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[macfrog]

heart, body, soul cowboy like me chapter thirteen

surprise! happy friday eve. here's some cowboy to get you through it. life has been a little tough on me lately. sorry for the terribly long wait. but the end is in sight, dear readers. tighten the stampede string on your hats. we're coming in to land.

pairing: dbf!joel x fem!reader

summary: you and joel are at an impasse. you resolve it the only way you know how

warnings: age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), cursing, alcohol consumption, mention of dr*g use, titty appreciation, face sitting, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, major fluff, major angst

word count: 14.4k (y’all ask. mother macfrog delivers)

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🧡

You sigh. “I don’t want you…with…anyone else. I want you to…only want me.” His brows straighten. You sit in silence, staring at one another. Both daring the other to be the first to talk. But it’s his turn, and he knows it. So he swallows, and says – “I don’t want nobody else.” And that’s a thing. A great big, terrible thing.

It’s been a week since you last saw Joel. Blurred, tilting, pulling to-and-fro across your vision. A week since you last heard him; his low voice like the hum of an electric wire, tired acoustics drumming weakly through his chest into your heavy hand, laced through his own. Fingers draped softly across his swollen knuckles. You wonder if they’re still marked seven days later.

A week since you felt him. Felt your body lean towards him – gravity or dizziness or something stronger – as his weight dipped into the bed beside you. The way it has only a handful of times now, but enough to score it deep into your memory. Enough that you know the difference between him and anyone else, even with your eyes closed and your heart bleeding.

Enough to ensure that, for as long as you live, you’ll know and see each difference between him and every other person you ever meet. They won’t lower their head the way he does, or lift the corners of their mouth like him. Your name won’t sound the same, won’t sound as complete, coming from someone else’s mouth. Your body won’t magnetize to anyone, the way it does to him.

And that’s fine. The separation. The fact that he was a fleeting moment. The fact that it was over before you felt it leave, before you heard the door close behind it. It’s fucking fine.

Still, you let it hurt a while. Just a little while.

The gash on your calf has healed up, your hangover had subsided by Saturday evening. But your chest still feels tight, your hands are still restless. You lie awake staring at the ceiling, surrounded by the clothes you have of his; breathing in the ghost of his scent and breathing out pathetic, aching sighs. He’s all you smell, all you touch.

Except – he’s not anymore, is he? He saw to that well enough.

So you let it hurt. And you think you can just about make do with that.

“Hey, hon,” you dad gently calls, hanging on your doorframe. Your room is dark, drapes closed, the only light source the white light from your laptop.

“Hi,” you reply, with a break in your voice. Your eyes don’t lift from the screen. Jim just told Pam he’s in love with her, but she’s engaged to Roy. But she really loves Jim, she just won’t admit it. It’s cathartic, okay?

Dad steps into the room and awkwardly stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. “Awfully, uh…awfully quiet lately, hm? Everything okay?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine.”

It’s not a lie. You are fine. You’re so fine, you’re actually numb to it.

The problem is that for the last few weeks, you’ve been more than fine. The best you’ve felt in months – maybe even years. The most you’ve smiled, the hardest you’ve laughed. The warmest the blood has ever run through your veins.

And then you’re just – fine again. Back to nothing.

He shuffles between feet. Stares at the floor, where his shadow sprouts from his toes. “I was gonna head into town, grab a few things. You wanna come? Sit in the car with a book, maybe?”

“I’m good, Dad. Thanks.”

“Sure? Whatcha watchin’?”

“The Office.”

He nods. “Right, right. I, uh, I was thinkin’ of askin’ Joel and Sarah over for dinner tonight. You always have fun when they’re around. You and Sarah could spend some time together, y’know?”

Your heart nosedives straight from your chest into your stomach. The thought of seeing him again, this time crystal clear and not while under the influence of alcohol, drugs, or worse, sinks its sharp claws into your shoulders and sinks you deep underwater. His voice gets lost somewhere in the space between you. And when you finally come back up for air, back into the room, you gulp back whatever string of senseless words your empty chest initially offered up.

“Hm…” You pretend to consider the thought, then head straight for passive. “Whatever. Sure.”

Your dad’s mouth opens to respond, and you cut in again.

“I’m kinda tired,” you say, yawning. Trying to make him leave.

He’s not great at taking hints. “Kiddo, I am really worried about you. Weren’t you s’posed to be working this mornin’?”

“You ain’t gotta worry about me. I’m just a little tired, is all. Wasn’t feeling up to restocking tools and dealing hardwood to your buddies.”

It’s only the second truth you’ve told him since he set foot in your room. You never feel much like work, not Sal’s-fucking-Hardware-kinda work, anyway. But the thought of standing for seven hours with a bared-teeth grin plastered on your face, hands blistering from tearing open box after box of stock, shoulder slowly coming up in a bruise from the number of customers tapping on it…you figured Sal could do without you for one fucking day.

“You wanna look some more at other jobs?” Dad asks, and finally you look up. The blurry, luminous silhouette of Jim and Pam is strung in the dim air before him.

You shake your head. “Not right now. I have some bookmarked I can show you later.”

He takes a deep breath, unsure of which angle to come at you from next. Finally, with an air of resignation and defeat, he settles for, “You know where I am if you need me,” and closes your door as he leaves.

You’re staring intensely at the face of every character onscreen. The pixels burn into your eyes. You’re trying harder than anything to get him out of your head. It’s not working.

His hand through yours, his arms around you – warm, safe, protective; the way he smelled, sweet like whiskey, sharp like pine; the way he’d mumble, lips against your head, sweet nothings pressed into your hair; the feeling of his lips on yours, hungry for something only you knew how to give him. The look in his eyes, tender, knowing, loving.

And because he was the only other person fluent in your little secret language – a look, a nod, a tug at the corners of his mouth. His eyes settling on yours only for a nanosecond, one tiny moment in time laced with a thousand words that you translated as quickly as his glance moved across you. It all meant something. It all meant so fucking much.

All of it. You feel all of it as it sinks through your skin, through bone and into your brain. As it curls around your ribcage, holds tight around your heart. Every thought and feeling that flutters through on full display for him to read. And you’d let him, because it’s him. You trusted him. You – you might’ve even –

I mean, what the fuck, right? When the fuck did this happen?

Joel Miller. Joel fucking Miller.

Is this what you thought would happen that very first time you looked at him differently? Tidying up after pizza, leaning into you, telling you you’re nothin’ but trouble? Did he know then, that this was where you were headed?

Did you?

Your phone buzzes. You glance down at it through your tears.

Sarah: wtf is going on ???

You craft a reply as nonchalant as you can manage. Three little letters.

You: Wym?

Sarah: are u good??

You: Yeah lol. Why wouldn’t I be good

Sarah: idfk. weird. my dad’s on the phone to yours rn

That’s great. That’s just fucking great. He’s probably telling Joel right this second how miserable you are. That’s all you need.

You want to hold onto your pride, keep an air of casualness about you impermeable to even Sarah – but you desperately want to know what’s being said. What she’s listening to him say.

You: Yeah? What are they talking about?

Sarah: well now it’s just some andrew guy

Sarah: sounds like a loser

Sarah: we’re coming over for dinner tonight btw

You: Nice. See ya then

Sarah: u wanna come over here before? we can watch love island

You: I’m good. Gonna go for a nap

Sarah: you can nap here. come over!!!

You bury the phone under your pillow without replying. Sarah is like Joel in many ways, but her persistent nature is one avenue in which they drastically differ. Joel would – and has – give you space, let you mope; Sarah will probably text you all afternoon until she’s on your doorstep, takeout in one hand and a telling in the other.

So you drag your phone back out and put it on Do Not Disturb mode. She’s already sent two more texts since her last.

Sarah: seriously. would you come the fuck over. im only on episode 5 i gotta catch up

Sarah: even my dad is worried about you

Yeah. Good one, Joel. Fuckin’ asshole.

----------

They arrive at six on the dot, armed with pizza and a crate of beer. The doorbell rings once, you lean over a degree to glance down the hallway, and Sarah’s stepping over the threshold, her shadow of a father at her heels.

He’s rugged. Hair amok. He kinda looks a mess, sorta looks how you want him to after almost two weeks of no you. But he’s here. He’s right in front of you. And this time, the shape of him isn’t swimming across your glassy eyes.

Your heart swells with relief to see him again, only until it twinges from the wound that he caused, and it hurts all over again. You turn back in your stool to face the kitchen island, making some noncommittal noise when Sarah’s hand presses between your shoulder blades in greeting.

“Tyrique and Ella are kinda cute, but I don’t trust him. Dude’s gonna fuck her over for sure,” she mutters, shoving the box over the counter towards your dad, who accepts the beer from Joel with a pat on his arm.

He’s standing across the kitchen – Joel – as far as he can get from you. You’re sure his eyes haven’t lifted from the floor yet. But you scan him all over, from the loose collar of his shirt down to the cuffs, rolled halfway up his forearms; from the rough hair of his beard down to the soft tufts decorating the skin just below his clavicle.

You scan him all over. The body you know just as well with the flannel and jeans over it as you do without them. The body you’ve squeezed, and scratched, and bit and kissed – and the same one you’ve thrown curses and insults at as it follows you through his house.

If he looked you dead in the eye right now, you’re not sure you could look away. You’re not sure you could stop.

That is, until Sarah presses a chilled beer to your arm, startling you, and silently nods towards the dining table.

She sits on your right, opposite your dad’s seat. She resumes chittering about Love Island. Joel and your dad are still in the kitchen, stacking plates, cracking the caps off their drinks. And then he pushes off the counter, and slowly wanders over.

You watch his every move. Study him, like you’re about to be tested on it. Which foot he steps forward with – always his left – and which chair he’ll pick once he’s at the table – the one opposite you, ‘cause it faces the TV for when he and your dad watch baseball while eating.

Two for two.

He lifts the chair, pulls it back, and angles it to face Sarah’s. He places his beer gently on the mat. When he sits, he doesn’t pull in any closer. Doesn’t risk your legs crossing paths under the table. You pull your knees up, let your shins rest against the wooden ledge. Your dad takes Joel up in conversation.

“So, this Andrew. He’s the brains of the operation?”

The pizza is slowly pulled apart over the course of an excruciating hour-long meal. Sarah puts the next episode of Love Island on while you eat, points out her favorite couples and nudges you to ask your opinion on the girls’ outfits.

“Wouldn’t have gone with those heels,” she mutters, chewing, pointing with her pizza crust to some six-inch ankle-breakers.

You lean past her shoulder every now and then to pretend you’re as engaged as she is. Pretend you’re listening. Your left ear is tuned into the conversation happening across the table.

Your dad thinks Andrew Curtis is fucking hilarious. Hoots with laughter when Joel tells him about his untucked button up. Says, Oh, jeepers, when he hears about the way the guy tripped jumping down from his truck.

The storyteller doesn’t sound so lively opposite. Your dad’s slapping his thigh with laughter. Joel’s shoulders are jerking at best. You dare a glance at him, and he’s already facing your direction. He turns away before your eye reaches his chest.

Soon, the episode ends. The atmosphere dies arm in arm with your dad’s attempt at another conversation. There’s a thick silence between the four of you. You haven’t opened your mouth the entire meal, but even if you did, the tension would clamp its heavy hand over your lips, blocking any words from making their way out of your windpipe.

Sarah clears her throat, manages a tentative, “I –” and then the phone rings, piercing through the awkward mist like a bolt of lightning.

Your dad pushes himself up and trots over, grabbing the handset a little too hastily. “Hello? Oh, hi, Rita. Hi. Yeah. Yep, Joel’s – Sarah? She’s here, yep.”

Sarah’s head drops, hand gripping her glass frozen in mid-air. “Fuck,” she whispers, and Joel shoots her a look across the table.

“She’s – oh, yeah? Well, let me ask ‘er.” Your dad covers the bottom of the handset with a huge palm. “Rita has some…cross –”

“Cross stitch, yeah, I know,” Sarah says, and thuds her glass down. “I said I’d help her out with it. I bet she’s seen your damn truck across the street!” She jabs a furious finger at her dad.

Joel shrugs. “Ain’t my fault the woman has eyes.”

Your body jerks as if to laugh. You don’t catch it in time. He notices.

“She’s on her way over, Rita,” your dad continues, nervously smiling at Sarah as she pulls her jacket over her shoulder. “She’s – oh, sure, I’ll let her know. Alright, now. Bye, Rita, bye. You’ve to bring your glasses. ‘pparently the pattern’s pretty small. You even wear glasses?”

She huffs in response. “I’m gonna be there all damn night. I’ll just get you at home.”

Joel opens his mouth to protest, goes to warn her that she ain’t walkin’ home alone in the damn dark, but your dad holds his hand out.

“We’ll give you a ride home. You come back here once you’re done.”

She nods gratefully and struts off down the hallway. The door slams shut behind her.

Your dad lightly chuckles, sauntering back over to his seat. “And then there were three…” he says, sitting back down.

But the loss of Sarah only cranes the spotlight over to you. Only you. No one else to split it with. No one else to lend it to. You can feel your dad’s eyes on you, waiting for you to make a move, some song and dance for your company.

He lifts his beer to his lips. Nods to you. Makes a song and dance of his fucking own, when he says, “Guess who’s been lookin’ at grad jobs?”

Joel stares at him for a second, like he’s waiting for your dad to reveal who it is he means. Like it can’t possibly be the only she in the room. His thumbs tap around his own bottle. “Oh – yeah?” he stammers, and throws a haphazard glance in your direction. He seems to mean to address you.

You sit forward, choke out a, “Yeah, uh – it’s – well. Kinda.”

“Film?” he asks, and you hear the rest of the question in the tone of his voice. Somethin’ you like, ‘n not just your dad’s suggestion?

You nod, but he’s not looking. He’s studying the label of his beer.

“Film,” your dad confirms. “Shut me the hell up, didn’t she? Came downstairs with her laptop the other night. Where is it, kiddo – New York?”

Your breath catches. The answer cowers at the back of your mouth, terrified to show itself. You force it forward.

“LA.”

Joel’s eyebrows lift.

“I said she might be better goin’ back to school. Reapply for next year, right?” Dad looks to you, and your lips pull in an awkward smile. “…but she didn’t wanna wait around. Told you the other day – this place is like prison.”

He chuckles, but Joel isn’t laughing. He’s staring at his beer, his brows slowly lowering from arched and curious to dark and furrowed. And you want to reach for his hand, want to shoo your dad off and spill your guts to his best friend. Want to explain yourself, show him the webpages and application forms you’ve spent the last few days surfing through – want to justify yourself to him.

But so long as your father is sat here, bumbling to himself about the prices of college courses these days – none of that happens. You simply sit in a stalemate opposite one another – a million thoughts racing through your head, a million and one racing through Joel’s.

“…might change her mind, but who knows? She’s skittish, this one, she –”

Another bleating ringtone cuts what you’re sure would’ve been an endearing compliment short. You say a silent prayer of gratitude for whoever’s at the other end of the line. Your dad sighs and heaves himself up again, swiping the phone from the kitchen counter.

“Hello? Hi, hi, Richard. No, I’m not – well, it’s – sure, sure. What’s –?”

His head falls in much the same way Sarah’s did ten minutes ago. He sighs.

“Right. No, that’s quite alright. I can be there in ten. Yep. Alright. See you in a – hello?”

He drops the phone back into its cradle and runs a hand down the back of his neck, growling.

“Kelman?” Joel asks, jaw turning to his shoulder.

“You bet. Misplaced the damn keys for his site. You two alright if I head on over there ‘n lock up for ‘im?”

“He familiar with Andrew Curtis at all?” Joel quips, and then waves your dad off. “Go on. I’ll be outta your hair by the time you get back.”

In a frenzied blur, your dad’s tying his laces, grabbing his keys, tossing a jacket over his shoulders. He apologizes a total of four times to Joel, thanks him for dinner, promises he’ll pay him back next time he sees him. And then he’s jogging off to the front door, and taking every ounce of comfortability with him.

And then there were two.

You slouch back in your chair, listening through the silence as your dad’s car engine fades down the street. When the quiet humming disappears, Joel’s head turns back to face you.

You’re alone again. For the first time in a week. This is the closest you’ve felt him, even separated by the dining table and a fog of conversation that you have no idea how to begin clearing. There’s more weight to the silence between you than words could ever bear, you know that much. More to be communicated between your eyes than your tongues know the language of. But still, you can see him through it.

Like a lighthouse, shining bright and beckoning you to the shoreline. You can feel him again, as if there’s an electric pulse radiating off of him. And you feel drawn in, like you always do; feel that magnetic pull in your chest, only ever satiated by the meeting of Joel’s.

You shift in your seat. His eyes flit up. Your heart jumps, like it’s a sign he’s really still in there. And then they drop back to his lap, and your chest sews itself back together.

Your eyes start to burn with fast-forming tears. Your throat tightens, tightens, tightens, pushing them higher and higher until they pool across your waterline. Blinking doesn’t help, just drops them onto your cheeks, to be quickly swept away by the sleeve of your hoodie.

All you want is for him to look you in the eye, whisper, C’mere, baby, scoop you up and hold you in his arms forever. Fuck everything you said about the distance being good. That was when he was in his house, and you were in yours. He’s here, right now. He’s sat across from you. You’re finally on your own again. And he’s not fucking looking at you.

You let your legs down and sit up straight in your chair. It’s small, but it feels like a necessary step to silently tell him that you’re in the room with him. You’re here.

It lifts his eyes again. Not to you, but to your empty plate. Then, to the wet stain on your sleeve. You hope it stabs his heart a little.

From the shaky breath he sucks in, it seems to hurt just enough. He clears his throat. Pulls his gaze higher, higher, a little higher, until you’re eye to eye.

A wave of feeling, either burning hot or freezing cold – you can’t tell the difference – stretches across your body. It’s unnerving, and yet calming. It’s soothing on your wound, and irritating all the same. He’s looking at you. You wonder if he can see you.

You stare at one another for a few moments, drinking it all in. You can see him clear as day. You can almost see the shadows of his thoughts as they dance across the frosted-glass windows of his hazel eyes.

He blinks. Breathes in deep through his nose. And then speaks.

“LA, huh?”

You scoff. You don’t fucking mean to, but it’s the opposite of what you expected – and kind of wanted – him to say. Your whole body relaxes, though – finally relieved of the tension of the last seven days, even if only for a moment.

You feel lighter, like someone kicked the door down and this is the first gulp of clean air in your lungs. It’s small, insignificant even, but it does what it needs to.

Which is – it gives you the energy to answer back.

“It’s not a concrete plan. Yet.”

“Yet,” he repeats.

“I’m not running from you, if that’s what you’re thinking. Get your head out of your ass.”

He wants to laugh. He should’ve expected it.

“I didn’t say anythin’. I think…I think it sounds like a good plan. ‘n you’d be close by to Sarah, so.”

This conversation feels like you’ve been left alone for ten minutes with your dad’s buddy. Sanitized. Surgical. Which would’ve been what it was little over a month ago, but it’s not now. Now, it’s totally different. There’s more than just that one neat string between you.

You’ve held his hand. You’ve kissed him. You’ve touched him, in ways you’ve only ever touched a handful of people. And even then – none of those times have been anything like the way you’ve touched Joel. You’ve tasted him, you’ve felt him as he climaxes somewhere deep inside you. You’ve pulled him into your body, over and over; you’ve let him have you in ways nobody else has.

There exists a complicated, messy web of history and emotion, woven tight between you. The weight of it bears down on the surface of the dining table.

And he’s talking to you about fucking grad jobs.

“Could you just – stop fucking with me?” you ask, sincerely. You’re not angry, you’re not hurt. Not anymore.

Joel lifts his chin. Studies your face. “I’m not fucking with you.”

“Yes, you are. You’re talking to me about some job, like there’s nothing else to talk about. Like there ain’t nothin’ else we might have to discuss.”

His response is resigned. Bored, even. “What else do you wanna discuss?”

You narrow your eyes. “Oh, um, I don’t fucking know. Last week?”

Joel takes a swig of beer. You take it as reply enough.

“I don’t have any clue where you’re at, Joel. You pick me up from Frank’s, beat a dude up for me, put me to bed, ‘n then when I wake up, you’re gone. Oh, but you left your fuckin’ shirt. By accident? Or for me? Who the fuck am I to know?”

He holds back a smile. “I had work.”

“Right,” you nod, “Andrew Curtis.”

“That guy’s an idiot. You’d probably like ‘im.”

“I bet. I’m fond of idiots, apparently.”

This time, he can’t hold it back. A smirk spreads across his lips, soft and shy, but there. Right there. You could reach out and fucking touch it.

And then he nods. Leans back in his chair, folds his arms, and nods. The smile begins to fade.

With it, goes the breathing space between you. The fog starts to thicken again. The web tightens some more. Your chest begins to ache. Things feel normal for all of two minutes, and then they’re back to awkward air so heavy that you can feel it on your shoulders, feel it forcing you into a slump in your chair.

This whole thing is built on lies. Lies on top of lies on top of lies. The only truth there has ever been has been between the two of you. Two lonely figures, wrapped in each other’s arms in the eye of a storm. So –

Fuck it.

You sniff. “I thought – that the most we were risking was my dad. I thought the worst that could happen was him findin’ out.”

Your voice is quiet. Unsure of itself. One word carrying you to the next, not totally sure where you’re going with it.

“I didn’t know I was risking losing you, too, and now…now, you’re just gone. Like, you don’t wanna talk to me, you barely wanna look at me. I don’t…I don’t have you anymore, and it’s all fucked up. Do you know, I – I wouldn’ta done any of it if I thought you’d go?”

Joel flinches. Tightens the hold on his arms.

“I want you to come back,” you say, stronger this time. Louder. Clearer. You’re ignoring the tears sweeping across your vision. “Just come back. You don’t even – you don’t even have to touch me or nothin’. We can just hang out and talk, we don’t have to…we don’t have to do anything.”

Your voice wobbles by the end. Your lips tighten around it, shutting it off before you can say anything more to embarrass yourself.

Joel’s still quiet. He watches wordlessly as you stand, pile the plates atop one another and make for the kitchen. As you place them gently into the sink, you feel the weight of him behind you, reaching over to set the bottles alongside them.

“I ain’t gone anywhere,” he murmurs, and you twist to face him.

“Joel. This is the most we’ve touched in two weeks. Putting dishes in the sink.”

He repeats himself. Adds, “I’m still here. I still care about you.”

You shrug. “Then – show me.”

He steps back. “Show you,” he scoffs. Your expression doesn’t shift. “Show you? Like I didn’t just almost break my damn knuckles defendin’ you? Take you home in the dead a’ night, deal with all your drunk bickerin’?”

Your head tilts. He’s right. But you want more than that. More than spitting threats and leaving flannels behind. You want his hands, and his lips, and his voice. You want –

“…Lord, mighty me.”

Your dad’s voice follows the sudden jolt of the front door opening. You and Joel are already five feet apart by the time his body appears around the corner, one hand leaning on the wall, the other pinching the bridge of his nose.

“How on Earth that man has his own construction company, I have no idea. Called me halfway to the site ‘n said he found the keys in his damn pocket.”

“Always the scatterbrains,” Joel says, leaning casually against the counter.

“Sure is. You ‘n me oughta start our own, show ‘em all how it’s done. Anyways. What’d I miss?”

Before you can answer, Joel’s speaking again. He sounds in a hurry. “Just tidyin’ up. We were talkin’ about graduate programs, actually. You know what,” he turns to you, “I’m sure Sarah has some old brochures from UCLA. Might have some stuff worth checkin’ out. You wanna come get ‘em?”

It takes a second for you to realize he’s talking to you. His eyebrows are arched, his thumb pointing over his shoulder. He came up with the lie so damn quick, you have whiplash.

“I – yeah, sure. Yeah.”

Your dad runs his tongue between his teeth. “UCLA. Huh. Well, don’t keep Joel too late.”

“I w…I won’t,” you reply, following at the heels of the swaggering figure towards the door. You dodge his eye contact and dip your head behind Joel’s shoulder, thankful for his protective stance in front of you.

Your dad doesn’t say anything more – instead, he stands back and lets Joel lead you out. You steal a glance back at him as you slip through the door. His face unreadable, his eyes stick on Joel; locked tight on the flannel wandering down the driveway ahead of you. The word loops in your head as though the phone’s ringing again. Guilty guilty guilty guilty guilt–

But then the night breeze is dancing across your cheeks, and you’re following at the heels of Joel again, and you feel light as air in the wake of him. You climb into the passenger side of the truck and watch as he settles alongside you with a sigh. He pulls out of the drive, and his right hand sits idly on his thigh. You think to take it. Joel reads your mind.

He sits it on the armrest between you, palm facing up. You stare straight ahead and let your fingers slip through his. He knots your bodies together, thumb rubbing gently on your knuckle.

Another pound of weight lifts from your shoulders.

----------

Joel drives for twenty minutes before pulling up in an empty parking lot across from a church. It’s pitch-black and deserted. There’s a single streetlight over by the corner, illuminating a trashcan and not much else. You’re shrouded in darkness, save for the soft glow from the lights on the dash.

He switches the engine off and sits back in his seat. Your hands are separated. The distance between you slowly starts to grow again.

“LA,” he says, for the second time tonight, staring at the ceiling of the cabin.

“LA,” you echo, staring at him.

He looks down to you. Smiles. There’s something behind it. You can’t tell what.

“It’s not a grad job,” you say, forcing something up. Your fingers are twisting around the drawstring of your hoodie. “I was lookin’ at grad stuff, but there wasn’t anything I was into. The LA thing is a six-month temp job I saw.”

Joel nods. “What’s that look like?”

“Production assistant. Lots of behind-the-scenes stuff.”

“Mhm. Sounds like your thing.”

Your brows jump as you pull the tie around your finger. The tip turns white. “Might be. Job ad closes on Monday.”

He sucks in a breath. “Better get applyin’, then.”

Your head cocks. “So eager for me to go?”

“Eager for you to do somethin’ you love,” he corrects.

“But it would get me outta your hair.”

“I don’t want you outta my hair.”

A smirk sneaks its way across your lips. You nod to the view from the windshield. “Why are we way the hell out here?”

“Because your dad bombed our conversation, ‘n I figured we weren’t done.”

“Then talk.”

He licks his lips. Folds his arms, settles deeper into his seat. He turns a little more to face you. The single light from outside catches in his iris, like that same lighthouse beacon you could see earlier. Distant, far off, but there. Still there.

“I owe you an apology,” he says. “I…I thought what we were doin’…What I was doin’…I thought I was causing you more hurt ‘n harm than good. I was scared it’d gone too far. Scared it wasn’t okay anymore.”

“Was it ever okay?”

He shifts again, uncomfortably. In the dim light, you see his face pull. He squints, wobbles his head in consideration. “No. It wasn’t. But we did it anyways, you ‘n me. We made that decision together.”

“Right. And then you went and made the complete opposite decision, alone.”

He’s nodding. He knows. And you think you know, too. It fucking sucked, losing him – but you get it. What was the big plan? How far were you going to let it go? Someone had to pull the plug at some point. Someone had to cut the thing loose.

You lean closer to him. “I just…I wish you’d let me fight back a little. Wish you’d heard me out more. I know what we’ve done isn’t right. I know that. But I – I fucking –”

You sigh. It leaves your mouth shaky and unsure of itself.

There’s something more. Something at the back of your tongue, itching to separate into the dense space between you. Bigger. Stronger. Heavier.

“I missed you,” you concede, shaking your head. “That’s all.”

Joel’s eyes fall shut with a wince when you say it, like it physically hurts to hear the words come out of your mouth. But he’s clearer, now – the fog is slowly shrinking away. The words behind his eyes seem to light them in a warm glow. Missed you too, baby.

His hand opens up on the armrest again. Yours falls into it instantly.

He clears his throat then, and says, “Also owe you an apology for – for the Lois thing. I know I should’ve explained a lot sooner, ‘n I’m sorry I had you thinkin’ what you were thinkin’. I didn’t – I didn’t know it was such a big deal to you. Thought you’d know I wouldn’t…do that.”

“I think I did,” you tell him. Your nails run up and down his fingers. “Deep down. Wasn’t so much about her as it was about me.”

“About you?”

You shrug. “Yeah. Me, us, this. It was more of a, Why wouldn’t he want someone like her?, y’know? No lying, no secrets. And she’s old, like you.”

“Easy.”

You smile. “She’s nice. I know she is. My dad went on for five whole minutes about how good you’d be together when I asked ‘im. So – why wouldn’t you wanna be with her, right?”

It’s rhetorical. Joel knows. But he answers it anyways.

“She is nice,” he agrees, “but I ain’t interested. To tell you the truth, darlin’, I was a little preoccupied worrying my ass off about you to even look twice at the woman.”

You freeze for a second. Stare at the outline of his jaw, the jagged bristles of his beard; the soft sweep of hair silhouetted by the moonlight outside. He’s still Joel – even in the darkness, even in the fog. Even when you can’t see, hear, or touch him – he’s still there. Thinking about you. Worrying about you.

“Well,” you sniff, “you don’t gotta worry anymore. I just…I didn’t like the thought of it.”

His head tilts. Beckons you to continue.

You sigh. “I don’t want you…with…anyone else. I want you to…only want me.”

His brows straighten. You sit in silence, staring at one another. Both daring the other to be the first to talk. But it’s his turn, and he knows it. So he swallows, and says –

“I don’t want nobody else.”

And that’s a thing. A great big, terrible thing.

“But,” he continues, almost immediately, “this has gotta be – I’ve gotta do right by you. Gotta be honest, now –”

“Wait,” you interrupt, “can you just – stop acting like it’s all you?”

Joel falls quiet. His brows knit together.

“Stop saying things that make it sound like you’re the only one in this. I’m in it, too. I want it. I want you.”

“Baby, it’s not as simple as –”

“Joel,” you take his arms and pull yourself closer to him, legs propped against the center console, “I want you. This. I want us. All of it, I want all –”

Your body is being tugged closer to him, lifted nearer, and his chin bumps against yours, and his eyelashes almost brush against yours when your foreheads link, and his breath sweeps hot and needy across yours, and he – he kisses you.

You stop breathing. You don’t care whether or not it ever comes back. Oxygen replaced by him. Everything replaced by him.

His tongue slips past your lips, his hand glides across your hair to cup the back of your head. He locks you into his body, lets you rest your arms across his shoulders. Your lips find a rhythm against one another; warm, wet, tender.

His free hand cups your cheek, holds your mouth to his just a second longer, before he pulls away, and gives you one last kiss. Softest of them all. Seals the fucking deal.

“We okay?” he mumbles, and you lift your head from his palm. You sit frozen for a second, just looking at him. Looking and looking and looking.

“We’re good.”

He smiles then. A genuine smile. “I thought,” he whispers, glancing around the quiet parking lot, “I could take you on a date.”

So that’s why he brought you out here.

“A date?”

“Mhm. Never been on one, have we?”

“Never could.”

He nods in agreement. “Just ice cream. For now. Thought I’d show you some of my moves.”

“You got moves?” you snicker.

“I’m a catch, darlin’. The ladies swoon for me.”

“Alright, never say that to me again.”

Joel laughs. “There’s a place right around the corner. ‘s go.”

He climbs out of the truck and wanders off towards the sidewalk, and you follow. He looks down at you as you walk. His cheeks swell with the smile on his face, dimples at the edges of his lips.

It’s quiet; quieter than you’d expect, not that you’re complaining. With the sun almost set, you’re doused in light only when you wander under a streetlight. So, it’s no surprise when Joel’s eyes quickly scan the street up ahead, and his hand reaches down for yours.

Your stomach flips. You’re doing everything you can not to let him feel your pulse in your wrist, but you’re pretty sure you can, because he leans his shoulder against yours and asks if you’re okay.

“Good,” you choke out, relieved to have just passed a streetlight that might give away the blush on your cheeks.

Approaching on the right is a sickly-sweet, pastel-painted store front; fairy lights decorating the window, wireframe tables and chairs dotted outside. A bell dings when Joel pushes the door open, holding it open for you to step inside.

It’s…dainty. Sweet. Everything is either teal or pink or white. There’s a giant ice cream cone stood in the corner. There’s a gumball machine opposite it. The lighting is a little garish – kind of reminds you of sitting in the dentist chair, eyes squinting up at the bright white light overhead.

You’re fucking surprised to be stood in here with Joel Miller, of all people. He sticks out like a sore thumb; his worn jeans and crumpled flannel against the minty gleam of the parlor like an earthy tree sprouting in the middle of that same dentist’s office. It makes you giggle, as he leads you over to the counter.

A boy with a teal uniform meets him over a glass case full of different ice cream flavors. His name badge reads Ben. “What can I get you?” he asks, scoop in hand. Your lips press against one another to stop your laugh from escaping.

Joel turns to look at you. He nudges you with his elbow when you don’t return his glance, too focused on Ben’s pink baseball cap, the logo of the shop printed on top.

“Uh,” you consider, glancing down, “I’m good with any.”

Joel sighs, lips thinning. “Am I gonna pick a flavor, ‘n then you decide you don’t like it?”

“Nope. Promise.” You smile innocently, and he turns back to the server.

“I’ll take one scoop of the cookie dough, and, uh…one of the coffee, please.”

When Ben dips to scoop the order into two little tubs, you mock gasp at Joel.

“What?”

“Coffee?”

He shrugs.

“I took you for a vanilla man.”

Ben stands straight and punches some numbers into the cash register. Joel hands him a ten.

“What about me makes you think I’m into vanilla?” he asks in a low voice.

You bat your eyelashes at him. A dark thought crosses your mind, but you think better of voicing it and save Ben the embarrassment of potentially hearing you.

Joel thanks him and takes both tubs in one hand. You make for a booth by the window, but his hand quickly slinks around your waist, diverting you back to the door.

“Nuh-uh.”

“What?” you ask, spinning around.

Joel continues walking, backing you out of the shop. “I am not sittin’ in here. Got a fuckin’ headache already from five minutes in the place.”

“But it’s so cute,” you protest, giggling. “You don’t want your picture taken with the giant cone?”

“Get the hell out,” he mumbles, shoving you across the tiled floor back out to the sidewalk. He can’t mask his own grin, spilling out behind you, taking your hand in his.

You snort as he drags you back along the street. “Maybe I should forget about LA and get a job in there. Drive myself insane.”

“Maybe you should,” Joel agrees. “Least then you’d have an excuse for it.”

You slap his chest. “Where are we goin’?”

“’s just go back to the truck. Quieter. Less fluorescent lights.”

He unlocks it a few paces away, but you stroll past your door.

“What are you doin’?” Joel asks when you pull yourself up into the bed.

“C’mon,” you call back, settling against the back window, “it’s a nice night. Who are we hiding from?”

He tosses it over in his head and cocks one eyebrow. Fair enough. He climbs up and passes you the ice cream, shrugging his shirt from his shoulders. He throws it over your bare legs and sits down beside you, grunting as he does.

You smirk when he rests back.

“I’m almost fifty, darlin’,” he warns, reaching for his tub.

Your lips curve and you nod, digging the little plastic spoon into your dessert. You stretch your legs out and cross your ankles, watching in quiet contentment as the cars roll by, squealing to a halt at the traffic lights. Lights are coming on in windows, curtains are being drawn. Joel’s legs lie against yours, joined at the hip, shoulders brushing off one another.

This is the most peace you’ve had in a fortnight. Sat in the back of his truck, no eyes on you, watching the comings and goings of some back street in the city. You talk about nothing, for the first time in what’s felt like forever. You talk about films, and music, and all the stuff that seemed so unimportant before. Now, it all feels imperative. Feels like a life-or-death thing. What’s your favorite movie? You know my favorite movie, baby. But tell me again. Just so I know for sure. Just so that – if anything happens.

You listen when he answers. You watch his mouth as he says the words. For all the times you took it for granted before. For all the times you thought it was insignificant. It’s all significant, now. It all means something. It’s just more strings to the web between you, each one knotting you closer and closer together.

And you talk about what you’ve missed. The two weeks you’ve spent apart. You catch him up as if he was only gone on vacation. As if he was always meant to come back in the end.

“The guy with the weed – same guy you punched – he was –” gulp, “– what was his name again? Knicks? No –”

Joel snorts, spoon scraping around the edge the tiny pot in his huge hand. “Knicks?”

You close your eyes, waving your hand like it’ll urge him to remember the name of a guy he took no time getting to know before he floored him. “No, it wasn’t Kn…Knox! It was Knox, and he –”

“Kind of a fuckin’ name is Knox? Knox?”

“Are you gonna let me talk, or what?” you quip, and Joel brings his wrist up to his mouth to mask his laugh.

“Sorry, sorry, sweetheart. Go ahead. Knox had the weed.”

“Knox had the weed, and…he…Fuck, I can’t even remember where I was goin’ with that.” You shake your head and lean it back against the windowpane.

He laughs. For real. A Joel laugh. His shoulders jerk with the force of it. “You were gonna tell me about his friends, I think. Somethin’ about his friends.”

It sparks back up in your brain – the memory. “Right! Right. His friends – that dude with the glasses? That was Zack.”

Joel stares at you blankly, tongue in his cheek. “Zack?”

“Big guy, red face. Buck teeth. From Costco?”

His jaw slackens. He remembers. “I fuckin’ – I knew I’d seen that kid’s face before. That was him?”

You nod. Uhuh.

“Damn.” He chuckles. “He looked at me like I was a wild bear.”

You toss your head, roll your eyes. “Well.”

He laughs again. Knocks your legs with his own.

“Good call, by the way,” your lips mumble around the shape of your spoon, “cookie dough. it’s nice.”

“Wanna try mine?”

“Really?” Your face contorts, eyes screwing. “Coffee?”

“’s good. Here.”

He holds out a spoonful.

“Yeah, nice to you, who drinks, like, thirty of ‘em a day.”

Joel responds by pushing the spoon to your lips and you oblige, opening up and letting him feed you the ice cream.

It’s not bad. It’s ice cream, it can’t be bad. But it definitely isn’t good, and the way your lips purse and your neck jerks lets Joel know exactly how you feel about it. He scoffs, wiping a little from your lips with his thumb and sucking it clean.

“You don’t like it?”

“Why is it…bitter? Eugh.”

He laughs to himself as he loads up another spoonful. “It’s an acquired taste.”

“Well, I am not interested in acquirin’ it. You want some of the cookie dough?”

He shakes his head. “You enjoy.”

You both turn back to the street ahead. Joel’s arm is warm at the side of yours, his shoulder right there for you to lean your head on.

He places a kiss to your head when you do.

“What do you think he’d do if he found out?”

You’re not sure where it comes from. Neither is Joel, apparently, from the way he clears his throat and squirms ever so slightly. He knows exactly who you mean.

“I, uh…I don’t like to imagine.”

“It scare you?”

He takes a deep breath. “Naw. I just got better things to do with my imagination, is all.” He prods your arm with his. Picturin’ you.

“Ha. You reckon he’d kill you?”

“Probably.”

“He couldn’t kill you. Wild bear.”

“Well, I reckon he might try.”

“I think he’d call the cops.”

Joel’s head lifts from yours and falls back against the truck with a laugh.

“Help, Officer,” you mimic your dad’s twang,“my grown adult daughter is sleeping with someone!”

Joel’s shoulders slowly stop moving.

“Is that all we’re doin’?” he asks.

“Huh?” You lift your head and look at him. His dark eyes reflect the city lights in the distance.

“Is that all we’re doin’? Sleepin’ together?” His voice is gentle, honest. Genuinely asking, seeking out what you think.

You consider it, tryna sound casual. You know what he’s getting at.

“That’s all we’ve been doin’. Help, Officer, my daughter’s grabbing ice cream with someone? Better?”

He hums. Looks down at the empty tub in his hands. Looks back up to your lips. Draws nearer to you, holds your chin with one finger, looks you dead in the eye, and whispers,

“How about, Help, Officer, my daughter made someone fall in love with her?”

Your breath catches. Your hands fall limp into your lap. You blink away tears.

“You – No, that’s – You gotta say it. You gotta actually tell me, ‘cause I’m not – I don’t wanna misinterpret – We haven’t –”

You’re buffering. Your brain malfunctioning. Your tongue can’t decide which of the words at the back of your throat, all desperate to escape, to let through first.

Joel’s just smiling, watching you stutter and stammer your way through a sentence that leads you nowhere, desperately trying to compute what he’s just said because he’s finally fucking admitted it. He’s finally letting you know, giving you access to a part of him he’s been keeping from you for who knows how long.

Even though all this time it’s been the one thought running through your head that hasn’t passed your lips, it reverberates around your ears like it’s the last thing you ever expected him to say.

Joel’s hand moves to your neck, just below your ear. “Baby,” his thumb rubs your skin, “you know I love you.”

A gasp flees from your lips. Your ice cream is thrown to the truck bed, probably spilling over, and you don’t care. You leap into his lap, arms around his neck, and kiss him all over.

Joel’s laughing, returning what kisses he can, squeezing you with his big hands.

“I love you,” he says again when you come up for air, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard in your life. You sit your forehead against his, whispering breathlessly,

“Fuck, I love you, too.”

You two stare at each other, eyes scanning every part of the other’s face, mapping every mark, line, scar, like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen each other.

Guess it is, right?

This is the first time you’re looking at the man you love and you’re not afraid of it. The first time your chest swells and you don’t gulp it back, the first time you let him feel your heart pounding against the wall of your chest.

It’s the first time you look into his eyes, dark eyelashes and fine lines decorating deep warm brown, and think those three words…and know you can say them. Know neither of you will be spooked, neither of you will try to push them back down where they came from.

I love you. That’s all there is between you now. Your cards are flat on the table, Joel’s, too. Game over. You know everything there is to know about each other. You know each other.

You’ve sunk down his body, turned so your back curves into his chest, his chin resting on your head. Safely encased in his body, sat between his thighs. His hand runs up and down your thigh, lighting drawing lines and circles and writing words you don’t care to guess, ‘cause you probably already know ‘em.

Love hums between the two of you, keeping you warm; your bodies pressed together, hearts beating just inches apart. You blink your eyes open and the single streetlight sails back into your vision – bright as the moon, stirring you from your tranquil bliss.

“Do you,” you turn, and Joel fixes your hair, presses his lips to your forehead, “do you tell all the girls that on the first date? Was that just one of your moves?”

He snorts, and answers by pulling you in to give you a tender kiss.

No. Just you.

“You ready to go?” he asks when your lips part.

“Mhm. Take me home, cowboy.”

----------

His house is dark against the dusky sky. The headlights illuminate the garage door as he pulls up in the drive, squeezing your hand once as the truck comes to a halt.

“And then…” Joel says, holding a finger up to you. Wait right here.

He gets out of the driver’s side and you watch the shadow of him jog around the truck, stopping at your door. He opens it, and holds a hand out for you to take.

You choke on a laugh. “That is…”

“That is what?”

“…so cheesy. You really do that?”

“Uhuh. C’mon.”

Your fingers lace through his and you hop out of the truck. Joel shuts the door behind you and extends his elbow, and you link your arm through his. His hand warmly rests on top of yours.

You both wander over to his porch where he stops, letting you walk up the steps alone. When you reach the top one, only just taller than him on the path, hands still interlinked, you look down.

“Then I say, Thank you for a lovely evenin’, and,” he lifts your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles, “then…” Joel holds his arms out. Voila. Just like that.

“Wow. I feel…honored.”

“You should.”

“Not even a proper kiss?”

“I just kissed your hand, baby. You didn’t like that?”

“You don’t ask to come inside?”

He scoffs. “Nope. What would I want to come inside for?”

You grin. Shrug your shoulders. Start walking backward to his door.

“Well, I am exhausted after our date, Mr. Miller. I do think,” yawn, “I should be gettin’ ready for bed.”

Joel lowers his head, eyes trained on you, smirk growing on his lips. “Is that so?”

You nod.

He starts to climb the steps.

“I’m sure I’ll be expectin’ a call from you,” you mewl, exaggerated Southern accent crooning to him. Your back bumps against the front door. Joel’s on the porch now. You bite your lip.

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” he returns, his shadow creeping over you. He reaches your body and his arms come to rest on the frame right above your head.

You hook your hands around his shoulders.

“You really don’t wanna come in?” you whisper, and his jaw ticks.

“I wouldn’t want to be ungentlemanly.”

Leaning in, lips against his ear, you whisper soft enough to shake the breath as it falls from his lips.

“And what if I asked you, nicely, to take me inside and fuck me good ‘n hard until I can’t walk?”

Joel’s eyes pool black when you lean away, head resting back on his door. Your gaze is heavy with lust, eyelashes batting slowly.

“Hm,” he grumbles, body beginning to press against yours. His head cocks. “You don’t wanna be treated like a lady?”

“Nope.” You smirk, hand falling down to cup the bulge quickly forming below his belt.

“Want to be treated like a fuckin’ whore, do ya?”

Chest heaving, you nod, massaging him.

“So dirty, darlin’, feelin’ your date up on the porch,” he tells you, dipping his jaw to run his lips along your neck. “What ‘m I gonna do with you?”

You shrug again, and your fingers find the door handle at your hip. You push, and the wood behind you falls inward.

As you plunge into the dark house, Joel’s rough hands clamp down on your waist, taking you in his tight grip and throwing you against the wall. His lips find your neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin, tongue caressing tenderly as he sucks a bruise into you. Heat spreads across your core. You clench your thighs around the feeling.

“Joel,” you whine, hands surfing through his hair. “Fuck, take me upstairs.”

He hums. He’s going to. He’s just not doing it quick enough.

You lift your leg to his hip, and his left hand scoops under your ass. He pulls your center flat against the swelling in his jeans, ruts slowly against your body. You hear a deep groan from his throat.

“Upstairs,” you say again, growing impatient, and he growls, taking you with both hands and lifting you two steps at a time towards his bedroom.

He kicks the door open, loosening his grip on you as he walks over to the bed. Light streams across the room in splinters, peering through the shades from the streetlights outside. Your legs drop and you dance along on your toes, turning him midway until his calves hit the bottom of his mattress.

Your lips part for mere seconds, allowing one reflected expression between you, before you’re pushing him by the chest onto the bed. His body springs when he hits the sheets, staring back up at yours between his legs. His breath courses from his mouth, thick with want and need.

You lay him flat on the mattress, knees either side of his waist, hands curved over his shoulders. His own find your waist, holding on tight as you straddle him, playing with the tie of your shorts when you settle.

You dip your head and brush your lips against his. One long, sweet kiss, and his hands are at the hem of your hoodie, pulling it free, lifting it over your head. You groan as it separates your bodies, let your tongue find his again as quickly as it was pulled apart from it.

“Let me see,” he whispers against your lips, hands slipping beneath the fabric of your shorts to rub circles into your hipbones.

You smile as you straighten, fingers dancing along the hem of your tee.

“Let me – see,” Joel grunts, when your core grinds into his.

You peel the tight fabric from your stomach, higher, higher, until it lifts your breasts, catching on the curve of them, and as you whip it over your head, they bounce back down. Joel groans from below, staring at the perfect peaked shape. He lifts one hand to cup your tit, runs his thumb over the quickly-hardening nipple.

“So fuckin’ pretty, baby.”

“I know,” you tell him, watching as his thumbpad circles the delicate skin. Your back arches into his touch.

And then his hands sink into the mattress either side of his body, pushing himself closer to you. He wraps a strong arm around your back and pulls your chest to his mouth, lips pressing wet kisses to the valley between your breasts. His teeth graze across the round shape up towards your nipple again.

His tongue slips over the hard bud, swirling and soaking all over it. Your head falls back, fingers grip onto his hair. Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes. Joel sucks harder.

“S– fuck,” you whisper, nearly voiceless. His tongue is flicking now, lips pulling more of your body into his mouth. “Fuckfuckfuck, I need you, I need you,” you whimper.

He releases your sweet skin, lips shining with saliva. “Tell me where.”

You writhe on top of him, hands pushing your shorts down over your hips. “You know where.”

Joel holds your body steady. “Tell me.”

You whine, trying to rock against him. He doesn’t let up. “Joel, fuck. Betw– between my – fuck.”

“Between your legs?” he taunts, pushing you harder against the hard folds of denim below his belt. “That where you need me? Between those pretty legs, babygirl?”

Your fists ball around the fabric of his shirt, clinging on to him. “Ye-ah,” you whimper, and his weight falls from your grasp.

You feel your shorts tug over the crests of bone by your hips. “Step out of ‘em, baby,” he instructs, and your knee lifts.

He pulls the cotton down one leg at a time, telling you to shift your weight as he curls a finger around the lace of your panties and tugs them down after. Before you can think about it, you’re naked, soaked cunt making a mess over the crotch of his jeans.

He looks up at you expectantly.

“What–?”

He flicks his fingers in a beckoning motion, a Come here, either side of your thighs. You hesitate.

“Darlin’. Up.”

“Joel.”

“Up.”

You take his open hands and shuffle up the mattress, knees pushing into the soft sheets either side of his head. You glance down at him.

“I don’t know –”

“’m not gonna tell you again.”

And he doesn’t have to. You steady yourself, locking your fingers through his behind your ass, and slowly lower yourself down to him. His jaw lifts to meet you, and you think about pausing again, telling him he doesn’t have to do this, asking instead to do something else, something he’ll enjoy as much, something you can both –

But then his lips open around the sweetest part of your body, and your lungs freeze. His tongue slips between, daring where you need him most, and your body sighs in equal parts relief and pleasure.

You’re so fucking wet. You can feel it, leaking onto his lips, spreading around your own as he kisses you, licks you, takes in every drop of you. Your back curls, lips fall open to the ceiling, breath comes in short wisps.

It’s been almost two weeks since the two of you felt like this. Hot, wet, needy. Two weeks of waiting for the other to come back, two weeks of reaching for the phone and deciding against it once the number’s dialed, two weeks of nothing.

And now – everything. Everywhere. Every part of your body ignited for him. You feel him fucking everywhere.

You lean all of your weight onto the palm of your hands, pushing all of it into Joel’s. He’s steady, strong, letting you rock and swirl your hips as he laps at your core.

“Right there,” you whisper, head rolling back. “Keep – keep – oh, fuck, Joel. What the f–?”

He slowly lowers his hands, letting you untangle your fingers and place them on the bed. His own come to hook around your thighs, clamping you as close against him as you can possibly be.

Two weeks of nothing. And now, five minutes of everything. The shards of light from outside blur across your vision; heat starts to prickle up your spine, tickling the back of your neck. You’re smiling, filthy and desperate.

“I’m gonna –” you breathe, and Joel hums. “’m gonna c– come.”

You can hear his response, though he doesn’t say a word. Then, come.

Your hips motion forward. Tighten. Clamp. Inhale. Joel’s tongue slips between your folds, warm on the inside of your cunt. And you rock back. Unwind. Unfurl. Exhale. His bottom lip puckers against your clit.

“J-oel. Joel, I’m – you’re – fuck.”

He moans against your sex. His hips shift behind you. Buck upwards, carefully.

Tighten. Clamp. Inhale. Tighten – inhale. Unwind. Unf-url. Ex-hale. Tighten. Inh– clamp. Fuck. I’m there. Unwind. Warm. Wet. Tongue. Exhale. Tongue. Tighten. Clamp. Inhale. Joel –

Your fingers curl around his bedsheets, nails dig into the cotton. Your orgasm sends a flood of hot pleasure across your cunt, rains down over Joel’s lips, and sets fireworks off through your body which explode into the dark room in the form of a throaty moan.

You’re not sure when you come to. You’re not sure your arms can bear the weight of your body. But when your eyes blink open, he’s kissing the inside of your thighs.

His mouth is glistening. Moustache and beard covered in you. Soft lips pearlescent with your spend. Your body feels heavy, unbearable. You lift your leg and tumble onto the mattress by his side, pussy throbbing when you land.

“I love you,” you whisper, and not for any particular reason. Not because of what he just did. Not because you’re naked in his bed.

But maybe because it feels like this is what you were made to do. To love and to be loved – by him. It feels like this entire thing has been, from its genesis, an exchange. An understanding. Immediate and certain. Here are all the parts of me. You know what to do.

As if there needed no further explanation. No instruction, no tutorial. You just knew.

He pushes himself up, leans over your frame. His jaw lowers, and he licks into your mouth tenderly.

“Gotta be inside you, baby,” he says, and at the same time, your fingers find the buttons of his shirt. “Gotta feel you again.”

You nod against him. Fuck me fuck me fuck me.

Joel’s hands are on his belt, pulling it through the loops, dropping it to the floor. Your help him tug his jeans off when he undoes the button. The material of his underwear rubs against your sex; your creamy arousal smears all over the black fabric. You can feel the weight of his stiff cock beneath. It dizzies your head.

He lets your fingers sneak below the elastic, lowering it until he springs free, slapping against the bottom of his tummy. You could fucking drool at the sight of him – the pink tip, beaded with precum; the thick vein on the underside of the shaft; his balls below it, heavy and waiting. Your hands wrap around him and pump slowly as he drags his boxers down, kicking them off at the foot of the bed.

He groans, hips thrusting gently into your palms as you squeeze him. Your fingers slip between your folds, collecting your own slick, coating him in it as you fist him.

“So good, babygirl,” Joel breathes, leaning down to kiss you. “You gonna take it all?”

“Mhm,” you reply, tongue slipping against his.

“Yeah,” he says, “my girl can take it.”

You let his hand shadow over yours, the two of you guiding his cock towards your entrance together. It glides between your dripping folds, the head sifting effortlessly from your clit to your tight hole and back again. Joel laughs, teeth clashing with yours, as he dips in and out, teasing you.

Your ass lifts from the mattress, any movement to draw him nearer. “Stop,” you gasp.

Joel pauses. “Stop?”

“No,” you bleat, “don’t stop. Just – fucking do it.”

“Do what, darlin’?”

“Fuck me.”

And he sinks in.

You’d be lying if you said all you’d done for the last two weeks was cry, mope, and stare at the ceiling. That’d be discrediting everything that this little affair was built on. It’s impossible to forget how the thing fucking started – your hands between your legs, Joel watching from the doorway.

In the moments you didn’t feel the mind-numbing tsunami of heartache overcome you – you felt something else. Memories of his hands on you, the trail of his tongue between your legs, the swell of his cock deep inside you. You tried to replicate it a handful of times with your hands. But nothing – not your fingers, not two, three, or four – nothing stands a chance against him.

He pushes in slow at first, drawing out when he’s halfway, and then in again as he covers himself in the wet his tongue left behind. When he’s soaked, glistening and gleaming, he thrusts. Hard. His tip catches on your cervix, and your back arches in a mix of pain and delight.

Something throbs deep inside as he bottoms out. You feel your opening stretch around his base. You feel your legs widen as if by instinct, accommodating the size of him, the width of him, the pace of him.

You throw an arm over his shoulder, elbow hanging on the nape of his neck. His sweaty forehead sticks to yours, and your hand cups his cheek.

“Harder,” you tell him, and he listens.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants, “fuck, you’re so tight. Oh, my – I ain’t gonna last.”

“Don’t – want you – to,” you cry, body jumping as he fucks you quicker, quicker, harder, deeper. “Want to – come – together.”

Your head tips back against the bed, and Joel’s lips attach to your neck. He’s moaning into your skin, teeth biting down, breath hot and quick. He’s not gonna last he’s not gonna last he’s not –

“F-u-ck, Joel,” you sob, your walls starting to close in around him, “feels so – f-fucking good, oh!”

“I know, darlin’, I know. C’mere.”

He takes your cheek and pulls your face back to his, lines his lips with yours and kisses you. It’s messy, haggard, fucking all over the place as your bodies bounce together, but he tastes like sweat, and sex, and you, and him.

“Missed this so fuckin’ much,” he grunts, hips pounding. “Missed bein’ inside you. You know how bad I needed you?”

“Tell me,” you slur, echoing his own words back to him.

He smirks. “Best fucking pussy I ever had, sweetheart. Best – I ever – had.”

“Don’t pull out,” you hum against his lips, and his jaw pulls back a fraction. “Don’t.”

“Baby,” he says, strained, and your head tilts.

“Need it,” you tell him. “Please. Need you.”

He nods, leaning back into you, letting you connect your mouths again. His lips shudder when you pull away, the thought translated clear as day from your mouth to his. And he knows, and he drives in harder, and he fucks the image from your mind. Who the fuck is Lois, when you’re under him and he’s this deep between your legs?

You look up into his eyes, and you find your answer. She’s nobody. There’s only you.

Your body feels liquid, your mind like fog. You pull him into your body, deeper and deeper, until you’re sure you’re one, and there is no place where he ends and you begin, and you’re sure this is what it feels like, this is what those words feel like, not just the sound of them, not just the way his lips move around them, but the shape of them on and in and around your body. Something deafening, something blinding, something screaming from the pits of your lungs as you come all around him, and you feel him come all around you.

His warmth spurts deep inside you, filling you up, dripping down your walls as he collapses into your shoulder, a loud moan drilling into your collarbone. He slows, thrusts in and out gently, pushing his spend deeper and mixing it with yours.

It's everywhere. The feeling. The pulsing, the humming, the singing. He’s everywhere. Him. In your brain and in your lungs and in your body and in your cunt. And you want to keep him there, hold him there, keep your bodies together for five more minutes, just five more minutes.

But then he’s panting into your skin, pressing kisses into that little dip between your collarbone and your chest, and he slowly slips out, come dripping from where he leaves.

He presses his palm deep into the sheets by your head, lifts off of you – but your arm is still around his neck, and you lean with him. Tilted on his mattress, holding onto him, letting him kiss your head; letting his hand move across the surface of your stomach, mapping the gentle slope over your belly button and scaling the tiny mountains of your hipbones. Kneading softly into the skin over which his seed sits, warm and snug, deep inside you. It’s new. You think you love it.

And he’s whispering, “Good girl, did so good for me,” and he nuzzles his nose into your hair, and he tilts your chin back until he can see your face, see your expression, and he smiles with relief when he clocks your doe eyes, your blissful smile, the sweet tinge of red on your cheeks.

“I love you,” he tells you, and you’re staring at his lips.

“Again.”

“I love you.”

You look up to his eyes. “Again.”

“I love you.”

You smile. It breaks into a laugh. “Again,” you whisper, and he kisses you.

Slowly, only once you pull away from him and your breath steadies, Joel takes your body and carefully shifts. He turns onto his back, settles you on his chest, your hips between his thighs. He runs a gentle hand over your hair and you lie against his sweat-shining chest, his heartbeat whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

Love and sex, as far as you knew, were always two different things. Separate. One, you weren’t even sure existed. The other, nothing more than a need to be satisfied. Something deep within you, something no one had ever managed to touch. And then Joel. And his lips, and his tongue, and his hands and his cock.

And suddenly the two – love and sex – begin to blur, their edges touch frantically. They bleed into one another, until there are no longer two distinct forms; instead, one big shape which has the curve of your hips and the cut of his jaw.

You love him. And he loves you. You’ve heard it translated between your minds longer than you care to admit, and now – you’ve felt it. Transferred between your bodies. You love him. Jesus, you love him.

It’s as terrifying as it is thrilling. Enamoring, and yet dangerous.

“So,” you sigh, “what’s next?”

He glances down, lifts his eyebrows and gives his head a shake. His hand lifts off of your shoulder with a shrug.

“Like, your next move. What happened with the other eight?”

“The other eight?”

“Mhm. Me, Sarah’s mom, makes two. There are eight others, right? What’d you do afterward?”

“Kicked ‘em out.”

You lift a heavy hand and slap his chest. He shudders with laughter.

“I dunno, baby. Wasn’t all like this.”

Your brows knit. “Like what?”

He takes a deep breath. Your head rises as his lungs fill. “Lyin’ in bed afterward. Talkin’.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“What?” he asks, smirking.

“Who even were they? I wanna know.”

“Why?”

“Just do. I wanna hear about ‘em. When was the last one, before me?”

Joel’s eyes drift off to the ceiling above you, thinking. “May.”

“M–?” You jump up, pushing yourself off of his body. “May?” you repeat, eyes wide. “That’s…so recent.”

“Recent?” He chokes back a laugh. “When’s your last?”

You furrow your brows, dropping his gaze. “We’re not talking about me,” you mumble, thumbs twiddling.

Your last had been two nights before you flew home. You’d gone out with your roommates and dragged home Matteo, an exchange student who you’d worked with on a group project for your screenwriting class. He was three inches shorter than you. He bent you over your kitchen counter and fucked you until he came. Then he made himself some cereal, ate half of it, and left.

Joel doesn’t really need to hear about him, you think.

“Do I know any of them?” you ask in attempt to change the subject.

Joel pulls a face. His lips tighten, teeth clench. His eyes narrow to a thin line, looking at you through his eyelashes. He nods tentatively.

“Shut the fuck up. Who is it? Who?”

“I dunno if you know her, but she knows you.”

“What’s her name?”

“Your dad gave us a ride home from the bar. She ‘n him got to talkin’, and he said he had a daughter –”

Your fist lightly drops onto his chest. “Joel, if you don’t fucking tell me who it is, I –”

“She’s an elementary teacher. Long, dark hair. Good few years older ‘n you. Think she said her little sister went to your school.”

“Who – was – it?”

He makes the face again. This time his eyes close over, waiting for the penny to drop. His head shakes lightly.

“You –? No, Joel. Come on. Please don’t…Are you fucking serious? You don’t remember her name?”

“It was a long night, alright?”

“How did you forget her damn name?”

He shrugs. “I don’t fuckin’ know. I was drunk, baby.”

“Elementary teacher? I don’t know anybody whose sister teaches elementary.”

“Guess we’ll never know.” Joel shrugs, and you shake your head at him.

You’re picturing Joel stumbling out of Frank’s, arm in arm with a brunette, heavy feet dragging along the sidewalk while your dad chitters in his ear about the Rangers, or about some rude bartender, or about…you. The brunette turns, and her face is yours. Your features, your smile. Your hand linked through Joel’s. C’mon, baby. ‘s go home.

You chase the image away. It slips from your mind like dust cleared from a countertop. Would never. Could never. Should never.

You replace it with something lighter. Something to make you forget about the dust.

“Does…Does my dad ever go home with anyone?”

“What?”

You don’t answer. He heard you.

“That’s…No. I ain’t answerin’ that.”

“Oh, come on. If you’re takin’ women home left, right, and center, he’s gotta be seein’ that. Does he?”

“I was not takin’ home women left, right, and – No, darlin’, no. It’s inappropriate.”

“Yeah, you’re right. And I’m known for my appropriate behavior, y’know,” you gesture between your naked bodies, “I’m known for the good life choices I make.”

“This,” Joel hooks his hands under your arms and drags you up until your chin meets his, “is a good life choice.”

“Yeah?” you ask through a giggle, your nose bumping his.

Joel smiles softly, runs a hand over the back of your head. Looks between your eyes, a twinkle in his. Yes.

Your lips crash together like waves on the rocks. You’re the sea; he’s the stone. Two different worlds, suddenly married in some unforeseen twist of nature. And when you pour over him, your body lighting him in a twinkling glow of ocean, it’s as though you never existed apart from one another. It’s as natural as the waves on the shore.

“Alright, darlin’,” Joel mumbles against your skin. “Speakin’ of inappropriate. I gotta get you home.”

“Why can’t I just stay the night?” you complain. “Like last time. Tell ‘im we’re watchin’ a movie again…”

Joel’s head rests on your arm. “He’s worried sick about you. Ain’t no way he’ll let you spend the night here. You know that. Plus, Sarah’ll be long done with Rita’s cross stitch by now.”

He sits up and you roll into his lap, head resting on the soft skin of his belly. He looks down at you, head tilted, eyes glowing hazel.

You stare right back. The dimples in his cheeks dig deeper when you whisper, “Kickin’ me out right after we finally make up. I see how it is, Miller.”

Joel’s shoulders hunch. “Happens to all of ‘em. Warned ya.”

He shifts off the bed and begins gathering his clothes. You sit up and watch as he pulls his boxers snug over his hips, swipes his tee from the carpet at his feet. As he drapes it over his scruffy chest, your half-naked form meets his at the foot of the bed.

His fingers knot in your hair. You lean into his arms, legs giving as he kisses you gently, breathing you in, stealing any more words of protest from your tongue.

“I love you,” he whispers when he pulls away, tip of his nose brushing off yours. “You know that?”

“Somebody told me somethin’ to do with that, yeah.”

He smiles. “Get dressed.”

You pull the rest of your clothes back on in silence, tossing socks and jeans across the room to one another, giggling like a pair of kids. After all you just did, the palpable pleasure you just sent hammering through one another – this is the part you wish you could bottle. The laughter, the love. The attempts to keep holding onto him, even as he tries to pull his arm through the sleeve of his shirt, even as he links his belt back through his jeans, as he bends to tie his boots.

The fun of it. The hope of it.

The foolish, foolish hope.

“Hoodie.” Joel flings it up towards you, crouched as he tightens his laces.

You pull it on over your bra. Flatten your flyaway hairs, stand straight before him.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

“You got your phone?”

Your hands instinctively pat your body down. “Oh, nah,” you realize, “musta left it at home.”

Joel nods and heads into the hallway, you at his heel. At the bottom of the stairs, you glance around his house, like it’s the first and last time you’ll see it wrapped into one. It looks different; two weeks of absence and you notice things you hadn’t before.

His coat hanging by the door, probably untouched since early spring. The bowl on the side table where his and Sarah’s keys live. The guitar in the corner of the room, the books in the shelves above it. All him. Every little piece of it. He’s reflected in every object in the room. He’s reflected in you.

You drive back to your dad’s place in silence. Comfortable, sweet silence. Your fingers ghost across his palm the entire time, watching out the window as the dark neighborhood soars by in a blur of porch lights and mailboxes. All too quickly, you’re back in front of your own house.

“What do we do now?” you ask, and through the darkness you see Joel’s smile fall.

After a moment’s silence, heavy and contemplative, he looks back up. Softens when his eyes land on you.

“We’ll be alright,” he tells you, and you believe him.

You lean forward and press a quick but tender kiss to his lips, and your fingers latch around the door handle. Joel’s hand finds the back of your head, keeping your mouth on his.

“Gotta – let me – go,” you mumble between kisses, and he hums a laugh in response. “Joel.”

“I know,” he whispers, finally pulling back. “I know.”

You smile, head tilting into his palm. “I’ll text you.”

He nods once. “See you, babygirl.”

You slip out of the truck and wander past to your front door, twirling as you click the handle. Joel laughs, and the truck reverses back onto the street. You wait for it to disappear before closing the door, and step into the unlit hallway.

The TV lights the living room at the opposite end. You stop by the kitchen, feeling the grumpy rumble of your stomach. Your dad’s armchair is sat facing the screen. You lean over to double check he’s not sat in it, fast asleep while Rangers highlights play on loop before his eyelids.

When you swivel the plaid pattern towards your knees, its only occupant is the remote. You flick the TV off and pad back over to the kitchen, filling a bowl with some chips. You’re hunched over at the refrigerator when his footsteps clunk slowly down the stairs, and he materializes like a specter around the doorway.

“Hey.”

You straighten up, lit in a nervous blue hue from the fridge. “Hey, yourself.”

“Joel gone?”

“’bout ten minutes ago. Where’ve you been? You left the TV on.”

“Just…y’know. You get those brochures?”

Fuck. You were at Joel’s under the premise of picking up fucking UCLA pamphlets – and you’ve come home empty-handed. The lie doesn’t form on your tongue as quickly as Joel’s did earlier. Something else on your mind.

“…sure. Some…interesting stuff.”

Your dad nods. “Good. Good, I’m glad. We can take a look in the mornin’.”

Your eyebrows flinch. “Yeah. That’d be – yeah. I’m…gonna head to bed, alright?”

“Sure,” he says, nodding.

With a can of soda under your arm and your bowl of chips in the other, you nod and cautiously shuffle towards him. His lips are a thin line. You duck by him and trot upstairs, and make it as far as the landing before he’s calling out again.

“Oh, hey.” He holds a hand out, and disappears in a jog towards the living room. You drop back down a couple steps, watching him swipe something from the dining table and pace back over. “You left your phone.”

He’s presenting it like a jeweler shows a Rolex – or maybe more like an investigator handles evidence. Holding it out in almost trembling fingers, afraid to mark it with his fingerprints. Your eyes flit from the phone to his, unsure which of the two frightens you more.

That’s not where I fucking left it.

You lean over and take it from his palm. “Thanks…”

“I think maybe you got a text, just then. It was lit up. Maybe I’m seein’ things.”

You force the corners of your mouth upward. Your cheeks inflate with nerves and shame. “Thanks,” you repeat, and then: “Everything okay, Dad?”

“Everything’s fine, kiddo. Sleep well.” He makes back for the living room.

As you turn, you unlock your screen.

Joel: Left your shirt here, and your bikini from last week. This mean I get to be the one wearing your clothes now?

Panic spills over your head, a wave of freezing cold washing over you when you read his words. Did Dad read them, too?

You continue walking, feeling the weight of your dad’s strange voice on your back as your feet drag you one by one up the stairs. When you make it back to the landing, your cool flees you, and you take the rest of them two at a time until you’re leaning against your bedroom door, panting.

You: Problem. I think my dad saw that text

Joel: How so?

You: When I got home my phone was next to his chair, and he’s being so weird

You: Joel I think he knows something

Joel: I’m sure he doesn’t. He wouldn’t read your phone baby.

He’s trying to reassure you, telling you he wouldn’t even know what it means, maybe he’ll think you spilled something on it, but no matter how many ideas Joel comes up with, none of them slow your heart rate.

You sit down on the edge of your bed, and the anxiety bubbling in your stomach forces you straight back up. Pacing doesn’t help, knowing your dad is directly below you probably hearing the floorboards creak with every step you take.

Your head dizzies with doubts, fears, worries, all frantically throwing themselves against the walls of your skull. You lean your forehead against the cold glass of your window, eyes screwing shut, stars in your vision. Nothing is calming you down.

Joel takes too long to reply back, whether he’s running out of explanations or just fucking forty-eight with an iPhone, but every time your phone buzzes with a new attempt at comfort from him, it only convinces you even more that – no, it wasn’t a stain, it wasn’t a joke, Joel has your top because you took it off for him an hour ago, and then let him fuck you in his bed.

And your dad fucking knows it.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #dbf!joel miller #dbf!joel #dad's best friend #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal joel miller #cowboy like me #smut #fluff #angst

[perseephoneee]

I would love to see secret santa with isaac lahey for ficmas!

secret santa (isaac lahey x f!reader) ficmas 2023

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ happy day 4 of ficmas!

a/n: my special special boy isaac for the holiday season. dedicated to @mayfieldss for being my wifey.

↳ masterlist  ↳ ship exchange ↳ join my taglist ↳ ficmas 2023

“How did you convince Derek to let you host a Christmas party at his loft?” you questioned, laying on Stiles’ bed as you crocheted. Stiles spun around in his desk chair and occasionally put more red string on his “murder board.” 

“Because of my charm,” Stiles turned towards you, clicking a pen in one of his hands. You paused your crochet project to look at him with exasperation. “Okay, fine; I promised to leave him alone for a month and clean his car.”

“That sounds more accurate,” you chuckled, resuming your project. You let out a huff of annoyance as Stiles threw a paper ball at your head. “Why is this so important to you?”

“I thought you liked Christmas.”

“I love Christmas; I want to know what has got you in the overt Christmas spirit this year,” you asked pointedly. You started another row as Stiles let out a short breath. 

“We’re all graduating, and I’m worried that we’ll never spend another holiday together again,” Stiles admitted, scooting his chair back to slap a new magnet on his board. You dropped your project, scooting to the end of the bed so you could look at Stiles. He refused to make eye contact. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you sighed, touching Stiles’ shoulder. “Even being friends with you couldn’t get me to leave this place behind.” Stiles smiled, covering his hand with your own. You knew Stiles was nervous that we would all go our separate ways and never speak again, especially with him attending the FBI academy in the fall. Even the people you knew Stiles would pretend not to miss (Liam, Isaac, etc.), as his friend, you were fully aware he would miss everyone. 

“Y/N…thanks for always being my friend,” Stiles sniffled. You jumped off the bed to hug him, Stiles laughing as you almost tackled him. 

“You’re my best friend, buddy boy– you can’t ditch me,” you collapsed on the ground at Stiles’ feet, a smile covering your face. “Now, what must we do to prepare for this party?”

“Well, Lydia has got most of it covered. I did manage to convince her to do one thing, though, as a gift for you,” Stiles held his hands in front of him like a movie villain, and you started to get very suspicious. You got back up on the bed, curling your legs into yourself as Stiles gave himself a drum roll. “I got Isaac to be your Secret Santa.”

“You what?” you screeched, eyes growing wide.

“Look, even though I think Isaac is the worst, I know you’ve had a crush on him for years. This is why he will be giving you a gift this year.”

“That’s not very secret.”

“I’m also setting up mistletoe all over the loft. There will be other casualties to my mistletoe plan, but I will happily sacrifice that for your happiness.”

“I…have no words,” you gulped. You liked Isaac since you first saw him, even before he became a wolf. And then he joined your pack, everyone started hanging out together, and your crush grew stronger. You jumped at the opportunity every time you got to do stakeouts or other missions with just Isaac. You didn’t believe that he liked you back, though. You were human, a lot quieter than the other pack members, and also prone to word vomit when feelings of awkwardness arose. 

“This way, you’ll have something he got specifically for you.”

“Unless he gives me a gag gift because he doesn’t care.”

“If he does that, then he’s not worth your time. I’m saying that as your friend with the knowledge that you are a great person,” Stiles grins. He turns back to his laptop, feet propped up on the corner of the table and fidget spinner in his other hand. You had a slight smile as you returned to your project, and that smile didn’t leave your face as you spent the rest of the night with Stiles. 

The party happened a week later. You, Kira, and Mason had spent time getting a bunch of decorations to make it look more festive and then left Lydia to boss Parrish around on where to put things up. Lydia had a vision; none of you dared ruin it. It gave you time to go home and get ready anyway. You dressed in a simple burgundy sweater with jeans and boots but bothered putting on more makeup than usual. You even clipped your hair back with some star clips you found in the back of your drawer. When you returned to the loft, your jaw almost dropped with how pretty it looked. Twinkly lights and tinsel covered the available surface area, and a tree was in the back with presents already stacked. There was a table with all the amuse bouches one could wish for, and the scent of cranberries and oranges filled the room. 

“Happy holidays, Y/N,” Peter said from right next to you, giving you a minor heart attack.

“Someone invited you?” you exclaimed, earning an eye roll from Peter. 

“I’ve been tasked with taking coats,” he sighed, already bored. You handed him your jacket and quickly left, not interested in being another meal. Malia was by the dining table eating all the different meats and cheeses. 

“Merry Christmas, Malia,” you said, grabbing an olive and popping it in your mouth. 

“Who knew food could be so fancy?” Malia mumbled, not taking a breather before eating more. She looked like a kid at a candy store, and it made you laugh. 

“Food is still food, just prepared differently,” you responded. You watched in slight admiration as she chugged a glass of champagne before eating half a block of cheese. You wished for her metabolism so you could eat so openly. 

“I like the pigs in a blanket the best,” a voice said behind you. You turned around and felt your heart catch as you saw Isaac, a slight grin on his face. He was dressed in a blue henley, and the lights reflected brilliantly off his eyes. “Although, I’m more a fan of the blanket.” He proceeded to suck off the bread part of the pig in a blanket, leaving you with a confused expression. 

“Did you seriously just suck the bread off?”

“I said I was more a fan of the blanket,” Isaac answered, finishing the rest of his snack with an expression that read duh. Before you could react to whatever that was, you were handed a holiday cracker by Lydia, who was running around and gifting them out. These were wrapped in a green and gold floral print and tied with red ribbon. You held your cracker to Isaac, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. He took the other end of the cracker, and you both pulled, the contents exploding from inside. You happily picked up your kazoo and paper crown before helping Isaac open his Christmas cracker. You traded your kazoo for his deck of cards before putting your crowns on. 

“Let me help,” Isaac said, positioning the paper crown on your head at the perfect angle. His fingers brushed down your hair as he stepped back, and you felt a blush coat your cheeks before you could stop it. “Look, now you’re a king.”

“Not a queen? Or a princess?” you asked cheekily. 

“Pretty sure you could be whomever you want,” Isaac replied, hands in his pockets as he looked down awkwardly. For a boy who wasn’t always the best with words and frequently struggled to pick up social cues, he somehow managed to find a way to flatter you. Before you could respond, Stiles clinked his glass to alert everyone to Secret Santa starting. You found a spot on one of the couches, curling up into the corner. Malia sat beside you, offering you a candy cane she stole from somewhere. 

“Thank you guys for bothering to show up today,” Stiles started, fingers anxiously tapping the side of his glass. “I’m happy to be included in this group of people, and…I don’t intend to lose you guys even when we graduate.”

It was one of the more severe things Stiles had ever said, and you could tell that it took a lot of willpower not to break into a joke. Everyone clapped and yelled kind things, though, and you knew it relieved some pressure from Stiles’ chest. 

“Alright, let's start this party as we trash Derek’s loft!” Stiles clapped as Derek glared from the back. “Chill out, big guy; I was kidding.”

You had to give your friends credit; they put together some perfect gifts this year. You were excited as you had Kira the crochet fingerless gloves you had made in pink and black yarn. 

“It has a mitten cover that you can button back,” you explained as Kira excitedly put them on and cooed over how soft the fabric was. Liam did try to steal them at one point before you promised to make him a pair. 

You were shoving a cookie in your mouth when Lydia announced that it was your turn to receive your gift. Avoiding Isaac’s gaze, you watched as Lydia brought over a small box wrapped in brown paper with a silky ribbon. You anxiously untied it, carefully peeling the paper away. You were greeted with an emerald green velvet case that you opened with a small gasp. Inside was a simple silver chain with three different charms on it. One of the charms was the Celtic ruin for protection, another a car with a Christmas tree on top, and finally a coffee pot. 

“I think I remembered that your family uses that sign for protection all over your home,” Isaac mumbled, a flush coating his cheeks as you finally looked up at him. “And the car is for when we were sent to get the Christmas tree, and you argued with the seller for trying to overcharge us. And the coffee pot is because of how you complain about needing coffee every time we hang out.”

You could feel your eyes tearing up as you looked at the thoughtful gift. Not only was it perfect, but Isaac gave it to you and put a lot of thought into it. You sat up, enveloping him in a hug that caught him off guard. Your face was buried in his shoulder as you inhaled the sweet vanilla scent that seemed to follow him. He tentatively hugged you back, bringing you in even closer. 

“Isaac,” you sniffled, pulling away. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

The smile that covered his face was infectious, and you knew that if you sat there any longer, you would combust into giggles and likely start screaming (something Stiles has witnessed you do whenever Isaac would do something personal and pleasant for you). You excused yourself, exiting to the kitchen to get some water. As you poured yourself a glass, you also went to the hot cocoa bar and stole a snowflake marshmallow to nibble on. 

“Are you okay?” you hear Isaac ask in the doorway. You turn to face him, softening at the look of concern coating his features. 

“I’m fine,” you reassure. “It was just a perfect gift; I didn’t want to get too emotional.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” Isaac whispered, looking down at an invisible spot on the floor. “I wanted to get you something that showed I cared.”

“I know you care,” you smiled, leaning against the counter. 

“I mean, like how I care about you,” Isaac breathed, slightly shaky. You furrowed your brows as your brain struggled to catch up. Isaac looked at you, waiting for realization to set in. When it finally did, your eyes widened to the size of saucers, and if the counter didn’t support you, you would’ve passed out. Instead of saying something, you glanced at the kitchen doorway's opening where Isaac was standing. 

“Mistletoe,” you whispered. 

“Huh?” Isaac looked confused, glancing around before finally glancing up. Conjuring courage you didn’t always have, you stepped right up to him and pulled him down for a kiss right under the mistletoe. He made a noise of surprise before finally placing his hands on your waist and kissing you back. 

“Happy holidays, Isaac,” you smiled, pulling away and looking up at him from under your lashes. His hand cradled your cheek before kissing you again, this time with the confidence of a boy who found his footing. You melted into his embrace, arms wrapping behind his neck and burying in his hair. One of his hands held the small of your back while he preserved your jaw, deepening the kiss. You let out a happy sigh as you let Isaac kiss the living daylights out of you as you thought to yourself:

This is the best Secret Santa ever.

#ficmas 2023 #12 days of ficmas #christmas #holidays #isaac lahey #isaac lahey x reader #isaac lahey imagine #daniel sharman #teen wolf #teen wolf x reader #teen wolf imagine #teen wolf holiday #my writing

[biillyhargroves]

I see your "Steve needs the planets aligned to sleep" and raise you "Steve is so used to hearing his boyfriends' heartbeats from sleeping beside/between them that one night they have to change routine and Steve is Big Mad about it"

you can't just say this to me, you know I have to write it.

no sleep (fic requests open)

The bed is still warm when Steve wakes. He curls against it, breathes in the lingering scent of Aquanet and cigarette smoke, traces of Billy left in his wake.

There's a note on the refrigerator door, tacked down by an AC/DC magnet, a reminder that Billy has left to help Max and El move into their new off-campus apartment. The trip has been on the calendar for weeks, ever since Max called to ask for Billy's help. He'd offered for Steve to come along, but work demanded that he stay put. The little red light on the answering machine beckons Steve, Eddie's voice crackling through the speaker when he hits play.

"Hey, baby. Sorry I didn't get to call last night. We ran pretty late. I didn't want to wake you guys. I was hoping to catch you. I know Billy's probably gone by now." There's a pause. Eddie sounds tired. He's across the country, eight hours a day hunkered in a recording studio with the band. It sounds like he yawns before he says, "I'll talk to you later, okay?" Another pause, another yawn, and Eddie says, "I love you." before the line clicks off. The robotic voice of the machine announces that there are no new messages.

Steve pictures Eddie hanging up the phone, stumbling off to bed. He must be sound asleep already. He pictures Billy, too, on the road with the windows down and the radio cranked as high as it'll go, dashboard drumming his way to West Lafayette.

It is rare that the three of them spend time apart. In fact, Steve cannot remember the last time all three of them were pulled in separate directions. Even when Corroded Coffin tours, Steve and Billy do their best to travel with Eddie. If they can't, the two of them are home together, Eddie on speaker phone for late night check-ins. Steve is not used to being alone. Even brewing his morning coffee feels strange without another person to pour a cup for. There's a washed mug on the drying rack by the sink — Billy's from earlier in the morning. Steve takes it, uses it for his own coffee, tries to quell his nerves. Why does he feel so strange? He's a grown man, and so are they. They will both be home soon enough; he will not be alone for long.

Still, that strange anxiety follows Steve throughout the day. He stuffs it down, tries to keep himself busy, until he's home in the evening the phone rings.

"Hey, hon," Billy says when Steve picks up. "Just checking in."

There's music on in the background, the kind of soft pop that the girls have gotten into lately. He can hear voices, Max and El debating which cabinet should house the plates and which is best for cups. They dim and Steve pictures Billy shifting away, perhaps slipping around some corner.

Steve pins the phone between his shoulder and ear and says, "Hey. Everything good over there?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's all good. The place isn't a shithole, at least." From another room, Steve can hear Max chide Billy. He must pull the phone away because he sounds distant when he laughs and tells her to mind her own business. They joke for a moment, that back-and-forth sibling banter that Steve knows Billy has been missing, and then Billy returns to the phone.

"High praise," Steve whistles. "What time are you heading out?"

"That's the thing," Billy says, and Steve can't help it — he feels worried. He sucks in his breath, hopes Billy can't hear his nerves through the line. "I think I'm crashing here tonight. I just want to make sure they're settled, you know? There's still some shit to unpack. I don't want leave them with a mess."

Steve is quiet for a beat and then catches himself, overcorrects, "Sure. Yeah, of course. Duh. Of course you're staying."

It's Billy's turn to sound worried when he says, "You okay?"

"Of course," Steve says too quickly. He takes a breath, squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose. Why is this bothering him so much? He should be glad that Billy is getting time with sister, glad that he cares enough to make sure she's safe and settled at her new place. These are good things. But selfishly, Steve had been looking forward to curling up beside Billy that night. It's been hard enough with just the two of them, the bed feeling too big without Eddie. Steve hasn't slept without at least one of them at his side, doesn't know if he can handle being without them both. Selfishly, Steve wants Billy to hear his anxiety, to hop in the car and come home to him. He swallows these feelings, says, "I'm fine."

"You sure?" Billy presses, and Steve thinks about telling the truth, thinks about telling Billy that he needs him here, that he wants Billy beside him when he goes to sleep tonight.

Instead, Steve says, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

Billy doesn't sound convinced. Still, he says, "Okay." He pauses. Steve can hear a TV flick on in the background, can hear El ask Billy if he has any preference. He asks her to give him a minute and then says, "You tell me if that changes, alright?"

"I will," Steve promises, taking down the phone number that Billy reads out to him, adding it to the list they've got pinned to the cork board by the sink. "I love you," Steve tells Billy when he can sense the call ending, can hear the girls vying for his attention in the background.

He can hear Billy's smile when he says, "I love you, too."

Eddie calls much later. Steve is on the couch, flipping through channels, bored of absolutely everything on television, when the phone rings. Steve mutes the TV and answers with a sleepy, "Hey."

"Hi," Eddie says, sounding surprised. "I didn't expect you to still be awake. It's crazy late, baby. You okay?"

"I'm fine," Steve lies. The truth, of course, is that he'd tried to go to bed at his usual time and had spent a good hour tossing and turning before giving in and retreating the couch, desperate for a distraction. The truth is that the bedroom felt too big and too cold and that every little sound grated on Steve's nerves. He'd start to drift off only to hear the air conditioner stutter or the pipes gurgle or the upstairs neighbor stomp across the floor. The pillows didn't smell as strongly of hairspray as they should, and there wasn't enough warm beneath the covers. Steve wanted Billy, or Eddie, or both of them. Steve swallows down these feelings and simply tells Eddie, "I miss you."

"I miss you, too, baby," Eddie says. "Sorry I've been M.I.A. I meant to call earlier. How's Billy? Is he home yet? I bet he passed out already, huh?"

"He's still at Max's," Steve explains, absently toying with the frayed threads of the couch cushion beside him, the spot where Billy would be if he were home. "Decided to stay over, make sure the girls are all settled in. He's coming home tomorrow."

"Oh," Eddie says. "Yeah. That makes sense." He's quiet for a moment before he asks, "You sure you're okay?"

Just like with Billy, Steve thinks about telling Eddie the truth. He doesn't feel okay, and he thinks about saying so. On the other hand, he doesn't want to come across as needy. He doesn't want to be the reason that Eddie or Billy drop important things. He doesn't need them here, not really. He wants them, wants their arms around him, wants the security of their heartbeats on either side of him, the warmth of their skin against his. Steve sighs and says, "I'm good. Just tired."

"Yeah," Eddie agrees. "Yeah, I feel that. You get some sleep, okay?"

"You, too," Steve says, because of course Eddie is tired, is probably more tired than he is. Steve rubs his eyes, and he hears Eddie yawn. "Go sleep," Steve tells him.

"I'm going," Eddie says sleepily. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

Steve feels lonelier when Eddie hangs up the phone. He keeps the receiver to his ear for a few moments after, thinking about calling back, telling Eddie that he didn't mean it, that he's not okay. He thinks about calling Billy, too. But he doesn't want to wake up Max or El just to talk to Billy, to whine to his boyfriend about being alone.

Are they missing him the way Steve's missing them? Eddie's so exhausted, Steve imagines the loneliness must not phase him. He must tumble into bed and fall right out. And Billy, he can sleep anywhere, circumstances be damned. Steve has watched him fall asleep during concerts, curled up in the breaks between bands, tucked away backstage while waiting for Corroded Coffin to go on.

Steve sighs. He shuts off the TV on his way into the bedroom, crawls into bed and tries, again, to sleep. He doesn't know how long he lays there, in the dark, annoyed at every little sound keeping him awake.

The sky is a hazy almost-blue when he hears the front door open. Steve is twilighting, but still far from asleep. He groggily raises his head as hushed voices drift from the hall. The bedroom door opens, bags are dropped on the floor.

"What's going on?" Steve asks. The mattress beside him dips down. Eddie smells like cool air and cigarette smoke; he smooths back Steve's hair, kisses his temple, doesn't even bother changing out of his clothes before slipping into bed beside him.

"We were worried about you," Eddie says softly, arms around Steve's waist. He nuzzles his face against Steve's neck, his warm breath tickling Steve's skin.

"We?" Steve asks.

"You're a bad liar," Billy tells him. He tucks himself beside Steve, too, his arms secure around Steve's middle. He kisses Steve's forehead before tucking Steve's head beneath his chin.

"What are you guys doing?" Steve asks. He's still tense between them, confused and wondering if perhaps this is a dream. Billy holds him a little tighter, and Eddie snuggles a little closer, and they feel too real for his brain to have conjured up.

"If you want us home," Billy says sleepily, his eyes already closing, his fingers trailing lazily up and down Steve's spine, "you just have to say so."

"Yeah," Eddie agrees, so close to Steve that his lips graze Steve's skin, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles over Steve's hip. "Next time just tell us the truth, okay?"

"I didn't want to bother you guys," Steve admits sheepishly. He can't help it, though. He melts against him, can already feel his exhaustion tugging at his bones. He yawns, settles between Billy and Eddie, lets them hold him.

"You're not a bother," Eddie tells him.

"Besides," says Billy, "don't you think we'd rather sleep home, too?"

Steve wants to cry. He nuzzles against Billy's chest, relishes the feel of Eddie curled up behind him; happily sandwiched between them, the only thing he think to say is a tiny, sleepy, "Thank you."

#harringroveson #harringroveson fics #stedilly #stilldie #metalsandwich #how many tags are there for these three omg #anyway have some cuties

[yourstrulyaiko]

o𓆩♡𓆪; MY HAPPY ENDING PT.4 | HEADCANON 𓆩♡𓆪  

╰┈➤ featuring; boku no hero academia! drummer! bakugou katsuki! x lead singer! fem! reader  

જ about; Heartbreaks. Aches. Dreams shattered. You feel like there was no bridging between you and your goal as an artist. Especially since the bridge that connected you that was your ex-boyfriend, Shindo, who you met at club. Now, that you’re separated. You thought, that was it. No more. Well, you thought wrong.

જ contents and warning; profanity cause bakugou is on it, asshole bakugou, cigarettes, smoking, angst, drummer bakugou, band au, fluff, romance, drama, paparazzi, cheating, break ups, toxic relationships, getting physical (the bad kind) and many more that I have definitely missed.

જ author's note; I actually have a lots and lots of chapter about band au which needs to be revised and re-written. unedited. THIS IS GOING TO BE A DARK ONE. Please proceed with caution as this portrays ab£s3 and toxic relationship in general. If you’re ever in a similar situation. Please. Seek help. Immediately.  Bakugou’s reaction is an effect of being in a toxic relationship, you tend to push people around you. So, if you are in this kind of ‘relationship’. LEAVE. YOU DO NOT DESERVE THIS. I will defo write this as an entire series in more detail cause I acc like it lololol.

LET’S TALK ABOUT BAKUGOU NOW SINCE WE’RE TRYING TO ESTABLISH YOU FIRST

So, Bakugou plays drum really well.

He was planning to go to University and work his mother and father’s company.

But, Kirishima was the person who brought up the fact that they’re forming a band and invited Bakugou along.

He was pretty excited.

Not he’s going to tell anyone that.

They were constantly practicing and juggling their part time jobs.

Once, they’re off rushing to Bakugou’s garage practicing.

Bakugou worked at a music shop.

He started working there at the age of 17.

The band formed when they were 16.

They were still little scrawny kids trying to navigate what they wanted to do

They were working hard to achieve their dreams.

Denki eventually introduced Jirou 

She started composing songs for them to play.

They were having so much fun.

Mitsuki would always bring them snacks and drinks too

Not too long after that, Mina was introduced into the group.

She was the one who kick started them into playing in clubs.

Because she work at that very club.

They were playing simple tunes and rhythms that everyone dances too.

These guys are amateurs but the practice and dedication they have for this band 

The club owner would pay them a huge amount of money 

They brought in a lot of customers because people heard about this amazing club with the live band.

Now the problem is, what do they call themselves?

They were throwing around random names.

King Explosion band suggested Bakugou

Nope 

Ladies Magnet says Denki

Definitely a nope.

Then Sero,

“How about Tokyo Lights? I mean, we live in Tokyo and there’s a lot of fluorescent lights here.”

“That sounds dumb.” Bakugou snorts.

“I mean, it’s better than King Explosion Band.” Kirishima pats him on the back.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, SHITTY HAIR! IT’S BETTER THAN DUNCE FACE OVER THERE!”

It was fucking perfect.

With the money from gigs and part time jobs,

Mitsuki and Masaru didn’t have to worry about their little boy anymore.

His part time job also heard about him playing for a club so, his boss paid gave away a drum set.

SO NICE

A much better kit than his current one.

This gave him the opportunity to start saving up for his first tattoo.

At 18, he did manage to.

It was the big red dragon one.

HE WAS STOKED.

He has been wanting one for a long time and he had it all planned out.

So, when he finally got it.

His confidence and ego shot up a ten fold.

This only led caused a snowball effect of Bakugou wanting to get next one already.

Instead he got his tongue pierced instead.

Needless to say, his friends wanted to get piercing and tattoos too!

As their band grew and grew more popularity. They were all 18-19 at this point,

They’re asking when they were going to get a singer for their band.

This is how Bakugou and Camie met.

After they played for the club.

Camie approached Bakugou offering to buy him a drink.

Started talking and they found Camie could sing.

They offered for her to join the band.

That’s the start of skyrocketing to fame. People started talking about this little band

Tokyo Lights

Not too long after that Camie and Bakugou started dating.

It wasn’t open out there in public but their friends knew.

They continued to climb up in fame. They started getting inviting to bigger events.

This was it, they needed to record their song.

No, fuck that let’s go for a debut album.

Thankfully, Jirou was there and her parents are musician.

So, they all had the equipment they needed.

They took a break from playing at the club. 

They quit their jobs.

They focused on being a band.

Then, their debut album was published.

LET ME TELL YOU.

IT BLEW THE FUCK UP.

THEY ACTUALLY GAINED A LOT OF ATTENTION. LIKE THEY DIDN’T CHART 

BUT THEY HAD A GOOD AMOUNT OF LISTENERS.

It was amazing

They were having a great time and celebrating.

They were on cloud 9 

Katsuki especially since he was living his best life, on the path of his dreams and has a great girlfriend.

The band also gets to be a open up for much bigger singers and bands.

This skyrocketed them even more.

They bought an office and recording studio

THEIR VERY OWN ONE!!

YAY!

The happiness wouldn’t last for long.

Camie was starting to act weird.

The fame was getting to her head.

She wanted the upmost perfection. Unrealistic even.

How bad was it getting?

Well, any single error? That would get you Camie screaming your ear off

For, “Being fucking dumb”, “How can you be a professional fucking musician and be this fucking dumb?”, “I don’t know what’s worse you guys claiming to be this big thing and still slow. Oh wait- Nothing could be worse than that.”

That just didn’t stop from her degrading the other band mates.

Nope.

That extended to her boyfriend, Bakugou.

“What the fuck was that?”

“It’s the beat for-”

“No, the fuck is not. Get it the fuck together or do you want me to do your job for you?”

It’s even worse because-

Camie would get mad at something out of their control and her own mistake.

When Denki’s bass guitar string snapped, Sero forgot to plug his keyboard and was about to, Kirishima electric guitar wasn’t plugged to a amplifier, Mina got the wrong size for her top for their upcoming show and Jirou accidentally playing the wrong melody when it comes to recording.

It’s bad.

Bakugou wouldn’t say anything.

He just follows along and nods.

But, he’s weirdly quiet about the whole thing.

While that’s happening? Camie was whispering all kinds of things to his ear.

“They’re pretty shit, aren’t they?” Camie blows smoke into the air and hugs him from behind, “Why not just kick them all out? Tokyo Lights would be better with just the two of us.”

“I don’t get why you formed a band with these people.”

“I think everyone knows, I made this band anyways.”

“I think everyone knows, I made this band anyways.”

“Quit it.” Bakugou growls.

Camie pretends to be confused and she didn’t say anything wrong,

“What? I don’t know what you’re getting mad. I’m only helping you.” “You can’t be wasting your talent. I care about you.”

THE AUDACITY OF GAS LIGHTING OF IT ALL

She wasn’t hiding her thoughts.

Camie publicly said it too. This band wouldn’t be where it would be if she didn’t join.

It was terrible. She always found ways to tear people around her and put herself up.

Bakugou was being drained by this.

But, he didn’t know how to go about it.

Bakugou still remembers the first time it happened.

He was 23.

Camie struck him across the face.

Right, in front of everyone.

That was it.

“Get out.”

Camie looked at him in disbelief,

“Are you fucking serious?” She’s jabbing her finger on his chest, “You’re nothing and fucking worthless without me. Now, you’re telling to get out.”

It was a never ending cycle.

A push and tug situation.

Camie would manage to convince Bakugou to let her back in.

Then, she would end up hurting him. Mentally.

Sometimes, physically.

And, Camie would pull some shit.

Like, “You know, I would never hurt you.”, “I didn’t mean to do that.”, “But, you just push me to the edge.”

She always made it seem like he was at fault.

Kirishima had to pull him aside and tell him this isn’t right.

It’s not good for him at all.

Listen, it isn’t easy leaving a toxic relationship or friendship.

Sometimes, friends and family will be the one encouraging you to do it.

Bakugou was facing a lot of dilemma because yes, it ain’t good for him but, he knows his attitude.

He can be brash.

He feels like no one can love him the way Camie does.

As she said, “Who would love you if I wasn’t here?”, “A lot of women would find you so annoying and wouldn’t be able to stand you, that’s why I’m here.”, “I’m the only one who could ever love you.”

I mean, he’s very self aware that some people will never get along with him.

Bakugou doesn’t know how to control his emotion.

So, he stays. Cause deep down he was right.

Even if, he’s working on himself. Everyday.

When they finally broke up and she is set to leave the band

He remembers what she said to them,

“They were no good for her.”

The years of pulling and pushing accumulated.

Bakugou was lost.

It’s like he didn’t know how to live.

For him, leaving this toxic relationship felt as if he was lonely.

Bakugou starts to question whether what Camie was telling him was true.

There’s no one that is going to love him like Camie does.

He still clings onto the thought of her coming back.

Work things out.

Then, you came along.

You.

You who is going to take her place. You who was the reason for Camie will never come back.

To him, you are barrier between Camie and himself.

He was slowly destroying himself and his friends.

He goes out drinking often. 

Smokes so much more now too.

That’s why Kirishima was always telling him to go to therapy.

Because he will regret the road he’s go down in.

He did.

It was a lot.

Extremely uncomfortable.

He didn’t understand why Camie was at fault.

To him, he was always at fault. Camie had enough if him.

That’s why she left.

“This is your your way of not opening that space in the hopes that Camie comes back.” His therapist Hayakawa, “This is what a lot of-”

“I don’t want to talk about this, right now.” Bakugou stood up quickly.

“That’s fine. Do note, after your first therapy session. It can be extremely overwhelmed. So take a walk by yourself and digest everything we discussed today.”

He leaves and kept what his therapist said,

Bakugou pulls his hoodie up and wears his mask to conceal his identity,

He walks around the city thinking about what his therapist said to him.

He’s so confused.

Was it really Camie’s fault all this time? 

The next week, he appears back at his therapist office.

He spots you.

Just staring off into space.

The hell are you doing here?

“Oi!” He barks, “The fuck do you think are you doing here?”

“Well, what the fuck do you think I’m here for? A tea party?” You scoff.

TAGS

@xviternity @bluebreadenthusiast​ @to the anon who left an anon message! <3 @chuugarettes​

#band au #drummer bakugou #drummer bakugo #drummer au #drummer bakugou katsuki #drummer bakugo katsuki #drummer katsuki #boku no hero fanfic #mha x reader #bnha x reader #bnha fanfiction #bnha #mha #bnha fluff #bnha headcanon #BNHA Headcanons #mha fluff #mha headcanons #bakugou katsuki angst #bakugou katsuki #katsuki angst #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugou x female reader #katsuki bakugo fluff #bakugou x y/n #bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki headcanons #angst #bakugou katsuki headcanons

[mortallyautomaticbread]

An Unexpected First

Boothill x Fem!Reader, NSFW

When a coincidental encounter with a familiar cyborg Galaxy Ranger in a bar leads to a little something more.

After an arduous journey across the endless expanse of cosmos, the Astral Express takes a break at Anroth-IX, a small planet with a strong presence in the intergalactic economy. Exiting the train, [Name] begins to wander the bustling town. Crowds of people navigate the walkways with practiced ease, dancing between buildings and vehicles. The air carries melodies across the streets, and the mouthwatering scent of flavourful delicacies wafts through the rows of passersby. Out of [Name]’s peripheral she spots an isolated bar with a hanging sign that is entitled “A Glass of Vines”. Striding into the bar with what seems to be an almost magnetic interest, she orders a glass of neat whiskey. 

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ ‘round here?” A low, husky voice beside [Name] drawls.

She tilts her head toward the familiar voice with a raised brow. The handsome face of a Galaxy Ranger greets her with a toothy grin, showcasing his shark-like teeth. His head rests in his metallic hand as he gazes at the woman next to him.

“Boothill, I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” [Name] muses amusedly. 

Boothill lets a chortle escape him before he quips back, “I feel like a blessed man, sugar.”

The young lady grins at his sarcastic remark. Despite his confident facade, his fingers drum nervously against the worn-down leather of his gun holster. Noticing this [Name] distracts him playfully to ease his nerves, stealing his cowboy hat and placing it on her head, a telltale sign that she is interested in seeing more of him. The Ranger’s eyes widen slightly, quickly stealing his hat back.

“Darlin’, you can’t just take my hat like that,” he hisses under his breath, glancing around the bar to see if anybody noticed [Name]’s sly action.

Boothill stands from his seat, quickly paying for both their drinks before dragging {Name] out of the bar. His grip on her hand is firm as he swiftly pushes her into an alley, pinning the shorter woman to the nearest wall. They’re hidden by a few storage boxes near the entryway of the outside corridor.

“Ya can’t joke ‘round like that,” Boothill sighs out, his hand clenching slightly beside [Name]’s head.

“And if I wasn’t joking?” she sheepishly grins with a tone of faux innocence.

“Well then I’d ask if you’re up for a ride,” he utters, a growing grin on his face.

With a mischievous glint in her eyes, [Name]’s slender hand grabs his chin, pulling him into a fiery kiss. As their lips mould together, the Ranger bites at [Name]’s lower lip. Her mouth opens in surprise at the sensation and Boothill swiftly takes this opportunity, their tongues fighting for dominance in a battle of lust. His hands explore her clothed body with eager fervour before she pulls away from the kiss, breathless.

“As much as I’d like to do this right here, right now, it’d be much better if we went back to the Express,” [Name] breathes out as she catches her breath.

Wordlessly, the Galaxy Ranger wraps his arm around her waist as they briskly make their way to the Astral Express. Once they enter, [Name] makes a b-line to her room on the train while Boothill follows closely in tow. Flicking on the lights then locking the door, Boothill pushes [Name] onto the plush, blanket covered bed. His cold, metal hands send shivers down her spine as he works on removing the cloth that separates her delicate flesh from his eyes. She lets out a groan as she begins to assist him in undressing her. [Name]’s shirt gets tossed carelessly to the ground while Boothill impatiently slides her modest skirt down. In turn, [Name] pulls down Boothill’s leather trousers and unbuttons his brazen jacket. It, too, all falls to the ground.

His hands begin to wander, squeezing and groping the warm body of the woman. Cold, metal fingers find their way underneath the waistband of her bra, tugging it down gently before he unclasps it. His thumb brushes over her sensitive nipple, the unfamiliar sensation eliciting a whimper from the woman below him.

“I’ve never done this before, Boothill,” [Name] speaks timidly, looking up at him with thirst gleaming in her eyes.

“I’ll take it slow, sugar,” he reassures, planting a tender kiss on her shoulder.

She nods, letting him take complete control. The Ranger leans down, planting kisses and small love bites across the expanse of her fair skin. Fingers tangle into Boothill’s soft, silvery and black hair, tugging whenever his mouth finds a sensitive spot. A moan tumbles from [Name]’s lips in surprise as Boothill’s hand slowly starts rubbing slow circles into her clothed pussy. Every second passes by slowly as his mouth gets closer to the bud of her breast before he hungrily envelops it, sucking and teasing it enthusiastically. Mouth open in a silent plea to continue she pulls him closer. With a pop he releases her breast, focusing more of his attention onto her sopping cunt. Sliding her panties down her legs, he glides his finger down, teasing her entrance.

[Name] mewls, her hips jerking up to meet his firm finger. After being given a positive reaction, his finger sinks into her walls slowly. As she adjusts to the foreign sensation she grips the sheets behind her, letting out small whines. Boothill begins to pump his long fingers steadily while his thumb rubs rhythmic circles onto her clit.

“Boothill, ‘want you,” a desperate request spills from [Name]’s mouth between scattered breaths and sounds of pleasure.

“Didn’t know such a pretty thing could vocalize such filthy requests,” he teases as he pulls his metallic finger out of her hole, holding eye contact as his tongue laps up the juices leftover on his hand. 

Pulling down his boxers, he lets his hard robot cock spring up. The pulsing tip releasing artificial pre-cum, a testament to his arousal. With one hand, he lines it up with [Name]’s entrance while his other rests beside her head. He pushes the tip in, biting back a groan. Boothill’s mechanical body’s whirring picks up as he continues to push himself deeper. [Name] squeezes around him as she adjusts to his sheer size. Once he bottoms out balls deep into her tight hole, he gives her a few moments to catch her breath before he starts to languidly thrust his hips.

[Name] lets out a wanton moan as Boothill pushes one of her legs over his shoulder, “Feels good, right there..”

Her body twitches and writhes as he picks up his pace, words of praise and sweet nothings whispered through the tender atmosphere. At the feeling of her body beginning to tense up, the coil in [Name]’s stomach getting closer to bursting, Boothill continues his extra teasing.

“C’mon, [Name], you can let it go,” he murmurs encouragingly, continuing his deep thrusts.

[Name] nods as she gets closer. Finally her back arches, eyes rolling back in pleasure as she tightens around Boothill’s thick cock.  Her legs shake and she lets out a string of incoherent moans. As [Name] pulls him closer, the rope in Boothill’s core finally snaps, his artificial liquids coating her insides. Gently kissing her, he pulls out wrapping her in his strong, robotic arms.

“Need anythin’ darlin’?” Boothill inquires softly, his fingers carding through her hair.

After a few moments she speaks up, “just.. Stay here with me..”

Nodding, Boothill cuddles her smaller body against his, making sure she falls asleep first. In their warm embrace, they fall asleep peacefully in eachothers arms. The two are only awoken by the shrill sound of an alarm clock. Neither leave the embrace, deciding to spend their morning cuddled up, away from the rest of the universe. Boothill’s fingers curl stray strands of [Name]’s hair placidly. The two drift off once more.

#boothill x reader #boothill is so hot #i havent written in forever #x reader

[writerfarzanatutul]

A night of passion ( Story snippet)

In the hushed stillness of the night, Azlan's eyes fluttered open. A dim light cast a soft glow over the room, the relentless drumming of rain providing a soothing backdrop.

A sense of warmth enveloped him as he realized he was not alone. Shahana lay nestled beside him, her face illuminated by the ethereal light. He drew closer, their bodies now separated by mere inches.

Time seemed to stand still as he gazed upon her, her beauty as radiant as ever. He could feel the gentle rise and fall of her breath, her warmth seeping into his very being.

An irresistible urge to touch her consumed him. His fingers delicately traced her cheek, her skin soft and warm beneath his fingertips.

A flicker of surprise crossed Shahana's face as she felt his touch, her eyes fluttering open to meet his gaze. Their eyes locked, a silent conversation unfolding between them.

The enchanting symphony of the rain, the hushed intimacy of the night, and the presence of his beloved, all combined to create a moment of pure bliss. Azlan's mind drifted back to the cherished memories he shared with his life partner, a bittersweet ache tugging at his heart.

Shahana, captivated by his touch and the intensity of his gaze, felt her heart pounding in her chest, the rhythm echoing in the stillness of the room.

Suddenly, the lights flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness. Shahana instinctively tried to move away, but Azlan's strong arms held her captive.

Their bodies pressed together, a silent surrender to the magnetic pull that drew them together. Resistance melted away, replaced by an overwhelming desire to connect, to lose themselves in the moment.

Outside, the rain hammered a relentless rhythm, a melancholic symphony echoing the storm that raged within them. It was a tempest of love, a torrent of raw desire that swept over them, momentarily drowning out the bitter memories of the past. Everything else faded away. The only thing they remembered was they were husband and wife, bound by an undeniable connection, a love that burned bright despite the shadows. Lost completely in each other, they surrendered to the present, oblivious to the uncertain consequences that loomed on the horizon.

Story snippet from seeking her forgiveness

Book link:

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #muslim #original story #wattpad writer #writing #writers #writerscommunity #romance novels #romance #love story

[casuallivi]

TTYLTOYD chapter 6

I remember jamming to Peter Gundry’s Lady of the Dawn a lot during some point of this.  

Word Count: 4643

Enjoy. Comments are welcome and cherished :) 

Part 6: Be Careful What You Wish For

Elain loved love.

She loved the spirit of life, the soul of nature, her strong sisters, her absolutely adorable nephew, her brilliant friends, the colorful members of her new odd family, and among those, there was one who beguiled her love in ways the others didn’t. Who made her heart beat faster and blood rush to her cheek, who a was permanent resident of her dreams but never her visions –except once.

They way he touched her had always been different. Not that touch from his calloused fingers against her blistered hands, but the touch of his hazel eyes, breathing warmth into her. The patience of his presence standing by her when she could not stand herself, the brightness of his smile at the smallest sign of her happiness. Elain loved love, yet, it was her first time experiencing a love like that, effortless, blissful, genuine, hers. Until it wasn’t. The feelings, which used to have the privilege of dancing under the sun, were now shoved into an iron box, buried deep inside, damned to never see the light again. Because Elain loved love, but love should be given freely, not forced.

To keep them in check, Elain vowed not to beg for love, vowed not to invest her feelings in a man who did not want her. Her plan was quite simple, easy to follow since he avoided her like the plague, the problem laid in moments like this. Moments where he stayed by her, appearing to have nothing but time, time to give her his undivided attention, attention which Elain hadn’t the faintest idea of what to do with it anymore.

They reappeared on the beach, leaving behind the eeriness of the woods. Gone was the colorful aura, the place now felt black and white, and even though conversations floated left and right, a tense silence buzzed in her ears. Elain brushed her new dark skirt to mask her anxiety, the material wiggling between her fingers as sand wiggled between her toes. She shivered, praying they didn’t whisper it to him. Elain took deep breaths to calm her nerves, once, twice... The second time she exhaled, the music began to change, slowly, voices chanting a sultry melody.

She looked around trying to understand what was happening, gasping at the carnal displays she found. Faes were kissing and grinding, stopping briefly to throw a piece of cloth or another in the air, reuniting with renew enthusiasm soon after. With the music’s tempo changed, drums grow heavy in the air, goosebumps trailing down her arms as the song build and build. Females separated themselves from their partners, moving toward the bonfires, lifting a variation of flower and seaweed crows high in the sky, hips moving back and forth, chants getting louder, prouder, the view captivating Elain. ‘What are they doing?’ She thought to herself.

“They are presenting their crowns to the goddess,” amidst such lechery, Azriel’s voice was like a sensual inviting caress, dark as the night, skimming the shell of her ear like satin. “They want her blessing to conceive.” Elain glued her legs together, his presence looming like a furnace behind her. Wide-eyed, Elain heaved at the erotic vibrations thrumming in the air, transfixed by the magnetic ritual, bodies of every shape and color bared to the night, mouths wandering without shame, howls of pleasure echoing all the way to her lower belly.

“I suggest you move, if you don’t intend on getting swept in the wave.” Elain looked up to Azriel, pitch black eyes returning her gaze, the corner of his mouth turning up to what he found in her face. “Or not.” Her short nails sunk on his forearm, that she somehow found a hold of. The offer was so low she wasn’t if she heard or imagined it. Elain cursed herself for feeling tempted. After months of avoiding her, Azriel was right back where he left, flirting with dangerous paths he would not walk. The audacity of him.

Elain opened her mouth. If she was going to curse him or accept the offer was never known, for an intruded interrupted her.

“There you are! I don’t see our drinks.” Nuala’s cheery voice turned to confused, the inebriated wraith returning to her corporeal state in her face, noticing Azriel a second later. “Oh,” she hiccupped, “look who’s out of his cave.”

She grinned at him. “You see that, Cece? Ayala made a miracle!”

Cerridwen become visible, her sister immediately draping an arm over her shoulder. She greeted Azriel, noticing Elain’s empty hands. “You couldn’t find it?”

“Find what?” she asked.

Cerridwen frowned. “You left for a drink.”

“She left the beach entirely.” Azriel intervened, shadows slithering towards her, his stern tone purging the carefree friendly atmosphere between the girls. Cursing the alcohol in her system, Cerridwen straighten her spine, pushing her sister away.

“That’s not possible, I was watching her the whole time. We came to fetch her since the offering was beginning.” Cerridwen said.

Nuala, who had had one drink too many to care about the sudden serious atmosphere, perched herself on Elain, grabbing the middle Archeron by her cheeks. “Look how red you are.”

Elain, who had been ogling a particular couple against a bark, went a shade redder for being caught, Nuala mistaking her reaction with discomfort. “Don’t worry my friend, I’ll save your honor! Let me take you to a safer place… You know what would help you to feel better? Another drink. There is an inn with marvelous dark cider…”

Nuala went on about the drink, Elain peeking one last time at the couple, none of them noticing the other two remaining behind, nor the harsh, “explain,” being uttered with deadly authority.  

.

.

.

It smelled like jasmine.

The petals tickled her nose, teasing her lips, trailing down from her chin to her neck to the valley of her breasts. The sun poked through her eyelids, making her frown. Her window was left open during the night, a suave morning breeze swaying the cream curtains. A slender body molded itself to her back, nails rasping her hip. Half asleep, Elain hooked her leg higher on the pillow, burring her face in the sheets, she felt too comfortable to wake up. Butterfly kisses on her shoulder, hands caressing her hip, her thigh, her belly. Elain sighed softly under the ministrations, eyes fluttering when she was pulled to her back, the body moving to top hers.  

Smooth skin blessed by immortality covered her body –the shape of her legs, the curve of her breasts, the round of her belly. Elongated ears pointed from between glossy tresses, sharp nose and high cheekbones sprinkled with freckles darkened under the sun, full lips spreading in a wicked smile. Her perfect copy, except for the eyes. Oh gods. Realization dawned on Elain, dread filling her lungs. The eyes gazing back at Elain were older, cunning, dangerous, the white irises carrying the weight of knowledge, holding answers to questions untold. It was like looking at a mirror, except the mirror was sitting on top of her, hands around her neck.

“Relax, marlena,” the Seer purred, “it’s only me.”

Elain gasped when the Seer gave her a peck, hair tickling her face. She pushed the other by her shoulders, very solid, very real shoulders. Unfazed, the Seer turned her attention to Elain’s belly, traced the shape, drawing spirals and hearts. Elain’s mind worked furiously to understand what was happening.

“A warning.” Announced her clone, eyes backing up to Elain’s face. She traced the bridge of her nose, distracted. “We are so beautiful. This is my favorite body. Perfect.” She bent and kissed Elain’s chest, right over her heart. “Keep this beating for us, will you? Don’t be reckless.”

When the other made no move to hurt her, Elain moved her hands tentatively, pushing her soft brown hair away, trying to gather it behind her ears to cup her face. “I’m not trying to die.” Her voice sounded odd, raspy, as if she had been screaming.

"You're trying to challenge. Having stupid impulses again.” The Seer reprimanded severely. “Don’t think, for a second, that I didn’t see what was on your mind last night. I see everything."

“I want to be free.” Elain breathed out. “Don’t you want to be free? To choose?” She questioned passionately.

"Not if you die as result, I don't." she snorted.

“…You care for me.”

“There’s no me without you.” She deadpanned “Why do you fight to accept your fate? You’ll have a good life,” she planted her palms on Elain’s belly, “you’ll have children, you’ll be loved. Isn’t that what you wanted?” From the corner of her eye, Elain saw a little girl running. “You can bargain for your life later, but first you have to give in.”

Her children’s laughter ringed around them, the twins high pitch screams echoing as they ran on the sunny green fields their elder brothers riding horses around them, pretending to trap them in a circle. Elain closed her eyes tightly, cursing the images and sounds away. It was useless, she could still see them, feel they little hands grabbing her legs, hugging her skirts, calling her mommy.

“Stop,” she ordered.

“I lived thousands of years, merged my essence with others before, never once seeing the Cauldron take interest in a particular fae, let alone the deepest desires of her heart. It’s fascinating.” The Seer craned her neck, taking in the abundance of images flashing behind her white eyes, forcing them onto Elain. “He’s willing to please you.”

“He’s willing to kill me.” Elain spit in anger.

The seer shrugged. “You, better than anyone, knows that nature demands balance. Everything has a price, even happiness. Especially your happiness.” She gave Elain a smile full of sharp gleaming teeth. “Don’t you prefer your reaming years to be blissful rather than miserable? I certainly do.”

“You can’t make chose what you want. Is not your life, is mine. My life, my happiness, my – ”

“Your choice,” the Seer finished, mimicking her, done with her speech. “Choice, choice, choice. Don’t you know another word?” She took a hold of Elain’s chin, venomous words dripping pointedly. “I never pegged you for stupid, girl. Choice is an illusion, a feeble branch in a tree of possibilities. You saw the roads before, many variations of it, no matter how hard you try to stray, they all lead to where he wants. Your resistance is futile. Don’t make things harder on yourself. Take his hand and live well. Let us not go back to the waters.”

If looks could kill, Elain’s certainly would. She jerked her chin from the Seer’s grasp, shimmering in anger. How many times more she would have to abide her desires to walk the path of other?

“I refuse.” Elain spoke with vehemence, staring herself dead in the eye.

If looks could kill, the Seer would end her as well.

“Then you’ll die,”

“He’s going to kill me either way, he always does.”

“Stupid stubborn girl.”

“I’d rather die,” she blurted, realizing she meant it when the words were out. “I’d rather die fighting for the life I want, than cowering to his whims.”

Elain had learned about the gods, had even become an avid devote of the Mother –the benevolent matron. The Mother was a true goddess, merciful, fair, the creator of world, raiser of faes. The Cauldron, on the other hand, was nothing but her instrument. And the Cauldron could blow her.

“He doesn’t want your vain death, stubborn girl.”

“Then we have no problem at all, since I don’t intend on taking myself.”

The Seer shook her head, disappointment coating her features. “You lie. Because the Cauldron is not the one holding the knife, dear. You are.”

She rolled over, bringing Elain with her, their bodies tangling in the sheets, sinking in the layers of cotton, down, down, down, the depth never ending, the cloth engulfing their limbs, cutting them from the world of the living.

+

They circled each other; wary, bare feet numb to the cold floor, reflecting blown eyes and twisted lips, gaunt faces framed by brown and reddish hair. Their bodies were outlined by sigils, dark blue ink disappearing under matching white dresses that swayed without wind. Their souls were once human, their bodies forever changed by the whims of power-hungry man, their choices ripped from the palm of their hands. Not tonight.

“It’s time.”

Time is the essence. Only the mother can watch over them tonight, not the mother of fae, mother nature herself, guiding Elain with steady hands when by herself she would be shaking. Her hand lands on the woman’s shoulder, lips brushing against her ear to whisper her final omen.

“Death is the only way you can be free.” In a flicker of her wrist, Elain plunges the dagger to Vassa’s chest, twisting it. The firebird painful gasp causing blood to splatter on her face.

Elain staggers, not to avoid the gore, but because unbearable pain blooms in her own chest. She looks down to see the knife lodged there, carmine tinting her dress rapidly. Vassa’s body hits the floor with a loud thump, hers following no longer after.

"What have you done!" His shriek rumbles the room. Livid. Possessed. Nonbelieving.

A male sprint to them, heavy footsteps growing closer. More screaming follows. Elain only has eyes for Vassa, chest heaving up and down one last time, lips mumbling a final word. Elain’s lids drop, the flow of her blood slowing, ending. Dying. She was dying. Someone is violently shaking her awake, hands pressing the wound on her chest, hands moving up to her neck, trying to hold her lolling head. Grief. Guilt. Anger. She feels then mingle with her pain.

"No. Look at me, Elain. Eyes on me." She blinked rapidly, finding it difficult to focus her blurry vision.

"I-I'm sorry," he choked out, a tear landing on her cheek, then another. "I'm so sorry Elain, I should never have asked you – I never – please, oh Cauldron. Please." His desperate plea ringed in her ears, eyes that once held fire now lay lifeless beside her, twin pools of death.

It was done.

Elain could feel it coming for her too, death. She shivered; a cold mantle draped over her bones. Fickle powers pressed down on her, attempting to fix the knots that slipped one by one, her final tether to life. An alarm went off inside her, uninvited fear kissing her as the carmine elixir of life soaked her dress. So much blood. Elain could feel the magic spilling down the floor, the seer desperately clinging to her, dreading her return to nothingness, a rapid succession of countermeasures and choices to made flashing before her eyes as the other tried to find a scenario where she would make it. Elain hugged her. ‘Let it go’. She whispered. ‘It has to be like this.’

"Why Elain, why," he sobbed, trying to reach his healing powers. It was no use. Elain had made sure to poison him properly.

She didn’t think she would cry, but in her dying breath Elain shed a tear, praying he would not hate her for too long.

Behind him, the Seer could not hide her wrath, furious with the outcome she had no power to prevent, her last vision, her ultimate choice. She fucking hated choices. White voids faltered when her vessel died, darkness washing over the room where her lifeless body stayed sprawled on the floor. Then nothing. She could see nothing.

“Fate is coming for you.”

+

Elain pushed herself up, coughing water she’d swallow. The peeled wall from her bathroom begin to take shape, the place humid and chilled, fog hiding the floor. Sobbing, she clutched her chest, ghost pain dwelling, remnants of the vision resonating within. Elain dragged herself from the tub, shaking legs barely supporting her weight.

She’d killed Vassa. She’s killed herself. Why?

“Death is the only way you can be free.” Her vision-self said, not an ounce of doubt in her sentence.

Elain felt miserable, yet, the oval mirror by the sink still reflected nothing but ethereal beauty “graced” by immortality, wet hair highlighting her pointed ears, droplets of water running down her sheen skin, mocking her. Elain punched the mirror. Perfection shattered in dozens of sharp pieces, a hole marred the wall, blood dripped on the sink. Elain embraced the pain, for feeling pain was better than feeling nothing at all.

.

.

.

“Good day.”

“Good day.” With a perfect smile in place, Elain returned the greeting to the young priestess who spotted her.

Tugging her long sleeve down, to conceal the bandage around her wrist, she moved through the deep halls of the library. A target in mind. Elain was aware the place had scarce material about seers, the material assembled between levels thirty-two and thirty-three. Her target occupied another floor. She climbed the stars without hurry, passing through levels and halls, the smell of old books mixed with a variety feminine scents, from the females who filled the place. She nodded at two hooded girls who nodded back, pushing two carts full of volumes to a corridor.

The strong smell of sage and palo santo denounced the right area. Till this day Elain was fascinated with some writer’s ability to embalm images and scents in their pages. She remembered her first time encountering a livid image, her finger brushing over a delicate fern to feel the leaves moving under her touch. Elain eyed the tall bookshelves, stacked with materials, arranged in different corridors. Twenty-five of them being occupied with knowledge about Divination. Here one could find information dating from centuries ago to the present days, from small details kept in journals to full research books, carefully stored parchments, maps and other forms of text were also at reach. Unfortunately, for Elain, most of the information was stored in languages that she didn’t understand, the witches having a strong preference for an ancient forgotten tongue called Latin –which she had been studying diligently.

Elain got rid of her tiara, using her hair to muffle her ears. She needed all the focus she could get. Putting her hand on a random shelf, she took a deep breath, calming her mind. Elain inhaled and exhaled a couple of times, dimming the shapes and sounds around her, banning the scents that drifted to her sharp nose. She blocked the sounds of pages being turned, erased the soft voices of the priestess who restocked a shelf levels below, dimming any life thrumming in the air, gathering every specs of reality and concealing them in a thick metal box, imagining herself closing the lid to it.

When her mind was nothing but a blank space, Elain imagined herself in a white room, alone, all semblance of life gone, only then she called back the turbulent dream of the night before, the dreadful vision that began to fade. Flashes of blood, screams and death answered to her.

“Show me what I’m looking for.” Her soft request resonated across the room, a faint amber light pulsing from where she stood to the rest of the floor. One by one, the bookshelves appeared in the white room.

Outside her mind her body moved. Two ringlets of white circled her pupils –which expanded while she traced books spines, eyes roaming up and down to scan all the volumes. Deciding the corridor had nothing of value for her, Elain moved to the next, humming a quiet melody as she crossed the polished marble floor. When she passed by the seventh corridor her song stopped, her head quirking to the side. Elain felt her lips spreading in a smile when the Seer said, “Hello, hello, mama Thorn. Long time no see.”

She strode along the dead-end corridor with confidence, her prize hidden in the last shelf. With the flick of a wrist she summoned a ladder. Elain climbed the unstable steps to reach a well conserved journal, the green tinted leather still shining, real flowers blooming on the cover. “Look at her fancy grimoire. Pompous bitch.” The Seer mocked before tossing it over her shoulder.

‘No! Don’t do that.’ Elain screamed from within, baffled with the lack of respect. ‘You’ll dent the book.’  

“Don’t care.” She sang.

Humming a new tune with excitement, the Seer moved the stairs to the opposite shelf, fingertips halting on the spine of another book, the sharp contour of the letter jumping from the old leather bind to twirl around her index. “There you are.”

Elain blinked, back in control, the faint glow to vanish as the letters returned to their rightful place, allowing her to read the tittle. Per Somnia de un Errantis, de Ellaria Thorn. The Dreams of a Wanderer, by Ellaria Thorn. She shivered. In another life, Elain named a daughter after this woman. She opened the book, coughing at the fine dust who floated to her nose. Elain managed to glimpse an illustration of a naked woman hovering, over her bed before the pages turned white, blank. She groaned. Of course, of course you had to be a magical book.

Wood wailed under her, the centenary stair where she stood had seen better days. Elain secured the book under her arm and climbed down, carefully, the old wood cracking with every move. Elain was considering where she got such and old ladder when the wood split under her weight.

“Oh!” she exhaled a surprise sound, trying to hold on to the shelf, her sweaty palm slipping. Her body never hit the ground, powerful arms lifting her on the last second, letting the precarious ladder fall alone with a loud thud. Elain held the book tighter, her free hand knotted over a green shirt, the frenetic rhythm of her heart having nothing to do with the scare of nearly falling.  

‘If you wanted to be in my arms, all you had to do was ask.’  With any other female, Lucien would have cracked the joke with ease, but as he held his mate, the last thing he could do was speak.

His eyes were locked on her, who still watched the rotten ladder, probably imagining that she was almost the one on the floor. The book between them dug uncomfortably on his side, but he couldn’t care less, not when he was carrying her. She was wearing a thick white long sleeve paired with a dark red skirt –the color almost black. Lucien had not seen Elain since her sister’s mating, their awkward goodbye making him uncertain if they parted on good terms or not. He hoped they did.

“Where are you going?” Elain’s uncertain question made him stop.

Mismatched eyes stared at her with confusion, the gashes of his scar darkening under the faelights. They were moving away from where he found her. Lucien had left his floor for a bit of fresh her when, without realizing, his bond called to her, following her glowing trail on the halls Now he was in the middle of taking her back with him. Dazed, he put her down, the bond pulsing and thrumming under his skin, highly aware of every place they touch, igniting when her body slid against his. He tried to breath the minimal possible, avoiding her scent, a whiff her cautious blending with his.

“Thank you.”

Her voice had a way of making his inside churn with want. Lucien could never tell if the timbre was appealing to the bond or him. She dusted herself while he cleared his throat.

“Did you pick the oldest ladder available?”

"Of course not."

"Quick tip for the next time. We don't rot, wood still does."

Elain glared at him. “Don't start with me, Lucien."

Lucien held his smile back. He preferred a sharp tongue rather than awkward silences. He placed his arms behind his back, trying to look the least threatening possible. It was the second time he saw his mate in such a short period, it had barely been two months since the mating. The bond shimmered inside of him, excited with the implications of her no longer hiding from him.

“What were you searching for?” She didn’t call him dumb, but her face might as well have. Elain waved the book. Lucien rolled his eyes. “I meant which one.”

Walking side by side with his mate, his chest puffed.

“I don’t know yet. This book is shy.”

“Concealing spell?” he asked.

“Probably.”

Lucien thought about offering to help her, but he didn’t want to push his luck so much.

“You seem acquainted with these halls.”

“Anyone can be,” she pointed at the silver plates naming the sections. “It’s quite intuitive.”

“You defy the stupidity of fae. One can be lost in these halls with easy, unless they use them frequently. And I never saw you here before.”

Elain turned to him. “Keeping tracks on me already?”

Lucien kept walking, putting his best innocent expression to use. “I’m simple observant.”

“Bet you are…”

Elain resumed her walk. Contrary to Lucien, she had seen him a couple of time, not only in the library, but in the city as well. Her meddlesome bond always trying to make her pant after him, wanting to be in his presence, to bath on his attention. It felt wrong. In those moments Elain would quickly change her rout, thinking it was best for them both to avoid their painful interactions.

Nesta’s wedding was the first time she did not fight with the bond, deciding to have a proper conversation with her mate, in her own terms. Turns out Lucien had a few strong opinions to get out of his chest, and so did she. In the end they had a little disagreement, but he did apologized, and Elain might have been a little more cruel than he deserved. Overall, Lucien treated her well, none of the invasive tugs from the last time, nor the infantilizing tone he used to use in their first interactions. Who knew having privacy was good for two people trying to solve a private problem! Meddlesome Archerons.

“I have a room on the seventh floor.” Lucien blurted suddenly, bringing her out of her head.

“Excuse me?”

“If you need a quiet place to read.” He dipped his chin to her book. “You can use it.”

Elain scanned the vacant floor, spotting the multiple empty tables on the reading area. There was no one there besides the two of them, the place so quiet one could hear a feather falling down. He noticed that too, the horror on his face was so evident she smiled. The bond pulled him strong than it did she.

“I won’t be using it for the rest of the day.” Lucien added, trying to save face.

Truth was, Lucien had a fresh batch of unread material pilled against the wall, his table missing, buried in parchments. He had planned to pull another all-nighter today, but he could winnow them quietly, make space for her and go back to the house. He had a lot of material back at as well.

“I’m not staying.” Elain warned him. “Thank you, though, for catching me. And for the offer.”

“No need for that. I’m bound to serve you.” He meant as joke, but her smile vanished as quickly as it came. “I didn’t mean,”

“I know. Don’t worry about it.” Elain gave him a shallow goodbye and turned to leave.

Shit, they were doing so well. Lucien cursed himself. Why was it so hard to part on good term with this one? The farther she walked, the more his bond whined in his chest. How many time more would he watch her walk away and do nothing? When she grabbed the handrail, Lucien did something he had not done before. He called her name.

“Elain.” Big brown eyes watched him jog to her, taking the book from her hands. “Let me walk you.”

#elriel fanfic #elriel #elain fanfic #elain archeron #elain acotar #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #lucien vanserra #vassa #elain x azriel #TTYLTOYD #my writing #the fever dream lives #the males might be her LI #but this story is hers 🤓🤓🤓 #chose choose chosen #a foreigner's nightmare trilogy #if you look closely #you can see my sanity running and screaming on the BG #:D #i think all of the girls suffered with body dysmorphia at some point #i wished there was a away to plug dreams in the computer #having to write it so i can read it is hard work #i kind of have an idea of what will happen here #this had a dedication do day 1 od elain's week #just so you know #how long i've been strugling #to find the right flow

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[adultswim2021]

Aqua Teen Hunger Force #69: “Boston” | Unaired; leaked January 31, 2015

That’s right, I’m covering it. It didn’t air on Adult Swim… in fact, it didn’t air at all. More accurately, if the leaked file is anything to go off of, it was never properly completed. What we have here is an assembly cut with a nearly-finished soundtrack (a narration in particular sounds like a temporary track, for example) and some animation that is complete or close-to-complete. Some of it is barely animated at all, with still images subbing in for animated ones. To call this “unaired’ technically bumps up against one of my pet peeves of referring to unfinished media or never-filmed scripts as “unaired”, implying that they exist in an airable state. This doesn’t seem to.

In “Boston”, Master Shake attempts to drum up publicity for his failing online auction (he’s trying to sell Meatwad) by taking Meatwad to Boston and sticking him under an overpass with harmless magnetic lights attached to him as an advertisement for himself, I guess. Frylock cheerily points out that they are “energy efficient, and harmless to humans” and praises Shake for being so thoughtful. The promotion fails, but the ghost of Paul Revere shows up and urges the Aqua Teens to visit with the Ghost of Benjamin Franklin. He buys Meatwad and files him with a kite, causing Meatwad to get struck by lightning over and over. Benjamin Franklin is notably not voiced by Dana Snyder, effectively keeping the Aqua Teen universe separate from the Saul/Young Person’s Guide universe (GOOD!). 

The resulting fiery explosions from Meatwad getting zapped by lightning is mistaken for a bomb going off. The show actually cheekily goes out of it’s way to have Baltimore, NOT Boston, be the city who sees the explosions and mistake them for a bomb. Baltimore is populated by Johnny Unitas, Earl Weaver, and the cast of the musical Hairspray. The Aqua Teens are tossed out of Boston as a result.

Shake spends all of his Meatwad money on a large lite-brite with a bunch of dynamite strapped to it, and attacks Carl’s house with it. This is portrayed the same way it would be in a deadly serious drama film, with music probably lifted from Munich or something (I genuinely don’t know what the reference is if there is a specific one, sorry!). A bunch of bomb squad/swat teamers show up and shoot Carl further to death, after announcing “let’s make this worse than it already is”. They mistake Shake’s sandwich for a bomb, but then Shake explodes. Turns out Shake was a bomb. We pull out to reveal the Mooninites, dressed like Al Qaeda members, watching this on TV from a cave hide-out. Show ends with Ignignokt about to saw his own head off to intimidate his enemies.

This episode was leaked in 2015, and was supposedly being prepped for release according to Dana Snyder and Carey Means. I’m not sure if they just said that to make the leaker feel bad. Some wiki I read said that they claimed it was a week away from being released. I don’t know, I guess this theoretically could’ve been completed and released in the span of a week. Maybe they were planning to release the rough-cut as is? Who knows. 

Another thing I’m not clear on is whether or not this episode was intended to be the season premiere. A lot of episode guides that list this episode seem to think so. It makes enough sense. Interestingly enough, this episode is meant to be counted for the sake of their “100th” episode, though you could reasonably count the “Deleted Scenes” special as two episodes or maybe even count the movie. 

This episode is reasonably funny, and it’s a shame it never got completed. It would have been the first episode completed in the HD format, but it currently only exists as a 360p bootleg file. I’d be really curious to see how they navigated certain bits for the final broadcast version; this episode exists in an uncensored state and has some rather uncouth characters using some pretty nasty slurs by today’s standards. The only thing resembling an official release we got from this episode was the Volume 5 DVD set included bits of artwork from it on the gatefold case.

EPHEMERA CORNER:

MAIL BAG

Here’s some splashback from my Rainn Wilson tirade

I share your hatred for rainn wilson. I actually think he's a real thorn in that otherwise perfect Nite Live episode. However, I like the numbers sketch. I think about "numbers just for men" a lot. It tickles me...pink!

You know, I was probably harsher on that sketch for superficial reasons. It’s a perfectly good sketch and he’s perfectly fine in it. It’s my problem, not their problem, that I see that guy’s face and it immediately makes me scowl. If I could do it all over again, I would have never listened to those Office commentary tracks. I could have done ANYTHING ELSE with my time.

#adult swim #adultswim2021 #aqua teen hunger force

[rcmndedlisten]

For a lack of better descriptor, folk and country music as we know it today is not a sound that is containable nor is it linear. It’s wonderfully odd and enriched by the individual journeys of its artists. 2022 featured some of the best adventures within those scenes which continue pushing the sound of twang and thistle far beyond the grass and into a new vision of the world where sights familiar and cosmic melt on the same dusty plane...

Alex G - God Save the Animals [Domino Records]

God Save the Animals, the latest effort from the prolific Philly indie shape-shifter, further approaches straighter lines and accessibility in the Alex Giannascoli songwriting method, especially in regards to brambling Americana and backwoods folky patchwork amid the occasional experimental hip thrust or grungy distortion. Yet, the listen is no less obtuse in its surrounding scenery with words bordering the fantastical even if mining deeper into their meaning reveals a faithful reflection for the human condition.

Aldous Harding - Warm Chris [4AD]

Warm Chris isn’t a flashy listen and is built around a folk implosion, but in its own idiosyncratic way, Aldous Harding has interpretive her instruments’ traditionalism into angles more unique than might be suggested. The collection of songs from the New Zealand songwriter’s latest full-length are inverted tales of emotional restlessness and descript observations of the relational variety, as Harding’s emphasis on atypical vocal deliveries and more tedious, distorted designs of piano, brass, and a soft psychedelia of guitar pop make it so that the interpretation of them is in the ear of its beholder, always reshaping itself in any lapse of time with each listen.

Angel Olsen - Big Time [Jagjaguwar]

Informed as well by her own journey as an artist, Angel Olsen here leans heavily into a warm acoustic bends, just enough twang, an orchestral debonair, and her sky-wide croon to consider Big Time a true modern queer country classic in which she loses and loves before arriving at a point better knowing herself. While Olsen can always be counted on to take the dusty road less traveled, Big Time is a reminder that her map is never without careful compass.

Big Thief - Dragon New Warm Mountain I Believe In You [4AD]

What’s astounding about Dragon New Warm Mountain I Believe in You is how cohesive it is in its stylistic inconsistencies despite being recorded across a span of five months in four separate geographies with sessions recorded in upstate New York, Topanga Canyon, the Rocky Mountains, and Tucson, Arizona. In any of these environment is the national treasure of Adrianne Lenker, and how her voice and lyricism are malleable in any of them. Whether casting a long country gaze, channeling magnetic fields, or even tempting the hot glow of modern R&B in their freak folk, she and the band don’t seem to hold any doubts as to what music will be a look for them.

Gold Dust - The Late Great Gold Dust [Centripetal Force Records]

In his short time on this Earth thus far, Stephen Pierce has already become a cornerstone fixture within the Western Massachusetts independent music scene, having been a key driving force behind post-hardcore bastions Ampere and decibel-decimating shoegazers Kindling, but with his psychedelic folk project Gold Dust, he has expanded its view by many miles across nature (both existentially and physically) with the band's sophomore effort, The Late Great Gold Dust. Worshipping at the doom folk and psychedelic boom folk altars in a way that bridges his heavier work with lush, dream pastures flower-powered with massive drums in bloom behind it, it's the sound of trekking onward even when life's surroundings feel like they are closing in on you.

Jana Horn - Optimism [No Quarter]

There’s a sense to Optimism, the debut album from enigmatic songwriter Jana Horn, that its mysteries will continue to unravel themselves in the years to come. The Austin-based artist’s music carries with it a spiritual weight born from poignant personal occurrences and dogmatic observations in this strange world around us, yet when woven through Horn’s own supernatural myth-making – oft whispered, and constructed humbly in strum, brass, synth, and harmony – her stories transcend astral planes sitting somewhere between dusky terrains and the celestial sphere.

Sadurn - Radiator [Run for Cover Records]

Like a lot of music over the past year, Radiator, the debut full-length from Sadurdn, is a product of life making do with pandemic times all the while dealing with whatever else it throws in your way. At the forefront of today's new class of emo country, frontperson and guitarist Genevieve DeGroot, guitarist Jon Cox, drummer Amelia Swain and Tabitha Ahnert are best suited for humble surroundings, with the group's spare, dusky instrumentation complimenting Degroot's inner monologues pouring through line and chorus. Throwing this one on is like curling up with a blanket and quiet corner, warmth surrounding you.

Tomberlin - i don’t know who needs to hear this... [Saddle Creek]

There’s a sense of freeness moving through Tomberlin’s lips on i don’t know who needs to hear this… despite her admissions of finding herself in purgatory with another on several instances. With her sophomore effort, the Brooklyn-by-way-of-the-Midwest artist expounds upon tiny details of introspection, but in designs all the more intricate, ensuring her wisdom in song reaches further out with its tender beacon as the album resounds through the high ceilings and alters since built by the church of Tomberlin through a host of instrumentation where At Weddings searched through spiritual vacancies.

Why Bonnie - 90 In November [Keeled Scaled]

Born out of a dreamy patchwork of indie-pop that began to take form on their 2018 EP, In Water, and evolved across two additional EPs thereafter, Why Bonnie have found the right temperature for their art to live in since trekking across Austin to Brooklyn to put it all into frame. It turns out that lucidity makes earnest everything Blair Howerton takes from the rearview and puts into the present, with she and the band creating a transfixing overlay of sublime indie rock, alternative country charm, a slight punk fever, and the occasional radio wave signal bending through hazed production.

Wild Pink - ILYSM [Royal Mountain Records]

Cancer is the big scare, and it rattles Wild Pink right down to the bone in a beautiful reflection of that morbid journey from both sides in the band's phenomenal comfort of their fourth full-length, ILYSM. John Ross alongside the rest of the Brooklyn-based four-piece are joined here by the likes of J Mascis and Julien Baker in a sound that natures itself away from the anthemic panoramic of their predecessors in favor of leaner, deeper, yet moon-sized ruminations on life, love, and time, ultimately arriving on the reminder that every moment -- no matter how small -- is signifacant, as with their music.

#best of 2022 #alex g #angel olsen #big thief #gold dust #sadurn #tomberlin #why bonnie #wild pink #jana horn #aldous harding

[vm95]