, very brief scene of attempted sexual assault, no explicit smut (yet). asshole Joel, protective Joel, hints of softish dom Joel (if you squint). reader has two sisters, the only physical description for them is their hair, which they can also braid as well as their style of clothing.
MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY, NO MENTION OF RACE OR BODY TYPE.
word count: 8.4k
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Jackson, Wyoming
Fall 2024
Joel had seen him around the community before. 
He’s an older man in his late sixties or possibly his early seventies with thinning, snow white hair and silver, wire rimmed glasses that always seemed to be perched on the tip of his pointed nose. He was a good, kind man from what Joel could gather—offering up warm smiles and friendly waves to anyone who happened to cross his path, stopping to greet and say hello to familiar faces. The hem of his starched white shirt is tucked into pressed black slacks and even from where he stood across the road near the horse stables, Joel noticed the book clutched in his right hand, old and bound in supple, worn black leather with the words Holy Bible etched into the cover in flaked gold lettering.
Jacob, he thinks his name is. Or was it Josiah?
Something biblical—a name fit for a man who was so fucking clearly devoted to the big man upstairs.
Joel knew his own name was a biblical one, but he was the furthest thing from a man of God. After all that he’d done in the past twenty years, there was only one place he was going and that place wasn’t exactly known for its pearly gates or sweet cherub angels playing harps.
Joseph? Was that it? 
He couldn’t be certain.
Not that Joel really even cared to know his name. 
It’d been a couple months since Joel arrived back in Jackson with Ellie after Salt Lake City and the truth of the matter was that he preferred to keep to himself whenever it was possible. Joel had zero interest in getting to know the people of this settlement, not unless he had to for the sake of patrol duties—and that’s only if he hadn’t been able to weasel his way out of getting assigned with a partner who wasn’t Tommy or Maria, the only two people in the whole fucking community Joel could stand being around. Minus his kid of course, but even he and Ellie could really only take each other in small doses lately. Perhaps it was their tense, strained relationship that was to blame for the fact that Joel Miller walked around this place with a standoffish attitude and a permanent scowl plastered on his face. 
Most people were smart enough to scamper off in the opposite direction when they saw him coming. He was never offended by it. It’s what he wanted. He wasn’t here to make friends.
In fact, the closest thing he had come to a friend outside of his brother’s wife was Esther, the woman Maria and Tommy had tried setting him up with when he first got back to Jackson. He wouldn’t go as far as calling her a friend, either. That’s a little too generous. Friend? No, more like a good fuck when he couldn’t drown his bitterness with Seth’s barrel aged bourbon and he was in need of a different kind of distraction.
But there was a reason this particular man piqued his curiosity. Actually, there were three reasons he managed to garner Joel’s attention and all three of those reasons were trailing behind him in an orderly, single file line, each one more fucking gorgeous than the last. He was positive he’d never seen them around before—because how could he possibly forget the faces of the most beautiful women in this town?
They’ve gotta be sisters, Joel thought to himself, his hand resting on the neck of the horse that he’d ridden out to patrol that morning, a dark, chestnut mare named Willow. Although he was supposed to be walking her inside the stables and back into her stall, he found himself far too distracted. While the three women weren’t identical to one another, the similarity in their traits such as hair color and their skin tone confirmed his suspicions that they were related. They all styled their hair in neat halo braids and wore slightly different color variations of the same getup—pressed, long sleeved blouses tucked into knee length floral printed skirts and worn, leather oxford shoes.
Clutching the brown leather strap of his rifle in his opposite hand, Joel leaned himself against Willow and squinted against the bright afternoon sunlight in an effort to get a better look at them. 
The first two were slightly on the older side. If Joel had to take a shot at their age, he would guess the women were in their thirties—a man of fifty six, he still had about two decades on them, easy. Joel let his gaze shift, his dark brown eyes flickering to the last one. His breath audibly hitched in his throat and part of him wondered just how fucking dumb he had to be to be drawn to the youngest one of the three. It couldn’t be fucking possible—you couldn’t be that much older than your mid twenties, if that. 
Joel’s grip on the strap of his rifle tightened. 
All three of you were beautiful beyond words—why the fuck did it have to be you who held over his interest?
“Take a picture,” Maria remarked with a tiny laugh. She dismounted her horse and peered at Joel over the black stallion’s back. “It’ll last longer.”
She’d led that morning’s patrol, her first time back on duty since she had given birth to her son in the spring. Joel had returned to Jackson right on time to meet his one month old nephew, Noah. 
He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Just tryin’ to figure out what their deal is, that’s all.” He paused, then remarked, “Didn’t know polygamy was a thing around here.”
His comment must have struck a nerve in his dear sister in law—fiercely protective of the people who were under her leadership, Maria hadn’t found the sister wives implication the slightest bit amusing. 
“Watch it, Joel,” she admonished, shooting him a warning glare. “He’s the town’s pastor and those girls happen to be his daughters. So let’s keep our wise ass cracks to ourselves, shall we?”
His daughters? He almost couldn’t believe it. Surely the girls must have taken after their mother because they sure as hell didn’t get their good looks from their old man. They hardly looked anything like him.
“Pastor,” Joel repeated with a small hum. He then remembered her pointing out an old church house back during the winter when she’d given him and Ellie the grand tour of the community. “So he ain’t got a real job like the rest of us?”
Maria rolled her eyes. “His job is a real job, Joel. It might be hard for you to believe, but there are still a lot of people of faith around here,” she explained to him. “He provides them with comfort and with hope—”
He snorted sharply through his nose. “Hope?”
“Yes, hope,” she snapped at him. 
“Hope for what, Maria? That things will go back to fuckin’ normal? That the end of the world is temporary?”
Maria crossed her arms over her chest, jutting her chin. “Some people never lose hope, Joel. There’s a lot of people who need this man and he serves a much bigger purpose than what you’re giving him credit for.”
“And what about the girls? They have it easy too? Do they just stand there lookin’ pretty on Sundays while their old man reads verses out loud from the most useless fuckin’ book known to man?”
“If you must know, they work in the schoolhouse,” she answered, tossing him another glare. “They’re teachers. The oldest one, she teaches Ellie’s class. The middle one, she teaches the primary school aged children and the youngest? She takes care of all of our little ones. She prepares our preschool kids for her sister’s class by teaching them numbers and basic literacy. Shows them how to start counting, reading and writing, things like that. She also helps run the commune’s daycare.”
“At least they have real jobs,” Joel mumbled under his breath. 
“What was that?”
He feigned innocence. “Nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”
“That’s exactly what I thought.” Maria pointed her finger at him. “Come on, let’s get these guys back into their stalls. It was a long ride this morning, I’m sure they could use some rest.” Taking her stallion by the reins, she started leading him over toward Logan, one of the stable hands who helped take in the horses coming back from patrol. 
Joel took Willow’s reins in his hands—but before he could even think of moving another muscle, he glanced up and saw the preacher leading his three daughters past the stables and right past Joel. His self control faltered. All that he could do was stare at you, his eyes fixed on you so blatantly that one of your sisters had taken notice. Grinning, she turned back towards you and lifted a hand to her mouth. She used her palm to shield her lips from Joel’s view and whispered something to you over her shoulder.
Shit. 
He’d been caught gawking.
He thought about making a beeline for the stables but it was too late. 
Perplexed by whatever it was that your older sister had just said to you, you gave her an odd look, but then followed the subtle nod of her head. 
Glimpsing over in his direction, your lips parted in complete surprise and you came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the dirt road when you found your gaze meeting that of the much older, rugged man standing there with a gun slung over his shoulder.
Unsure of what else to do, Joel simply offered you a polite nod of his head. The gesture was innocent enough but it startled you. He could tell by the way you let out a small gasp and turned away from him, your eyes falling to the ground as you scurried to catch up to your father and sisters like a spooked little mouse. 
Joel couldn’t help but shake his head and laugh.
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“Is the preacher aware that his precious little daughters pay frequent visits to The Tipsy Bison at such late and ungodly hours?” Joel quipped. He gestured to a booth nestled over in a corner of the dimly lit bar with a subtle jerk of his chin. “S’gotta be the third or fourth time I’ve seen them here in the last couple of weeks.”
Tommy’s eyes followed his brother’s gesture. “Oh man, not again,” he said with an exasperated sigh. He shook his head. “Those girls, they ain’t got no fuckin’ business hangin’ around this place and much less at this fuckin’ hour. But the middle one, she’s a whole lot of trouble.” He paused, just long enough to nod at one of the three sisters, the one who was wearing her hair loose around her shoulders, twirling a lock of it around her finger as she made flirtatious fuck me eyes at the group of drunk patrolmen sitting a few tables away. “She’s somethin’ of a rebel, that one. Likes to drink a lot, get herself involved with things that she ain’t really supposed to be messin’ with. She’s the one who convinces the other two into sneakin’ out and comin’ to the bar when their old man goes to sleep.”
Joel chuckled in disbelief. “You fuckin’ serious?”
“As a heart attack. And then there’s the older one. I know she likes to drink too, but she’s a lot calmer than the other one. Ain’t gotta worry about her all too much, y’know? She tries to be the chaperone—it don’t always work out that way, though. Her halo ain’t exactly perfect either.”
“What ‘bout the youngest one?” Joel asked in the most nonchalant tone he could possibly muster. “Where does she fall on the scale between angel and devil?”
You’re carefully perched on the edge of the booth, your pretty features twisting in disgust with every sip of the rich, amber colored liquid in your glass. Unable to stomach the burning alcohol, you set it off to the side, abandoning it in favor of a glass of water instead.
“Her?” Tommy grinned, leaning back into his chair as stated, “Oh, she’s an absolute angel. She’s just ‘bout the sweetest fuckin’ thing you’ll ever see in your whole damn life, big brother. She’s gotta be the kinda girl who all the little birds and woodland critters sing to when there ain’t no one around,” he laughed. “She’s real good. Too good. Wouldn’t surprise me if the lord sent her down from heaven himself.”
Joel tossed him a skeptical look across the table.
“She really as innocent as she seems?” 
“I don’t think she even knows what it’s like to hold another man’s hand,” his younger brother laughed again and reached for his beer, taking a generous swig. 
Joel hummed softly and lifted his glass of whiskey to his lips. The mere thought of you being so pure and so innocent—untouched by anyone else—caused something to stir deep in his lower belly. 
“She’s the old man’s pride and joy,” Tommy continued, breaking into his train of thought. “Kind. Polite. Behaves. Doesn’t get herself into any kinda trouble—I mean look at her, she can’t even choke down a glass of whiskey. She’s just too good of a girl.”
Joel proceeded cautiously with his next question. “Any of them taken?” 
Surprised, Tommy raised his eyebrows. “Joel, don’t fuckin’ tell me—”
“No, I ain’t interested,” he interjected, rolling his eyes. “Just a curious motherfucker, that’s all.”
He didn’t seem too convinced by Joel’s answer. “They’re all single from what I know. To be honest, there ain’t a whole lot of men around here their old man would approve of,” he remarked. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice man and all, but when it comes to his daughters, he’s real strict. Not that controllin’ has done him much good, though.” He lowered his voice as a fellow patrolman walked past their table. “The middle one’s fucked her way through this entire town and then back again. She even made a pass at me while Maria was pregnant with Noah, if you can fuckin’ believe that.”
Amused, Joel snorted into his drink. Ballsy. “How goddamn drunk was she?”
Tommy ran a hand through his jet black curls. “Wasted. Oldest one ain’t exactly the Virgin Mary, either.”
“And the old man doesn’t know?”
“Nope. Ain’t nobody gonna snitch on grown women in their thirties.” Noticing the amused expression on Joel’s face, he adds, “By the way, just in case you haven’t figured it out, this stays between us, Joel.”
He smirked. “Which part?”
“All of it. And take it from me, those girls? S’best you keep your distance from them,” he warned as he stood up from the table. He picked up the blue denim jacket draped over his chair, shrugging into it. “Don’t go gettin’ any dumbass ideas, alright?”
“Look, if the wild one makes a pass at me, I ain’t gonna turn her down. S’not like I’ve got a pregnant wife at home.”
“Joel, I fuckin’ swear. If you even think ‘bout it—”
He held up his hands to stop him. “Relax. Was just a joke.”
“Right. M’sure it was.” Tommy snorted. “Listen, I gotta get back home. Don’t wanna leave Maria on her own with the baby for too long.”
“How’s she been holdin’ up?”
“She’s been so tired. Jugglin’ motherhood, runnin’ this place, and bein’ back on patrol duty. I keep on tryin’ to tell her to slow it down, but she just won’t listen to me.” He let out a small sigh and waved a dismissive hand. “But anyway. If you’re all good to head out, I can walk you back to your place since it’s on the way to mine?”
Joel looked down at his glass, still half full. “I think I’m gonna hang back for a while longer. I’m on the roster for evenin’ patrol tomorrow, s’not like I’ve gotta be up at the ass crack of dawn.”
“Suit yourself.” Clapping him on the back, Tommy bid him goodnight and started towards the door. 
As soon as he was gone, Joel looked over towards your booth. He watched as you whispered into the ear of your eldest sister who nodded her head in understanding. You stood up and said something else to her, then spun around on your heel, long skirt flowing along with the movement. Head down, you hastily made your way across the bar, being careful so as not to bump into anyone along the way.
You were leaving. Alone. 
In the middle of the fucking night? While drunk morons poured in and out of the bar?
She’ll be just fine, he tried to convince himself. 
Joel frowned to himself, gripping his drink tightly in his hand as he scanned the room.
Sitting at a nearby table was Kent, some idiot he’d been stuck with a time or two for patrol. He clocks the smirk that crossed the younger man’s face, his eyes following you all the way to the door. Leaning forward over the table, he whispered something to his buddies, his smirk widening. His comrades, all who looked and behaved more like teenagers rather than grown men, lifted their beers to him, nodding in encouragement. Drunk off his ass, Kent drained the rest of his own beer, slamming the glass bottle down onto the table before clumsily stumbling to his feet. 
Joel momentarily froze as soon as he realized what was happening. 
Kent was going after you. 
Joel’s lips pressed together into a tight, thin line.
Setting his drink down, he stood up from his table and slipped on his jacket before following suit.
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Joel stepped out of the bar and into the night, the chilly evening air nipping at his face. He took a look around. 
You were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Kent. 
That couldn’t fucking be good. 
“Where the fuck did you two go,” he muttered to himself under his breath.
That’s when he heard it. 
The sound of muffled screaming coming from the side of the building. Joel didn’t hesitate. Following your smothered cries for help, he whipped around into the dimly lit alley nestled in between the bar and the commune’s mess hall. You’re pinned underneath Kent with your skirt bunched up around your waist. One of his hands was covering your mouth while his other hand clawed its way up your bare thigh. 
“Aw, c’mon now, sugar,” Kent slurred his words together. “It’d be a fucking shame to let someone as cute as you stay a fucking virgin. Don’t be coy—I know you’re just like your stupid slut of a sister. She’s got no trouble spreading her fucking legs for me, y’know.”
Red.
It was the color that flashed in Joel’s mind. It was all he could see as he went up behind Kent, letting his hands reach for fistfuls of his leather jacket. He lifted him off of you with ease, slamming him hard against the brick wall of the mess hall. Pulling him forward, Joel slammed his body into the wall once more, knocking all the wind out of his lungs. 
“Miller, what the fuck are you doing!” Kent gasped out, frantically pawing at the older man’s hands in an effort to break free. “Get the fuck off me!”
“Takin’ advantage of an innocent girl?” Joel hissed at him, tightening his grasp on the collar of Kent’s jacket. “Think that makes you a fuckin’ man?”
Though he was still intoxicated, the sheer terror of being caught in Joel Miller’s hands sobered him just enough that he started sputtering an explanation. “I wasn’t fucking taking advantage of her! Her and her whore sisters were making eyes at me and the guys all fucking night! She fucking wanted it! She asked me for it, couldn’t even wait long enough to get back to my place—”
The lie came straight through his chattering teeth. The same teeth he would be picking up off the ground in the next minute or two. 
Joel knew he didn’t need to ask. Still, he turned to you, his rage only intensifying when he took in the sight of you lying there on the ground, the hem of your light blue floral skirt hiked around your waist. 
“That true?” He questioned you. “You wanted it?”
You stared at him with wide and fearful eyes.
A single tear slipped down the side of your face.
“Answer me, darlin’,” he prompted. “You wanted this?”
“No. I didn’t.” Your voice was small, barely audible.
But he’d heard it loud and clear. 
“She’s lying!” Kent tried to tell him. “She’s—”
Joel delivered the first punch, a blow so hard he’d felt the younger man’s nose crack underneath his curled fist. He struck him again and again, the blows coming in harder and harder, turning Kent’s face into a bloodied pulp.
If Joel didn’t get a grip, he would kill him. Part of him wanted to fucking kill Kent for putting his hands you—and more so for accusing of you wanting it. Pathetic fucking bastard. 
Holding Kent up by the throat with one hand, Joel pulled his switchblade from the back pocket of his jeans with the other. Fingers curled tightly around the hilt, Joel held up the knife into Kent’s view. He had left his eyes purple and swollen, but judging by the pitiful little pleas for mercy, it was clear that he could still somehow see the sharp blade being held an inch or so away from his face. 
“If I ever catch you anywhere near her again, I ain’t gonna be so fuckin’ generous,” Joel growled warningly. “I ain’t gonna let you walk away next time, boy. That understood?”
He nodded. “Un—Understood.”
“Good.” Joel released him, stepping backwards as he fell to the ground. “Get the fuck outta my face. Now.”
Kent managed to scramble to his feet and staggered off, disappearing from the alley. 
Chest heaving, Joel inhaled a deep breath through his nose, then exhaled it through his mouth before turning to you once more. 
Petrified, you still hadn’t moved a single muscle.
You looked fucking terrified. Whether it was from Kent’s assault or the way Joel had nearly beaten him to death right in front of you, it was hard to tell.
Crouching down beside you, Joel caught your subtle flinch. He proceeded to move slowly as he reached for the hem of your skirt. Delicately, he gripped the soft, flowing fabric and pulled it down into place. Joel then held his hand out to you. 
You hesitated for a split second, but accepted his hand and allowed him to help you up to your feet. 
“You alright, little dove?” The nickname had fallen from his lips before he could even think to stop it. 
“I think so,” you replied, nodding your head. You’d started to tremble and even though it had nothing to do with being cold, Joel took notice of it and he shrugged out of his camel colored jacket. He gave it to you, draping it over your shoulders. The scent of him instantly enveloped you—a mouth watering masculine mixture of clean soap, woodiness, and musk. It was far more intoxicating than the scotch you had tried back inside the bar. He didn’t utter a word to you as he wrapped his jacket around your body, both of his hands pulling gently at the lapels to bring them together in front of your chest. That was when you glanced down and saw he’d injured his hand. You gasped lightly. “Are you okay?”
Maybe it was the adrenaline, but Joel hadn’t even noticed that he’d split his knuckles wide open. Giving it a light shake, he assured you gruffly, “M’fine.”
Without thinking it through, you gingerly grabbed Joel’s hand, holding it in both of yours. “It doesn’t look like nothing,” you countered. You inspected it as best as you could in such poor lighting. “You’re bleeding.”
“Trust me, I’ve had a whole lot worse,” he deadpanned.
Ignoring his remark, you asked, “Can you move all your fingers for me? Just to make sure that it isn’t broken?”
Joel felt a strange warmth radiate in his chest. 
Fucking hell, Tommy had been right about you. 
You really were too good.
“Darlin’ I already told you m’fine—”
“Please?”
That word, and the way you’d said it, sent a shiver up the length of his spine.
Joel started wiggling his fingers in your palms. He winced slightly at the soreness. More than that, he knew his cuts and bruises would be all the fucking proof Tommy and Maria would need to know that he had been the one who rearranged Kent’s face. 
“See?” He spoke after a minute as he continued to move his fingers up and down. “Ain’t broken.”
“Let me clean you up,” you offered. Looking up at him, you cradled his hand as if it were a fragile baby bird you wanted to take home and nurse back to health.
“That really ain’t necessary.”
“You just saved me from—it’s the least I can do for you,” you insisted. Seeing him open his mouth just to protest again, you cut him off. “Please?”
There it was again.
Christ. That word sounded too good coming from those plush, pretty lips of yours. 
Joel sighed out in defeat. “Alright then,” he relented. “I s’ppose there ain’t no harm in lettin’ you clean me up a bit, little dove.”
Pleased that he had finally accepted, you carefully let go of his hand and took a step back, beckoning for him to follow you. “Come with me,” you said to him. “I know somewhere private we can go.”
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When you came to a stop at the old church house, Joel shook his head and took a step backwards. 
Puzzled, your brows knitted together. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
He backed away further. “I ain’t goin’ in there.” 
You tossed him an amused glance. “It’s a church.”
“Yeah, I know that. I ain’t exactly a man of God.” 
You couldn’t help but giggle. “So? What does that have to do with me taking you inside to clean your hand up for you?”
Shuffling his weight from boot to boot, Joel shrugged. “Just don’t think I belong in there, that’s all.”
“Do you think you’re going to melt if you step foot inside?” you teased him. After a minute, it became apparent that he was being serious about it. Joel’s discomfort about going inside the church wasn’t some kind of joke on his part, it was real. “Don’t be silly. It doesn’t matter that you’re not a man of God. That doesn’t mean that you’re going to explode or burn into a pile of ashes for going inside, you know.”
“After all the terrible shit I’ve done?” He looked up at the building, shaking his head again. “I just might burn, little dove.”
You bit back a small smile. You’d already grown to be quite fond of his sweet nickname for you. 
“There’s a first aid kit inside I can use to patch you up,” you told him. “It won’t take long, I promise.”
His lower lip rolled in between teeth as he thought it over. “I ain’t too sure about this—”
“It’s only going to take me five minutes to get your hand cleaned up and then you can leave. Okay?”
You were as stubborn as you were sweet. How the fuck was he supposed to say no to you?
Reluctantly, Joel finally agreed to it. “Okay.” He followed you up the creaking, wooden porch steps towards the double doors. He’d just started to wonder how the two of you were even supposed to get into the building after hours when you leaned down, lifting the old mat on the floor to reveal a set of keys. Unable to help himself, he scoffed, “Serious?”
“Doesn’t everyone keep a key under their mat?” 
“Yeah at their fuckin’ house. Not their church.” 
“Well to be fair, this is kind of like a second home. I spend quite a bit of time here,” you confessed.
Joel raised an eyebrow at you. “So much time that you’ve decided to keep a set of keys under the mat?”
Sheepishly, you nodded. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night, I’ll come here alone and sit with my thoughts for a while.” You shrugged. “Maria let me have the spare set of keys. She knows I come here and so does the rest of the council. I trespass with their full permission,” you kidded with a small grin. 
Unlocking one of the two doors, you stepped over the threshold and waited expectantly for Joel. But he stood there, making no move to join you on the other side. 
“This place gives me the fuckin’ creeps,” he admitted. 
You laughed. “It’s only the outside that’s creepy, I promise.”
Grimacing, Joel finally walked inside, his back and shoulders stiff with tension as he stepped into the place of worship. 
You closed the door and flipped on the lights, then opened a second set of double doors with another key from the ring. 
“Whoa.” He was pleasantly surprised. For as old as this place was, the interior of the church was quite nice. He could tell that it had been well cared for in its lifetime—the former contractor in him had little choice but to appreciate the high ceiling, the large windows, and the satin finish of the white paint on the rustic, wooden panel walls. 
There were a total of twelve pews, six on each side of the church. There was an older, antique piano in pristine condition nestled over in one corner of the room and in another, there was a large chalkboard propped up on a wooden easel, biblical verses that had been the focus of the congregation’s previous gathering still scribbled across it in white chalk. 
“See?” You nudged his arm with your elbow. “This isn’t so awful, right?”
“S’ppose it ain’t all that bad,” he muttered. 
Your eyes twinkled with pure amusement, adding, “And you didn’t burn into a pile of ashes.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Joel grumbled out in response. “Can we just get this over with so I can get outta here?”
You tossed him a playful little eye roll then nodded towards the pews. “Go ahead and just have a seat anywhere,” you instructed him. “I’ll be right back.”
You disappeared down a short, dimly lit corridor.
Letting out a heavy sigh, Joel slowly made his way down the aisle holding his injured hand against his chest. Now that the adrenaline had started wearing off, it’d started throbbing with pain.
There was an altar at the front of the church—if he could even call it an altar. 
It was a plain oakwood table with a white fair linen cloth draped over it and nothing else. 
Above it, bolted onto the wall, was a wooden cross.
He averted his eyes, turning away from it. 
Of all the shit to be intimidated by in this world. 
A fucking slab of carved wood. 
Joel’s attention shifted over to the chalkboard. He squinted at it, silently reading the verse to himself.
God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability. 1 Corinthians 10:13
“But with the temptation, he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it,” you recited the rest of the verse from behind him.
“No offense darlin’, but it sounds like nothin’ but a whole lotta gibberish to me,” he remarked to you over his shoulder. 
“No offense taken, Joel.”
Whirling around on the heel of his worn boot, Joel blurted, “How did you know my name?”
“You’re Tommy Miller’s brother. Everybody in this town knows your name.” You held up the white tin box in your hands. A big, red cross had been spray painted onto the lid. You sat down in the first pew and patted the seat right beside you. “Come sit.”
He sauntered over and dropped down next to you, watching as you opened up the box and started digging through its contents. “You know my name,” he stated after a few seconds of silence. “Sure would be nice for me to know yours.”
Smiling politely, you told him your name.
Joel repeated it. It rolled almost too sweetly off his tongue.
“S’real pretty, little dove. Just like you.”
His compliment nearly knocked all of the air out of your lungs and for a split second, you have to remind yourself to breathe.
Cheeks burning, you murmured a small thank you and plucked a bottle of saline solution from the kit along with a piece of clean cotton. You tried not to think about the way his eyes were fixed intently on you as you unscrewed the cap and poured a bit of the liquid onto the cotton. “It shouldn’t sting,” you reassured him, reaching for Joel’s injured hand. It was rough and calloused, a stark contrast against your own soft and smooth. You set his hand down on your knee, a strange sensation fluttering in the depths of your lower belly when the warmth of his skin seeped right through the fabric of your skirt. 
Comfortable silence fell over the both of you like a curtain as you started cleaning the blood off of his knuckles and his long, thick fingers. 
“You really believe in all this stuff?” Joel spoke, his question echoing off the bare walls of the church. 
You continued dabbing at his cuts, thinking it over in your head for a moment.
“I honestly don’t know,” you admitted.
Your answer took him by complete surprise.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I have always been taught to believe in God, Joel. It’s all that I’ve ever known. I grew up in a religious community,” you explained to him, making sure to keep your eyes focused on his hand. Tossing aside the bloodied wad of cotton, you picked up another piece adding more saline to it. “After the outbreak, things changed, of course. I couldn’t imagine how He could let something like this happen. When we lost our mother to infection about five years ago, I stopped praying. I finally stopped holding onto the ounce of hope I had that He would make the world right again. I refused to believe in God. Sometimes I still do,” you confessed quietly.
“You said you spend a lot of time here. Why come to church if you’re not even sure you believe in any of this shit anymore?”
“I’m always here because there’s still a part of me that thinks there’s a chance for me to believe again. When I told you I come here when I can’t sleep at night, it’s true. It’s my time to be here completely alone, the time that I use to mend my broken relationship with God. Or at least, I’ve been trying to mend it.” Taking a little glass pot of homemade antibiotic ointment one of the women in the town made and traded, you took off the lid and scooped out some of the salve with the tip of your finger. You applied it carefully to his cuts and continued, “But lately, the more that I try to pray and talk to Him, the more foolish I feel. It’s just not working. It hasn’t been working for a long, long time.”
“Then why keep tryin’ if it ain’t workin’ anymore?”
“Because I don’t really have much of a choice.”
“Your old man?” Joel guessed, wincing slightly as you went over a particularly sore spot on his hand, right over the torn up knuckle of his index finger. 
“Mhm.” You nodded. “My father never lost faith in Him. He knows how I feel, but he refuses to let me give up on God. He won’t ever let me miss church or go to bed without reciting my nightly prayer. He won’t let me abandon our faith. Not until the day he is cold and buried in his grave.”
“So what I’m gettin’ is that he forces you?”
You finished applying the ointment and wiped the remnants lingering on your finger off on your skirt.
“Force is such a harsh word. I wouldn’t say that—”
“He’s forcin’ you,” Joel said, flatly. 
“Joel—”
“You can twist it however the hell you want, sweet girl,” he cut you off. “But if you’re tryin’ this fuckin’ hard to make yourself believe in somethin’ just for the sake of appeasin’ your dad because he can’t or won’t accept how you really feel ‘bout all this, well I hate to break it to you, but you’re bein’ forced.”
Your eyes widened ever so slightly at his words. 
You had never thought about it like that before.
Placing the lid back onto the pot of ointment, you put it back into the first aid kit and then set the tin box down onto the floor. You sat back and clasped your hands together in your lap, not knowing what else to say to him. 
He was right, after all. 
Joel’s fingers lightly squeezed your knee. “Hey.”
You brought your gaze over to meet his. “Hm?”
“Can I ask you somethin’ ‘bout your dad?”
“What is it?” 
Joel chose his words carefully. “Has he ever—he ain’t ever done anythin’ to hurt you, has he?” he asked you, earning himself a perplexed stare. He continued to elaborate. “What I mean is, he ever put his hands on you or anythin’ like that?”
Oh. That’s what he meant.
“Never,” you assured him quickly. “He would never lay a single finger on me or my two sisters.”
He gave your knee another squeeze. “Just needed to make sure of it, sweetheart. Back in the day, I used to hear and see awful things on the news ‘bout—”
You were quick to cut him off. “Look, my father isn’t perfect, but he’s not like that. He’s a good man who only wants what is best for us. He’s strict and he can be tough, but it’s only because he cares. He just doesn’t want us running down the wrong path.”
“The wrong path?”
You shrugged. “Life here in Jackson is decent, but there’s a lot of temptations he doesn’t want any of us falling into. He wants to protect us.”
“By controllin’ you.” 
It had been a statement, not a question. 
Giving him a wry smile, you assured him, “Joel, it’s really not as bad as you’re making it sound. I could be a whole lot worse off than this, you know.”
There was another short bout of silence.
Joel’s dark eyes fell to your blouse, noticing how a couple of the top buttons had come undone. 
He caught the slightest glimpse of the soft curves of your breasts—all it had taken was just a peek at them for his cock to twitch against the zipper of his jeans.
Don’t you get hard in a fuckin’ church, Miller.
His gaze wandered down a little further and that’s when he caught sight of the cross hanging from a delicate gold chain clasped around your neck.
Joel expected the sight of it to calm the straining in his jeans. Somehow, it only made it worse. 
“Earlier, when we were standing outside,” you had started to say, “You said you might burn if you came inside the church because of all the terrible shi—things that you’ve done.”
“S’right.”
You peered at him with curiosity. “So what exactly have you done, Joel?”
Joel leaned back into the pew, shaking his head at you as he finally pulled his hand from your knee. 
“You really don’t wanna know, little dove.”
“Why not?”
His answer was honest.  “Don’t want you to be scared of me.”
Angling your body towards him, you placed one of your hands on his thigh. Your fingers burned right through the dark blue denim of his jeans.
Joel’s lips parted slightly, taken aback by the bold move and the sudden shift in your demeanor.
Were you the same girl who’d nearly had a fucking heart attack a couple of weeks ago when Joel had nodded at you back at the stables? 
“I’m not scared of you,” you murmured, softly. You gave his leg a squeeze, pulling your plump bottom lip between your teeth. Between that and the wide innocent doe eyes that you were giving him, it was taking every last ounce of strength Joel had inside him to keep a straight face, to pretend you weren’t driving him absolutely wild with desire.
He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt such an incredible need to have someone. 
Want, sure. 
He had wanted Tess. He had wanted Esther. 
But Joel didn’t just want you. 
He fucking needed you. 
And he didn’t know why.
“I’m not scared of you,” you repeated, trailing your hand further up his thigh, setting a fire neither one of you would soon be able to contain. 
Joel leaned forward, bringing his face dangerously close towards yours. His warm breath fanned over your lips. It was still laced with bourbon. “You sure ‘bout that, darlin’ girl?” 
You tried to answer him in the steadiest voice that you could muster, but it was impossible for you to hide the effect this man had on you. 
You breathed out a shaky, “I’m sure.”
Lifting his uninjured hand, he reached up to tuck a loose lock of hair that had fallen out of your braids behind your ear. As his hand fell away, the palm of it grazed against the silkiness of your cheek. 
Though brief, the contact sent an electric current through each and every last single nerve ending in your entire body. 
Exhaling sharply, your eyelids fluttered closed. You nearly whimpered out his name. “Joel?”
“What is it, babygirl? What do you want?”
“I—I want you to kiss me.” 
Joel leaned in even closer, stopping only when his mouth was less than an inch away from yours. 
You heard him chuckle softly. 
“Y’know, I’d expect better manners from a good girl like you,” he tsked lightly, his nose skimming near the corner of your mouth. Closer. “What’s the magic word, little dove?”
“Please.”
“S’much better.”
Your heart pounded with anticipation.
It was almost too much for you to handle. 
Joel closed the remaining gap of space, capturing your lips with his own. He remembered his brother talking about you at the bar—how he had told Joel that you had never even held a man’s hand before.
It occurred to him that he was giving you your first kiss. Him. Joel Miller. The town’s resident asshole and a man who was well over twice your own age. He was the one giving you your very first kiss. 
The guilt suddenly started to creep in, sinking into his bones.
What the fuck had he been thinking? 
And what about you? 
Where the fuck had your common sense gone?
Probably ran off together with Joel’s.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling away slightly in an attempt to stop it from going any further. He tried again, mumbling against your lips, “We gotta stop. This ain’t right—”
You were having none of it. 
None. 
Clutching fistfuls of Joel’s denim shirt, you swung your leg over his thighs and straddled his lap. Your knees rested on either side of him on the bench. 
“Please,” you nearly pleaded. “Just kiss me. I want it—I want this. I promise you that I do.” You placed both of your hands on his broad shoulders, sliding them around him as you slowly sank down further onto his lap. “I want this, Joel.”
Suddenly, he realized that you were asking him for more than just his kiss. 
Now he knew for sure that all common sense had left that pretty little head of yours. 
“Baby, y’need to think real hard ‘bout this—”
Desperate, you uttered one final, “Please.”
Joel bit back a groan. How could he deny you? 
He couldn’t. Simple as that. 
“You sure ‘bout this?”
Your fingers toyed with the curls at the nape of his neck. “Yes. I’m sure.”
“C’mere then, darlin’ girl.”
Joel cupped the side of your face in his large palm and tilted his head up towards yours. Your mouths fused together and although he tried to be gentle, it was proving to be much too difficult—how could he be gentle when you were practically clinging to him? Holding onto him with fervor as if you’d been holding onto dear fucking life itself? 
Temperatures rising, you quickly shrugged out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor behind you with a soft thud before wrapping your arms around him once again. You melted against him as your mouth molded to his in a perfect fit. 
His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, silently asking for permission to explore the cavern even further. 
Eagerly, your lips parted, granting him access. His tongue slipped past them, meeting yours in a slow and sensual heated dance. 
You breathed him deeply into your lungs, a little moan vibrating at the back of your throat. 
Joel’s hands went to your waist and he yanked the hem of your blouse free from your skirt. 
“Can I feel you, baby?” he asked, breathlessly. His mouth abandoned yours and he began to trail hot, open mouthed kisses underneath your jawline. 
Dazed, all you could do was nod in reply and utter, “Mhm.”
Joel’s hands slipped under your blouse and he slid them up the length of your sides. “Fuck, you gotta be the softest fuckin’ thing,” he cursed against the delicate, tender flesh of your neck. His lips latched onto your pulse point, suckling at the skin there as his fingertips dug into your hips. He needed to feel more, but he forced himself to wait. The last thing he wanted to do was make a wrong move or move too fast and scare you off.
“Joel,” you mewled his name. “Joel, I need—”
You trailed off, moaning when his mouth released your skin with a loud, wet popping noise. 
“Tell me, sweet girl. Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you,” he promised. “Anythin’ you need or want, I’ll give it to you. Just say the fuckin’ word.”
“You, Joel. I need you.”
His hips involuntarily bucked upwards and you let out a startled gasp the moment you felt his bulge, hard as a rock, brush against your clothed cunt. 
Tearing away from him, it suddenly hit you. You’re in a church, straddling a much, much older man in a pew—and if that wasn’t sinful enough, the warm and slick arousal pooling between your thighs only proved that you were ready to fall into temptation, give into the lust and give your body to Joel. But it was none of those things that worried you. It was something else. 
You pulled yourself out of his arms and jumped up off his lap, nearly tripping over your own two feet.
“Darlin’ are you—?”
You didn’t even hear the rest of his question.
Knees trembling, you somehow managed to make your way up to the altar. Heart pounding and head spinning, you planted both of your hands firmly on the table and steadied yourself. Part of you hoped that Joel would just get up and leave. But a bigger part of you hoped he wouldn’t. 
Joel rose to his feet. “Listen, ain’t nothin’ wrong if you changed your mind, alright?”
“I didn’t,” you choked out. “That’s—that’s not it at all.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
Embarrassed, you tried to explain yourself. “I have never done anything like this before. I’m a—”
You couldn’t even bring yourself to say the word out loud. 
“You’re a what?”
Blazing heat flooded your face. “Joel, please don’t make me say it,” you groaned. “For the sake of my sanity, don’t make me say it.” You heard the sound of his brown leather boots as he walked up behind you, one heavy footstep after the other.
“Turn around, sweet girl.” 
Joel’s command was firm but still gentle. 
Swallowing dryly, you obeyed and did as you were told. He stood close and you found yourself at eye level with his chest. 
“Look at me.”
You tried, but couldn’t. 
“I said, look at me.” Joel gingerly took your chin in between his thumb and index finger. He lifted your face, forcing your gaze to meet his own, timid and submissive meeting bold and dominant in a sweet and tender exchange. “Never known the lovin’ of a man, have you little dove?”
He backed you up against the table, pinning you in between it and himself. Planting both of his hands on either side of you, he caged you in and brought his chest flush against yours, pressing your bodies together.
Close, but somehow not close enough.
Joel lifted his hand to your cheek, cradling it in his palm. His thumb swept over your quivering bottom lip.
You reached behind you, clutching at the fair linen as you tried with every fiber of your entire being to remind yourself that you were standing at the altar where your father preached and delivered all of his sermons to the faithful people of Jackson. 
The very same altar where your father encouraged you to kneel and pray in effort to mend the broken relationship you had with God. 
You couldn’t help but to think if you were to get on your knees tonight, it wouldn’t be for prayer.
“I asked you a question, darlin’.” Joel’s voice broke into your train of thought. “Need you to be a good girl and give me an answer, alright?”
“My father loves me,” you stammered out in reply. “He loves me and my sisters—”
“C’mon, babygirl.” He chuckled and shook his head at you, lightly pinching your cheek. “That ain’t what I mean and you damn well know it.”
Sighing softly, you finally answered, “No, Joel.”
“No, what?”
“No, I’ve never known the loving of a man.”
Joel slipped the tip of his thumb between your lips and leaned into you, his hardness pressing against your upper thigh. Even through all the clothes, you could feel every inch of him. “Do you wanna know how it feels, baby? What it feels like when a man makes you his own?” 
You nearly moaned around his finger. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?” he prompted, pulling his hand away.
“Yes, please.”
“I can show you.” Joel paused. “But not tonight.”
You stared at him in disbelief. Both of you were so clearly riled up and he was going to take a pass?
He almost laughed at your expression. 
“C’mon, don’t give me that face.”
“But Joel—”
“Just don’t wanna rush it, not with you,” Joel said in a tone so soft it nearly threw you for a loop. “M’gonna need you to be real patient for me, just for a little while, alright? You think you can do that, little dove? Think you can be patient for me?”
Your answer came without an ounce of hesitation.
“Of course,” you breathed.
You would wait an eternity for Joel Miller.
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My Mouse (Mouse series) - Max Verstappen
Summary: Max gets y/n a gift and she decides to return the favour, she just doesn't expect him to take such huge pride in showing every person the gift.
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If there was one thing to know about mouse, it's that as much as she loves seeing Max with the driver number 1. She has a much softer spot for his 33. Despite them having not been dating when his number was still 33, unsurprisingly perhaps, she was a fan of his during that time of his career.
"Mouse! I got you a surprise. Where are you?" Max declares walking into the apartment while y/n looks up from her book that she's been burning her way through.
"Lounge." Y/n states not raising her voice because even alone would she really be that loud. In fact the only time her voice might raise is in destress or pain.
Max appears grinning at her with a gift bag and bouquet of flowers in tow and she frowned because honestly Max is not the frequent gift giving type. It's not really y/n's preference of love language, and unless it's a holiday or birthday she sees no reason for random gifts.
"I saw one and thought that you might like it-I know you think random gifts aren't what you prefer to be on the receiving end it." Max smiles while handing her the flowers which she does seem happy to take. Flowers aren't something so expensive that she feels guilty accepting them.
"They're beautiful. Thank you." Y/n grins before leaning forward to kiss him properly in thanks.
"And this." Max hums placing the bag next to her and taking her book, picking up the book mark and sitting in between the pages as he watches her with careful eyes. "Just open it before you make one of your judgy faces."
Y/n grumbles over the suggestion she'd make any "judgy" face but she opens the gift bag and pulls out a jewellery box with big eyes of curiosity. Max is not the type to buy jewellery for her as a casual gesture. Not because he doesn't like jewellery but just because she has her core pieces and she doesn't very often wear anything in addition to them
So for him to buy something he must be confident it would make as an addition to her daily jewellery.
When she sees the necklace she blinks a couple times as tears cloud her vision.
"Mouse?" Max frowns not really expecting the tears.
"I love it." Y/n hiccups nodding and handing it to him. "Help me with it?"
A simple thin chain necklace with the most perfect two letters and two numbers. MV33.
Of course Max takes the opportunity to kiss her neck gently once the claps is latched and she immediately leans back against him for it.
"I don't know why I decided to get you it. But I know you like my old number and I thought it would be better than just putting my name on the necklace." Max states then placing another kiss on her shoulder. "You look beautiful today."
"Stop it." Y/n mumbles getting flustered over such a simply compliment. It's actually one of the things Max loves about her, such a reaction to something that is so simply but very much true. "This is easier to wear everyday rather than the medal you gave me."
"I think so too." Max laughs as his hand rubs over her over. "Do you want you book back to read? I know I interrupted."
"No. I was just reading till you got back." Y/n hums moving her hand to play with his then drifting her hand over his bare wrist and suddenly and idea pops into her mind.
-
In truth y/n was beginning to lose confidence in her decision to get Max the gift she got him. But she'd bought it and keeping it from him for longer was only making her more anxious about his possible reaction to it.
"Mouse, I was wondering where you'd got to." Max smiles as she appears nervously in the garage, not used to arriving there without Max holding her hand and not being overly confident about being welcomed on her own.
Not one of the Red Bull team would dare to even think about making her feel unwelcome, hell most of them avoid looking at her because they know just how shy she is. That nickname didn't come from nowhere and if he own boyfriend knows about how shy she is then they aren't going to risk scaring her with an unintentional look shot in her direction.
Unsurprisingly y/n is silent as she greets Max with a kiss and smile.
"What's this?" Max asks gently tapping the gift bag that is held tightly in her hand, so tight her knuckles are white. "Mouse?"
"It's for you." Y/n whispers her voice wobbly with her nerves and the idea of someone hearing her. The mechanics are still yet to really catch her voice.
"We'll open it somewhere more private." Max smiles being able to read her with ease, especially when she's giving him all the signs that she would rather there no be an audience for it.
Max leads them out until they're in his driver room and then he smiles when she looks at him for a moment then holding out the bag.
"I was inspired." Y/n whispers making him frown a little in thought of what she's referring to. "Open it?"
Max takes the bag from her and pulls out a jewellery box, a spitting image of the one he'd presented her with about a month ago. But when he opens it, instead of a necklace, there's a bracelet with Mouse written in the same font.
Perfect to match her own.
"I know you don't really...wear jewellery and you have to take it off for races-"
"Help me put it on." Max cuts in with a small smile while she bites her lip to try and hide the wideness of a grin that's trying to cut across her lips. "Don't hide your smile from me, mouse."
"Don't wear it if you don't want to." Y/n mumbles always the people pleaser and never wanting to force someone to do something by obligation.
"Are you kidding? Mouse, I love it. Now we match and now even if you aren't around then I have a little piece of you with me." Max grins as she finally latches the clasp, his response to her offer of him not wearing it being enough reassurance that she can actually help him put it on without feeling like he's forcing himself to endure such a think on his wrist.
"Does it feel ok?" Y/n asks softly checking that it's not too tight or too loose, but also making sure it's the right fitting for him.
"Perfect. I'm going to show it off to everyone." Max grins and the confidence in his voice actually makes her worry about his follow through on his words.
"You don't have to do that." Mainly because she hasn't exactly flaunted the necklace, though some fan pages spotted it in photos taken of her and zoomed in. Most think that she bought it for herself and she doesn't have the courage even from behind a screen to correct them on it.
"I want to." Max shrugs grinning down at the bracelet and admiring it as if she has just given him the best thing he's ever received. He doesn't even smile at his WDC trophies in such a way.
Later he proves to follow through on exactly his words. In an interview the journalist spots the bracelet and he doesn't shut up.
"My girlfriend got me it. Mouse is the nickname I gave her and it's very special between us so when I got her a necklace she wanted to get me something in return that was equal. But I think she knows I'd prefer a bracelet to a necklace." Max explains just gushing over the whole thing as he stares down in admiration of it all. "It's nice, no?"
"Very nice. It's cute that the two of you are matching."
-
Turns out that the bracelet became a new ways for y/n to occupying her gaze and handles, fiddling with the chance as she holds onto Max when he's close by.
Max has also taken to using the necklace a means of hooking his finger under the chain and pulling her into kisses. Something that to everyone's surprise y/n caught a picture of and did post online as part of a celebratory post following a race win.
"You can admit it, you like showing off sometimes, mouse. You are dating the world champion." Max comments as y/n scrolls through some photos of the two of them from the weekend.
"M' not showing off." Y/n mumbles then poking him in the ribs for the part about her dating the world champion. She may not choose the most effective methods of humbling him but he knows to rein it in when she does make the effort. Even if he is only joking when he makes such comments. "Everyone else gets to show their relationships."
"You can show off more. I wouldn't stop you, mouse." Max smiles but really he knows it's not his side of it all that is stopping her. She has, obviously, never been one for showboating or parading herself around. Not in person and not online. Even that one post is one of 3 out of her 67 posts on instagram that even include a picture of her. Max is almost certain there must be more appearances of her on his Instagram than on her own.
"I know." Y/n shrugs with a small smile she throws her phone down and simply cuddles into Max, deciding she wants to sleep through the flight. Her hand seems to instinctually go to his wrist playing with the chain of his bracelet. Smiling a little harder when Max kisses her forehead.
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