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gallusrostromegalus · 2 years

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You don't think matcha is tea????

Matcha isn't a Tea in my humble Opinion.

Matcha is an experience.

The year is 2009, the place is the University of Hawai'i at Manoa in Honolulu, and I am recovering from a still-undiagnosed disease that left me with a 100+ degree for over three weeks, extreme weight loss and permanent Brain Damage. I have signed up for an introductory Art History class because I need an additional Humanities credit.

It's called "The History and Philosophy of the Japanese Tea Ceremony", and for a class I can only sort of remember, it stands out.

So I'm in professor Roberts' Japanese Tea Ceremony class, looking and feeling like death warmed over, but I'm genuinely interested in the subject matter and show up to every class because I have nothing better to do, and ask questions and turn in my homework, even if neither are particularly coherent at times, and rapidly become his favorite student. The thing I learned in public school was how to show up to events even if I don't want to, analyze tests and other written materials for patterns and charm educators by holding up my end of a conversation, skills that have served me in the modern world far more than learning actual course content would have.

The Tea Ceremony, historically, takes a good month to prepare and the entire evening to carry out- the guest list is curated to create social bonds and intellectual stimulation alike, a poem is composed for the season, and a seasonal flower arrangement created to decorate the space. When the guests arrive, they must all crawl through a small door to enter the tea garden, regardless of profession or rank. Hands are ritually washed in spring water, and there is a slow processional walk through the garden, to admire the artistry of the landscaping, and the composition of seasonal elements to create this particular night of beauty. The entire ceremony is about appreciating both the joy of existing right now, in this time and place, and the unification of the self and the universe and the endless cycles of nature.

The guests arrive at the tea house and meet the Tea Master, who will be making the Matcha that evening. The guests are seated in particular order, the Most Revered Guest- sometimes a high-ranking official, sometimes a visiting scholar or artist- is seated closest to the Tea Master. The Poem is read aloud. The Flowers are admired. The tools for making the Matcha are taken out, examined as objects of art, and their history told. The matcha powder itself is taken out- the case examined, the cultivation of the tea discussed, and only then does the Tea Master make the Tea.

Matcha is not brewed- it's a fine powder made of crushed green tea leaves, and the powder is whisked together with not-quite-boiling water in a bowl to create a much more substantial and flavorful drink. This drink is presented to the Most Revered Guest first, who is expected to take a sip and, in a moment of Zen spiritual clarity, comment on its flavor and how all the elements of the tea, art, garden and season all complement each other, and perhaps offer some sort of philosophical statement.

At least,

That's how it's supposed to go.

About a month before the spring semester is over, Professor Roberts announces that he has a surprise for his class- a good friend of his, a Professional Tea Master, will be visiting Hawai'i, and has agreed to perform a Tea Ceremony for our class! I am very excited. The other 10 people in class are varying levels of amiably confused to distressed by having to go to An Event (TM) for a grade, but agree. One of my classmates, an astrology hoe named Jessica, pointed out that with the 11 students, Professor Roberts, and the Tea Master, there will be 13 people present, which is basically inviting disaster.

"Jessica." Sighed Professor Roberts. "It's a Tea Ceremony. What disaster could happen?"

Despite Jessica's misgivings, Preparations for the ceremony went on. We learned about Ikebana while deciding on the Ceremonial Bouquet and tried our hands at it with what Professor Robert could get at the grocery store for $12. We learned about calligraphy and different types of poetic compositions while making the Seasonal Poem, and stain the hell out of the classroom carpet learning the brush strokes. We learn about different types of Matcha Bowl sculpting and glazing and we are not allowed to touch the demonstration bowls or the kiln because Professor Roberts was beginning to suspect that some of his students (me) were suffering from coordination issues. I apply myself with zeal, if not necessarily talent. I was, at the time, an Art Major, but my professors in the art department had been grading me on a secret "this bitch almost died last semester and is re-learning how to hold a pencil" curve, and boy howdy did I stumble and break leaves and splatter ink like it.

Despite my ongoing unmonitored recovery, Professor Roberts viewed my enthusiastic class participation with rose-colored glasses, and about a week before the ceremony we had a class where he brought out the used Kimonos and Obi and other forms of japanese dress he'd borrowed from the theater department so that we would be traditionally dressed(ish) and experience the ceremony authentically(ish). While people were trying on clothes to see what would fit, he took me aside and told me he wanted me to be in the position of Most Revered Guest, the person who makes the zen statement upon which the entire event hinges.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I asked.

"You're the only person who doesn't fall asleep in class and you talked about how the flowers stagger their blooms to not compete for the bees- you're perfectly engaged and conscious of the seasons!" He said, blindly. "You will need different shoes though." He indicated my flip-flops. "I won't make you learn how to walk in Geta, but nothing with Heels. Ballet flats are fine."

"...These are the only shoes I own." I said.

Professor Roberts stared at me.

"-I used to have a pair of sneakers but I think a homeless guy stole them while I was at the beach last month."

"What?" Roberts blinked.

"He probably needed them more than I do. I'll see if I can borrow some flats."

"...I don't think I've ever met a woman with less than 10 pairs of shoes." Said Roberts.

"I'm not a woman, I'm and undergrad." I said, still three years away from learning the term 'Nonbinary'. "Those are Jordan's only pair of shorts, you know." I pointed at my classmate, who had been wearing the one (1) pair of basketball shorts for the entire semester.

"I WASH THEM." Jordan shouted defensively, wearing the longest Men's Kinmo the theater department had, which barely came down to the top of his calves.

"Oh God." Said Roberts, a horrifying new world opening up to him like a tub of Expired sour cream.

It was the day of the Ceremony.

The Seasonal Theme we'd worked on was "The Turn Of Summer", and the weather was complying maliciously.

Normally, Tea Ceremonies are scheduled for the more temperate evening, but due to the school needing to host something in the adjoining cultural center later, we could only use the Tea Garden in the middle of the afternoon, and the summer sun was a sweltering 98 degrees and a similar level of Humidity. The Camelias were melting.

Where Jordan had difficulty finding a Kimono that suited his ent-like proportions, I'd had the opposite problem and the only Kimono short enough to not trip my Hobbit-sized self was a Child’s size. My roommate had helped me get into the Kimono and Obi before the ceremony, and leant me a pair of her Ballet Flats, but we discovered an issue- this Kimono was designed for a flat-chested prepubescent youth, and even though I barely scraped 5'0", I had the robust proportions of an Irish Peasant, and the only way to avoid displaying a frankly offensive amount of cleavage was to use the widest Obi we could find and sort of tuck my boobs into it.

"Hm" I said. "Kind of hard to breathe."

"Yeah, but you're sitting for most of it, right? It can't last more than an hour, so just like, shuffle and don't talk much?" She suggested.

To her credit, the first forty-five minutes of the ceremony only involved shuffling through the gardens and not talking while the Tea Master lectured us on some of the finer points of the garden's design.

But then we got to the Tea House- a small structure only barely able to accommodate the 13 of us, which was in the shade but hotter than the outside because of the roaring fire in the middle of the room, where the water for the Matcha was boiling. The room was surrounded by a narrow sort of porch, part of which hung over the Koi pond, where several massively overfed carp blurbled expectantly for treats at the arrival of humans. I sat down, legs folded under me like Professor Roberts had insisted, and realized that this pushed the Obi UP, and now my rib cage was being compressed in all directions.

I tried to pay attention to the rest of the ceremony, but two and a half hours is an awfully long time to listen about lecturers you've already heard when your body is undergoing a sort of internal horserace to see if the heatstroke, sciatica pain and numbness, allergies or suffocation-by-compression will cause you to pass out first. My legs had gone numb below the knee by the time we were done with the flower arrangement. My entire legs were numb before we were done with the Poem. By the time the Tea Utensils came out, I was seeing spots of colored light in my vision and could only breathe if I focused on it very, very hard.

But! The ceremony was genuinely interesting! and Professor Roberts was counting on me! So I did my best not to sway or throw up from watching the Tea Master whisk the Matcha, and dutifully took the bowl with a pair of hands that felt like slabs of ham that I was attempting to puppet from another dimension, and took a sip.

They say that Smell and Taste are far more closely connected to the emotional centers of the brain than any other sense, and I believe it because the instant I inhaled both the grassy, powdery smell, and tasted the moderately viscous bubbly liquid, I experienced an intense flashbulb memory back to a previous late May-

The Year was '98, the place was my elementary school art room, and we'd been using the seasonal hot weather to paint on a massive scale as the art dried quickly- each third-grader had been given a roll of butcher paper, a cheap brush, squirts of non-toxic paint and a water cup, and allowed to go hog-wild on our murals, and the rush of creative energy and the imminent sense of freedom as the semester drew to a close truly embodied the summer of youth, carefree but with an almost psychotic fervor, where lack of care was both freeing and dangerous as you lost track of your surroundings in the act of creation-

Which isn't a bad seasonal-philosophical connection statement to make, but the actual words that came out of my mouth were:

"Wow. This tastes exactly like paint."

The first sound I heard after the moment of silence was the cartoonishly loud gasp of horror from Professor Roberts, which was almost immediately drowned out by the thunderclap of laughter from the Tea Master, slapping his thighs and wiping tears from his face, unable to stop. I desperately tried to explain the connection between the fact I might be dying of heat stroke right now, and how I ended up drinking my paint water back in Mrs. Krantz's art class because back then I was also dying of heat stroke, but mostly ended up wheezing half-formed sentences as the rest of the class took sips and offered opinions varying between "Wow, that's thick. Like a Hot smoothie." and "Oh yeah, it tastes like summer. Like how a freshly-mowed lawn smells like summer." Professor Roberts slowly melted into a pile of shame, and the Tea Master slapped him on the back, still howling with laughter.

"They're honest! Nobody else will be honest! This is magnificent!" he wheezed.

Eventually, everyone had their taste, and the ceremony was concluded. The second the Tea Master had packed up his tools and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, Professor Roberts was in my face.

"HOW COULD YOU SAY THAT?" he hissed, grabbing my arm and pulling me up. "GO APOLOGIZE RIGHT NOW!" he shoved me out onto the porch where the Tea Master was looking at the Koi, who had started bubble-begging aggressively again.

Except that my legs felt like blocks of wood that my pelvis was renting from another planet where legs hadn’t been invented yet, my vision was entirely static between the dehydration and lack of oxygen, and my vestibuar system had fucked off an hour ago, leaving me to stay upright by purely by the virtue of the over-tightened Obi. So instead of bowing and apologizing profusely like my professor expected, what I actually did was stumble out of the room, say something like "Hsdfkf" and topple head-first into the koi pond.

Fortunately, the impact of the bottom of the pond with the top of my skull activated a sort of last-resort emergency self preservation system and I inhaled with enough force to break the Obi-Jime and probably a couple ribs from the pain that hit both my sides like lightning. Unfortunately, the thing I was inhaling was fish-shit riddled Pond Water, so my emergency self-preservation system ordered an even harder Exhale.

The Tea Master, to his immense credit, had immediately jumped in after me, and pulled me upright just in time for me to forcibly exhale half a gallon of rancid pond water directly into his face, then start screaming. Screaming is an extremely appropriate reaction to have when injured, because it alerts everyone that you require medical attention, but is very unpleasant to experience from four inches away, which is probably why he then immediately dropped me.

Fortunately the pond wasn't very deep and this time I sat there, scream-gasping as my lungs reinflated, Koi fish burbling and sucking at me with tremendous excitement, until the EMT from the campus clinic arrived, a vanguard before the actual ambulance.

"Okay uh. You're bleeding." he said, cautiously wading into the pond.

I opened my eyes to find that I had apparently acquired a large and profusely bleeding head wound, which had activated some long-suppressed Shark Instincts in the Koi, which were eagerly gumming at the streams of blood and trying to suck on my forehead. "Good thing they don’t have teeth." I said in the distant bliss that only zen masters and people with serious head injuries get to experience.

"Do you want a towel?" he asked, helping me up.

"No, this is rather refreshing, actually." I said, still absolutely smashed on endorphins, Koi still enthusiastically swarming at my kneecaps.

"I mean like for your-" the EMT Gestured Vaguely at my torso.

I looked down and realized that not only had I broken the Obi-jime, the entire Obi had come undone and was floating several feet away, and I was only wearing the Kimono, fallen completely off my shoulders and was only being prevented from performing a full Lady Godiva by the valiant efforts of the safety pin my roommate had put in to keep it folded correctly while we figured out the Obi.

"Professor Roberts?" I stood up all the way, soaking wet, bleeding from my forehead with such force as to create actual streams of blood down my face, neck and chest, tits out, and addressed the poor man standing, white-faced on the deck above the pond. "I don't think I'm going to be in class on Monday-" I paused to fish a small Koi that had gotten trapped in the remains of the now-ruined Kimono, and tossed it back into the pond. "-Can I schedule a make-up exam for the Final?"

"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GET IN THE AMBULANCE!" He screamed.

I was x-rayed for a skull fracture, but my lifelong membership to the Lactose Tolerance Club had protected me, and I happily texted my roommate to come pick me up as "They x-rayed my head and found nothing" while the doctor stitched part of my scalp back together.

The following morning, I discovered that Professor Roberts had graded my exam before I took it. 100%. Truly, the best way to get a good grade on your finals is to get a serious head injury.

So, Matcha is not a Tea, in my humble opinion.

Matcha is an Experience.

And sometimes that experience is drinking something almost exactly like paint, ruining an important cultural ceremony, traumatizing your professor, and introducing a bunch of fish to the taste of human flesh.

***

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#Family Lore #Tea Ceremony #Matcha #injury mention #blood mention

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lucrezianoin · 7 months

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Interesting things that you can get from trying all the options but that reveal a general characterization and idea of astarion and tav's romance.

I wanted to talk about Astarion's feelings regarding intimacy and sex, and indipendence, and how this can give a small timeline of his relationship with Tav.

CONFESSION VS NO CONFESSION

If you don't get the confession or drow potion scene, astarion will still stop having sex with Tav, and at the start of act 3, if you ask about it he'll tell you that he's tired of paying with sex, and that you were a bad deal now. It was all transactional but he's done. If you say you're hurt, he'll reply that it hurts more to use his body to get nothing in exchange, basically. I think this confirms that up till some events leading to the confession, the relationship was transactional. He only says "This is the one talent I have".

Given that the only difference IS the confession, but that the game assumes there's party interactions that are not shown, we can assume that he started to genuinely fall for Tav somewhere around end of act 1 and act 2. This is confirmed by the fact that if you choose him over someone in act two, he'll be confused but immediately resorts to saying it's because of your good sexy times... But, he is surprised (positively surprised) if you say it want something real with him.

The thing is... Astarion is a people pleaser. He manages to find autonomy because of finally being actually free and slowly regaining it on his own (if you end up in this wrong/broken romance situation). He stops having sex with Tav, he decides he does not need to pay anymore for whatever Tav is giving him or not.

BAD CHOICES / SAYING NO / FEELING NOTHING

If you choose the very bad choices during the confession, he will tell you that having sex with Tav has felt different "I supposes", but then he'll reveal that he didn't know how to say no after you push him. He also says that he never felt anything while having sex (does not exclude tav from this sentence, so it's assumed that this is true for their sexual meetings too), but after Tav pushed him he felt something for the first time (being that he felt horrible). I want to elaborate more on this but I need the next two points first.

INTIMACY VS SEX

In a Karlach/Astarion party romance scene, Astarion gets very mean when he realizes he cannot have sex with Karlach. The dev notes reveal that its because he feels vulnerable and confused by the fact that his one method of connecting with people is not available to him in that situation. The notes also stresses that he really wants what Karlach is offering (just spending time together) but maybe even he doesn't realise it yet. Full scene and dev notes are here.

Furthremore, most of the scenes that people associate with astarion romance are actually scenes that happen even if you do not romance him. The bite scene, offering him to feed him your blood, the bear one, discussing character's blood, the mirror scene, and probably even the scars scene... these are all general scenes, not romance ones. The only romance scenes (as far as I know) in act1+2 are: him propositioning you if you have more than 40 approval, or him propositioning you at the party, the sex scene, the second sex scene ("cheeks all flushed"). It shows how he has a desire to connect. Some of these scenes are not connected with manipulating you, but really do feel like a true desire to connect.

Regarding these last three points, I think Astarion's "It felt different from you" does come from this desire to connect. It had felt different not because the sex itself was different, but because he honestly felt like he was connecting with Tav. That is why the options that you can offer him are so important:

In particular, asking him "what do you want" will reveal that he doesn't know. From the devnotes of Karlach/Astarion we already know that he is confused about his own need to connect. But also it is important that one of the option is "we can be together without sex". Sex is what he knows, "the talents he has", and it is also the only way he knows how to connect with people because he has been made to do it for 200 years. Telling him that you can be together and show him intimacy and companionship without sex, means he will have the safety to explore other ways. And be seen as a person.

What he needs/wants is the safety to pursue what he likes ("this", your relationship) and he thinks he might want. Safety being the important word.

That is why it is clear in the game that between the confession and post-Cazador Tav and Astarion do not have sex, even Astarion remarks twice about it to ask to Tav if he is really okay with it.

That is why it makes the cemetery scene so impactful. He is not fully healed, but he wants to reclaim sex as part of his way to connect with someone as an act of intimacy.

(Instead if you choose Ascended Astarion you confirm that you only see him as sex and not a real person. The sexy kinky vampire - I will talk about this in the last point, where I talk about the bite).

RELATIONSHIP

I wanted to write a little bit about the way he defines the relationship in act 2, post confession. The confession doesn't mark a clear "we are in love from now on", it is more like offering him this step, slowing down, making sure that you can be there for each other, allowing him to be free and supporting him.

If you ask him "what we are" he will say:

This could even imply that before the confession he did see you as a victim or a target, but that is just how he saw EVERYONE. Everyone was a target or a vicim, or a night of disgust/abuse. His knowledge and ability to identify intimacy and relationships has been so beaten down that he actually expresses confusion now that he finds himself with a real relationship. That "whatever in the world could you be?" is asked with genuine surprise and bafflement.

INDIPENDENCE

Another important and fundamental side of his romance is his indipendence. There are some choices that I would normally go for and then I realized gave no approval, or low approval. I will make a full posts of these approvals, but for now I wanted to focus on three.

Someone here on tumblr already noticed and wrote an amazing meta about how offering your blood to Astarion (the next day) gives NO approval.

You can see that telling him to feed on you gives no approval. Be it because the game explicitly associate bite = sex (seen from the drow woman) and he sees this as you seeing him as some sexy vampire or be it because you are making dependent on you, I am not sure.

But if you agree instead with his suggestion:

Another occurrence, is the two times you can tell him you will protect him. DorianDarkstar on twitter also noticed and made me realize that he does this twice. There are two occasions where you can tell him "I will keep you safe" and he doesn't fully like that.

There is a scene where you can tell him that you will watch his back if he watches yours and he approves (5 points!). If you tell him he is safe, instead he finds that pretty annoying.

There is also a dialogue in late act 3, where you can tell him that you will protect him. To which he answers with almost resigned annoyance.

It is important for him to be an equal. He says so in his romance talk after Cazador. (and that is why I love Durge Astarion so much as I explained here).

So yeah, there is I think something interesting to be found not only in non used scenes (not used by the player, as some of these choices are very bad), but also in finding out what he approves or disapproves of.

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #astarion romance #spoilers #astarion spoilers #meta

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thelastofhyde · 1 year

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i. the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.

warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!

word count. 12.9k

hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it

taglist. @kayleezra @newavenger + add yourself to the taglist here !

read on ao3 ! ( capitalization available )

distaste is not new in the life of joel miller.

in particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. he is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. the years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.

if anything, he’s made himself more empty.

rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.

an apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. the man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that miller guys passed between cowardly members of fedra and the keep away from mr. miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.

this plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become dead-weight.

“so that’s all i am to ya, huh? dead-fucking-weight?” his brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving joel to do what joel does best: endure.

somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the dead-weight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.

she was an exception, his tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. they’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.

she never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.

which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of tess’ foot against his shin.

“... and then,” frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. with a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. we were finding paw-prints for days!”

joel’s unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. as if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the german shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

“which means i was cleaning paw-prints for days.” bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.

frank is quick to shush him.

“i’m sorry, again, bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “i’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”

there you sit, parallel to him.

the sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. it hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.

you catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.

the threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which joel can account for, mouth to keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. the battle ends swiftly as you surrender to bill’s hardened stare, and frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.

“you, sit. no one should have to clean up the food they made.”

they get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.

silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and painting you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun hind a large cloud that causes such a thing.

being alone, with you, is something joel’s never mastered. the affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.

were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.

something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. the dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.

just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.

the ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. he’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.

the pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.

“he likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.

as if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.

to envy a creature that licks it own shit off its ass is a new low for joel.

“thinkin’ he might like ya more, sol.” the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.

“most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.

he takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and tess have made.

“you’ve got a whole load in common, you know? i think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”

“how the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” there he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. it helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.

“well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. he’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “and have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”

he’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.

discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘s easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”

with you as its protector.

he doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. he watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.

survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.

but i could keep you safe.

he toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. it’s not the first time he’s thought it. truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.

his memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just bill, frank and you. a few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was frank who’d prompted the question. “where were you all when... this started?” tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’ll never meet.

he never imagined her working in a bank.

bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” he’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. she was barely out of school. “i knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.

joel had always been a good listener. being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. all this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of bill.

but you weren’t smiling.

he watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.

the desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. with each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. he’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“you’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “those we remember never truly die!”). he’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘could keep you safe. there, then, the thought did cross his mind.

he’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.

“-could fix it, you know. i’m good with my hands.”

he almost chokes on his own breath.

i'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. and he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.

“what?” the question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. in the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.

the mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face joel once more.

he sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.

“your watch, it’s broken.”

“hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “don’t need ya to fix it.”

you pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. confusion.

“don’t you want to know the time?” you ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and joel miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.

“i don’t keep it for the time.”

you smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.

the german shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.

he’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. it’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-

“ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” you’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “i’ve never heard any of the joel miller backstory, this should be-”

“i get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”

nature falls silent.

skies grow dull.

you juggle sadness.

there’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. the dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.

joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

“sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. only, the gates have been shut in his face and joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “but you’re wrong. i don’t like everyone.”

“‘s that so.” his eyes roll. the hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal joel will always be wiling to place you on.

“yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “i don’t like you, joel.”

the hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.

we’re staying, for tonight. tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the qz for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day

the nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading bill and frank- mostly frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. if only joel could remember which door leads to yours.

the two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.

tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a fedra agent’s wife, you whisper that frank and bill had been fighting again recently. the memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly bill and frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.

at some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. at another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-n’t tell me you’re a virgin.

the words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

a protest rings true in his head and his ears.

was gonna say. knew you were young, but not that young.

it’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“god, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. it was alright, i guess. i just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

he’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. a groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“not much to miss?! sweet christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” he’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken tess. each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. there’s no need to bother opening his eyes, joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “i’d give up a hand for some head!”

you must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of tess’ renewed shock fills the room. he wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“you’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“it bores me!”

“it bores you!?”

the couch beneath joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp tess gives. the last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

the crueler part of his mind replays your voice, i don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

you like tess. love her, even. it’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out finally someone with a pair of boobs, i’m bored of the sight of my own. joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“must not have been doin’ ya right,” the bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. you’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. it’s oddly endearing, you think no one has noticed. “this fella of yours.”

joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

he does so, regardless.

“well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “we were each others firsts.”

“that’s no excuse! trust i left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time i went down.” tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. no discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

you scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “what, are you offering your services?”

this he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which tess had raised you to heaven while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘as sure as i am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you i like my women a little older than you.”

he knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the qz. it should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. but he can’t, and he won’t.

and you’re the one to blame.

you, with the glow of a thousand suns. you, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. you, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

his own self being the first he’d need fight.

joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

the next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

he’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. some small, meaningless little things, that ripple joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. others, tsunamis. big, angry, all imposing. they’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. but the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. they catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. in the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

the currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

this evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. he reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. the gentle, barely-there croon of a sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. across from him is tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. snoring comes from below him, where joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

you take up no space of this room.

neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

there are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

he should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. a good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

he could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure frank wouldn’t mind. bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the qz.

he would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. he imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

i don’t like you, joel.

those words stop him from trying.

he tells himself it’s for the best.

with a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. he swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. the door’s already half-opened, and joel nearly thanks christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. the darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

the refrigerator.

it’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. a subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

she never lived long enough to get either.

he catches something move beneath the artificial light. cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“why aren’t ya sleepin’?” the words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

beneath the light, you shrug, “could ask you the same thing, texas.”

he curses tess for teaching you such a nickname.

he curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

you’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, joel remains unaware.

he grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. the door behind him closes over and give the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“i asked first.” you laugh, at him. full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. the corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. he hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you, bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘s so funny, huh?”

“nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “just never heard the joel miller say something so childish. you’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

you make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. a fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. uncouth and unbothered, joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“you know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” you call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. the thirst does not budge. he hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

by the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“i’m making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “make sure you take some with you when you leave. tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. he’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

i don’t like you, joel.

of course you would do the same. not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. all words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. they violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over joel’s entire persona.

he straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. the sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. his hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, and the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of tess, and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what joel hears.

i don’t like you, joel.

over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. you’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

and, suddenly, joel’s angry. at you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. the fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

a hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise joel gifts you.

you may leave your marks emotionally, but joel’s will always be physical.

“why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “don’t ya like me?”

if not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “why do you care?”

he scoffs, “i don’t.”

“hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody tess was playing in the living room. “sure sounds like you do.”

“yeah, well, i don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

joel knows he cares. it’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to bill and frank’s.

what joel doesn’t know is why he cares. there’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. he’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

not one bit.

joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. his feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. his chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

he inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“for the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘s like how i sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. no part of him should ever be compared to you. “i don’t like ya either.”

he’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

the knife never ceases its movement. back and forth, back and forth. chop, chop, chop. blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. it’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

the hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“that’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point.

it’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“you only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. his wandering touch halts. “a little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what i think.”

this strikes a nerve. fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. the realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “d’ya know what i think?”

even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“no, unlike you i don’t care what you think about-” joel tugs on your hair once more.

“i think you’re a brat. a silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” you could. he’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

“you’re hurting me,” you whine, joel growls.

animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. his gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

your dress- red, a colour joel miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“you like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“no, i don’-” dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “joel.”

he retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. whoever joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and tess. the blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ talkin’ bout your past.”

he doesn’t specify.

he doesn’t need to.

you give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. his hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “i wouldn’t.”

you say nothing. joel pulls harder.

“too bad i’m-” you cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. with a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, joel watches you like a hawk. the twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. the want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “too bad i’m not offering you the chance.”

joel miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. with notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“who said anything about an offer?”

the descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

a part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

the other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. you’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs longer than any tree in the amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the himalayas. arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, joel knows how to read people. and, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

you breathe in, you breathe out.

one knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. he revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

inhale, exhale.

your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. all he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. with the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “don’t move.”

where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. one flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. a wet patch, your wetness. the stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

curiosity gets the better of him- one day, joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers curling themselves in the waistband of your panties and the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

in and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

the lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. a heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. he makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. there’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. he wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. he thinks it must hurt.

his fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in joel’s peripheral vision.

“shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “people are tryin’ to sleep.”

you scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘s that an invitation to see how loud i can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. this, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “or a challenge?”

“it’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

as coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. so he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. he awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

it’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“you’re drippin’” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. the view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘s actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. is it cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

he can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

but first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

it happens so sudden, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of tess. he wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

so he does the same.

working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. he breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“so now you shut up. ‘s the matter, huh?” he’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “am i too borin’ for ya?”

“you’re the most infuriating man i’ve ever- oh!”

a tongue meets skin.

the knife clatters onto the counter.

you lurch forward.

his hand pulls you back.

“tess was right, ya know?” he can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. he pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “that boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

the common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better, if you’d just let him.

‘could keep ya satisfied.

that’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. he’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? what ya need is a man, a man like me!” the softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension, god it’s never sounded sweet, and joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. he imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “but if ya insist.”

diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. the tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure.

he’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by only experience that comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. you’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

he’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

what a perfect excuse you are, for joel to remaster the arts of lust.

it’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. it’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. it’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever days he shall possess on his knees before you.

and all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass.

his only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. it does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“n- ah,” you can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “no, don’t, not there.”

next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. the sound of whatever record tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

and, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

his eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within bill and frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. there’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time tess tells him they’re due a visit.

except, the oven door is made of glass.

glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. you, with hands gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

and then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

the image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“d’ya touch yourself, sol?” you don’t answer him, but that’s okay. in a sweet change of pace, joel miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “yeah, bet ya do. late at night, right? once you’re all alone in bed. ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

you back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “let me do the honours this time though.”

you don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. he imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

he’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

you’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. your expression, he can’t quite read. not sad, not happy, not mad.

your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

the discomfort of trekking back to the qz will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

he swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. he’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“that,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. he pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “shouldn’t have happened.”

joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

people once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. as sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. not today, however, and joel miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

it chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. there’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

that dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

he cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “no, not again. my back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the german shepherd’s head. it whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. a scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “not so bad, are ya? huh?” never in a million years did joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and tess had set out for their routinely visit to the bill and frank’s. never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

he hears you before he sees you.

“you planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, texas?”

he tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

the world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

so instead, it sends you.

peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than uv ray could ever be. he’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. a few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. at the very least, he considers, i’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

the smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. when he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. he does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. you’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

a queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. he’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “no problem, thanks... for feeding tess and i.”

“no worries!” you’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. he can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “oh, actually, that’s why i came out here, i was looking for tess-” of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “hold on!”

you shoot off back inside so quickly that otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. with an idle pet to his head as you pass by, joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. in your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“i wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. he can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “i know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

you show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him, “there should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

it’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

so he tries again, louder.

“why don’t ya like me?”

“and i’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

he grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "answer me." like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"for someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. you don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “you sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"answer the damn question, girl.”

“or, what?” you’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “you gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

joel says nothing.

“how about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and bill make.” inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “you get me something, i’ll tell you what you want to know.”

he grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “what d’ya want? ‘cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. i ain’t messing with none of bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“a dress.”

“a dress?” the statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“yes, and don’t look at me like that!” it’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “i need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

unaware he’d even began to lean closer, joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time.

“joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

neither of you dare to break eye contact. again, his name is yelled. this time, he manages to identify tess as the owner of the voice. habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of tess or you.

his feet remain glued to the ground.

tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “think you might be needed inside, macho man. your missus is calling.”

“she ain’t my-”

“you two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. in her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. you approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms.

“i should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. he decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “go check on the food, before it burns.”

you’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

tess and him hit the road by noon. earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. the bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun heating the world with its rays. he walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from tess and racking his brain for answers.

answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the qz. answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven bill’s created. answers to why you don’t like him.

i don’t like you, joel.

it motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. if he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

till then, he needs to find a dress.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller oneshot #joel miller fic #pedro pascal smut

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cevansbrat0007 · 7 months

Text

Risky Business

Summary: Full Story! Ari doesn't like it when you take unnecessary risks. So tonight he's going to teach you a lesson you won't soon forget.

Warnings: Mature Themes, Ari Being A Menace, Smut, Brat!Reader, Punishments, Use of Restraints/Handcuffs, CMNF (Clothed Male Nude Female), Discussions of Safe Words, Light Degradation, Spanking (mentioned), Ass Slapping, Manhandling, Thigh Riding, Light Choking, Orgasm Denial, Cursing, Minors DNI.

A/N: Part of my Sweet Renegades Series. Semi-proofread, not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!

You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror as you finish knotting the tie on your pink silk robe. Ari’s instructions about what he wanted you to wear had been very clear. And since he’d left your house in a rather sour mood, the last thing you wanted to do was disappoint him.

Your teeth go to worry your bottom lip as you pick up your phone to reread your text exchange from earlier in the day.

You could only hope that he had gone on to have a good day. Otherwise you had the feeling you’d be in for one hell of a lecture whatever he time he made it back to your place. With a sigh you turn off the light and decide to make your way downstairs.

As much as you try not to, you find yourself replaying the events from this morning over and over again in your mind. Perhaps wishing that things could have gone down just a little differently.

Six Hours Earlier…

You knew you’d fucked up the moment you heard the slam of the car door. Freezing in place, you’d dared to look down, not the least bit surprised to see your boyfriend damn near sprinting across your lawn in the direction of your house.

“Hey, Beast! Be right there–oops!” You’d gone to give a little wave, only to let out a tiny screech when you’d nearly lost your footing. Which had only made you man move faster.

“Bird – hold on! Don’t move!” He bellowed as before skidding to a stop just at the base of the ladder propped against the side of your home. “Fuck!”

“I’m okay!” You’d quickly tried to reassure him. “But I think my roof is missing a tile. Couldn’t quite tell by looking at it from there.” You’d vaguely gestured towards the ladder that Ari was clutching as if his life depended upon it. “So I figured I’d just come up to see whatever there was to see.”

“Right. But…” Ari’s fingers had gone to pinch the bridge of his nose as he worked to calm his breathing. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re up there.” His heart had seized in his chest as he watched you wobble for the second time in almost as many minutes. “C’mon and crawl back to me, sweet Bird. I’ll hold this steady, you just focus on not falling.”

‘Please.’ He’d sent a quick prayer up to his Lord in heaven. Just in case he’d found himself in need of a little divine intervention if things went south.

“Uhh…” Slowly, you’d begun making your way over to the edge of the roof. Your pulse has kicked up when it finally dawned on you just how high off the ground you really were. “I think I might be a little stuck.” A nervous giggle bubbled its way out of your chest as you continued to creep along the slightly sloped surface.

Ari had cleared his throat, wiping his increasingly damp palms on his jeans. “You’re not stuck, sweetheart. We’re gonna get you down the same way you got up there, okay? Just keep coming towards me.”

“And if–if I fall?” He just seemed so confident. Which let you know that you really should’ve thought this through a little better. Perhaps this was what you deserved for being so impatient.

“Then I’ll just have to catch you then, won’t I?” Fat chance of that one happening.

“Or I’ll probably just end up crushing you.” You’d muttered aloud to no one in particular as you began to maneuver yourself backwards onto the ladder.

“What was that, sweetheart?” Ari had squinted up at you, silently pleading with you to start making your descent.

“Uh, nothing.” Sweat dotted your brow as you reached out your leg, your foot dangling awkwardly until it found the closest rung. “I–I think I’ve got it. I’m gonna come down now, okay?”

“That’s my brave girl.” He’d hummed encouragingly. “Careful. You’re so close. Just keep putting one foot after the other. Yep, just like that.”

A minute later, you’d felt him grab hold of your shorts, effectively holding you steady until you’re firmly planted on the ground once more. And then you were in his arms, his nose buried in your curls while one of his large, warm hands gently caressed your back.

“You have impeccable timing.” You’d whispered shakily, your words coming out muffled as you snuggle deeper into his embrace.

“I have what?” He pulled away from you, his hands moving to grip your biceps. “Better yet, what the fuck were you doing up there?” You could sense that your Bounty Hunter is doing his best to sound calm.

“Um…I was trying to clean my gutters.” You’d responded, confused as to why Ari seemed so angry.

“Coulda’ sworn I told you I’d take care of it.” He growled, his blue eyes darkening dangerously. “And that I didn’t want your ass anywhere near a ladder, let alone the goddamned roof.”

“But that was like…” You’d trailed off, trying to recall when exactly your bounty hunter had made that promise.

“It’s barely been two days.” He’d hissed. “Just what the hell is wrong with you that you can’t wait more than two fucking days?”

“Nothing. I just-” You’d sniffed, not caring for the tone he was using. “What made you decide to drop by?”

“Left a couple files on your kitchen table. I need to pass ‘em on to the Sheriff, see if he’s got anything else that might be useful regarding Martin’s sister.” He continued to glare down at you, his ticking in annoyance. “But what do I find when I get here? You risking your life because you don’t know how to sit your pretty ass down for more than five seconds. Jesus fucking Christ!”

Ari must’ve known he needed a minute, because he’d turned away from you to make a beeline for the front of your house. Of course you’d been right on his heels, wincing as he shouldered his way through your unlocked door.

“Are you mad at me or something?” You’d asked, frowning at the sound of his derisive snort.

“Or something.” He’d muttered as he scooped up the folders he’d left behind in the kitchen. You watched him drag his fingers through his hair before quickly sifting through each file to check the contents.

“I promise I’m okay.” You’d said, clasping your hands and resting them on your stomach.

“Don’t have time for this.” He’d mumbled, his eyes lighting up when he landed on the document he was searching for. “Found it.” Satisfied that everything was in order, he’d made his way back over to you.

“Bird.” He’d rumbled, grabbing the front of your shirt to haul you close. “I’ll deal with you later. You can count on that. Now I gotta go. Please don’t make me regret leaving you here alone. And don’t do anything else dumb while I’m gone.”

With that he’d pressed a hard kiss to your mouth and jogged back out the way he came. Leaving you by yourself to spend the rest of the afternoon replaying the day’s events while you waited for him to return.

You perk up when you hear the front door open and shut, signaling that Ari had returned. Hopefully in a much better mood than the one he’d been in when he left. If you were lucky, that is.

“Welcome back, honey.” You breathe as a fresh wave of nervous energy hits you the moment he enters the room. “I took the liberty of ordering us some dinner from Holtman’s Diner. I, uh, remembered how much you said you liked their chicken pot pies.”

“Already ate.” His gruff response has you mentally kicking yourself all over again.

“Oh. Well.” You turn to stare at the bag of food resting on the counter. “That’s not a problem. I’m sure it’ll keep just fine in the fridge until you decide you’re ready for it.” Offering him your sweetest smile, you hustle to put everything away.

But he doesn’t return it. Instead he continues to glower at you, his piercing blue gaze following your every movement. And the silence is so uncomfortable it’s almost enough to make you want to scream.

“There we go.” You chirp with a cheeriness you most definitely did not feel. “How did everything go with Sheriff Mitt? Was he able to give you anything on Martin’s sister or –”

“Did I ask you to touch the ladder?” His quietly snarled question takes you by surprise.

“I mean…” You trail off, wincing at the uncertainty in your tone. Why did you get the feeling that you might’ve just fucked up again? “It’s not like you didn’t tell me to…not…touch it.” You shrug, instantly regretting how you’d chosen to structure that sentence. “In fact, I believe all you told me to do was keep my feet on the ground. Which I did the entire time I drug it back inside my garage.”

You move to fish a glass out of a nearby cabinet. “Now, can I at least get you something to drink, baby? Pretty sure I’ve still got some of that whiskey you like.” You knew for a fact that you did. But only because you’d already checked.

“Afraid I’m not really the type to drink before handling business of this nature.” Your mouth suddenly goes dry when you notice the way his eyes darken as he lazily peruses your silkenly clad form.

Heaving a small sigh you go about replacing the glass. “And exactly what kinda business are we handling here, Beast?” You ask, protectively wrapping your arms around your middle.

“The kind that occurs when a man needs to make a few things clear to his woman.” He gives a rueful shake of his head before running his hand through his chestnut locks. “Especially when she seems to possess more will than good sense on almost any given day.”

You wait for him to smile or wink, or do anything to indicate that he’s only joking. But it never comes. And while his cheeky remark chafes, albeit just a little, you decide to grit your teeth and let it slide. For now.

So, instead you allow your hands to go to your hips before you force yourself to take a deep breath. Ari takes a step towards you then, the sound of his work boots is surprisingly quiet as he prowls closer to where you’re standing. Now ordinarily, this would be the part where you backed up so that you could put some distance between yourself and the surly bounty hunter.

But unfortunately, you just couldn’t seem to get your worthless jelly legs to move.

Your man doesn’t stop until he’s directly in front of you – so close that you catch a whiff of his aftershave. The one you’d bought just for him. But that wasn’t the only thing you smelled. There was also a hint of something else.

Tobacco and cedar.

“You’ve been smoking again.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“One. Maybe two.” Ari concedes, sucking on his teeth. “If anything, it was more of a stress smoke. Found it pretty hard to enjoy a single puff when all I saw when I closed my fucking eyes is you taking a tumble off that goddamned roof.”

“Dress it up however you want.” You sniff haughtily, your eyes rolling heavenwards. “It’s still a filthy habit, Ari Levinson. One that’s all but guaranteed to send you to an early grave.”

Later, you would come to the conclusion that you must’ve struck a nerve. Because the next thing you know, one of Ari’s big hands is fisting its way into your curls, yanking your head back with just enough force to get your attention.

And turn you on at the same time.

“You’ve got alotta fuckin’ nerve, baby.” Against his better judgment, he slants his mouth over yours in a hard, unexpected kiss. “I’m sure you’re anxious for me to sort your shit out, but I promise tonight is gonna go a whole lot different if I catch you even thinking about rolling those pretty eyes at me again. One. More. Time.” The rough edge in his tone has you wanting to rub up against him in the best way possible.

“Cat got your tongue?” Ari purrs when you choose to continue glaring at him instead of responding. “Or maybe…” He leans down to brush his soft, sensual lips over yours once more – albeit gently this time. “Maybe you think I’m bluffing. Is that it, little Bird?”

“N–no.” You stammer, your pulse flaring to life when his free hand comes out of nowhere to grab your ass hard enough to have you rising on your toes.

“You sure?” He asks, sounding rather skeptical. “Because I’m more than willing to table this conversation if you think a quick trip over my knee might help you with that eye contact.”

“I–I’m sure. Thanks.” You mumble, uncomfortable with the way your pussy flutters at the prospect of receiving a spanking from the burly man in front of you.

Maybe you’d try your luck another time. Just to test it. See if he’d really be the type to follow through. But the real question was, just how disappointed would you be if he didn’t? Perhaps those kinds of scenarios were best left for the heroines in that stack of romance novels you kept hidden in the back of your bookcase.

“Well, if you change your mind, you just be sure to let me know.”

Flustered, all you can manage is a jerky nod once he finally releases you. All you can focus on is the erratic thrum of your pulse as you struggle to get your bearings.

“I see it looks like you followed the directions I sent over earlier.” Ari muses, his nimble fingers brushing along the belt of your robe. “You’d better be naked and ready for me, sweetheart. Otherwise that spanking we just talked about is gonna be back on the table.” He grins at you, which is really more like a flash of teeth than anything else.

“I am.” Comes your low, breathy response as your traitorous nipples pebble beneath the thin material of your lingerie. Wanting to please him, you decide to part the edges of your robe, giving him a glimpse of your calculated submission.

“Good girl.” That’s all you hear before he gently takes hold of your arm and begins to lead you out of the kitchen. “Guess that proves you can listen if you think the stakes are high enough.” His lopsided smirk has you confused. “But tonight I’m gonna make sure you hear me.

“But wh–ooh!” Your poorly timed question ends in a squeal when he delivers a sharp blow to your ass.

“Duchess.” Ari growls, his head dipping so that his lips dance along the shell of your ear. “I don’t wanna hear another fucking sound out of that sweet mouth unless it’s you choking on my cock. You with me?”

Stunned into silence, all you can do is nod. But thankfully it’s enough. This time when he lets you go, you scamper off into the safety of the living room without looking back. You find yourself grimacing as you attempt to rub the sting out of your butt. You’d do well to remember that your man had a hand like a flippin’ oak tree.

Ten Minutes Later…

By the time Ari decides to join you in the living room you’re feeling beyond antsy. You gave up on sitting on the couch, preferring to hang out in the middle of the room. You perk up when he finally strolls in, only to wilt once you spy what he has clutched in his fist. They looked suspiciously like…

Handcuffs.

Ari pauses by the doorway, allowing his hip to rest against the frame. He studies you, cocking his head to the side as reads the question written all over your face.

“Go on and ask, baby. I know how much it’s killing you to hold it in.”

“And who are those for?” The words come tumbling out seconds after you receive permission.

“You.” He shrugs, holding the burgundy leather cuffs up to give you a better look at them.

“Why?” Your hands fly to your hips as a fresh wave of defiance courses through your veins. “Because you found me on the roof earlier? Cuz’ I’ve gotta tell you, Beast, this is honestly starting to sound like some serious macho bullshit.”

“Is that right?” He quirks a tawny brow as he waits for you to continue.

“Yep. I–I’m all for playing, but I honestly don’t see how I did anything wrong. In fact, I bet if I was a man you wouldn’t have had a problem with me inspecting my own roof.” Your eyes narrow as you jab a finger in his direction.

“Bird.” Your nickname comes on the heels of an impatient groan. “No offense, but if you were a man, you wouldn’t be in my bed. Just a statement of fact.”

“I just meant –” You start, only for him to cut you off.

“I know what you meant. And that was my answer.” He scrubs a weary hand over his bearded jaw. “But I also know you, baby. I know you're all riled up and ready to argue with me. So gimme what else you got, so we can go about getting you straightened out good and proper.” His dark tone is full of promise, making you shiver.

Fine. If that’s how he wanted to play this, then so be it. You had no problem calling out this kind of crap when you saw it.

“Alright. But only because you asked.” You cross your arms over your chest as you raise your chin, meeting Ari’s stern gaze with an equally perturbed one of your own. “This is my house. That’s my roof, and those are my gutters. I’m responsible for their upkeep, otherwise I might not have a place to live.”

You’re surprised to see him nod, almost as if he was agreeing with you. So you keep going, assuming you’re making at least some headway with this man.

“I would also like to point out that there are millions of women whose job it is everyday to–to climb ladders and patch roofs, they clean gutters. And, hell! Some of those women might even be the ones building the houses, and you’re upset with me for inspecting my own property?” You throw your arms up in the air for good measure. “Make it make sense!”

“You done, baby?” He keeps his tone light, bordering on casual.

“I…” And here you’d thought you were making some headway. “Yes, I’m done.”

“Alright.” Ari slowly peels himself off the wall to stand at his height. “Now turn around and put your hands behind your back for me.” You immediately balk at that, although he’s quick to shush you. “Duchess, I let you speak your piece. And I am gonna respond, but tonight is all about making sure you hear me.”

“You can’t–”

“Sweetheart.” He gives an amused shake of his head as he playfully twirls the cuffs around his index finger. “Tonight ain’t the night to try and tell me what I can and can’t do with you. From the moment I met you, I knew you needed a keeper. You just don’t know how to let yourself be kept. Something I aim to fix.”

You feel your core spasm when he begins to advance, your empty walls clenching around nothing. It only gets worse when you notice the smug grin that flits across his handsome features once he stops in front of you, the tops of his boots nearly brushing your bare toes.

“And lucky for you,” his hand cups your jaw, his thumb lightly stroking along the curve of your bottom lip. “I’m not afraid to get creative when it comes to dealing with stubborn little birds. Now turn the fuck around before I decide I’m better off bending you over the arm of that couch and teaching you a different lesson entirely.”

Licking your dry lips, you finally do as you’re asked and turn away from him. You honestly weren’t sure if you could handle something like that tonight. Even though the simple threat alone was enough to have your slick practically dripping down your thighs.

“Well, would ya look at that? Guess my pretty girl is still in the mood to listen.” The slightly mocking edge to his voice has you feeling just a touch unsteady. A soft gasp escapes when Ari reaches around to untie the front of your silken wrap as his mouth hovers just above your pulse. “Let’s see if you can keep it up.”

You shudder at the feel of his warm breath dancing along your skin, the heady thrum of anticipation causing you to break out in gooseflesh as you await his next instruction.

“Take off the robe, Duchess.” Your eyes flutter closed even as sharp teeth nip at your throat. “Show me you understand that you’re not in charge right now, even if you haven’t fully grasped it yet.”

Gathering your courage, you allow the garment to slide down your body until it pools to the floor at your feet, leaving you naked and vulnerable.

“Hands next, please. There we go.” You hold still while Ari gently binds your wrists with the soft leather cuffs. “You’re doing so good for me. You really are.” He slowly tightens them, paying special attention to your body’s responses in case anything is too much.

“Are you wet for me, sweetheart? Huh?” He gives into the temptation to pinch your nipple, making you whimper. It’s a sound that goes straight to his cock. “Aww, it’s okay if you don’t wanna answer. You don’t have to.” A possessive hand moves to cup your drenched pussy at the same time as a deep purr rumbles in his chest. “I’m more than happy to see for myself.”

You remain silent, content to focus on the erratic hum of your pulse crashing in your ears. However, it’s the next instruction that throws you for a loop. Simply because it’s not one you’re expecting.

“I’m gonna need you to pick a safe word. One that you’re gonna remember to use if something we do – whatever we do – becomes too much. Now, for obvious reasons, it can’t be a word like “no” or “stop”. It needs to be something like –”

“Peppermint.” You whisper, catching yourself by surprise.

“Alright. Peppermint it is.” Ari agrees after briefly mulling it over. He drops a quick kiss on your shoulder before pulling away in favor of taking a seat on the couch, leaving you standing in the middle of the room.

Alone.

“Come here.” The command stirs something within you. Something that made you want to stop fighting and obey. “Come to me, Bird.”

So you do.

You don’t stop until you’re standing between his spread legs. Meanwhile, Ari makes a show of lounging on the sofa, his big body giving the appearance of being relaxed. But you knew better.

This man was still every inch the predator. And right now he was in charge. A fact that you would do well to remember before it went and bit you in the ass.

“Sit.”

You move to crawl onto his lap, only to stop when he shakes his head “no”. You’re confused until he pats his thigh, letting you know what he really wants from you. Biting your lip you sink down you’re straddling his thickly muscled thigh, your bare pussy pressing flush against the coarse fabric of his jeans.

Pleased with your submission thus far, Ari’s hands go rest on your hips so that he can gently knead and massage your curves.

“But I don’t understand!” You whine when he pulls away after you lean in for a kiss.

There was no way you could know just how hard it was for him to deny you like that. How much it hurt to tell you no, especially when you were pouting like you were now. But what good would it do to give you a reward when you hadn’t earned it?

“Are you in charge right now?” He can tell his unexpected harshness startles you when he notices the way your bottom lip begins to quiver. Too bad he’s having none of it. “Aw, don’t you dare give me those crocodile tears, baby. Not when we’re only just getting started.” He gifts you with a loving smack to your ass. “Tonight you’re gonna have to earn my cock. And you can start by making yourself cum.”

“Huh?” Your eyes go wide as your brain works overtime to process what he’s saying. You find it even harder to concentrate when one of his fingers begins tracing along the curve of your nipple.

“I see you’re still not hearing me.” His lightly calloused palms return to your hips so that he can begin slowly guiding you up and down his jean-covered thigh, creating the most delicious friction on your clit. “Which means tonight’s gonna wind up being a kind of punishment for us both.”

“But why–?”

“That’s enough outta you.” He grunts before politely jamming a pair of thick fingers into your mouth, gagging you. “You know it’s funny, I noticed you tend to listen better when this pretty hole is stuffed full. Now, how about we give this another try?”

He waits to speak again until you give him a nod.

“As I was saying, sweet Bird, you’re gonna have to work for this cock. Same goes for my fingers, for my tongue…” Ari chuckles at the sound of your pitiful little whimpers. “Since you wanna be so fucking stubborn all the time – so damned reckless – this is all you’re gonna get from me.” Your cunt pulses when you feel his thigh flex beneath you. “This right here.”

“Mmpf!” You cry out, only to think better of it when he adjusts his grip on your chin, nearly choking you with his fingers in the process. It also didn’t help that you could feel your pussy was practically dripping, making a mess on his jeans.

“Still ain’t your turn to talk, baby.” He reminds you, almost mockingly. “You gotta learn to be more patient. Otherwise we’ll be at this all night – not that I mind any.” He’s quick to tack on the last part when he notices the way your body stiffens in response.

He suspected you weren’t a fan of being held captive like this. His suspicions are confirmed when you shimmy in his lap, calling attention to your bonds with the aid of an angry glare.

“Oh, you wanna know about the cuffs.” He muses as he takes a moment to wipe away a bit of drool on your chin. “That’s to keep you from touching me the way you’ll want to when you’re busy grinding that needy little pussy on my thigh. I want you to understand what it’s like to have something you want be so close – I’m talkin’ right in front of you – and yet somehow so far at the same time. Kinda like how I felt when I saw you on that roof.”

This was about payback. You think as understanding finally dawns. You knew you’d pissed him off today, scared him even. But you’d had no idea that it would lead to this – you being naked and cuffed while perched on the bounty hunter’s lap.

“Earlier you accused me of being on some kinda macho bullshit. But that ain’t it at all.” His southern drawl grows more pronounced as a bold hand trails its way down the valley between your breasts. “Now it is true that there are women out there who build houses, clean gutters, climb scaffolding – so I’ll give you that point, sweetheart.” His hand is moving again, this time drifting lower until he reaches the softness of your belly.

“However, the difference between those women and you is that they are trained for that. Whereas you are not. You got no clue what you’re doing up there or the danger you’re messing with.” Ari clears his throat, his sensual lips now set in a thin, firm line. “But even more importantly, those women ain’t mine.” For some reason, his words have your nerve endings buzzing with excitement.

“You’re mine, baby. I’m not sure what it’s gonna take to make that penetrate, but it is what it is.” He shrugs before gently removing his fingers from your mouth. “I take care of what’s mine in this relationship. I already told you I would take care of those gutters, whether it was me doin’ it myself or finding you a professional, it was always gonna get done. If I was movin’ too slow then you shoulda said something instead of trying to tackle it yourself.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” You breathe as you lightly tug at your restraints. “I am. Now why don’t you uncuff me so I can show you how much?”

“I don’t think so.” Ari cocks his head to the side while he pretends to consider your offer. “Aw. Are we really back to pouting again just that fast, little Bird? Oh well. Guess it’s time you show me how you ride.”

“I can’t though.” You whine, feeling at turns both needy and frustrated.

“You haven’t even tried.” He fires back dismissively. “You manage to get yourself off using only my thigh, I’ll let you have as much of my cock as you can take. Now let’s get on with it. Time to give your man a show.”

With that he leans back, expectantly crossing his arms behind his head. And then he winks, signaling that he’s over any attempts to stall.

You’re still glaring at him when you finally begin to move. Your toes dig into the plush carpet as you work to maintain your balance, but it’s not easy. You also learn that it’s damn near impossible to produce that same kind of amazing friction you’d tasted earlier without being able to bear down on his thigh.

You needed help. It was either that, or convince him to give you back the use of your hands.

“Please.” You pant as you continue to grind against him, hating the way he chuckles when you fall forward against his chest. “It’s not working…” You struggle to sit back up, your breasts heaving as you wait to catch your breath before starting again.

“You’re damn right it’s not working.” Ari agrees, running a hand through his already tousled locks. “Here I am being patient, waiting for you to make a mess on my thigh, and all I’m getting is complaining.”

The smug bastard then has the nerve to lightly jostle his leg, sending you sprawling face-first into his broad chest yet again with a muffled “oof”. And he offers no help when you go to sit up, instead he chooses to watch you struggle. Almost as if he finds it amusing.

So you start over, this time determined to get yourself off. After that you’d make him uncuff you and then you’d kick his sexy ass out of your godforsaken house for the rest of the night.

“C’mon, baby.” He coos, leaning forward to lap up a single frustrated tear with his sinful tongue. “Don’t cry. We both know that greedy pussy of yours needs more than what you’re givin’ it right now.”

“Ungh! Shut. Up.” You sob through clenched teeth as your head comes to rest on his shoulder. At least that seemed to make things a little easier. Sweet fuck that was starting to feel good! Now if you just moved a little to the left and – your movements are halted when Ari fists a hand in your hair before dragging you backwards.

“Nooo…” You wail in protest as a thin sheen of perspiration covers your skin.

“Tsk, tsk. No cheating.” Your bounty hunter chides.

“But I can’t – it’s too hard.” You tell him, hating how small and whiny you sound. “I need…I need…”

“Help?” Ari finishes, pinning you with a knowing look. “Because if that’s the case – if that’s really what you need – then all you have to do is ask.” His warm, calloused hands find their way to your hips, holding you steady. “So…ask.”

“M–may I…” You blow out a breath as before starting over. “Will you please help me cum?” You feel your cheeks heat as the words come tumbling out.

“That depends, sweetheart.” He responds thoughtfully. “Are you gonna be my good girl and accept the help however I give it?”

“Yes, Sir.” You tell him. “I’ll be so good for you.”

That’s all Ari needs to hear, because this time when you move he stays with you. Helping guide your body as you work for your pleasure. He watches in awe as you ride him like the goddess you are, your tits bouncing as you writhe against him.

“That’s right, greedy girl. Use me.” His dick grows harder with every breathless cry that spills from your lips as you follow his commands. “Fuck yeah.” He groans, capturing a pert nipple between his teeth before sucking as much of your ample breast into his mouth as he can manage.

“S’good, baby!” You sob when he flexes his thigh. By now you’ve soaked your way through his jeans, not that he gives a damn. “YesYesYes!”

If only because you were finally giving him exactly what he wanted.

“That’s it, Bird.” One of his hands slides to your bottom, squeezing the tempting flesh before helping you adjust the angle of your ride. “Keep getting me nice and sloppy, otherwise I’m gonna have to tear this ass up. Is that what you want?”

He delivers several sharp slaps, making you cry out even as you feel that invisible coil tighten in your belly. God, you were so fucking close. You’d never been made to orgasm like this before, but you knew you were only seconds from coming undone.

“Nah.” He continues as he bites the underside of your breast, not missing the way it makes your pussy gush. “It might not be what you want, but it’s what you need. Right now my girl needs it rough.” He laves at the small hurt with his tongue. “And as your man, I always aim to give it however you need it.”

“OhGod!Yes!” You keen as white hot pleasure threatens to consume you, your eyes rolling back in your head. “I–I’m gonna…oh fuck!”

Sensing that you’re seconds from tumbling over the edge, Ari pauses to lift you off of his thigh in one fluid motion – effectively ruining your orgasm. Instantly you feel as if your entire body has been doused with cold water.

“What’re you..?” Your eyes shoot open as he holds you suspended in the air, your abused cunt spasming in protest. “Why’d we stop?” You peer between your bodies, feeling both ashamed and proud of the sizable wet spot you managed to leave behind on his jeans.

“Because I don’t think you’re ready to cum just yet.” He smiles when your mouth drops open to emit a strangled groan. “After all, they say a hard head makes for a soft behind. Or in your case I suppose, a tender pussy.” He surveys your poor, swollen clit peeking out from between your puffy lips.

“But I already said I was sorry.” You plead, wishing he would either set you down or at least touch you the way you needed.

“And you’ll have the rest of the night to prove it to the both of us.” Ari muses, a small part of him taking pleasure in your obvious frustration. “In the meantime, I think it’s time you went for another ride.” He settles you back on his thigh once more before resting his arms behind his head.

“Now, show me what you learned.”

END

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justabrunettewhowrites-stuff · 3 months

Text

'Spring Formal'

Clarisse La Rue x DaughterOfAphrodite!Reader

A/N:Never thought I'd actually write something this long but I was watching tiktoks and had an idea 💀 but anyways-

Clarisse La Rue, daughter of Ares, stormed into the Camp Half-Blood Spring Formal with her usual scowl, her outfit glinting in the dim light.She wasn't one for fancy events,but Chiron insisted that it was a chance for demigods to bond.Little did she know,this particular formal would change her perspective on more than just parties.

The pavilion was adorned with twinkling lights, and the scent of ambrosia and nectar wafted through the air. Clarisse scanned the room, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the children of Athena huddled together, discussing tactics for capture the flag. Her gaze shifted to the son of Hermes,sneaking snacks from the refreshment table.

However,what truly caught Clarisse off guard was the vision of beauty that entered the pavilion.You,a daughter of Aphrodite, wearing a breathtaking silver gown that shimmered with every step.The dress clung to your curves,and the delicate straps revealed a hint of your sun-kissed shoulders.

As the night progressed, Clarisse found herself observing from a distance, unable to shake the sense of longing that gripped her. The daughter of Ares was accustomed to battles and conquests, not matters of the heart. She retreated to the edges of the pavilion, silently watching as you twirled and laughed with others.

Clarisse was known for her toughness and combat skills, but beneath that exterior lay a heart that few had glimpsed.But she wasn't about to fall for an Aphrodite kid of all people!

However,Clarisse,as tough as she was,unaccustomed to such beauty, felt a strange flutter in her chest. She couldn't tear her eyes away as you twirled on the dance floor,your laughter echoing like the sweetest melody.

As the night unfolded,Clarisse observed you from a distance,feeling a mix of awe and frustration.She couldn't deny the undeniable pull she felt.But then,her jealousy flared when she noticed you dancing with Luke, another camper,who seemed equally smitten by your charms.

Clarisse scowled,clenching her fists as she watched them glide across the dance floor. A surge of conflicting emotions swirled within her. The daughter of Ares, usually unyielding in battle, found herself grappling with a different kind of conflict—a battle of the heart.

Determined to push aside her unexpected feelings, Clarisse decided to join the dance floor. With her armor clanking, she approached the scene, cutting in between you and Luke.The daughter of Ares extended her hand to you, surprising both herself and the onlookers.

"Mind if I cut in?" Clarisse's usual tone,gruff and authoritative,carried a hint of vulnerability that she never thought she'd reveal.

You,even if momentarily taken aback, smiled and accepted Clarisse's invitation.You two began to dance, a clash of strength and grace.Clarisse struggled to find the right words,but you,with your innate charm, eased the tension.

As they danced, Clarisse's initial jealousy transformed into a realization—an acknowledgment of the unexpected connection she felt with you. The daughter of Ares, known for her battles, found herself engaged in a different kind of skirmish—one that unfolded in the silent language of shared glances and unspoken emotions.

In the midst of the dance, Clarisse mustered the courage to speak. "You look... different tonight." she grumbled, struggling to articulate her thoughts.

You chuckled, the sound like a soft breeze. "Different good or different bad?"

"Good, I guess," Clarisse admitted, surprising herself with the honesty.

As the night progressed,you continued to dance,your movements synchronized in a dance of emotions neither of you fully understood.The daughter of Ares, usually quick to anger, found herself navigating a maze of feelings she had never encountered before.

Eventually, they found a quiet corner where they could talk away from the lively music and curious gazes.

"Why did you dance with Luke?" Clarisse blurted out, unable to contain the question that had been gnawing at her.

Your eyes softened, and you sighed. "Luke asked me, and I didn't want to be rude. But honestly, I'd rather be dancing with someone else."

The admission hung in the air, and Clarisse felt a strange mixture of relief and trepidation. Your gaze met hers, and in that moment, the daughter of Ares realized the vulnerability you both shared.

"Someone else, huh?" Clarisse mumbled, trying to hide the hope in her voice.

You nodded,your smile gentle. "Someone strong,someone who surprises me, someone like you..."

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rhey-007 · 6 months

Text

Love is a flame that thrives in the darkest corners of our hearts.

Fernando Alonso x goth mommy!reader || 18+

Summary: A Halloween party led Fernando to meet his one and only Morticia.

A/N: So it's the first time I write for Fernando so I might have not caught the essence of him, but I tried my best. Also, I love all the young readers (especially young mommy readers) but I'm kind of bored of them :// And I've never yet encountered an older reader so I decided to make this fic's reader around Nando's age with two sons - a 17 year old and 3 year old (which aren't really relevant here). She's also taller than him (181 cm, something like Lance). I'm also not that deep into the f1 universe yet and I don't know who's friends with who from the drivers so I just picked Carlos and Lando for Fernando's closest paddock friends (correct me pls).

+ The situation is completely made up. And I apologise if the Spanish and German parts are bad 😔🤚

Warnings/Tags: smut, 18+, older female reader, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, older reader, kids

Art to the fic

Wordcount: 4219 (around)

Masterlist

✧༺♥༻✧

Halloween was approaching with huge steps, just as a particular big costume party in Berlin did, to which all the F1 drivers were invited. Everyone was excited, besides the oldest one, driving for the turquoise team – Fernando Alonso.

His indifference was caused by the feeling he was too old for such parties and the fact that he had no one to go with. But after on going persuasion from Lando and Carlos, the poor man gave in and agreed to attend the event.

Although there was another problem – lack of creativity. Fernando had no idea what he should wear and if only he could, he would just throw on the first two things he'd find in his wardrobe. But he couldn’t. No, he had to have some costume. That’s when Norris and Sainz stepped in once again.

„What about Ghostface? "

The youngest asked enthusiasticaly. The three of them sitting in a cafe, drinking their coffees and teas and discussing their costumes. Both of them already knew what they were going to wear but refused to tell for a surprise effect at the party.

„Cliché! "

Carlos responded before he put forward his proposition.

„How about Beetlejuice?”

He asked sipping his chocolate macchiato but earned a displeased look from Lando, who didn’t agree.

„Really? Beetlejuice? Come on! I know his 40 but no one has to know! "

Noriss huffed crossing his arms.

„But Beetlejuice is iconic! "

The two started to argue, making everyone around them pay attention to them. Fernando sighed shaking his head, a little embarrassed by his friends’ behavior.

„If you won't stop arguing I'm not gonna go... "

He hissed trying to calm down the boys, who acted like children.

„Isn’t there a character that doesn’t need a lot of preparation from me? Someone... I don't know... Looking like me? "

Alonso asked after the boys finally stopped their childish quarrel. They both looked at Fernando, then at themselves with mischievous smiles and back at Nando.

„You know... "

Lando started, circling his finger on the wooden table.

„There is that one easy... spooky... Spanish character... "

Carlos continued smiling sweetly at his friend. Alonso quickly understood who they meant, his eyes widening and shook his head disapprovingly.

„No, no, no. I ain't going with Gomez. He makes no sense without Morticia. And you know well I DO NOT have one... "

„It doesn’t matter! I'm sure there's going to be a lot of Morticia's trying to find their Gomez! "

Lando smiled excitedly, he already could see Fernando as the head of Addams family dancing on the dance floor with some beautiful, georgous woman. It was also a great opportunity for the spaniard to find a new lover.

„But it's the easiest character for you! All you need is a striped suit, which I already know where to buy, and some gel for your hair. That's it! "

Lando tried to argument their point as well as he could with a slight help from Carlos.

„He's right. And maybe you’ll be lucky enough to find yourself a chick, finally. We have enough of you grumbling you have enough being alone... „"

The man whispered the last sentence hoping Nando won't hear it, but he did and softly smacked the back of Sainz's head. He did in fact had enough of being alone, as well as seeing all the guys glued to their girlfriends on the paddock, kissing, giggling and being happy. He wanted to puke at the only thought. After an hour of Carlos and Lando stating their pluses for the idea, and Fernando sinking in them, the older man finally but reluctantly agreed.

✧༺♥༻✧

When the time came, Nando put on his Gomez suit – it had not only white stripes but also turquoise ones as well as white – turquoise rose in the chest pocket - that Lando found for him and brushed his hair back with gel, leaving some loose strands for the hairstyle to look better. Carlos and Charles picked him up dressed as Mario and Luigi. Fernando could swear they argued which one would be Mario, and it amused him a little when he saw them.

„Hey man! Where's your Morticia? "

Leclerc teased with a smirk. Fernando just rolled his eyes and kicked Sainz’ sit to make him drive away already.

Soon they arrived to the party, stepping out of the car Norris and Piastri quickly greeted them dressed as Scooby and Shaggy with Lily dressed as Velma. The six of them walked in, loud music filling their ears. They filled one of the booths and immediately ordered drinks. Halloween sangrias, raven coktails and other drinks as quickly appeared on the table, as quickly disappeared from it.

While the guys danced Lando tried his best to find a Morticia for Fernando. He was right, there were a lot of them. All of them looked the same with small alterations to the dress, well they were all the same character after all.

Neither of them grasped Alonso's interest and the man was about to give up when he run into one of them after leaving the bathroom. She was different. Taller, older, mature, more dedicated to the role, more passionate. She caught his eye immediately.

„Oh god, I'm sorry”

He said after bumping into her, before she turned around and took his breath away.

„It's okay liebling~” (darling)

The woman smiled down at Nando, her voice like honey to his ears. The man took a good look at her.

Her slender fingers were wrapped around a glass - he wished they could be wrapped around his neck - pale skin shined in the lights as if she was one of the Cullens - he wondered if it burned in the sun - her eyes so dark he wasn’t sure if they were real, sharp canine teeth he wanted sanked deep in his neck so bad. She seemed like a real life vampire.

„Let me guess... You're a Gomez looking for his Morticia? "

She spoke up, getting him out of trance. A soft blush spread across the man's face, barely visible under the red light he was standing in, and he nodded sheepishly. The woman chuckled warmly, her tone changing from a playful to flirtatious one.

„Well, then I guess you're lucky. You've got yourself an einzigartig one~” (unique)

Stretching her hand towards Fernando, expecting him to kiss it she didn’t have to wait long as he obliged immediately. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of her palm before asking in a gentleman manner.

„Would you like to dance? "

The woman agreed and after finishing her drink they were off to the dance floor.

They had a pretty good time, the woman taught Fernando a few moves, they were chatting throughout and giggling at the ridiculous costumes.

„I have to admit, you're an amazing dancer. You could make it to Dancing with the Stars”

She teased with a gorgeous smile, making Fernando practically melt in her embrace. He held onto her waist tightly as if she was going to run away the moment he'd let go.

But she wouldn’t. She was too mesmerized by the man to do so. Fernando shook his head at her words.

„No, no, cariño. You're the one who can really dance here”

Nando praised her then pressed another kiss to her hand and squeezed it gently. He was such a sweet gentleman it made butterflies fly in her stomach. Soon Alonso took her back to his booth where he realized he didn’t even knew her name.

✧༺♥༻✧

„I'm Y/N”

You said with a smile while shaking the guys’ hands. You’ve managed to catch that they all were F1 drivers and the girl was a girlfriend of one of them.

They were really nice people, aside the fact they were joking about your height difference, but still the only one you were really interested in was Fernando.

He was amazing - charming, handsome, soft, flirty. He had strong arms you wanted wrapped around yourself all the time, gentle hands that made you shiver, his wrinkles made him even more handsome and the shining hazel eyes made you loose yourself in them.

After some time you were left alone with the girl as the boys went to order more drinks.

„Are you as much invested in racing as them?"

You asked Lily and the girl shook her head.

„Not really. I support Oscar as much as I can but I still don’t get some of the things, like penalties, nor the whole hype. But y'know, I try my best”

Nodding your head you reciprocated the smile. You wondered how it was to be an F1 driver's girlfriend. For sure it wasn’t easy, especially because of the media and rumors, but you believed they could overcome it.

„So are you all here because of a race? Or did you just get the invitations to boost the event? "

„Well, there is a race here in a few days, but I wouldn't be surprised if the boostin up was true too! "

You both chuckled amuzed, you had to admit you wouldn’t be surprised either.

You quickly started to like the girl, she was really mature and smart for her age, not like her boyfriend.

Lily liked you too, she enjoyed the youthful vibe you radiated and the fact that Fernando seemed to finally find a woman perfect for himself. She just hoped you wouldn’t be just a one night stand.

„Well, well, well. I see our girls already get along. It's a good sign buddy~”

Piastri teased, nudging Fernando’s side as they came back. The older man rolled his eyes a bit annoyed before sitting down beside you and handing you your black magic margarita.

You took it after a quick ‘thanks' escaped your lips and took a sip, meanwhile your free hand made it's way to his lap to sooth it and signal everything's okay and there was no need to be annoyed. Nando relaxed under your touch and took your hand in his, interwining fingers together.

You continued your chat with Lily, from time to time joining the men's conversation. You really enjoyed their company.

✧༺♥༻✧

When the night passed you were finally left alone with Nando. Your legs layed on top of his, his arm wrapped around your waist pulling you close while your hand toyed with the hem of his jacket.

You both were a little tipsy, but sober enough to notice the sexual tension.

„My chauffeur will be here soon, thought we could get out of here and have some more fun~”

You purred into his ear. Feeling his hand squeeze your hip afterwards was enough for you to know that he was more than keen on it.

When your chauffeur arrived you left the bar and quickly hopped into your 50s Cadillac Hearse. The man completely forgot that someone might have seen you and take photos, he was too occupied by you.

Fernando’s lips immediately attacked yours the moment he closed the door. You were devoured into the passionate kiss and didn’t even notice the man’s hands starting to roam your body.

They were warm, burning in contrast to your freezing ones. When you burried them under Nando's shirt you could feel him shiver but soon he relaxed.

The drive to your small ghotic castle in Zehlendorf took around 30 minutes, but felt like 5 as you were drowned in your dirty ministrations.

Good thing the window to the front of the car was closed, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to do that. It was nothing much sexual, just kiss by kiss while your hands explored each others’ body respectfully.

You belived Fernando saved his – what Lando and Sainz called – freaky side for while you were in the bedroom and you didn’t want to rush anything, it was perfect as it was.

The man pulled you out of the car when it stopped, he didn’t bother to look at the facility as he carried you bridal style to the door. Your butler opened it and instructed Alonso to your bedroom where he quickly took you and gently settled on the bed.

You pulled him into another searing kiss while fiddling with the buttons of his jacket. The man took it off after you slowly and playfully unbuttoned it, while not breaking eye contact, and tossed it to the floor.

Next was your black fur. His shirt. Your gorset. Bit by bit you undressed each other. You appreciated how gentle he was with your garments, he figured they were expensive and he also liked them too much to ruin them.

Once you finally layed naked underneeth him he examined you in a lustful but also admiring way.

Your breasts were rather small - but he didn’t mind, stretch marks graced your lower belly, hips and thighs - he already knew he was going to follow the patterns with his fingers afterwards while softly tickling you, he could aslo see your ribs – barely but still – and he knew he would have to be careful with you. You were even more thin than he thought, almost slander like, but he liked that.

You were a change from all the younger, tanned, almost everywhere full woman he usually hooked up with, and it was a nice change.

You also were able to survey him better. He was even better built than you imagined, his tanned skin looked like caramel compared to your almost ghostish one, and the beautfiul samurai tattoo made you gasp when you noticed it in a mirror behind.

Also his ass cheeks... They were bigger than yours and you felt kind of jelous, in a funny way.

„Hermosa... perfecta... asombrosa... “ (beautiful, perfect, breathtaking)

He praised, his lips slowly making their way down your cold body.

“Y apuesto inteligente” (And I bet intelligent)

Fernando stopped just before your womanhood and said with a smirk painted on his face, his eyes piercing yours. His words were like spells, making your body shrink under his and warmth spread across it.

“Fernie...”

You breathed out, begging him to go lower which he obliged right away. It felt like bliss when he finally reached your rose, slowly licking it from the very bottom up to your sensitive bud, before starting to slowly devour it.

Saying he was skilled was an understatement, he was an expert. He was nothing like your ex-husband, who just used you for his own pleasure.

No. For Fernando your pleasure was a priority, making you enjoy your time with him was numero uno on his to do list for the rest of the night, and you didn’t complain.

When you were wet enough the man brought one of his fingers up to your entrance, touching it slightly while his eyes averted to yours, an asking expression on his face.

He didn’t have to say anything for you to nodd your head eagerly. After that he pushed his digit inside slowly, his eyes not leaving your face searching for any sign of discomfort. But there was none, so after a few thrusts that made you moan his name in such a beautiful way, he pushed another one and went a little bit faster.

The pace was neither painfully fast nor boringly slow, it was just perfect – his fingers hitting all the juicy spots and making lewd noises each time they pulled out and reentered you - enough for you to come undone in a short period of time.

Your hand gripped his brown locks while you came on his face. Nando tried his best to ride you through your high - his lips joining his fingers - then clean you the best he could.

Your heavy breaths were interrupted by his face suddenly appearing in front of yours. A huge grin graced it - you could tell he was proud with himself and his actions – and your juices were spread across his lips and beard.

You giggled a little at his puppy like behaviour, you could swear if he had a tail it would’ve been wagging like craz in that moment. You’ve managed to grab a tissue from your nightstand then clean his face.

“Es war wundervoll” (it was amazing)

You praised him with a smile while ruffling his hair.

“It wasn’t the end”

The man said before pressing his lips against yours. This time the kiss was more hungry and lustful than soft as the ones before, but you didn’t mind.

His palms toyed with your breasts, they fit in them perfectly making Nando groan satisfyingly. He kept teasing you until you couldn’t take it anymore and moaned out.

„Nando please... I need you... I need you inside of me liebling...” (darling)

You didn’t have to repeat yourself. The man grabbed your hand and run it gently through your sore core to gather your juices, then wrapped it around his member, giving it a few pumps before aligning with your hole.

He interwined your fingers together and slowly pushed inside, the stretch he gave you burned a little but soon was a delight.

After pushing almost all the way in Nando let you adjust, his free hand soothing your cheek as he observed your face shine in pleasure.

“Maravilloso” (wonderfull)

A whisper escaped his lips and just then did he start to move. His movement was slow but deep, his member burrying deep inside of you with every thrust.

“Tan bueno...” (So good)

Fernando moaned into your ear then hid his face in the crook of your neck, where he nibbled at your skin and left a few hickeys along with wet kisses.

His movements became more and more erratic with every push and pull as he lost himself in the feeling of you. He loved the way you clenched around him every time he hit the A spot, as much as he loved the challange to find your G spot to grant you ultimate pleasure.

You wrapped your free hand around the man, long, red nails scratching his skin gently and leaving soft red marks.

You couldn’t remember when was the last time you had such an amzing sex. Maybe because after your husband you opted for younger men, neither able to satisfy you.

But Fernando? He was your age and knew well how to satisfy a woman. You felt like a queen while in his embrace, his priority to make you feel good amazed you and sent a thrill down your spine.

Both your legs were wrapped around him too, trying to pull him even closer to yourself. A smirk appeared on his face at your actions and he pulled it away from your neck to look at you.

“Necesitada~”(needy)

The man teased, one of his hands finding it’s way to your breast to fiddle with your hard nipple. It earned a loud moan out of you, so loud he feared someone could hear you two, but soon the thought left his head when you started to breathe rapidly.

You were close to your orgasm, which meant he could finally let himself go and make his movements faster and sloppier.

Grunts, pants and moans filled the room as both of you reached your highs, the man pulled out before cumming which you really appreciated.

Fernando collapsed on top of you as you both breathed heavily, yours hampered by his weight.

“Fernie liebling... I can’t breath...”

You mumbled kissing the top of his head, a chuckle escaping your lips when he shot up, a worried expression on his face.

„I-I’m so sorry cariño. Are you okay?”

He asked and cleaned you from his seed. His hands soothing your rib cage gently, from time to time brushing against your breasts as he looked down at you, eyes full of worry and brows furrowed.

„Nein... I’m great” (No)

You smiled brightly and the man sighed in relief. He flopped down beside you and pulled you close then covered your bodies with your cashmere blanket.

Just as he predicted his hands immediately wandered to your hips, drawing your stretch mark patters, while you layed your head on top of his chest and listened to his heart beat.

If only you could you would have gone another round, this time you on top and in control as you usually would, but you were too tired to even think about this.

„Next time I'm in charge”

You murmured into his chest, earning a quiet, surprised gasp. He didn’t question your words though, he just enjoyed the fact you wanted there to be a next time.

The rest of the night you’ve spent in each others’ embraces, whispering sweet nothings and drawing patterns on each other’s bodies until you fell asleep.

✧༺♥༻✧

Sun peaked from between the black, floor length curtains into the dark room, reaching his skin and burning his eyes.

The man grumbled a little before finally waking up from the deep sleep. Fernando sat up on the bed and rubbed his eyes then looked around the room.

„Where the hell am I?...”

He questioned confused. He didn’t bother to check his surroundings the night before and now he wondered if he didn’t get abducted.

The walls of your bedroom were burgundy red with black stripes, a black chandelier hanged from the ceiling as well as black canopy above the bed.

The bed was huge, in the same colors as the walls and everything else in the room. It felt like straight out of vampire novels.

Quickly putting on his clothes, he almost tripped and fell down the stairs, his bum actually hitting the last step at the very bottom - as his head was still heavy - made the people gathered in the kitchen check what was going on.

„Mama! Dieser Wichser ist endlich aufgewacht!“ (Mom! That motherfucker has finally woke up!)

„Klaus! Pass auf was du sagst!” (Klaus! Watch your mouth!)

Soon Nando felt the familiar cold hands grip his arm and help get up.

„Are you okay?

The woman asked, her hands soothing his cheeks worriedly. He leaned into her touch and noddded with lidded eyes.

„Oh mi amor, you scared me”

She continued while leading him to the kitchen and sat him down by the table.

„Here, this will wake you up”

A cup of dark liquid and a pill appeared in front of him, he figured it was coffe and hangover pills. A single sip helped him regain his mind.

The first face he met after fully opening his eyes was of a small kid’s, brightly smiling at him. The boy waved his hand enthusiastically when he noticed Fernando’s soft smile.

The man had to quickly take the pill before the boy could reach it then ruffled his hair gently, earning a giggle and a warm look from his mother.

„Good morning~”

You purred running your hand through the spaniard’s hair while his arm wrapped round your waist pulling you close.

„Buenos dias, cariño” (Good morning)

He kissed your hand then his head snapped to your older son who let out a sound of disgust.

The boy looked nothing like you aside the fact that he was a giant as well. He had blonde locks covering his forehead, green hooded eyes and tanned skin. He could not believe he was your son.

The younger one, on the other hand, was more similar to you – with dark hair and eyes, only with a tanned skin like Klaus.

„Those are my sons – Klaus and little Benny”

You explained while giving Fernando a plate full of food.

„They just came back from my brother”

You quickly added, to dispel his thoughts they could hear you two the previosu night. The man sighed relieved and started to eat, from time to time looking at your sons and earning death stares from Klaus.

He didn’t mind you had kids, but started to worry he was just a one night stand before your husband comes back.

Although if that was the case you wouldn’t let him sleep as long as he wanted, feed him and let him meet your children. Nando had no idea what to think anymore, he didn’t want your ‘realtionship’ to end after one night.

Soon a doorbell disturbed his thoughts. A doorbell that was about to start chaos. You left the boys alone to open it and you didn’t manage to say anything before Lando and Carlos burst in.

“Fernando! Where the hell are ya?!”

He could hear their scared voices from the kitchen and chuckled a little. They run into the kitchen after you instrcuted them and sighed.

“God you’re alright! Knew we shouldn’t have left you alone. No offense Y/N. Your manager is going to kill ALL THREE OF US if you won’t be at the track in an hour! He’s been calling you all day but you left your phone in the club!”

Lando blurted out on one breath while Carlos picked the spaniard up and proceeded to push him out of the building. You’ve managed to catch them before they got inside their car and gave Fernando your business card along with a chaste kiss.

“Call me!”

You waved your hand goodbye as you watched them drive away, standing in front of your black castle in nothing more than your long, pitch black robe with feathers and full of hope that he would call.

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hyperlexichypatia · 17 days

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One time I asked my mom (in her 70s) whether she, personally, knew any people in so-called "traditional marriages." I defined a "traditional marriage" as follows:

A man and a woman, married to each other

They are both each other's first and only spouse, neither has been married before

Neither of them has any children with any other partner

Any children they have were born after the couple was married.

After thinking about it, my mom was able to come up with a few examples of such couples. But only a few. And she had to think about it.

Yet we still live in a society where this type of family is considered "the norm" and the much more common types (blended families, single parents, divorced people) are considered "exceptions."

And this is not the only thing like this! There are many experiences/lifestyles/family types that are treated as The Default or The Norm that, in fact, may not apply to a majority at all!

Even in discussions like "We should remember that not everyone has [normative experience]," it's still framed as though the normative experience is, of course, still the statistical norm. It might not be at all! Or maybe it is the statistical norm worldwide, or nationwide, but not in your particular community, or your social circle.

Sometimes it's necessary to look at global or national statistics to correct your bias of extrapolating from your social circle. Social bubbles are a real problem. But. But. Other times. It's useful to just look at your social circle and ask yourself "Do these population-wide statistics really apply here? Should I be looking at them to determine what's 'normal' instead of just looking around me?"

So here are some things that are culturally assumed in the U.S. to be "the norm", that you might want to ask yourself: How many people do I know personally that this is actually true of? (Other countries have their own maybe-not-that-normal norms that I'm not as familiar with, but feel free to weigh in on).

How many people do you know personally who:

Have a "traditional marriage" as described above?

Have a work schedule of Monday through Friday, ending at 5:00 p.m.? i.e. for whom Saturdays, Sundays, and evenings after 5:00 are "not at work" time?

Attended residential college from ages 18 to 22, and graduated with a bachelor's degree by age 23?

Had most or all of their college tuition and living expenses paid for by their parents?

Have, as an adult, the same surname as both of their parents, who were and still are, married to each other? Which was their father's surname which their mother took at marriage? i.e. whose parents could accurately be referred to as "Mr. and Mrs. [that persons' same surname]"?

Don't take any regular daily medicine?

Depending on your social circle, you might know very few people in these categories! But you probably still hear people say unquestioned, taken-for-granted things like "We should have the meeting at 6:00, so people can come after work," or "Of course parents of college students should have a say, since they're paying for it."

In many demographics, these things aren't just "not always true"; they're hardly if ever true. I wrote here about the false assumption that college students are uniformly single, childless young adults. Are you scheduling your events on the assumption that evenings and weekends are free time? For that matter, how many child care providers serve families during the hours that most parents actually work? Are we ready to admit that these things aren't the norm yet?

#normative social assumptions #family structure #family structure shaming #shift work #addressing parents as “mr. & mrs. [child's last name]” when you have no idea whether that's accurate

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jaynovz · 8 months

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In discussions about the finale of Black Sails, one of the things I often see is folks hard-focusing on Flint's fate, in an either-or binary fashion, usually presented as "Which do you believe-- that Silver killed him? or sent him to the plantation?"

Now, for posterity's sake, gonna mention a few things-- first off, that's simply not thinking broadly enough. There are farrrr more than two options here and I've come up with my share of the reallyyyyy bad ones for sure. Whatever your mind chooses, none of those are happy endings anyway, there are bittersweet, bad, and worse endings all the way down. (They are paused, they are in a time loop, and also all endings and no endings are happening simultaneously)

But also, the more cogent point is that, it doesn't actually matter what happened *to Flint* The story is... not actually about him at that point. We have transitioned from Flint as protag to Silver as protag, setting up for (the fanfiction that Black Sails has ended up making of, ugh, king shit) Treasure Island.

And so, I just, don't find it to be of particular interest exploring what we think Flint is actually doing or if he's alive for real. What is EXTREMELY interesting to explore though is how Silver's speech at the end to Madi is sort of giving Thomas back to Flint as a pacifier/comfort object, but how... Silver is giving Flint that thing in his own mind as his own type of pacifier/comfort object.

That's the REALLY chewy bit. What actually happens to Flint is not the purpose of that scene for me, of Silver's recounting of events to Madi. It's more about... projection. It's about how Silver is dealing with whatever happened to Flint/whatever he did.

And I just feel like it's missing the point to focus so hard on if Flint is alive or not.

He is the ghost of the story regardless, that's what's important. He's going to haunt the narrative for the rest of everyone's lives. No one has been untouched or unscarred by coming into contact with Captain Flint; he has a forever legacy. I'm not the first to call him this, but he's Schrödinger's Flint and he's staying that way.

But this?

"No. I did not kill Captain Flint. I unmade him. The man you know could never let go of his war. For if he were to exclude it from himself, he would not be able to understand himself. So I had to return him to an earlier state of being. One in which he could function without the war. Without the violence. Without us. Captain Flint was born out of great tragedy. I found a way to reach into the past... and undo it. There is a place near Savannah... where men unjustly imprisoned in England are sent in secret. An internment far more humane, but no less secure. Men who enter these gates never leave them. To the rest of the world, they simply cease to be. He resisted... at first. But then I told him what else I had heard about this place. I was told prominent families amongst London society made use of it. I was told the governor in Carolina made use of it. So I sent a man to find out if they'd used it to hide away one particular prisoner. He returned with news. Thomas Hamilton was there. He disbelieved me. He continued to resist. And corralling him took great effort. But the closer we got to Savannah, his resistance began to diminish. I couldn't say why. I wasn't expecting it. Perhaps he'd finally reached the limits of his physical ability to fight. Or perhaps as the promise of seeing Thomas got closer... he grew more comfortable letting go of this man he created in response to his loss. The man whose mind I had come to know so well... whose mind I'd in some ways incorporated into my own. It was a strange experience to see something from it... so unexpected. I choose to believe it... because it wasn't the man I had come to know at all... but one who existed beforehand... waking from a long... and terrible nightmare. Reorienting to the daylight... and the world as it existed before he first closed his eyes... letting the memory of the nightmare fade away. You may think what you want of me. I will draw comfort in the knowledge that you're alive to think it. But I'm not the villain you fear I am. I'm not him."

This is the speech of a man who is self-soothing, who is spinning himself a tale, who is projecting, who is coping.

and THAT is just, way chewier, innit?

#Now that's just from a canon point of view #once we start to delve into like fan fiction #Because fic must necessarily change the story and change canon because it's creating something new #so of course then figuring out what you want to do with flint post canon is necessary #but for me fanfiction is a different realm than canon only based meta conversations about the show #black sails meta #long post #black sails #john silver #james flint #thoughts #black sails spoilers #I was coaxed into writing my group chat meta into a post by the Committee mwah

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transmutationisms · 11 months

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serious question but do you personally believe there is a way to approach psychiatry in a way that uplifts and upholds patient autonomy and wellness or is the entire trade essentially fucked haha. Btw this is an ask coming from a 3rd year med student—with a background of severe mental illness—who is considering a residency in psychiatry after receiving life-saving care in high school pertaining to said conditions. (I have peers who have been involuntarily hospitalized and treated horribly in psych wards, with approaches i patently disagree with, but was lucky not to experience. I don’t like modern american medicine’s approach to mental illness; “throw pills” at it to “make it go away” ie. a problem of overprescribing, inadequate and non-holistic approach to mental health, and i feel a lot of that can be attributed to the capitalistic framework. I also def agree with you that so much of what can be considered normal human responses to traumatic events/normal human suffering can be unnecessarily pathologized—a great example being the whole “chemical imbalances in the brain is the ONLY reason why im like this” argument that ive unfortunately fallen hard for when i was younger and am still currently dismantling within myself…and like dont even get me started on this field’s history of demonizing POC, women, LGBT, etc). Like i deeply love my psych rotations so far, and i utterly feel in my gut that this is the manner in which i would like to help people—a lot of whom are just like me—but im wondering if there is a way to reconcile these aspects in a way that one can feel morally okay participating within such an imperfect system, in ur opinion… ngghhhhhh i just want to be a good doctor to my patients…

(ps i love all ur writing and analysis on succession!! big fan mwah <333)

i don't mean to sound unduly pissy at you, specifically, but i do have to say: every single time i've talked about antipsych or broader criticism of medicine on this website, i immediately get a wave of responses like this, from doctors/nurses/psychs/students of the above, asking me to, like, reassure them that they're not doing something immoral or un-communist or whatever by having or pursuing these jobs. and it's honestly frustrating. why is it that these conversations get re-framed around this particular line of inquiry and medical ego-soothing? why is it that when i say "the medical encounter is not structured to protect patient autonomy or well-being," so many people hear something more along the lines of "doctors are mean and i wish they were nicer"? why is it that it's impossible to discuss the philosophical and structural violence of academic and clinical medicine without it becoming a referendum on the individual morality of doctors?

i'm choosing to read you in good faith because i think it's possible to re-re-frame this line of questioning to demonstrate to you the sorts of critiques and inquiries i find more interesting and more conducive to patient autonomy and liberation. so, let me pick apart a few lines of this ask.

"is the entire trade essentially fucked?"

if you're thinking of trying to 'reform' the project of medical psychology within existing infrastructures and institutions, then yeah, it's fucked. if you're still assuming that affective distress can only be 'treated' within this medical apparatus (despite, again, no psychiatric dx satisfying any pathologist's understanding of a 'disease' ie an aberration from 'normal' physiological functioning) then you're not challenging the things that actually make psychiatry violent. you're simply fantasising about making the violence nicer.

"I don’t like modern american medicine’s approach to mental illness; “throw pills” at it to “make it go away” ie. a problem of overprescribing, inadequate and non-holistic approach to mental health, and i feel a lot of that can be attributed to the capitalistic framework."

i hate when i talk about psychotropic drugs being marketed to patients using lies like the chemical imbalance myth, and then pushed on patients—including through outright force—by psychiatrists, and the discussion gets re-framed as one about 'overprescribing'. my problem is not with people taking drugs. i am, in fact, so pro-drugs that i think even the ones administered in a clinical setting sometimes have value. my issue is with, again, the provision of misleading or outright false information, the use of force and coercion to put patients on such drugs in order to force social conformity and employability, and the general model of medicine and medical psychology that assumes patients ought to be passive recipients of medical enlightenment rather than active participants in their own treatment who are given the agency to decide when and how to engage with any form of curative or meliorative intervention.

'holistic' medicine and psychiatry do not solve this problem! they are not a paradigm shift because they continue to locate expertise and epistemological authority with the credentialed physician, and to position patients as too sick, stupid, or helpless to do anything but receive and comply with the medical interventions. there are certainly psychotropic drugs that are demonstrably more harmful than others (antipsychotics, for example), and some that are demonstrably prescribed to patients who do not benefit from them and are even harmed by them. conversely, there are certainly forms of intervention besides pharmaceuticals that people may find helpful. but my general critique here is aimed less at haggling over specific methods of intervention, and more at the ideological and philosophical tenets of medicine that cause any interventions to be imposed by force or coercion on patients, then framed as being 'for their own good'. were suffering people given the information and autonomy to actually choose whether and how to engage in any kind of intervention, some might still choose drugs! my position here is not one of moralising drugs, but making the act of taking them one that is freely chosen and available as an option without relying on physician determination of a patient's interests over their own assessment of their needs and wants.

"so much of what can be considered normal human responses to traumatic events/normal human suffering can be unnecessarily pathologized"

true, but don't misunderstand me as saying that drugs or any other form of intervention should be forcibly withheld from those who do want them and are made fully aware of what risks and harms seeking them could entail. again, this would still be an authoritarian model; my critique is aimed at increasing patient autonomy, not at creating equally authoritarian and empowered doctors who just have slightly different treatment philosophies.

"dont even get me started on this field’s history of demonizing POC, women, LGBT, etc"

ok, framing this as "demonisation" tells me that you're not understanding that, again, this is a systemic and structural critique. it is certainly true that a great many doctors currently are, and have historically have been, outright racist, trans/misogynist, ableist, and so on. framing this as a problem of a well-intentioned discipline being corrupted by some assholes is getting it backwards. medicine attracts prejudiced people, not to mention strengthens and promotes these prejudices in its entire training and practice infrastructures, because of its underlying philosophical orientation toward enforcing 'normality' as defined by 18th-century statistics and 19th-century human sciences that explicitly place white, cis, able-bodied european men as the normal ideal that everyone else is inferior to or failing to live up to. doctors who really nicely tell you that you're too fat are still using bmi charts that come from the statistical anthropometry of adolphe quételet and the flawed actuarial calculations of metlife insurance. doctors who really nicely deny you access to transition surgery are still operating under a paradigm that gives the practitioner authority over expressions and embodiments of gender. the issue isn't 'demonisation', it's that medicine and psychiatry explicitly attempt to render judgments about who and what is 'normal' and therefore socially 'healthy', and enforce those standards on patients. this is not a promotion of patient well-being, but of social conformity.

"i deeply love my psych rotations so far, and i utterly feel in my gut that this is the manner in which i would like to help people"

let me ask you a few questions. you say that you like your psych rotations... but how do your patients feel about them? is their autonomy protected? are they in treatment by free choice, and free to leave any time they wish? are they treated as human beings with full self-determination? if you witnessed a situation in which a patient was coerced or forced into a certain treatment, or in which you were not sure whether they were consenting with full knowledge or freedom, would you feel empowered to intervene? or would doing so threaten your career by exposing you to anger and retaliation from your higher-ups? what higher-ups will you be exposed to as a resident, and then as a practicing physician? could you practice in a way that committed fully, 100%, to patient autonomy if you were working at someone else's practice, or in a hospital or clinic? could you, according to current medical guidelines, even if you had your own practice?

when you say "this is the manner in which i would like to help people", what do you mean by "this"? can you define your philosophy of treatment, and the relationship and power dynamic you want to have with any future patients? is it one in which you hold authority over them and see yourself as determining what's in their 'best interests', even over their own expressed wishes? have you connected with patient advocates, psych survivors (other than your friends), and radical psychiatrists and anti-psychiatrists who may espouse heterodox treatment philosophies that you could consider? do you think such philosophies are sufficient for protecting patient autonomy and well-being, or are they still models that position the physician's judgment and authority over that of the patient?

"im wondering if there is a way to reconcile these aspects in a way that one can feel morally okay participating within such an imperfect system"

and here is the crux of the problem with this entire ask. you are wondering how to sleep at night, if you are participating in a career you find morally distasteful. where, though, do your patients enter into that equation? do you worry about how they sleep at night, after having interacted with a system of social violence that may very well have traumatised them under the guise of providing help? why does your own guilty conscience worry you more than violations of your patients' bodies, minds, and basic self-determination?

i can't tell you whether your career path is morally acceptable to you. i don't think this type of guilt or self-flagellation is fruitful and i don't think it helps protect patients. i don't, frankly, have a handy roadmap sitting around for creating a new system of medicine and health care that rests on patient autonomy. affective distress is real, and is not something we should have to bear alone or with the risk of having violence inflicted upon us. what you need to ask yourself is: how does the medical model and establishment serve people experiencing such distress? how does it perpetuate violence against them? and how do you see yourself countering, or perpetuating, such violence as someone operating within this discipline? what would it mean to be a 'good' actor within a violent system, if you do indeed believe that such a thing is ontologically possible?

#sorry for LONG ASS POST #psychiatry

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roguerogerss · 4 months

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snow lands on top

pairing: coriolanus snow x covey reader

w/c: 3.2k

warnings: just fluff! a few sexual comments but nothing more, mentions of family deaths, reader is just a poor lil soul

(merry christmas my angels! if you’re having a hard time, i feel you! here’s some soft coryo lovin to help you through it. the holidays r a hard time for so so many people, and my inbox will always be open to anyone who needs someone who’ll understand <3 luv you the most, we’ll get through it all)

Christmas Eve. The soft patter of snowfall, the breeze from your half open window, the bustle of the Corso below. You'd been listening to the Christmas shoppers - stressed or unbothered - the kids playing in the snow, mothers and fathers dragging their children to holiday themed events. Laying around in bed all day in old silk had become your go-to on the run-up to Christmas.

You’d come to hate snowfall. It meant the sounds of merry families, playing outside together. It meant mourning for when you could do that, it meant resenting others, something that the Covey would never want for you.

Christmas was bittersweet. It had been for years, now. No gifts under your small, sad Christmas tree, no family gathering, no over-the-top dinner event, sometimes no dinner at all. You lived alone, in your little apartment which you could hardly afford, and had no family left since the war.

You remembered the good times, of course, that was the 'sweet' in all of the bitter. Remembering your mother's baking and the smell of sugar cookies and Christmas cake. The lavish real evergreen tree that made the ridiculously high ceilings of your apartment look low. The gifts, the dinner, curling up with a mug of hot milk on the plush sofa. You even thought of your Christmases back in District twelve. Never too fancy, never too many gifts, but a family, the Covey, music, a home.

Life after the war had been cruel to you. What once was a young girl, with a family wealthy enough to move her to the Capitol, had become a young woman with no one to turn to, and not a penny to her name. You didn't have the luxury of pretending like everything was fine, like you had your family's riches to fall back on. Everyone at the Academy had found out when you'd had to ask for a scholarship loan to pay for your tuition, one which you'd never be able to pay back.

That was something you'd always envied of a particular classmate of yours. Coriolanus Snow. Crassus Snow's baby boy. You knew he must've been penniless, as poor as a church mouse. But maybe you only knew that because your own circumstances were much the same. Coriolanus was smart about it, always looking classy from an outside perspective, never asking for money, never acting hungry. But, when looked into closer, you could easily see cracks.

His shoes were the same ones he'd had since first year at the Academy, and they must've been achingly too small for him. He'd eat only small amounts at school and pretend he was full up, but you'd seen him once, with no shirt on, and his ribs stuck out like a sore thumb. Wherever there was an academic prize that involved money, he was always trying his hardest to win, pulling out every stop, but if there was no monetary prize, he'd only do half as much.

You saw right through his act, always had, but instead of exposing him to everyone else out of jealousy, you'd helped him out whenever you could. Us poor orphans have to stick together, right?

You'd share food, give eachother your spare trolley tokens so you wouldn't have to walk the hour back to the Corso, discuss strategy over how to win said academic prizes, and split them with eachother when you did.

You'd become close friends, over the years, even although it was kept strictly as a secret from all of your other classmates. And so, when you heard a familiar voice floating in through your window, you smiled to yourself.

"Y/N?" You could only faintly hear him calling from the street, but you started up from your bed and yanked the window open fully so that you could hang out of it.

There he was, Coriolanus Snow, in all of his glory. Blonde curls full of white snowflakes, wrapped in what seemed to be a ratty fur coat, chittering away. You laughed when you saw him. "Coryo, what are you doing out? You'll freeze to death!"

"Wanted to come and make sure you were okay." He called back, and then looked around warily, almost as though he was checking the coast was clear before asking, "Can I come up?"

You nodded, "I'll buzz you in." And then you swiftly closed the window. Goosebumps had raised on your arms and chest and you'd be paying for the next year if you had to put the furnace on.

You crossed to your bedroom door, made your way down the hall, and pressed the buzzer, which always made the most abhorrent sound when it let whoever was outside, in.

You waited by the door, and soon enough, Coryo was coming bounding up the stairs, fur coat now in his hand, nose and cheeks bright red. You let him in and laughed as you took his coat from him and hung it up. "It's Tigris'. I don't have anything warm enough, but it's the rattiest old thing I've ever seen."

"It's quite something." You turned back to see him shivering, arms folded around his body to try to warm himself. "Oh, you poor lamb."

Your Covey accent had never faded. The Capitol had always looked down upon you for it, but Coryo blushed every time you spoke. "I'm fine, I'll be fine."

"But it's freezing in here, too. Come here." You opened the small cupboard in the hallway, which held a few random seasonal items, and pulled out two, old blankets. You smiled at Coriolanus as you draped one around his shoulders, and he smiled back, close enough to you that his breath was hitting your cheek.

"Thank you, honey." Coriolanus' eyes scanned your apartment, peering through the living room door and then your bedroom door, and he frowned when he saw just one Christmas decoration - your tiny little tree. His family was poor, but Tigris was creative, and they still managed to uphold some joy in the form of tinsel and stockings at Christmas time.

"What?" Your face dropped and you looked worried, placing a tender hand on Coryo's blanket-clad shoulder. "You look so sad."

"You just..." Coryo's voice trailed off, unsure of how to say what he meant without hurting, or offending you. "I mean, you don't have too much, do you?"

"Well, I thought you knew that." A crease had appeared between your brows and you sounded upset with him, dropping your hand from where it had previously sat. Coryo corrected himself quickly, shaking his head at you.

"No, I'm sorry, that came out wrong." He racked his brain for something to say that would make you feel better. The look on your face made his chest sting. "I don't know, would you want to spend Christmas with us?"

You cocked your head to the side, looking at him as though he was going insane. Maybe he was, he wasn't even sure what he was saying. He closed his eyes and ran and hand over his face, which brightened you up a bit. You laughed, and he laughed, and he felt his shoulders relax. Why was he so nervous? He never got nervous, not like this, anyway.

"We don't have much either, but it'd mean you weren't alone. I know how you feel, especially at this time of year." Coryo noticed the slight tinge of pink that had dawned your cheeks, and, on a whim, he reached out and, with two freezing fingers, tilted your head back so that you were looking at him. "You could come to our house, Tigris makes bread pudding, and we managed to get some beef mince this year, too. Maybe you could even sleep over tonight, and we could wake up together-"

"Coryo, you're rambling." You stopped him, you knew he could go on for hours, and, although the offer was tempting, and you enjoyed the idea of spending even more time around Coryo, you planned on turning him down. "Thank you. That sounds lovely, but I'd never want to intrude. No, the Covey wrote me to let me know they've installed a telephone in the town hall, I can call them for a couple minutes tomorrow, lift my spirits. I'll be fine."

You waved him off, and pulled your mother's old silk robe tighter around your body. You started towards the living room door, expecting Coryo to follow, maybe you'd sit together on the flaky sofa and talk for a few hours, but he didn't let you get far. He snatched your hand from your side, and when you turned to look at him, his blue eyes were filled with concern.

"Call them from our house." He wasn't going to let you off without a yes. "Please. I can't leave you alone, that's not fair. Plus, I've always wanted to meet them, haven't I?"

You took a breath and adjusted your hand in his. It felt nice, to have him be so affectionate. You could admit you were closer than most friends, the line between friendship and love always slightly blurred and maybe crossed over on more than one occasion, but it always felt good to have him near.

After careful consideration, and a few reassuring rubs at the back of your hand from Coryo, you finally gave in. "Are you sure? I don't mean to be a pain-"

"You're not. You could never be." He stepped closer and took your other hand, close enough to you that, if he leaned forward, your foreheads would be touching. "Honest, Tigris will be happy to have someone other than Grandma'am."

"And what about Grandma'am? I'm District, I don't think she'll like that-"

"She respects your family. It's not the right way, I know, but there are very few district people she doesn't mind. She knew your parents, always says they were very respectable people." A grimace crossed Coryo’s face, talking about his Grandma’am’s views in front of you. He’d agreed with her for most of his life, but that was until he met you, and that Covey accent finally made snow melt and changed his mind.

"Really?" Your face had lit up. The idea of anyone from the Capitol accepting you, no, respecting you, was something you’d only ever dreamt of.

"Really." Coryo smiled, now, and then he joked, “What an honour, huh? To have Grandma'am like you."

"An honour, indeed." You laughed. You let go of one of his hands, but kept hold of the other. You started to drag him with you towards your bedroom, but Coryo stayed put, confused. He’d never been inside your bedroom, he assumed it was off limits. You laughed at him, “I’m not trying to get you into bed, darlin’, if I was you’d know about it.”

His face turned a deep shade of red and you approached him and placed a gentle hand on his cheek. “Coryo, I’m messin’. I’m just going to pack a bag, you can come if you like, but if I’m making you uncomfortable you’re welcome to sit in the living room.”

“No. Oh, no. You’re not making me uncomfortable.” Coryo let you lead him to your bedroom, now, and he looked around the almost bare room as though it was a place of worship. There was hardly anything in there, a mattress on the floor, a small, oil lamp positioned next to it. A couple of books, a wardrobe which held your school uniform and your mother’s old performance dresses, which you wore every day you could. He was just happy to be somewhere so intimate, somewhere you allowed only the closest people in your life. “Sorry.”

You got that cheeky look on your face, now. The one that Coryo loved so much. “It’s okay. I know you’re a virgin, anyway-”

“Hey!” He smacked you with the blanket and you giggled and smacked him back. “That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, but it’s obvious.”

The walk to Coriolanus’ apartment wasn’t long, but it felt different. You’d never made it obvious that you were close, before, but you walked together, through the snow, chatting away like you’d been best friends for years - which was the case, and now people knew. Even when you passed classmates or their families, you’d both smile and wave, and it felt good to know that people would know.

“Are you excited to meet Grandma’am?” Coryo joked. Your cheeks balled when you laughed and gripped onto his hand in an overdramatic way. Coryo thought his heart might’ve burst.

You bounded forward, still holding his hand, and walked backwards in front of him. “Oh, the most excited. I’m sure she’s got great gossip.”

“Only the best. Did you know she had a fling with the President’s brother when they were in school?” Coryo whispered dramatically, and you gave him an equally as theatrical gasp.

“I hope she’ll tell me all about it.”

You arrived at the apartment cold but happy, noses bright red but laughing. Fingers freezing but locked together. You felt pure joy for the first time in a long time, and Coryo decided he could get used to this.

When Tigris opened the door, you knew this was the right decision. Her face lit up, and she clapped her hands together excitedly as soon as she saw you. She didn’t even bother to greet Coriolanus, just started straight for you, “Oh my! It’s so lovely to see you. Please tell me you’re staying for Christmas!”

“I sure am. Coryo managed to convince me.” You looked up to the boy stood beside you, who’d already been smiling down at you with such love in his eyes.

“Well, we are so happy to have you. Lucky to have you.” Tigris squeezed your shoulder and then stepped to the side, gesturing to both of you. “Come in, please.”

You could’ve sobbed, the feeling of being wanted, not being alone. Coryo touched a comforting hand to your arm as you stepped into the foyer, once grand, but now cracked and tired. Tigris took your coat, and the Grandma’am greeted you with open arms.

“Your dress is beautiful.” Tigris commented, and you did a quick twirl to show off the lace-up detail in the back.

“Thank you, it was my mama’s. I try to wear her dresses whenever I can.” You smoothed the ruffles of your dress, looking down lovingly at the shades of green tulle, handmade by your mother herself.

“And so you should.” Tigris reached out to touch your ruffles, too, and she smiled at you as she did so. “She had great taste.”

Coryo led you through to his bedroom, to let you drop your bag off and familiarise yourself with the place. “Thank you.” You muttered as you placed your bag on his windowsill. “For letting me come here, letting me stay. Your family are just beautiful.”

“Yeah, they’re great.” Coryo stood from his bed to join you as you looked out of his window onto the snow covered Corso, at a fresh snow angel and a family you could hear laughing from the penthouse. “I’m sure the Covey are, too. And your parents.”

“My parents were. And the Covey are. I hope one day, you can meet them.” You turned to him, that crease in your brow back.

“I’d love to.” Coryo took hold of your hand, noticing that you’d taken up an unsettled look. “Should we get some air? Grandma’am keeps roses on the roof, might be nice to see them in the snow.”

You nodded. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

The roof was nice, you could see the entirety of the Capitol from up there - roofs engulfed in white, and the snow-covered roses were such a beautiful sight. You plucked one of the stems, after Coryo said you could, and simply stared at the thing. Back home, flowers were everywhere, they felt like warm hugs, like trips to the lake, like your mama. It was rare that you saw them growing in the Capitol.

“It’s beautiful up here.” You commented as you took a seat at the edge of the rooftop. “You can see the whole city.”

“It is beautiful.” Coryo sat next to you, shoulders touching, pinky fingers travelling closer to eachother and then pulling back, looking forward but watching eachother out of the corner of your eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

Coryo had let it slip, and he took in a deep breath and held it for a while after speaking. You tried not to let your smile get too wide, worried it would border on psychotic-looking if you let it reach it’s full potential. Beautiful, Coriolanus Snow called you beautiful.

“Oh.” Was all you could say, quietly, only loud enough to be picked up by the soft breeze and carried over to Coriolanus. “Thank you, Coryo. I think you’re beautiful.”

Coriolanus looked down and laughed, shaking his head at you. You let your pinkies intertwine, now. “You’re just saying that because I said it.”

“I mean it. Anyone would be stupid not to think it.” Then all of your fingers were locked together. And you sighed and let your head fall onto Coryo’s shoulder. He smiled to himself, and then, in a quick surge of confidence, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head and decided to speak his mind.

“You know I love you, right?" He blurted out. He didn’t regret it, but he was nervous, now. If he’d learned anything this Christmas Eve, it was that you made him nervous.

"I know." You closed your eyes and breathed in the cold air, “I love you, too."

"But I mean, really love you." Coryo took his hand from yours and, instead, draped his arm around your back, fingers reaching up to fidget with your hair. “You're very easy to fall in love with."

"Hm." You hummed and removed your head from his shoulder to look up at him. Your cheeks were flushed and your breath made little clouds in between your two faces. “I think you're very easy to fall in love with, too, Coryo."

You were so close, noses touching, Coryo’s hand still twirling one lock of your hair around and around. And then your lips were on his, his hand gripping the back of your neck, kissing you with a hunger, a passion, you’d never felt before. Not feverishly, not sexual in nature, just real, raw passion. You’d meant what you said. Coriolanus Snow was incredibly easy to love, and you did. You loved him. And he loved you. Nothing else had ever seemed to simple in your entire life.

Coryo couldn’t imagine a world, now, where your lips hadn’t been on his. Where you hadn’t called him beautiful. He was on a high, an all time high, he was convinced. Snow lands on top.

The snowflakes continued falling, landing on your heads, noses, the roses. And you let them, with no resentment, no upset. Because Coryo was there, everything was easy, now.

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