#{{ but that was when he was young and spry. he just doesn’t have time to be a goofy bank robber anymore

[porcelainseashore]

To Neighbors and New Beginnings

Pairing: Retired! Older! Leon Kennedy x Neighbor! Fem! Reader

Summary: Leon’s getting on in years and finally retired. But that doesn’t mean he’s slowing down in terms of enjoying life. When you moved in next door, little did you realize what you had bargained for.

Content & Warnings: 18+ Post-Resident Evil: Death Island, age gap (Leon in his 60s, Reader in her 30s), strangers to lovers, swearing, bad humor, teasing, flirting, awkward tension, slow burn, romance, fluff, suggestive themes, mild smut.

Authors' Note: Inspired by this older Leon Kennedy pic, we started with a drabble that of course turned into a full length one-shot about our favorite agent, who’s aged like fine wine. This is a writing collab between AliBelleRosetta / @alibellerosetta and me, which we did for fun!

AO3 Link

There comes a time when an agent needs to retire, and Leon was no exception. When he started pushing mid-60s, there wasn’t much else he could do, save for having his brains picked for knowledge on B.O.W. behavior and countertactics. Even that was slowly dwindling as new virus strains and procedures developed. It reached a point where an agreement was made for him to be called in on a consulting basis, but for the most part of his retirement life, he was free to do as he pleased, within limits.

After all the horrors he had witnessed, he was more than happy to opt for the simple life. He finally had enough time on his hands to care for a pet. So, he pounced at the opportunity and got himself a retired police dog, settling down together with him in a quiet, suburban neighborhood, in the middle of nowhere, doing fuck all. At least for the moment. Until you came along. You sweet, young thing, you.

You were half his age, but all is fair in love and war when both of you were consenting adults. You’d recently moved in next door to him, after the previous owners had decided to sell off their house in favor of acquiring a smaller, more manageable place. What was a young lady like yourself doing here? he often wondered. You were an enigma, just like he was to you.

It began with him going about his daily routine of yawning and stretching his weary limbs, as he trudged out sluggishly, in nothing more than a pair of shorts and flip-flops, to get the morning paper from his mailbox, dog trailing behind. Slamming the lid shut after he had fished the paper out of the box and flicked it open, he spotted you from the corner of his eye, just as his dog lifted his leg to mark his territory on the stand.

You were standing by your kitchen window, biting the bottom of your lip, oblivious to the tap left running, as you peered at him intently. It seemed as if you were even unaware that he had caught you staring, since you made no attempt to cover it up. He smirked to himself before nonchalantly heading back to his house. It gave him a boost of confidence knowing that he still remained spry as ever. So what if his hair, once golden blonde and a source of pride, was now a sea of white? So what if he sported a couple of wrinkles and liver spots? He sure as hell hadn’t lost his touch yet.

A couple of days later, when the weather was good, he pulled up a deckchair on the front lawn, in direct line of sight of your bedroom window. The sound of your hair dryer turning on tipped him off that you were in. He proceeded to sunbathe on the chair topless, his newspaper in hand, without a care in the world. His dog made his rounds along the lawn, frolicking in the grass, as various passers-by greeted Leon cordially.

“Mr. Kennedy.”

He nodded at them politely.

A moment later, he heard the shutters of a window opening. He didn’t even have to turn in your direction to know that you were leaning out, pretending to take in the glow of the noon sun as you traced the outline of his muscles with your eyes. He flipped a page and chuckled. Oh, what was he going to do with you?

Well, the grass was getting taller and more unruly. That wouldn’t do. It was time for him to whip out the big guns. He picked a Sunday afternoon, when people were usually lazy and lounged around at home. Gripping the mower’s handle with one hand, he pulled the starter cord a couple of times, until the engine revved to life. 

Its loud, whirring sound caused you to poke your head out of your window. He caught your gaze then, giving you a cocky wink. A scarlet blush spread across your cheeks as you waved back at him, trying to appear friendly. Shaking his head with a grin, he got to work, methodically pushing the mower across the lush, green expanse of his front lawn. The crisp scent of freshly cut grass filled the air, as the sun’s rays beat down mercilessly. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead and pooled at his neck. It was time for a short break.

Peeling his drenched, white t-shirt over his head, he used it to wipe the sweat away, dabbing at his chest and underarms, before slinging it over his shoulder. Your eyes were fixed on the scene before you, as you rested your chin in the cradle of your hands, staring dreamily at him again from the window. He flexed his upper body slightly, just enough to give you a teaser of what was to come. That snapped you out of your reverie, as you cleared your throat and busied yourself with something in the kitchen. He couldn’t see what it was from where he was standing.

Soon, he saw you walking over with an icy cold drink in your hand. You stuck it out in front of him like a peace offering.

“Lemonade?” You seemed uncertain and shy.

“Sure.” He nodded and smiled, accepting it graciously. 

A tingle ran through your veins where his fingers brushed against yours when he took the glass from you. His piercing blue eyes held your gaze as he gulped down the refreshment, though the last bits of it spilled from his mouth down to his chest.

“Oops.” He shrugged unapologetically. “Can’t let it go to waste, can I?”

Dragging his finger along the wet parts of his chest, he gathered what remained of the liquid and placed it into his mouth, licking and sucking on it like it was the most delicious thing in the world.

“Mmm,” he murmured softly. “Tastes good.”

The crow’s feet etching the corners of his eyes crinkled warmly, as he watched you sputter and cough in response.

“Excuse me.” A crimson wave had washed over your face, as you pat your chest furiously. “Choked on my saliva.”

“Happens to the best of us.”

He eyed you again intensely, motioning to your other hand. “What’ve you got there?”

“Oh, uh, sunblock?” You pointed at the reddened skin on his back. “I thought you might-”

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” he interrupted, presenting his back towards you, as he waited patiently for you to make a move.

Sweetheart? You swallowed thickly, trying to figure out if you had misheard what he said. Shakily, you squeezed out a creamy, white blob of sunscreen into your palms, rubbing them together before slathering it over his back gingerly.

You gasped in surprise, as you felt the toned muscles of his back beneath your hands. This was way better in-person. He must work out a lot, you thought. A lot more than someone of his age.

However, it didn’t take long for you to notice the multitude of scars scattered across his back. As you caressed the raised bumps and faded indents, you wondered what kind of life he had led back in the day. Was he a military man? A war veteran? Or maybe he just got into a lot of fights?

Apparently, you must have a magic touch, because Leon started to treat it as if you were giving him a full-body massage.

“Yeah,” he grunted, as you ran your hands over his taut shoulders. “Right there…”

Your task was to simply ensure he didn't get any more sunburned than he already was, but the poor man was so tight all over, you felt sorry for him. So, you got a little carried away and pressed hard against a particularly stubborn knot in his lower back.

He tilted his head back involuntarily and let out a loud, pornographic moan.

“Mr. Kennedy?” you squeaked, concerned if you went too far.

“Please, just call me Leon.” He flashed a boyish smile that revealed a glimpse into how he might have appeared in his younger days. “Don’t worry, you’re doing great, sweetheart.”

You hummed in response, his praise getting the better of you and causing a pool of arousal to form between your legs. All at once, you’d forgotten where to place your hands, what to say, and what exactly were you doing, flirting with your older neighbor so shamelessly out in the open?

A cold shower was definitely on the agenda after this. If DILFs existed, what would you call even older men who were this fuckable again? GILFs? You shuddered, feeling dirty for all the obscene thoughts swimming through your mind.

“Um, well, I guess that’s done!” you chirped out rather overenthusiastically, as you pulled away from him.

There was a slight pout on his face, though he was quick to mask it with a courteous smile. “Shame,” he commented lightheartedly. “Was enjoying it.”

A little too much, you snickered internally, as you made your way back to your house

━━━━━━━━━━━

As he stood staring out of his living room window, he pondered his next move. Despite your previous hasty retreat, you had taken to discreetly watching him work with not just a small amount of eagerness, and he was more than happy to oblige your ogling. After all, who wouldn't want a beautiful woman staring after them?

You were a curious one in his eyes, a blend of boldness as you approached him and shyness the moment you got your anticipated reward. It was a fun game he was more than happy to play with you.

Today wasn't going to be any different.

Once again, the sun hung high with not a cloud in sight, perfect to work outside on some much needed errands, but with your notable attention on him lately, the to-do list had taken quite a hit. His ideas were wearing thin, but one thought stuck out, especially with how keen you seemed to be watching him work the lawnmower. Maybe something on a larger scale would be within your interests.

With a smirk and a listen out for the quiet clangs coming from your kitchen to let him know you were home, he dropped the empty coffee cup down in his sink and headed over to snatch up his long neglected key to get on with the job at hand. The sturdy garage door opened with a series of loud clanks, the inside admittedly dusty with neglect. There in the middle stood his pride and joy. The motorcycle was an older model, but also the only one to withstand his youthful recklessness.

It’s long overdue for a tune up, he thought, grasping the handlebars as he pushed the bike out of the garage. He let it come to a rest slightly out on the driveway as he decided to give it a check over and wash it down, sneakily just in the eyeline of your window but not enough for you to see much. The bike itself admittedly didn’t get ridden as much as it should, but if he guessed right, maybe it would someday soon.

You had heard the noise of his garage door open only for curiosity to get the better of you, cracking open the window to try to get a peek of what your neighbor was up to now. It was like something had come over you, and every time he made an appearance, you couldn’t help but watch after him. You saw he was there outside briefly before heading back into his house and returning moments later with a bucket full of soapy water.

When he glanced at your kitchen upon his return, he chuckled to himself as he dropped the bucket down, sloshing some of the water across his drive. Apparently his idea had already started to work a treat, having grabbed your attention. He inserted the key into the ignition and turned it, as the motorcycle roared to life, the battery still able to kick in despite its disuse. The sound of the engine was distinct, much different from the mower previously, and he knew it was sure to pique your interest even further with what a curious thing you were. The shuffling from your kitchen as the window cracked open a little more was enough to tell him that he once again had your attention. Without a care in the world other than checking his bike and giving you a show, he dropped down on one knee, ignoring the tightening feeling in his joints. His knees weren't what they used to be after too many B.O.W. fights.

From your hung back viewpoint, you couldn’t see much, but the noise from outside drew your focus fiercely and you couldn't help but try to get a better look. No matter how much you stood on your tiptoes and reached close to the window, he was just about covered from your spot where you could only make out his unfortunately clothed back, hiding his mysterious antics for once. The way he was acting was odd, as usually he was more open with his activities. You tried to tell yourself that you should walk away and leave him to it, but it was like a desperate urge that needed to be quenched.

While his dog ran off into the yard to chase a wandering squirrel, he moved on to checking the bike over, not one to half-ass his task even if there were other motives. A quick examination of the moving parts and pivot points for signs of wear and tear came back fine, as well as inspecting for any leakage that disuse could have caused. The job was a lot messier than he remembered, with the oil gathering around the edges of the chassis coating his hands and part of his top.

The sudden barking of his dog nearby alerted him to a presence on the property, a smirk creeping up knowingly that your interest had once again gotten the better of you. You just stood there next to him staring him down, checking out his arm muscles that were left uncovered by the loose gray tank he wore, the words of your friends running through your mind as they egged you on to get closer to him. He had been working hard, and you noticed with a flush that some of the oil had smudged up his forearms and along his taught biceps.

He was tempted to chuckle at just how predictable you were becoming, knowing before he turned to look your way that you would be gazing over him with that distinct look in your eyes. It was no surprise to him at all that he was correct, finding you standing there with your shadow cast over him, and your arms wrapped around yourself, transfixed. He was seriously wondering if you didn’t know you were staring at him that way, or if you just didn’t care to hide it.

You sucked in a sharp breath as you found your eyes suddenly catching his, quickly darting away from his bright blue ones and to the motorcycle he was working on. “Oh wow, didn't know you had a bike.”

“This old girl? Been with me for years,” he said as his large hand patted the hard seat in front of him. He then used the seat as a brace to stand up, stretching out the stiff muscles that had begun to seize up from his crouched position while also putting his body on full display for your eyes. 

You couldn’t help yourself as you watched him riveted, taking in the way he flexed and moved as you felt a blush flash across your cheeks again. You had to cough to clear your throat as you tore your eyes away from him. “Haven't seen you ride it.”

“Not much of a chance to lately.”

You bit your cheek at the thought of him on it, and of you wrapped around his firm back while he rode it. No matter what, your mind kept going back to him, reliving the sensation of his skin under your hands when you had put lotion on his body, desperate to touch-

“I need to wash.”

“What?” you yelped, startled out of your wandering thoughts which snapped to his oil-covered arms and hands, eyeing them up and instantly imagining them instead coated in lather and foam as water streaked down them. You wouldn't have minded being the one to wash that oil off of his skin if it meant running your hands all over him again, a thought you were coming to accept was fueled by nothing but pure lust.

“The bike. It's filthy,” he clarified with an amused chuckle, leaving you feeling hot, embarrassed and completely disappointed. Of course he meant the bike, you scolded yourself, suddenly flushing more with humiliation than arousal.

Unexpectedly, he moved to bend down right in front of you, the tank he was wearing gaping open enough with the movement for you to look down the front of it and at his solid chest partially hidden underneath. “Oh,” you sighed out as you bit your tongue hard in an effort not to say more, his head becoming dangerously close to your crotch, and if he just shifted over a little more… 

His rough hand reached into the bucket next to you to grab the sponge floating on top, his eyes moving to catch yours as he shot you a downright dangerous smirk. As he stood back up straight, he rang the sponge out to remove the excess water, the soapy suds flying everywhere around the pair of you. You noticed that the foam coated his tank and turned it translucent in the sun as it clung tightly to his body and left trails of droplets over his uncovered skin. All you could do was swallow hard and drag your eyes off of him, a task that was more monumental than you thought it would be.

With a casualness about him, he set the sponge down on the seat of the bike suddenly, asking you, “Wanna go for a ride sometime?” 

You were caught by surprise, mind instantly faltering at the evocative question. There was no way he meant anything other than a ride on his motorcycle, right? you thought. After all, he was just a friendly older man, not some hormone riddled teen chatting up the first woman he laid eyes on. It was you that had the dirty mind. “I, um, maybe? I don't have much experience with them,” you said, answering his question as best you could ramble out.

His eyebrow quirked at your answer, his voice deepening slightly as he replied, “Hmm, never thought that would be the case. I don't mind teaching you a few things, sweetheart.”

You just laughed off his words, thinking the suggestiveness was still all on you. “I've never even been on a bike.”

“Who said I was talking about my bike?”

Your breath instantly hitched at the implication, your eyes darting between his mirth filled ones only to drift lower and catch onto his lips. They looked soft, warm, highlighted on each side by deepened laughter lines that you never would’ve thought could look so good on a man. But as they say, when men get older they age like fine wine. If that was the case, he would be a Cabernet Sauvignon aged to perfection. And you were parched.

It didn’t surprise you at all that when you found yourself shifting closer to him, you chose to embrace it, craving to feel the lips of the man you had spent too much time lately thinking about, only to become emboldened as he seemed to move in too. Your lips were mere inches apart, the heat of desire desperately running through you at the anticipated touch. 

All that came crashing down the moment his dog streaked past you chasing that damn squirrel, sending the bucket of water flying and splashing water across you both, cooling down your racing pulse and burning libido. Alarmed, you quickly backed away from him, down his drive, as the implications of what you almost did crashed down upon you. All you could do was mutter some kind of excuse and beat a hasty retreat, wondering how you would ever be able to look your neighbor in the eye the next time you saw him.

━━━━━━━━━━━

As Leon watched the scene unfold in front of him, there wasn’t much else he could do. You were a slippery one, like a mouse that had been spooked and scurried off. The one that got away. He placed his hands on his hips, arms akimbo as he clucked his tongue and sighed. Rein it in, Kennedy. What were you thinking?

He really should find better things to do than to chase a pretty little thing like you. You probably had a bunch of younger men waiting in line, he noted self-deprecatingly.

Suddenly, he heard a buzzing sound and a light flickered on the ground at his feet. Your phone. It must have slipped out of your pocket in your rush to get away. Picking it up, his eyes darted towards the message notification on the screen that piqued his curiosity. It seemed to come from a group chat entitled ‘All The Single Ladies’.

‘Raaarrr, is that the literal definition of a silver fox or what?’

Silver fox? Did they mean what he was thinking? He began to second-guess himself.

The next notification popped up only seconds after, filled with thirsty-looking emojis followed by another text.

‘Damn gurl, your neighbor is hot af! You better tap that or I will!’

More strings of notifications chimed in, as the phone vibrated constantly.

‘GILF alert!’

‘I wanna blow him so hard he’ll…’

At that, he put the phone down and stopped reading, already having figured out your spiel and not wanting to intrude any further into your privacy. A wry smile formed across his face. Not only had you been speaking with your friends about him, you’d even sent them a sneaky picture you’d snapped of him to gawk at.

A sense of pride swelled in his chest as he was back in the game again. Guess he’d better clean up and use the perfect excuse of returning your phone back to you to have a chat.

Meanwhile at your place, you’d managed to calm your nerves with a cold shower and a pot of floral tea. That was so stupid! you screamed at yourself internally, not daring to look in the direction of the window any longer.

Before you had a chance to ponder upon your recent actions any longer, your stomach growled audibly. Glancing up at the clock, you were astonished to find that the hours had just sped by unnoticed. It was already time to start cooking dinner. You had a whole chicken and potatoes to roast, as well as the vegetables, herb butter and sauce to prepare. 

Your friends were supposed to have joined you today for the meal, but unfortunately unforeseen circumstances had kept them preoccupied, and your dinner gathering had been delayed to another weekend. Still, you were determined not to let that get in the way of your enjoyment, so you decided to go ahead with the same meal plan anyway.

If only today’s events had gone differently with a certain neighbor of yours. You sighed dejectedly and pressed a palm against your face. Though that sparked off a reminder that you hadn’t checked your phone for any messages for a while. Where was it?

You scrambled around, digging through your pockets and your purse to find the device, but came back empty-handed. A blinding panic began to set in. Oh god no. You didn’t leave it at Leon’s by accident, did you?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Just then, the doorbell rang, startling you and causing you to jump to your feet. You sprinted towards the door, swinging it open, only to come face-to-face with the man who had been causing you all this trouble so far.

“H-hello…?” you stammered out a greeting, slowly wedging yourself behind the door, using it like a makeshift barrier between you and Leon.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He dangled your phone in front of him, grinning playfully. “Forgot something?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Thanks!” You reached out, grabbing it quickly as you rubbed the back of your neck sheepishly.

A horrifying thought swept through your mind. Did he know? You searched his facial expression closely for any indication that he might have seen something on your phone that he shouldn’t have, but there was nothing. He looked as cool and collected as ever.

Maybe you were overthinking things. “I was just about to make dinner actually,” you mentioned in passing. 

He looked at you expectantly and whatever willpower you had left in that instant vanished into thin air. You caved in.

“Would you like to join me?” The words spilled out of your mouth before you could process them.

"Thought you'd never ask," he replied huskily as he stepped into the corridor you led him through.

“So what’re we cooking tonight, chef?” He peered around the kitchen, checking out the equipment and utensils, trying to get acquainted with the place.

You guffawed. “Erm, you’re a guest.”

“So?” He folded his arms. “I’m not the type who lets a lady do all the work.”

Aware that he wasn’t going to budge on the matter, you raised your hands in mock exasperation. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re not the first to say it.” He shrugged, sliding past you towards where the aprons were hanging. You gasped when you felt his calloused hands momentarily on your waist. Was he doing this on purpose?

Pulling yourself together, you started to brief him on the Sunday Roast Chicken recipe, passed down through generations in your family from a battered, old notebook. He responded to each instruction with a “Yes, ma’am,” and followed them to a T. You had to give him brownie points for his eagerness to please.

“No, Leon,” you scolded gently. “That doesn’t go there.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Could you stop calling me ma’am?” You laughed. “Makes me feel old.”

“You’re one to talk.” He winked at you while placing the baking tray on the correct level. “Are you this bossy in the bedroom?”

You nearly spat out the water you’d been sipping on. “Uh, I-I don’t know?” Clearly, you wanted to bury yourself in a hole right there and then.

“Guess the proof is in the pudding,” he mumbled under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear every single word.

“Wine?” Your shrill voice cut through the air like a knife, as you tried to change the subject, shoving the bottle directly into his chest.

“Oof.” It stunned him that he felt winded by the accidental blow. He gripped the bottle as you eyed him apologetically. “Easy there, girl.”

“Sorry, my bad.” 

You brought over two empty glasses while he helped to pour out the wine, your fingers grazing against his wrist as he handed you a filled up one back. A part of you wanted to prolong the caress, but you held back, unsure of where you stood with him. You could feel the weight of his burning gaze locked onto yours as he toasted to “neighbors and new beginnings” before drinking from his glass.

You almost missed your cue, taking an extra beat to raise your own glass to your lips as you dragged your eyes from his. The wine on your tongue tasted like the sweetest you had ever sipped. Maybe it’s the company? you questioned as you watched him drop his glass down on the counter behind him. You clutched your own tightly, feeling the atmosphere constricting as he refused to look away.

The only thing you could hear was the tick of the kitchen timer and the beat of your pulse in your ears as the silence stretched between you both. Besides the smoldering of his eyes under his snowy bangs, he gave you nothing, so with desperation, you racked your brain for something, anything, to keep the tense undercurrent at bay.

With a moment of clarity, it hit you as you dropped your own glass down and glanced over towards the far side of your kitchen. The single table sat there, usually a crowded affair when your friends were over but plenty big for just two. If nothing else, setting the table would keep you busy and your mind from wandering.

With a plan of action in place to set the table, you went to shift from your spot only to be met with another obstacle. Of all the places he had to be standing in your kitchen, it was just typical he was in front of the cutlery drawer. Still, even if you had to get close to him, it was meant to be a friendly dinner after all. The almost kiss was probably just in your mind and you had been overanalyzing too much. All he had done that night since was bring over your phone like a good Samaritan and help you cook dinner like a friend.

You walked over to him, noticing that despite your approach he didn't move at all, seeming very content to have you come into his close proximity. You caught his eyes as they drifted downwards, and all of a sudden you realized the mistake you were making. Being this near to him was setting off the blush you tried keeping down, and you were sure he was going to notice.

“May I?” you asked as you stopped in front of him, a hand pointing at the drawer behind him. 

“Whatever you need,” he murmured, while not even moving a step away.

You blinked up at him, trying hard not to imagine what else he could possibly mean with those words. “The drawer. I keep the cutlery in there.”

Despite your explanation, he still didn’t shift, instead just staying where he was and watching you curiously. He had to wonder what you were up to, getting so close to him with that cute flush on your face, stammering out any old excuse. You didn’t need one at all, in his opinion.

“Oh.”

That one syllable sent a shiver down your spine. It was a mistake, a really, really bad one you decided right then and there. Just being so near to him, feeling the heat of his breath was making the ache to touch him that much more potent. You wanted to feel those lips.

You backed off from him in a hurry, fighting the flush that you felt flooding your skin as you bumped into the oven, clanging the pan you had on top that had been left out to help you prepare the dinner. You found your excuse to keep him at bay, still needing to finish preparing a few final bits of the meal.

“Help set the table?” you quickly asked him with your voice a tad too high. “Plates are up there.”

You hoped it worked, sending him a good distance away from you in the kitchen to arrange the table while you got your overheated body under control.

“There’s that bossy thing again,” you heard him mutter as he opened the cabinet you had pointed to and reached up to grab a couple of plates, though his words sounded strangely disappointed to your surprise.

You tried not to look over, but in the end it was in vain. You were blessed by the sight of his shirt ridden up, once again showing off his ridiculous physique and making you feel like melting all over again.

Tonight’s dinner was going to be a long one.

━━━━━━━━━━━

In spite of the earlier faux pas, you were thankful that having dinner with Leon passed by without any further embarrassments. He proved to be quite a decent conversationalist when he wanted to be, and you found yourself relaxing into the laughter and various points of discussion you both shared. You were enjoying yourself so much that you hadn’t realized how fast time had flown, and it was suddenly nearing midnight. Suffice to say, you were feeling rather disappointed that he would need to leave so soon.

“Good food, good wine, good company…” He stood up, helping you to clear the dishes from the table. “What more could a man like myself ask for?”

You beamed at him, letting your guard down for once. He was being such a gentleman that you couldn’t help but open your mouth and blabber out the next statement before thinking. “Could I get you anything else? Dessert, or-”

You caught yourself, pausing abruptly as your stomach sank. Why did everything you say sound like an innuendo?

He placed the dishes down where they were and made his way slowly and assuredly towards you. For some reason, you were frozen on the spot, unable to scamper off and hide within your own home without looking like an absolute fool in front of the man you had been secretly crushing on this whole time.

“You know, I can see the gears turning.” It was as if his voice dropped an octave lower. “Right here.” He tapped his fingers lightly against the side of your head, giving you a slanted smile.

“Now that you say it,” he continued languidly. “Dessert would be nice.”

He curled his hand, so that his knuckles brushed along your cheek towards your jawline, as you shivered from his touch.

“Whatever you need,” you echoed his previous sentiments softly, as you lost yourself in his deep blue eyes, now ablaze with a fierce hunger. All you could do was stare into them, watching as they drew ever closer. Then you caught it, the moment they left yours to drop down lower. Your lips parted as you inhaled sharply, your heart pounding as you felt the ghost of his breath.

You thought that he would pull away at any second, that it was just another misunderstanding. That was until you felt the first light brush against your lips. Your mind went blank, struggling to keep up until it hit that he was kissing you. All those prior moments with him flashed across your mind, and none of them had been innocent after all.

His hand slid to rest against your cheek, pulling your face closer to his as his lips caressed your own, coaxing you to reciprocate as you finally gave in to the yearning that had constricted you for so long. His lips were softer than you thought they would be, but warm as you returned the kiss with an indulgent sigh.

You felt him smile against your mouth, as you trailed your hands along his arms towards his shoulders, pressing your body against his in an effort to deepen the kiss. He grew bolder, licking across the slight parting of your lips, as if seeking permission to continue. Whimpering in pleasure, you allowed him to move his tongue to meet yours, drawing in his taste again and again.

As you started to gently grind into him, he broke away for air, pressing his forehead against yours, panting heavily against your swollen mouth. “Delicious,” he breathed, before clamping his lips at the side of your neck, sucking and nibbling at a particularly sensitive spot.

Tugging the collar of his shirt tightly, you rasped, “How about a second helping?”

The next thing you knew, you were lying on your bed, slick with sweat while Leon rocked his hips against yours. You savored the fullness of him in you, grasping onto his ass as your nails dug into his skin, leaving angry, red marks in the process. “More,” you whined, in a tone that came off unintentionally on the side of demanding rather than pleading.

He gave you just what you asked for, with sweet nothings coming from his lips along with comments about knowing you were going to be bossy. Testing the waters brought you both much further than expected, but neither of you could complain.

The rest of the night went by in a dreamlike haze. At some point, you rode him on top, his large, chafed hands groping your breasts, as you tilted your head back and cried out until your voice was hoarse. At another, you leaned your back flush against his chest as he thrust into you from behind, groaning incoherently into your neck. 

You took things in your own stride, resting when needed and going again when it was comfortable to do so. Even though he had set the pace slower than you were used to, it was no less intense. In fact, everything felt deeper and more passionate, like you were melting into one.

Every release he brought you was an ascension that sent you beyond, flooding you with a euphoria that made you desperate for him. It left you addicted, your body craving more and more of his touch each time until nothing but the feel of his skin and the shifting of the sheets could be comprehended.

The final time was intense, filled with a feeling of pure bliss that you knew you would be dreaming about for days as you clung to him in desperate abandon. His name fell from your lips in a gasp, and in turn he muttered yours.

Splayed across his damp chest, you traced the lines of his freckled, weathered skin, as he stroked your hair contentedly. “Best dessert I’ve had in a while,” he grunted, intertwining his fingers with yours and bringing your knuckles to meet his lips. “Michelin star worthy.”

You swatted his hand playfully, giggling at his quip. It spurred you on to tease him back. “So, will I get an actual ride next time?”

He chuckled heartily, though he didn’t miss a beat. Age was never an issue, he still had his wits about him. “’Course, sweetheart.” He wiggled his eyebrows at you. “If you tell me what a GILF is.”

[tremendum]

fever

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader (afab, use of she/her)   rating: explicit.  (18+. mdni.)   word count: 7.5k summary: but at the timbre of your voice, a cold shiver runs down his spine. his eyes widen in acceptance. there must have been some sort of- poison, or aphrodisiac in that damn plant that you'd both been struck with.  warnings: SMUT. dubcon (sex pollen), age gap (not specified), use of the word ‘girl’, friends(ish) to lovers, canon-typical mentions of violence, needles/getting pricked by a plant, descriptions of canon-typical injuries, unprotected PiV sex, kinda rough, creampie, light cumplay, oral (f and m recieving), a fair amount of begging, dacryphilia, size kink, overstimulation, voyeur Joel if you squint just for a sec, facefucking, mutual masturbation, multiple orgasms, some spanking, choking, reader gets slapped on the cheek like once, dom!joel miller, spit kink, fingering, dirty talk/slight degradation if you squint, light praise, this is just basically porn with no plot, they’ve got feelings for each other but they’re in denial, ellie is in this in the beginning but doesn’t hear them thank GOD,  notes: this is my first work for Joel and though I never finished the first game, the release of the TV series inspired me bc i am a SLU T for pedro lmao. this is terribly unedited because I just forgot i took edibles after i smoked and cranked this out in an hour and a half so sorry if it’s choppy or a bit ooc for joel. ALSO IF IM MISSING WARNINGS PLS MESSAGE ME 

★  

"whose brilliant idea was this?"

you say it from behind Joel, the echo of your boots splashing through the tunnel as you look around you, your eyes sneaking to observe the width of his shoulders, the stretch of his shirt over the muscles. 

Joel can't stop the twist of his lips as he grumbles back at you, "yours." he mutters, rolling his eyes. 

his flashlight cuts through the darkness in front of you two, scaling over the walls that grow slimy with repeated dew and rainwater, algae sprawling over the pipes and reaching its fingers down towards your shoes. he doesn't like being down here, it's too quiet, damp, dark. perfect for cordyceps to grow. 

you let out a soft, amused hum at his words that coaxes a bubble of irritation through Joel - you'd always been stubborn, from the day he'd first laid eyes on you; a young thing at the time, baring teeth you thought were sharp but really just looked like a little doe snapping its jaw at him. 

it's been long enough with you around now that Joel knows you better than he's willing to admit, and maybe also knows himself than he would ever say out loud - because you're still that stubborn fireball of a woman and he's still the tired old man who you find amusing to tease. and he likes it, deep deep down. 

"yeah, maybe just letting it go was the better option." you muse from behind him, voice still somehow dripping like honey though the sloshing of the sewer provided nothing but unpleasantries for the group of you. he turns to spare a glare at you; you were already smirking at him. setting him up, then lying in wait. 

a damn minx. 

he sighs, looking away: sure, he wants you, of course he does - you were spry, beautiful, intelligent, and resourceful. but you were stubborn, and butted heads with him more than rams did in mating season. still, there'd been too many lingering glances, suggestive phrases, and gentle caresses for it to be a coincidence. he could tell that when you watched him split wood or help teach you to shoot a gun that you were probably soaked through your panties, and that made him hard as a rock when he allowed himself to think about it once in a blue moon. 

 but that doesn't matter, because in a world that wasn't like this one - without the danger, pain, the necessities to survive - a girl like you would never bat a fucking eye at a man like him. 

and he's got more important things to think about than how tight you'd feel around his cock, how well you'd take his orders with his hand around your throat. 

but your words not only fall to his ears - from where Ellie hangs upside down from the storm drain, she snorts, "you spent that whole time back there arguing with him just to decide he was right?" she boasts. at this, you grab her arm, pretending to pull her down from above your head and into the storm drain with you and Joel. a splashing noise and a squeal echoes through the tunnel as your boots slosh; Joel turns back with irritation, about to snap at the two to keep quiet. 

but you're grinning, eyes reaching his from where you stand, covered in storm drain water. Ellie's flipped upside-down, hanging from the ceiling with a grin of amusement, her arm slack in your grip. 

your shirt is wet, slick against your plush skin around your stomach and breasts, your hair stuck to your cheeks and forehead and neck. slowly, you bend down to pick the axe out of the murky water, a satisfied sigh leaving your lips as you shake the water from its hilt. he has to tear his eyes away from the flash of the lacy underwear that peeks from the waistline of your jeans. 

Joel's breathing is almost stutters - you’re a goddamn sight right now, and if the tightening in Joel's jeans meant anything, it's that he needed to look away. 

"it doesn't matter. you got your axe, now we need to get out of here." he mutters, tired of letting you convince him to do asinine decisions like try and crawl into a storm drain to fetch the axe you'd accidentally dropped. your lips pull into a tight line and he ignores the twist of fire in his stomach at your gaze, the smirk as you try to conceal your laughter. it just irritates him even more. 

he watches with sharp eyes as Ellie starts to pull you up and out of the drain; he's trained with a flashlight and his rifle pointed towards the depths beyond you, into the unknown area of the drain. your head is almost out of his sight when it happens: you twitch suddenly and let out a yelp, "fuck!" you hiss. Joel's rushing towards you, calling your name. 

you groan, pulling yourself up with the aid of Ellie as you mutter, "'m fine Joel, something stung me." 

stung you?  he looks around, flashlight searching the area for any animal or insect or other threat - nothing. but when you're clear of the drain, obscured by the dilapidated road above his head, Joel hears Ellie let out an interested but disgusted noise. his gun goes first, then the flashlight. he pulls himself up and as he nearly breaches the light of the Earth, a sharp sting attaches to his thigh, coaxing a grunt of shock from his lips as he pulls himself fully out. 

you're laying, soaked on the hot pavement, Ellie staring at you with wide eyes as you inspect your calf. there's a barb on it with spikes that look almost like a cactus of sorts, bright purple and speckled with yellow. Joel doesn't have to look down to see his own thigh impaled with the spokes of the same plant. he tilts his head back, hand scrubbing his face with a deep sigh. damn it. 

"what is that?" Ellie asks, eyes wide as Joel quickly pulls out the plant from his flesh with the flannel he'd tied around his pack. "don't!" he chastises as your bare hands move towards the spoked on your calf, and your eyes soon shoot up to him. "did y'touch a plant down there? or anything?" he asks, trying to ensure this wasn't anything toxic or lethal, or god forbid, a mutation of the cordyceps. 

but if it had been, there'd have been signs of it. pulsing, infecteds even - but this was a plant Joel has never seen before.

"obviously" you grunt, shooting him a glare, "I wouldn't fucking touch something growing if I didn't know it was safe." you snark. he knows you hate it when he treats you like a child - you've said as much to him before, and loudly - but he can't help the protectiveness he feels for you. your skin is covered in a sheen of sweat, "but it shot out barbs towards me. I wasn't even close to it, you saw me." you defend. 

Joel's throat clenches, his chest swimming with a warm feeling as the tingling sensation on his thigh lingers far after he'd pulled the barb from his jeans. he needed to get that thing out of you, too. you watch him as he pulls it out of your leg swiftly, Ellie sitting back on her haunches as she watches. 

"we should clean these out." Joel decides, standing up and grabbing his gun and discarded flashlight, sending a glare down to the axe that sits glinting in the sun. just what he needs, another thorn in his side. literally. 

--

the walk back to the house was much less exciting for you as it had been before the little romp with Joel in the sewer. the sun is hot beating down on your backs, and your dampness just exacerbates the mustiness of the storm drain's water soaking into your skin.

 your calf is starting to vibrate, almost - although your heart twists with worry, you eye Joel's back and he seems fairly normal. so, you keep going, ignoring the heat that starts to consume you. your head aches by the time you round your last corner to get back.

Ellie's in her own world, kicking a rock as the house nears your sights: you'd landed here early this morning, some people who knew Joel before had lived here: they were gone now. 

but it had beds, water that could be heated, and a collection of weapons and supplies stocked higher than your head. 

so as you settle your things into the living room, you smile, digging into your pack to fish out the scraps of soap you'd saved, enough for several washes each of you were liberal with it. "so, who gets it first?" you say with a grin, unable to contain the excitement in your voice at the prospect of getting clean. Ellie jumps up, grinning with glee. 

"dibs on going last!" she whistles, pulling a dry stare from both Joel and you. she shrugs, "what, don't want to be yelled at for takin' my time." she grumbles, flopping down on the couch, sofa releasing a plume of dust. 

you lift a brow, "there's a second tub down here, isn't there?" you ask. Joel nods, eyes flickering to Ellie, "then you can take the tub down here. but only use a bit of hot water." he chides. 

she rolls her eyes as he points a stern finger her way, swiping a piece of the soap you'd held out to her as she hauls her bag behind her, "relax, old man." she mutters, shaking her head as she disappears, "I'll let it run cold before I get out." 

your eyes fall on to Joel, who sighs, nodding to the upstairs bathroom. "you go." he says dismissively. you chew on your lip, trying to figure a way out of taking the first bath: you needed to inspect this sting first. "no, i can wait. 's fine." you shrug, the feverish heat on your body not helping yourself to focus. 

his hands run to the back of his neck, massaging a spot; your eyes are glued to the muscles that ripple from the movement, the long fingers thick and rough from a lifetime of hard work. you shudder, arousal pooling at the apex of your thighs easily. you swallow, embarrassed - why were you having such an odd reaction to this plant? it was making you feel fuzzy, feverish; the only thing you can focus on is Joel. 

he shakes his head, "nonsense. ladies first." he insists, not meeting your eyes. you feel yourself clench around nothing at his words, his abnormal attempt at chivalry - you laugh a bit. he glares at you, but there's no heat. 

"since when have you been one for chivalry, Joel?" you ask, shaking your head with a smirk. it's sweet, because despite the horror of reality, there were still times when that charming Southern Man that Joel probably once was peeks through the cold, hard exterior. 

rare but not unheard of were the times he'd hold a door open, or say ma'am - but it seems that all that remains of his past is that damn smooth accent and the broken watch he keeps on his wrist at all times. 

he rolls his eyes but says nothing. his face looks red, and you almost bring up the pulsing at the site of that plant's needle; instead, you bite your tongue. you need a moment to analyze it, alone - and to get your thoughts straight, to - to not think about him.   

"you can take first, Joel. I prefer my baths lukewarm, anyways." you joke, a fleeting touch on his arm. 

your hand burns when you pull away and his eyes catch yours as if he felt it too. he must decide to not protest anymore as he nearly stumbles his way upstairs, disappearing into the master bathroom, his hands shaky as they take your soap from your grasp on the way. 

--

Joel knew something was wrong immediately. the more he'd stood there, debating with you about who gets to fucking clean themselves first, the more he saw you, in a tub, fingers caressing yourself; the more real it felt, to see you touch your hardened buds, play with your tits, to hear you moan his name gently.

but his body was hot. he felt a fever like nothing he'd ever felt before, his mind going fuzzy as he'd stumbled into the bathroom, scrubbing his whole body from head to toe vigorously, as though whatever was happening would fade away if he'd just get clean. 

the bath couldn't have been longer than seven minutes. 

by the end of it, he was grunting into his shoulder to muffle the noise, his fist squeeing his cock tight as he fucks himself into it, the hot spurs of wanton need curling around his body, choking him. that god damned soap. it smelled like you. 

he'd thrown it across the room, its pieces splintered across the ground as Joel bites back a groan of your name, the images of you, soft hands pumping him, slick mouth opening to take him inside- he cums over his chest in hot spurts, the guilt red and hot across his cheeks as the feeling snaps from his chest. 

but the fever is still there when he blinks away the pleasured cloud of his orgasm. 

and it's still there, burning hot like a snake of revenge in his body when he slams the door open, body still damp and quick to react to the fresh air of the upstairs bedroom. 

he doesn't go back downstairs, not like this. not when the girl is down there, probably still in her own bath; he's still not sure what he's come down with, or if it could spread. 

now, it’s your turn in the bathroom in the master bedroom - he'd beelined it for the office upstairs before calling for you and telling you it was your turn; he knew that something in him would snap if he were to see you while he was in this state. 

but he should've gone back downstairs, because the moment he hears it, it's too late for him. 

you're moaning. 

it's almost clear as day; muffled through doors as you'd shut yourself from the rest of the house in the master bedroom, and Joel can't fucking unhear it. 

he became painfully hard again mere minutes after his first orgasm and has been restraining himself for what can only have been the ten minutes you'd been bathing, but at the timbre of your voice, a cold shiver runs down his spine. 

his eyes widen in acceptance. there must have been some sort of- poison, or aphrodisiac in that damn plant that you'd both been struck with. 

"fuck." he groans, surprised as it comes out much more breathy than intended, his whole body shuddering as his brain gets even more swarmed with thoughts - you, spread for him, or on your knees, or laying on the table, his cock shoved down your throat-

he hits the wall, hard. his fist stings but it's nothing in comparison to the burning need he feels swirling in his gut and his legs carry him until he's knocking on the door to the master bedroom frantically. 

he calls your name, and a weak gasp is the only response. he tries again, and then your muffled voice calls, "fuck, Joel, that plant-" you cut yourself off with what Joel can only imagine is a moan of pain and pleasure. his cock twitches and he thinks he may pass out. staggering over to the bannister, Joel calls out for Ellie. she stomps over to peak her head up towards him expectantly. 

he's shaking, sweat already sheening over his whole body. he's sure he looks like hell as he grips the landing under white knuckles, "Ellie, we're sick." he groans, "stay downstairs." 

she calls back up, joking that she’s going to leave the house; but she doesn't sound sincere. he barely registers her laughter before she shuts the door, closing herself off to explore the downstairs house without Joel or you to protect her. he's momentarily glad she's not suspicious, instead is relieved to have her own time to herself. 

but his cock is so hard he thinks he may pass out again, and he can hear you gasping out his name from behind the door to the bedroom and bathroom. 

the door to the bedroom shuts and echoes through the empty upstairs as he tears through, chest heaving. you're still in the bathroom, gasping as your moans echo through the chamber. 

he calls your name as he slumps against the door frame to the bathroom, the desire coursing through his body as he shakes with the feverous affects from the plant's venom. 

he can't think straight, "I can't come in." he says, shaking his head as his forehead rests against the cool wood. you wail from inside, "Joel, please, I need- I need you, please I need help." you whimper. he can practically see you, the pleading look on your face pathetic as your brows tangle together, eyes shut in frustration. he knows you're touching yourself, and it makes his cock twitch. 

"I can't." he says sternly, knowing that if he is to come through that door, there may be no stopping himself. he can't let that happen, not like this. "I'll- I'll be good, just- I can't, nothing's working." you whimper. 

"not like this, darlin'." he's grunting through his teeth, but he feels so much desire that it's painful, like he'll die. anger courses through his chest as you let out a drawn out moan, low and full of need even through the wall that separates you. 

"fuck you." you groan, "I hate you, Joel, never let me fuckin' have anything," your voice is strangled, a shuddering moan leaving your lips that sends jolts of electricity throughout his entire being. his hand finds his aching cock, slowly trying to relieve the painful desire that shoots through him with need. 

he glares through the wall, "yeah, well, fuck you too." he spits back, anger coursing through him at your bratty exclaim of irritation for him - the one who kept you safe, who let you do what you wanted - who followed you into goddamn sewer drains to find the shit that you’d lost. 

"walking around, flaunting that fuckin' ass at me." his words fall from his lips before he can stop himself, the desire and haze pulling it out of him as he twists his wrist around himself. "do you know what you do to me?" he nearly growls, "every time you open that mouth it's some shit. always gotta have somethin' to say to me, huh? make me wanna shut you up." 

your moan is nearly a sob this time; it's raw, full of desire, and Joel could just about cum from that noise alone. his neck heats up with the knowledge that his words pushed you even further; he always knew you'd be a dirty little thing. 

but he nearly falls over as the door to the bathroom rips open, catching himself with one arm on the doorframe, his cock still in his fist. his eyes find you on the ground, fully naked, on your goddamn hands and knees for him.  

his eyes nearly roll to the back of his head when you gasp, "Joel, we need to-" you swallow as though you were salivating at the sight of him above you, cock angry and flushed, "you have to fuck me, now." 

he stares down at you, his whole entire body tremoring at the sight of you; your bare chest, nipples peaked at you suck in breaths, face flushed with desire and sweat, your own legs shaking terribly. your hands are glistening with your own juices. he lets out a moan. 

"please," you try to get his attention again, squirming as though you're in just as much pain as he is, "please, just use me, I don't care, I want to taste you." 

he shakes his head, "we-we aren't thinking straight... can't do this." he gasps, even his own words starting to sound absurd to himself. you shake your head actual tears welling up in your eyes, "I think about this all the time, Joel-" you moan, your hand slipping between your legs, the wet sounds sending streaks of desire through his body. “it’s not just the fucking plant, Joel, I need you.” you hum. his wrist hasn't stopped moving, he realizes, chasing that sweet fucking high as you stare at his cock with a wide, hungry glance, begging him to fuck you. he wonders if he’s just dreaming again.  

"you know that I want this." you gasp out, tears nearly slipping from your lashline, "don't you?" 

does he? how could you dare to ask that? 

he groans, nodding, "shit, baby, shut the fuck up." 

"you're a fucking asshole, Joel." you whine, "it hurts." you mutter, biting your lip with a ghost of a smile. that makes him snap. it hurts, and you're fucking enjoying it? 

he grabs you roughly. the minute his skin touches yours it burns deliciously; he can't believe he had the control to not touch you this whole time. his moan is tandem with yours as his fingers thread through your hair, intending on lifting you to take you to the bed; your hands grip his thighs, though, and soon your hot, wet mouth finds the angry head of his cock. 

you take him about halfway before you gag slightly and he slams his hand hard on the wall just above you; your eyes are fluttered shut, a tear squeezing out as your throat opens for him. he groans at the pleasure that courses through him, reaches his fingers, the nape of his neck. you're pulling on him desperately, and it makes him smirk down at you. 

"what, you wan' me to fuck that pretty little mouth?" he mutters, heart thundering in his chest as his fingers shake with desire. you pull off him, gasping slightly for breath, your finger still touching yourself as you nod, a string of spit still connecting him to your lips, "yes." you say with a nod, falling back against the wall as he crowds over you. 

he's not patient, not right now. he knows he could fuck your mouth until he was shooting his seed down your throat and you'd sit through it all with that pretty hair and grin and hell, you’d probably even thank him afterwards; but he doesn't have the time for that. he needs to be deep inside you, needs to be drowning in your cunt, needs to fuck you down into the mattress so hard you scream. 

and you're desperate, clearly: you're two fingers deep, fucking yourself on your fingers as another tear trails down your cheek, breathless as you shift in near pain from need. he resists the urge to coo down at you, his thumb still swiping the tear from your cheek before he grabs you again, this time pulling you up and tugging you onto the bed. 

you let out a moan of his name, your face flush with arousal as you spread your thighs open for him, watching with a pained expression as he pulls off his shirt and jeans, discarding his boxers as he goes. your eyes rake over him and you whimper, still not touching him until he gives you permission.

 it makes him smirk, "for such a brat it's a wonder you're so obedient like this." he mutters, pulling your legs further open as he quickly stands with his legs against the edge of the bed, running his cock against your soaked, velvety cunt. 

you whimper, jolting in pleasure as his head catches your sensitive, neglected nub and he smears his precum there, enthralled in the shapes your nails carve into his biceps as you gasp. 

he can't pull his eyes away from your glistening center - how many times had you cum before he'd heard you? he swallows, the flames licking his belly as he pushes his head against your tight hole. 

he grunts, you were so goddamn tight; your eyes widen as you try to move your hips, try to slide yourself onto his cock, but he stops you with a rough hand around your shoulder, pinning you down. "stop." he orders, leaning so he can spit down, the slick trailing down to settle right onto where his cock nestles against your entrance. you let out a strangled gasp at his actions, throat dry from your noises. 

he doesn't give you time to beg, though, as he's slowly easing himself into you; you let out a yelp at the feeling, loud enough that Joel's hand clamps over your lips roughly, his breath hitting your face, "shut your damn mouth, girl." 

you feel like you're splitting open as he inches in and it's barely just his head but you have never felt such excruciating bliss as now, your breath falling from your nostrils harshly as he eases himself into you. 

you wonder how much he is restraining against just fucking hard into you - but you're tight after the orgasms you'd given yourself in the bath trying to satiate the feelings you'd figured out were from that fucking plant venom. 

you don't even know if he'll fit all the way into you as he inches slowly in, taking a few grunting breaths before fully sheathing himself inside your hot pussy. you clamp around him, feeling full as he bites his lip, chest heaving, slick with sweat. his hand, still clamped over your mouth, tightens against you as he slowly starts to thrust; he reaches a part so deep in you that you nearly scream. 

he's hitting your spot nearly immediately as he starts to quicken his pace, hips hitting against yours deeply. you moan his name, "Joel, fuck, 's so fucking deep." you gasp it, unable to think of anything but chasing the high that's been building since the second the plant's venom entered your system. 

he doesn't seem to like when you start to move your hips, chasing his when he pulls away; his hand comes to your cheek in a quick smack, grabbing your attention immediately. you can't prevent the moan at the sensation, nor the way you clench tight around his cock. 

the moan he lets out is half-way between your name and fuck, as he slides into you deeper, hand wrapped around your cheeks, training your eyes on his. there's a glint of something animal in his eyes: you're sure he sees the same thing in you, the venom of that plant coursing through the two of you, nearly palpable in the air of skin slapping skin. 

your cunt flutters at the eye contact, the desire bringing you closer to the edge; his hands shoot to your shins, pulling them up to his chest and then he leans forward with a deep thrust, coaxing tears of pleasure from your eyes. "that's it, take it." he grunts into your hear, hips punctuating each thrust as his tip nudges that spongy spot inside you that curls your toes. 

then one hand catches yours as you fist the sheets; he pulls your arm roughly down towards where he enters you as he bites the lobe of your ear. "you're going to cum." he tells you breathlessly, directing your hand towards your clit, pressing the pads of your fingers against it. you yelp in pleasure, more tears squeezing from ecstasy as you nod against his forehead, "yes, fuck, I'm gonna-gonna cum." 

"that's right." he's deeper, "cum for me." he nearly whispers it, almost desperate. it's just what you need to push you over the edge: his hips angling in a way that has hot, searing pleasure coursing through you. you nearly go blind when you cum with a gasp of his name. his hips don't even stutter as he fucks you through your orgasm, the relief washing over you in waves of pleasure. you can't open your eyes, your chest heaving, arms locked on his biceps, hips quivering with the intensity of the feeling. 

he keeps the roll of his hips as he slides easily through your ruined pussy, his brows pinched in pleasure. 

"y'feel so good," you nearly go limp, your fourth orgasm drawn out by the touch of the man you couldn't ever stop thinking about. he's so deep inside you, you're surprised you can't feel him in your throat as he thrusts. "pretty girl," he mutters, pinching one of your nipples and sending shockwaves through you; the relief you'd felt from your orgasm, just like the previous ones, is soon washed away by the newly replaced desire, back again and somehow even more hungry. 

you nearly cry at the thought, but something in you still yearns for it and you allow your ankles to cross around his hips. "never wanna leave this cunt." he mutters against your collarbone. you flutter again at his words, arousal slicking you, him, the sheets below you; the squelch of your juices fill the room as he chases his own high. 

a particularly loud cry of pleasure lands you with his hand yet again over your mouth, but this time, you waste no time in pulling his fingers to your lips, sucking two of them in eagerly as your hand tries to wrap around his thick wrist. 

his eyes meet yours and his jaw clenches as his hips stutter, nearing his own high. his fingers work quick; thrusting into your mouth, slick with your spit, gagging you as he bottoms out particularly roughly. your nails scrape down his back and you'd be more shocked if there weren't marks later. 

a few more thrusts and you can tell he's close, so you pull his fingers out of your mouth to gasp, "please, cum in me, Joel," you whimper into his neck, biting down hard as he groans your name. his hand suddenly clasps around your throat, pushing you down against the mattress as he fucks into you deep, his eyes screwed shut, "don' say shit like that to me, darlin'."

but his thrusts are getting sloppier as you squeeze around him, luring him in, the intoxicating scent of soap and him and his musk surrounding your head. "please, I'll do anything." you whine, hand crawling up his neck to cradle his jaw. his dark eyes meet yours and he moans at how earnest you look, his hand tightening his grip around your throat and squeezing slightly, your airway constricted for a slight moment, causing you to gasp for air when he leans back. 

your desire has you cloudily begging, pulling at his hair, his arms, his back, keeping him in, and finally he growls, "shut up." he snaps, "'m gonna cum in you, and you better be fuckin' good." he barely looks at you as he lightly slaps one of your tits, grabbing the other and pinching your hardened nipple as he watches your whole body bounce from the force of his thrusts. "god, you feel so good." he mutters to himself. you preen at the praise, your own high creeping near. 

your lips are clamped shut, his hand holding your head down from your throat as you nearly scream, his thrusts slowing and sloppy. he lets out a delicious moan as he hits his high. "that's right, take me." he mutters, his chest shaking as he cums; he's moaning loud as he thrusts one last time, his seed coating your walls. 

"fuck." he eases, his thumb falling to soothe over your hairline gently as he releases into you. "so good for me, aren't you?" 

you swallow, the burning fire of desire still smoldering in your core, your tear trails long since dried, your body exhausted but full of energy. you nod, unable to trust your words. 

he pumps into you slowly once more before pulling all the way out, the noise of your slick and his cum slippery as you feel empty without him filling you. 

but he's already distracted, his eyes hazy as he watches a bit of his cum spill from your weeping hole, his thumb dropping to slide it back up and into you, pressing against your entrance, your breath catching. 

"is it- is it gone for you?" he asks, his voice strained. you don't need to look down to see that the venom hasn't yet run its course through his system yet; his eyes are still alight with the same animalistic desire that you feel pounding in your heart. your feverish sweating, the headache - most of it's gone, replaced with an intense, destructive desire that has you keening into his hand as it cups your used pussy, his eyes teasing. 

"no," you moan, "you?" 

he's already dropping to his knees as he breathes out, "no."  

your eyes widen. in your haze, you're searching for any relief for this growing arousal, the feelings you have for Joel driving you to beg endlessly for him, yet you hadn't expected him to do this. immediately, his hands wrap around your shaking thighs, his breath hitting your bare, throbbing pussy. you can't even think as you card your fingers back through his hair, hips jerking up away from his face as he licks a small stripe over her swollen clit. 

you're so worked up that you can't help the tightening coil as he soon dives his tongue into you, cleaning up the mess you'd made between your thighs, swirling around your clit. 

you tug hard at his hair's roots, hard enough he's sending a groan into you that reverberates through you, vibrating your chest as you clamp one hand over your lips.

fiery pleasure snakes through your body, your ankles falling over his shoulder onto his back as he eats you out like a staved man. you see his arm moving through your clouded vision and you let out a pathetic whimper as you realize the wet noises aren't just from his mouth on you: he's fucking his fist. his movements make your legs shake hard, eyes rolling back as he sucks lightly before releasing to swirl his tongue.

“Joel,” you mutter, his name the only thing that can come out of your mouth as you can’t help but grind down slightly. Joel's hands are hard on your hips; you know tomorrow as you pull on your jeans, you'll have ten fingerprints marked into you.

 it sends a delicious swirl of pride through you as he moans into you, "you taste so good, darlin'.” he mutters lowly before slowly reattaching himself to your heat. your eyes roll back again as one of his hands reaches up to grasp your tit, thumb and finger pinching and rolling as he fucks his tongue into you. one of his hands snakes up to your ass, gripping it tightly and then slapping it, the stinging pleasure making you buck your hips against him.

“Joel, i-” you cut yourself off with a sharp gasp, the overstimulating pressure making it increasingly harder to speak. your toes curl and  head tilts back as his teeth graze over your clit, your thighs clenching shut as your orgasm nears violently quick. 

"you gonna cum again?" he mutters, barely breaking away from you, his own hand moving fast as he fucks his fist; you yearn to feel him in your mouth, to taste him. “please, please.” you mutter, your hips rocking on him as his tongue swirls, nipping softly at your clit and making you cry out. “please, make me cum, Joel.” you plead, tugging his head closer, his hand slapping your ass again.

and then you're clenching your thighs on either side of him and grinding down as you hit your peak, shaking in pleasure. you grind yourself onto his tongue as he drinks you in, cleaning you of every last drop, his thumb soothing over your hip. he rides you through your high, lapping at you and only pulling away when you go lax on the mattress, legs twitching, gasps ragged and scarce. 

you'd have probably passed out right then and there if it hadn't been for his own strangled grunt, your eyes snapping back to him, to where his hand wraps around his own dick, slick with your cum and his own spit. 

"Joel," you mumble, cheeks feeling hot as your mind starts to lift, desire yet again pooling between your thighs as you slide down, off the bed until your back hits it, hands caressing over his thighs, "let me taste you." you ask, cheek hot as it lays on his thigh, your eyes begging up at him.

he moans deeply as one had slides behind your neck, steadying you as his other grips himself, "stick out your tongue." his pupils are blown so wide you can only see black. you follow his order, sticking out your tongue as you eagerly lean towards his cock, his brows furrowing as he slaps your tongue with himself. 

his hands tug you towards him, your lips tugging over him as you take him into your mouth, trying your best to look up at him. you gag around him as he thrusts his hips forward, your hands flying up to grip his thighs. "fuck, look at you," he moans, his grip tight against your head, slowly starting to fuck your throat, your eyes tearing up. "so eager for me, bet you'd let me fuck you anywhere, hm?" 

your face heats up as you hum, unable to say anything as he slides into you, tip pushing against your throat, your eyes rolling back. "yeah, you would. i know you think about it, darlin'. think about it all the time." 

you should be embarrassed to learn that Joel had, under more sober circumstances, noticed how you acted around him. but instead you let the trail of spit slide down your chin and onto your bare breasts, your fingers pushing it over your hardened nipples as he pulls off your mouth. 

you gasp for air, looking up at him with wet eyes. "get on the bed." he orders and you scramble with weak legs onto the mattress, staring at him, the familiarly torturous desire in you throbbing. his hands push you around until you're on your elbows and knees, his hand swatting your ass. "gonna cum on that pretty ass." he mutters, hand grabbing a handful of the plush skin as he spreads you open, "okay?" 

"yes, yes, please." you mutter, face sweaty and stuck with your wet hair as he leans down, spitting onto your glistening, puffy cunt. you're nearly sobbing into the sheets as he slides into your wet, warm hole, his groans just as wrecked as you. 

"jesus christ, girl." he mutters to himself as he starts to thrust into you, the new angle setting your whole body alight with the coiled pleasure. it builds fast until you feel like you're on fire, his hands rough against your hips, swatting your ass every time your hips pulled away from the overstimulation. 

"you need to come." his breath is hot as it hits your cheek, his chest pressing to your back. he's deep into you, tip hitting your sweet spot with every rolling thrust of his hips. then slipping one hand onto the back of your neck, the other snaking to toy with your sensitive clit. 

your legs nearly give out as your back arches, the orgasm crashing over you before you can even register it. 

you can't see, blind with the bliss of pleasure; your thighs shake as he mutters dirty words into your ear, Joel's hips stuttering as you clamp and flutter around him, slickening yourself and his pubic hair, skin wet with your arousal. you're so sensitive you can't do anything but take his cock as he fucks you, deeper and slower as though he's coming down with the mind fog just as you. 

when he hits his own mind-numbing orgasm, he's pulling out of you fast and finishing in hot spurts onto your ass, streaking up your lower back and sliding down into your quivering core. 

your name is the only thing on his lips as he slowly slumps down onto the mattress next to you. 

you both wait; it's silent besides your sniffling from the overstimulation and the soreness of your throat and Joel's labored breaths. you both wait to see if that torturous feeling comes back to your groins, suffocating and clouding your judgement. 

but instead, the fog clears, and within five minutes of silence and stoicism, you're sure that whatever the venom was, it'd passed through your system. "Joel?" you whisper it, cracking slightly. you hear his head shift; he'd not looked at you at all. you're not sure you blame him, embarrassment creeping through your face. but not regret. definitely not regret. 

he whispers your name back, and there's a vulnerability in it that has your eyes snapping to his, searching for the dilation of his pupils, any sign to show the venom was still in his system. you can't find any. "do you- is it gone? for you?" 

he blinks at you once before nodding his head, "yes. n'you?" you nod at him, muttering a small, "yeah." 

he knows he should go get a cloth to clean you up. he'd possibly have to help you up, help you dress... his throat dries as his now less foggy brain recovers the memories of moments ago; the size of your pupils blown out with lust. he looks over you; he'd ruined you. 

another wave of self-doubt runs through him; you were not like him, you weren't bad like him. you deserve better. 

but the way you stare at him now, as though you want nothing more than to do what you'd both just done every day with him... 

he opens an arm, accepting you as you slide your limp, exhausted body against his own naked form, his arm squeezing you to his chest as he sighs deeply. you nuzzle your face into his neck, your own heart racing just as fast as his. 

he feels like a damn fool - it'd been far too long for him, he's not sure how to approach these feelings he harbors for you, so he'd hidden them down with anger and irritation and eye rolls; but now he's gone and fucked you like you were just some other whore. 

his lips press to your forehead. he doesn't think he can say anything, not right now. he still feels like he's got a fever, and by the looks of you, you feel it too. 

so he hopes the kiss he tenderly lays on your hairline says what he can't: he's sorry he was rough with you. he hopes you're okay. he hopes you don't regret it. he hopes you know... he hopes you know it wasn't just about that damn plant’s venom. 

he pulls away from you after just a moment, rising to tug on his boxers. but as he crosses the threshold into the bathroom to gather a washcloth for you, your soft voice stops him. 

"Joel." you mutter, eyes nervous, exhausted. he stops, looking at you.

you're just as nervous as he looks; you're unsure how to interact with him now, the man you trust with your life, the one who acts like he hates you, the one you know probably loves you; and then you'd fucked him like he was just a dick, though you wish you could tell him: he's so much to you.

"that wasn't-" you're unsure how to convey it, "it wasn't just about the-whatever that plant was. I don't regret it. and I hope you don't either." you're glad it sounds as genuine as you feel when you say it. you want him to know he didn't hurt you. and you hope you didn't hurt him. 

his face flashes with relief, with adoration. "I don't." he says, turning from you quickly. 

and if his lips ghost over your knees and leave goosebumps on their wake, if his hands soothe gently over every budding bruise of his handprint on your hip; you don't mention it now.

if he gently and devotedly wipes you both clean, if your hands fold together as he settles back down against you, if your hearts beat together as you settle into the fever nap that claims you both; you just smile gently at his bashful grin.

and if your lips brush against each other just before the sleep takes you both; well, then you'll talk about it all later. 

.

taglist:    (message to be on joel miller taglist/regular tag list.)

.

[daisynik7]

Rough Day

Kishibe x f!reader

Word Count: ~1.5k

Summary: You know the perfect way to take care of your boyfriend when he’s had a rough day at work.

cw: established relationship, Kishibe is 50 while reader is younger (20s, 30s, even 40s, whatever you want), smut - blowjob, cream pie, vaginal sex (cowgirl), dirty talk, use of pet names (baby, princess, slut), multiple orgasms. Author's Notes: Another short smutty one-shot about one of my fictional boyfriends having a bad day, made better through sex (of course). Enjoy! Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are ALWAYS appreciated! Thanks for reading! Banner made by @cafekitsune!

When Kishibe arrives home from work, he is tired. It doesn’t matter that he’s gotten used to this over the decades; killing devils is always exhausting. Plus, being over the hill doesn’t help either. There are aches and pains he suffers through more so than he did in his youth. He never wishes for a time machine, but sometimes, he wants to feel young and spry again, if just for a moment. 

And that’s where you come in.

He never expects it from you, although you always manage to know exactly when he needs it. You’ve been together long enough to understand when he’s in need of some serious rest and relaxation, the kind that only you can provide to him. He drags his feet through the door, quietly grunting as he slowly slips out of his shoes, barely speaking a word. He stands behind you on the couch, leaning down to give you a peck on the cheek, draping his coat on the arm rest beside you. Still quiet, he heads directly into the bedroom, the soft thud of him collapsing onto the mattress making you smile. You shut the TV off and follow him in, seeing him splayed out at the end of the bed, legs hanging off the edge, feet flat on the carpet. An exasperated sigh leaves his lips.

“Rough day?” you ask, amused at the dramatics.

He simply grunts in response. Very rough day, you think. 

You step towards the bed, looking at him, smirking. “Anything I can do to make you feel better?”

He always tries to downplay it, but his eyes widen ever so slightly, excited. “No.”

“Are you sure about that?” You kneel in front of him, spreading his legs apart and positioning yourself between. “You sure you don’t want me to take care of you?” 

Reaching for his waistband, you start to unbuckle his belt. He hums, low and gravely from his throat. “Do you want to take care of me?” Kishibe is always too ashamed to ask for it initially. He’d rather you offer it. 

Feeling generous, you answer, “I do. I want to make you feel good.” Unzipping his pants, you hook your fingers through the belt loops, shimmying it down his legs until they’re at his ankles. There’s an evident bulge in his boxer briefs, tight against the fabric, aching to be free, to be touched. You place your hand gently to his balls, massaging him. “Fuck,” he moans.

You slide along the outline of his erection, teasing it between your fingers. He props himself on his elbows, watching you work your magic. The same tired expression in his face, except for eyes flickering with lust. Slipping beneath the band, you tug at his underwear, his boner flopping against his abdomen. At this, he sits up, leaning back on his wrists, looking down at you with his dick twitching in front of your face. You gaze at him, grinning as you stroke him. He groans, eyes never leaving you, loving the way his stiff cock is snug in your fist, jerking him off exactly the way he likes it. You’re always so good to him.

After a few pumps, you lean closer, grazing your lips at the tip, sticky with precum. Spreading it like a fucking gloss. You taste it, enjoying the salty bitterness that you’ve indulged in plenty of times before. With your lips surrounding him, you sink down, taking him into your mouth. He sucks in a breath, resisting the urge to thrust deep into your throat as you bob up and down on his shaft. 

“Fuck, princess,” he mutters, knuckles curled into the sheets. “Feels so fucking good.”

You hum happily, plunging further to the base, nose buried in his groin, chin brushing his balls. His tip tickles the back of your throat, swallowing around him until there’s tears welling in your eyes and your gag reflex activates. You pull off quickly to catch your breath, a thick string of saliva connected from his cockhead to your lip, him in your fist again. 

He shifts forward, reaching towards you to brush away the small tear at the corner of your eye. “So good to me,” he whispers. “My perfect little slut.” His thumb grazes your lips, then slips in entirely. You suck on it as he presses on your tongue, swiping it across wet heat. You continue to stroke him, dick firm in your hold, almost at his climax. When you increase the pace, he stops you, pulling his thumb out.

“Rub your pussy on me. I want to come like that,” he huffs, scooting up the bed. He kicks off the slacks pooled at his ankles, now completely naked from below the waist, tossing his loose tie to the floor and unbuttoning his dress shirt halfway. You strip out of your pants and underwear, crawling over to straddle him, rubbing your throbbing pussy along his shaft. 

“Just like that,” he says, palms resting behind his head, enjoying the show. “Rub your clit on it. I know you want to.”

You grab his dick, flicking it on your bud, moaning at the sensation. Your hole flutters, desperate to be filled. How easy it would be to slip it inside, to be fucked rough and fast. But you know what he wants. He’s always like this when he’s stressed. You grind against him, waiting for your cue, his hips bucking, breaths shallow, abdomen clenched tight. He’s so close, and you’re so needy. 

“I’m gonna come, baby. You know what to do,” he growls, staring at you. You shift above him, positioning his cock at your slick entrance, sliding it in about halfway with your hand wrapped around the base, stroking him. Seconds later, he swears loudly, spurting his hot load inside you, filling you up. 

A normal man would be finished after this. This is basic biology, human anatomy. It’s nearly impossible for someone to remain erect during their refractory period, right? Isn’t this what every lame ex-boyfriend of yours has claimed? Well, Kishibe is no ordinary man. Besides being the world’s best devil hunter, your boyfriend is also a fucking sex god. This is just a preview. An appetizer. The warm-up. He’s far from being done with you. Very far from it. 

Stuffed with his load, he starts thrusting, cock even harder, fucking his cum deep inside you. “Touch yourself,” he demands, grip tight on your hips, guiding you up and down. “Love seeing you come on my cock.”

You reach between you, dipping into the creamy arousal smeared on his lap, rubbing your swollen clit with slick fingers until you climax. Body sweltering with passionate heat, you hoist your shirt off, unclasping your bra to free your breasts. He squeezes one with his hand, pinching at your nipple, causing you to cry out, “Oh fuck!” 

He nods with a smirk, feet flat on the mattress, bullying his way into your tight pussy. “You’re my nasty slut tonight, aren’t you? My own little sex toy. Love ruining this perfect pussy.” 

You bounce on him, a dumb expression on your face, salivating at the sides of your mouth. He’s buried inside you, fucking your sweet spot ruthlessly, steadfast on making you come again. His body moves in a frenzy, completely different from how he was moments ago. The promise of sex flicked a switch in him. You always know how to bring life back into him, especially after an exhausting day like today. 

His hands slide to your back, guiding you to his chest. “Kiss me.” And of course you do, lips smacking, tongues licking at each other, sloppy and fervent. He slows his thrusts, savoring how seamlessly he fits inside you, shaped perfectly around him. Gliding to your ass cheeks, spreading them apart as he rails you. Your face is nuzzled into his neck, sucking at the skin to create love marks. You come once more without telling him, though he figures it out anyways. Always so observant and keen to even the smallest details about you.

“I know you came again. Making a fucking mess on my cock. I love it,” he teases, giving you a harsh spank on your bottom. “Give me more.”

You keep taking it, cock pumping in and out of you smoothly, creamy and slick with arousal. Eventually, you orgasm a third time, squeezing around him, body spent above him. Still, he doesn’t stop, not until he spills every last drop of his cum inside you, until his balls are empty, and he has no more of himself to give you. 

He manages to keep it up for several more minutes before he’s pushed past the edge, shooting thick spurts of cum all over your pussy walls. He coils his arms around you in a tight embrace, creamy mess flowing out of your fluttering hole and onto his lap. A few beats of silence pass, then, with a satisfied sigh, he says, “Thank you. I needed that.”

You snuggle closer to him, smiling. “I’m always happy to help.”

He kisses the top of your head, inhaling the familiar scent he adores so much. “I love you, princess.”

“I love you too, Kishibe.”

[skzstoryvault]

Dans le noir ( Hyunjin fic)

Undead F!Reader x Hyunjin

Standalone story

I am a sucker for a vampire story, but usually it's the men who are the allpowerful vampires. I'm reversing the roles a bit here.

Reader here is an ancient vampire, very over-powered, and their origin is based on the backstory of Ahmanet from the movie "The Mummy". Of course she is very affected by Hyunjin's unique charms.

This is in no way meant as a commentary on the real person Hyunjin. The persona he projects for us to enjoy is just so enticing and inspires nice dreams.

Story includes barely mentioned smut, biting and blood drinking, Hyunjin becoming very affected by reader's charms.

The you used here is not generic, I'm using it to allow myself some immersion on later re-reads. If you still find something in here to like, all the better - I hope you enjoy it and have a good time.

Please be kind.

Please do not report this post. If it's not your thing, just scroll away.

If you're underage, please scroll on, there is nothing for you here.

If you enjoy this story and are reading along, I would love to hear your comments in the replies, reblogs or DMs - however you feel most comfortable.

***

Millennia passed you by like weeks and little caught your eye. Much less seized your heart.

Until here, now, when the sweetness of his soul and the melody of his blood reach and wake you from your dreams.

His scent reaches you first, and then the jaunty sound of his heart, the rush of his blood through his veins. Ticking his life away, the cadence imperceptible for now, while he’s young.

His passion for everything he does is the spark that lights the fire warming you back up. His stream of thoughts, rushing all over the place like tens of excited kittens on long, spry legs, lures you out of the darkness.

Your body comes back to life. You find fresh prey to steal warmth from, and by the time his orbit and yours intersect, you’re as convincingly alive as he is. But the mystery and the threat remain around you like an invisible shroud. 

He is, how else, drawn to you. His mind is quiet and soothing, like a parade of colours and imagery he conjures up. Such a shift from what the usual mortal’s inner cinema is showing - cold, hungry, lonely, horny, ashamed, afraid.

Hyunjin’s mind is a museum and a palace, every corner of it ornate, luxurious and playful. A universe in and of itself. You spend your time roaming its halls, known and welcome by him.

He never shows fear - but he doesn’t know fear when it comes to you, as though he always knew that he would arouse an immortal’s interest. He’s so exquisite in his innocence, he has no idea what you truly are, yet he does not question his pull towards you. 

He risks a lot, coming to find you alone. His life is steered and dictated by others, who keep him on a very short leash and guard him because he is worth many shiny trinkets to them. 

Usually, he’s the artist - the one holding the brush and deciding which way the lines flow. Now, you’re the master and he’s the art. Your worldly mask is that of a designer, an alchemist of colour, shape and texture, and Hyunjin does not hesitate to bare himself to you.

HIs naked skin contrasts so prettily with the gold of his many jewels, shadows from your candlelight dancing seductively over the pale plains and valleys of his skin. You look at him and the view he offers is timeless, something which made the first man’s heart quicken just as it does yours now. 

Pygmalion and Galatea, that’s what you are and what he is to you, but you’re one to savour the unwrapping of your present. Play with your food for a bit. 

The first night, Hyunjin leaves your atelier affected, but untouched.

The next night, he is back, seeking your closeness like the drunk seeks the carafe. 

Life buzzes around the two of you, the hours of broad daylight bringing more and more mortals into your orbit. This way, you meet Hyunjin’s family. Seven other boys whom he thinks of as seven pieces of his soul, walking through the world exposed and vulnerable. There is one among them he thinks of almost like a mate and a father in one, and two of them he views as his small children. He is too soft a father in his own eyes because he has a favourite. 

You realise you cannot easily pluck him from his life - from his odd family of men who profess their love for one another through small charred bits of animal flesh. But you’ve never denied yourself your heart’s desires. 

Many nights into your slow seduction, he walks close into your own space, close enough for his lips to touch the marble-like texture of your neck. 

“You feel so cold,” he says. “Let me warm you.”

And you do, you let him underneath your clothes and inside your body, which made itself welcoming for him, millennia after the god who made you tried to take that from you. 

Hyunjin’s love feels like a sacrament and he brings fire and fragrance where there was only darkness and ice. He feels like a fervent priest, performing his rituals before an unmoving stone idol, so passionate and so sincere that life inhabits the once inanimate form anew

You’ve long forgotten the way your flesh can feel, the power you gathered through the ages erasing all the weakness and the softness which made pleasure possible in your core. But Hyunjin lit a new flame in your altar and you find yourself pleased with his gift.

You look at him, sat open in his lap, your legs spread over his own folded ones. Like a lotus depicting the symmetry of nature, he holds you up and facing him, a mirror image of himself but from another space and time. It’s too delicious, too unbelievably reverent of him and it makes you want to finally give in. 

You feel your fangs lengthen, and the accompanying disgust wanes sooner than usual before you lean close and bite. His blood is so potent and sweet, the thrumming of it so alluring that you almost forget to stop in time. Almost.

Some of your venom helps heal the wound you made and muddies Hyunjin’s perception enough to make him neglect and forget the memory of you drinking from him. 

In time, he becomes addicted to the feeling of floating, of dancing on the high wire between life and death and he craves the euphoria of your venom flooding him and making everything right. 

“Take me over to your side. Make me yours. Don’t let me grow old and fade into nothing.” He begs, not long after he pieces everything together. “Or, let me die if you don’t want me. Don’t keep me so far from you, like your blood bag and nothing more.”

He says this for the umpteenth time, standing at a mirror in your bedroom, his long velvet rope open, revealing his naked front, which carries innumerable marks of how addicted you’ve grown to his blood.

You would bring him over to your side, you really would, but the fact he is alive and fragile is what drew you to him in the first place and, if it were you who pulled him into the darkness with you, as your fledgeling, you would lose the delicious connection between your minds. Thirdly, something you’ve learned along the eras and that you personally abhor, is the abyss of resentment that inevitably arises between sire and fledgeling. Like a child who could not consent to being born, spitting hateful words to its parent when the suffering of being alive on this Earth gets too much to bear, Hyunjin would turn on you or worse, leave you, once he realises the flavour of immortality he demanded cannot keep his heart happy.

“Besides, you would not want to be alone forever, would you? You could not sit and watch our members grow old and die around you.” You say. “I have an idea.” 

You travel to the place Hyunjin calls home, the dorm he shares with three other men, and make sure everyone else is asleep before you will the doors to open and make your way in. 

In the semi-dark room, you see his dark silhouette in the corner, lit only by the blue glare of his laptop and the purple of the small lights on the wall.

His blood runs cold and he starts to shake when he becomes aware of your presence.

“Do not be afraid, Bang Chan. I’m going to make you an offer you cannot refuse.”

You had to go to him, because you have no doubt in your mind that he will share his gift with all his children.

[just-dreaming-marvel]

The Bond Between Us ~ 82

THE BOND BETWEEN US MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 1,655ish

Summary: You and the other go back to the Resistance base to put a plan together.

Notes: Two chapters in one day! (Also, can't believe that this series is almost over! Insane!)

You fell asleep almost as soon as Han helped you to a bench. He held you up against him so that you wouldn’t fall over while Chewie flew the Falcon to the Resistance base on D’Qar. Leia and he shared a worried look as they came to the realization that you were no longer as young and spry as you tried to keep being. Han explained to Leia about Rey and Finn, how he had gotten the Falcon back, and ended up on Takodana.

“Hey, kid, wake up,” Han whispered, shaking you gently.

You groaned as you woke up. Looking around, you noticed people getting off the transport. Han helped you to your feet and walked with you, following Leia, to the command center. He guided you to sit down and you thanked him with a smile. Han smiled back with a nod, eyes roaming over you to check for any injuries.

“I’m fine,” you told him.

“I don’t know think it was a smart move to fight, kid,” he worried.

“Yeah? Who would have saved your skin then?”

“Y/N…”

“Don’t worry about me, okay? I’ll be fine after I rest up.” Han sighed. He turned around and plopped next to you, staring at Leia as she conversed with a group of officers. You noticed his longing, sorrowful stare. “She missed you, you know?”

Han scoffed. “Doubt it.”

“It’s true.”

“Yeah? Well, how about you?”

You reached over and placed a hand on his knee. “Of course I did, Han. You’re family.”

“General Organa!” Poe called as he hurried up to the group with the man that had been with Han and Chewie. You and Han put your attention on the commotion. “Sorry to interrupt, this is Finn, he needs to talk to you—“

“And I need to talk to him,” Leia said, taking Finn’s hand. “That was incredibly brave, what you did. Renouncing the First Order, saving this man’s life—“

“Thank you, ma’am,” Finn responded, clearly surprised she knew. “But a friend of mine was taken prisoner—“

“Han told me about the girl, I’m sorry.”

“Finn’s familiar with the weapon that destroyed the Hosnian system,” Poe said. “He worked on the base.”

“We’re desperate for anything you can tell us.”

“That’s where my friend was taken,” said Finn. “I’ve got to get there, fast.”

You pushed yourself up from your seat and walked over, Han right behind you. “And we will do everything we can to help,” you told Finn, “but first you must tell us all you know. Including, where you found that lightsaber attached to your hip.”

That’s when Leia noticed the old saber attached at Finn’s hip. 

“Maz Kanata had it,” Han responded. “It called to Rey but she refused to take it.”

“Wait…” Finn looked at you closer as he mumbled. Realization hit him, blowing his eyes wide. “You—You’re Jedi General Y/N L/N!”

“It’s Skywalker,” Han corrected at the same time Leia said, “Her name is Y/N Kenobi.”

“Doesn’t matter who I am,” you said. “That’s Anakin’s lightsaber that Luke lost on Cloud City.”

“I—I don’t—“

“Doesn’t matter about the lightsaber right now,” Leia interrupted Finn’s stuttering. “Tell us what you know about the base.”

~~~

After Finn explained what he knew, you, Han, and Leia found yourselves alone in the main command room with C3PO, BB8, and a shutdown R2D2. You watched as C3PO took a data device from BB8 and inserted it into a base computer. A map appeared on the base computer. You and Leia walked up to it, studying it. You sighed at the sight of the incomplete map.

“Generals, I regret to inform you, but this map recovered from BB8 is only partially complete,” 3PO explained. “And even worse, it matches no charted system on record. We simply do not have enough information to locate Master Luke.”

Leia shook her head as she sighed. “I can’t believe I was so foolish to think that I could just find Luke and bring him home.”

“Leia—“ Han tried.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Leia turned around to walk away. “Anything.”

Han looked to you for help. You simply shrugged. He started following her, though the two never left the room allowing you to what the whole interaction.

“I’m trying to be helpful!” Han argued.

“When did that ever help?” Leia retorted. “And don’t say the Death Star!”

Han sighed. “Listen to me, will you?” Leia turned. “I know every time you… every time you look at me, you’re reminded of him.”

“You think I want to forget him? I want him back!”

“There was nothing we could’ve done.” He glanced at you briefly while he said that. “There was too much Vader in him.”

“That’s why I wanted him to train with Luke… with Y/N. I just never should have sent him away. That’s when I lost him… that’s when I lost you both.”

“We both had to deal with it in our own way. I went back to the only thing I was ever good at.”

“We both did.”

They stared at each other in silence for a moment before Han spoke up again, “we lost our son, forever.”

“No… It was Snoke… he seduced our son to the dark side. But we can still save him. Me. You.”

“If Luke and Y/N couldn’t reach him, how could I?”

“Luke and Y/N are Jedi… you’re his father. There’s still light in him. I know it.”

“Generals,” General Statura interrupted, “the reconnaissance report on the enemy base is coming.”

~~~

A group of Resistance members surrounded the holo table which displayed a wireframe hologram of the surface of Starkiller Base.

“The scan data from Snap’s reconnaissance flight confirms Finn’s report,” Poe informed.

“They’ve somehow created a hyper-light speed weapon built within the planet itself,” Snap explained.

“A laser cannon?” One of the members questioned.

“We’re not sure how to describe a weapon of this scale.”

“It’s another Death Star,” you breathed out. “Just… worse.”

“I believe that’s an understatement, General Kenobi,” Poe said. He hit a button, revealing the comparison of the Death Star to the Starkiller Base. The Death Star was minuscule in comparison. “This is Starkiller Base.”

“So it’s big,” Han said, trying to lighten the mood slightly.

“How is it possible to power a weapon of this size?” Admiral Ackbar questioned.

“It uses the power of the sun,” Finn explained. “As the weapon is charged, the sun is drained until it disappears.”

Suddenly an officer ran up, handing Leia a data card. She looked at it, heart clearly sinking.

“The First Order, they’re charging thee weapon again, now,” Leia said. “Our system is the next target.”

“Oh my!” 3PO exclaimed. “Without the Republic fleet, we’re doomed.”

“Okay, how do we blow it up?” Han asked. “There’s always a way to do that.”

“Han’s right,” Leia said, surprising her husband.

“In order for that amount of power to be contained, that base would need some kind of thermal oscillator,” you said.

“There is one,” Finn responded, moving the hologram to show a location on the base. “Precinct 47. Here.”

“If you can destroy that oscillator, it might destabilize the core and cripple the weapon… maybe the planet.”

“We’ll go in there and we’ll hit that oscillator with everything we got,” Poe said, very gun-ho.

“It’s not that easy Dameron. There’s a defensive shield that our ships can’t penetrate.”

“We disable the shields,” Han stated, a matter of factly. He looked to Finn. “Big Deal, you worked there, what do you got?”

“I can do it,” Finn confirmed.

“I like this guy.”

“I can disable the shields. But I have to be there, on the planet.”

“We’ll get you there.”

“Han, how?” Leia questioned.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t like it.”

“So we disable the shields, take out the oscillator and we blow up their big gun,” Poe confirmed. “Alright! Let’s go!”

~~~

Han, Chewie, and Finn were working on the Falcon when you finally got the strength to go out there. You had a bad feeling about the mission—specifically Han’s part in it and you wanted to do what you could to keep him safe.

“I’m coming with you,” you stated.

“No,” Han turned to you, shaking his head. “Not a chance. You barely had the strength to fight the way you did.”

“Han, I’m fine. Besides, I have a bad feeling about this and—“

“Then you’re definitely not going.”

“You’ll need my help.”

“Y/N,” he placed his hands on your arms, “you need to stay here.”

“I can save him, Han,” you whispered, getting emotional. “I wasn’t able to be the Chosen One and bring balance, but at least let me bring him back. Let me bring Ben home.”

“What happened to Ben wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have prevented it.” He leaned over and kissed your forehead. “It’s going to be okay.” He smiled as he pulled back. “It’s me.” He stepped away and turned to go back to the Falcon.

“No matter how much we fought,” Leia’s voice caused Han to stop, “I’ve always hated watching you leave.” She came to stand beside you.

Han turned around. “That’s why I did it. So you’d miss me.”

Leia laughed and moved closer to Han. “I did miss you.”

“It wasn’t all bad, was it? Huh? Some of it was… good.”

“Pretty good.”

“Somethings never change.”

Leia smiled. “True. You still drive me crazy.” Han placed his hands on her shoulders. They stared at each other briefly before pulling each other in tightly, holding for dear life. “If you see our son again, bring him home.”

“I will.” He pulled back, looking at you and Leia. “I’ll bring him home.”

Leia slipped her arm through yours as the two of you watched Han go over and enter the Falcon. You followed it as it lifted up and flew off, disappearing into space.

next chapter >

TAGLIST IS CLOSED - Taglist Information

[izvmimi]

cw: fluff but also hurt/comfort. post-war arc. the big three with mentions of unnamed partners. written in third person. minimal dialogue.

Located a hop, skip and a jump from UA High School, sits a café that serves all meals but specializes in breakfast, run by a spry woman in her 70s, perhaps older, perhaps younger, with no spouse or living children of her own, but grandmother nonetheless to many. 

It’s a quiet Sunday morning and one of her such “grandchildren” shows up - the noisiest one, who is sweet despite his gruff demeanor and lack of manners.

“Obaa!” he waves as he comes down the road. She looks up from her sweeping of the restaurant entryway to give him a smile, and even though his usual scowl is plastered on his face, it softens ever so slightly as they meet eyes.

“Coming alone?” she asks. He shakes his head.

“Takeout. Not coming in at all,” he replies. She tilts her head as she grins even wider, all crow’s feet and pleasant demeanor. 

“Early patrol, dear?”

He harrumphs and she finally laughs, covering her mouth. She sends a quick message back to the kitchen with her shiny new cell phone, the one that is all the kids these days, alerting the young Quirkless girl she employed earlier this year to start the grills. The latter, named Emiko, sends back an enthusiastic ‘Ok!’ with a smiley face. She’s plucky and energetic despite her past.

Bakugou gently takes the broom from the old lady’s grasp and finishes up the rest of the sweeping as he waits for breakfast to be made.

Obaachan asks him how the other five are doing, bright-eyed Izuku and his brighter-eyed girlfriend, calm Shoto and his fiancée as mellow as flowing grass, and even his own wife, surprisingly not trailing closely behind. Bakugou talks freely, not looking at her but focusing on the dustpan before him. Bakugou is her toughest “child” and possibly her favorite, she thinks, but doesn’t say it aloud.

She sends him off moments later with arms laden with porridge and breakfast pastries, happy that his large enough for the small agency he now runs.

“Next Sunday,” he tells her to expect the rest of the gang on the way out, and as promised, the group files in.

Izuku, ever polite, bows to her and she pulls him into a hug instead, biding him not to be reckless anymore. She pulls a freckled cheek and his partner giggles before giving her a warm hug in turn. Obaachan doesn’t know it but she is one of the blessed few that she willingly holds this close.

Shoto bows as well, but less deep, and forgets to let go of his fiancee’s hand as he heads to the backroom the old lady often prepares for them during their brunch meetups. She gently slips out of his protective hold, minding the large and beautiful ring on her finger that sparkles when it catches in the light just right.

Obaachan smiles as the young lady squeezes both of her hands in greeting and asks if she’s been well. She can remember Shoto slipping the tiny box out of his pocket while the young girl was in the bathroom just a month ago. He hadn’t had the courage then, hiding it away the second she returned, but clearly he mustered it some time in between. She wonders how he proposed. One day, she’s sure she’ll find out. 

Bakugou’s wife arrives late, hair a mess but adorably excitable regardless, and Bakugou fusses with the strands that are particularly out of place as she slips into the booth next to him. She beams at him even though he frowns (yet with softness preserved for the one he loves). She is the only one who remembers to bring a gift.

“For your birthday in two weeks if we don’t get to come by again!” she sings.

Izuku and his partner look betrayed, but try to conceal it. Obaachan pretends not to see the sibling-like competition and accepts the gift bag in wrinkled, gentle hands.

“You shouldn’t have!” she insists, but she’s thankful.

All six disagree with the old woman, in consensus that she deserves that and much more.

Years ago, Obaachan met the green-eyed boy first, as a teen roaming through the remains of the city destroyed nearly beyond recognition. She had wondered if he was an orphan too, watching from the window of her small restaurant that miraculously still stood despite the surrounding rubble.

And then she recognized him as he was - a young and tormented hero who was in the process of forgetting how to smile after prolonged misery and grappling with decisions that should have been far above his jurisdiction. She’d felt foolish opening back her restaurant up until she laid eyes on him. 

And perhaps she knew then that Providence had brought her to this point in time.

Stepping out of the restaurant, she rang her bell loud enough to startle him out of his thoughts, and once he saw her, he smiled.

It didn’t take long for a steaming bowl of noodles to bring him back more than a couple times, and eventually with a girl about his age and clearly dressed up more than was appropriate for anything other than a date. She looked somewhat embarrassed, looking around nervously, and standing close enough that her crush was obvious.

She took a picture of them then, knowing perhaps that the first date would lead to something lasting.

Two became four, then six and all six lingered.

Obaachan’s place became home base for the budding heroes, a “third place” for decompression and comfort. She named a special after them, admiring their hope and youth despite the trauma of being involved in war so young.

Over time, her place grew from one dilapidated shop to a large bustling restaurant with new staff and new patrons coming for their favorite dish, oohing and aahing of the pictures on the walls. 

From the new Symbol of Peace’s first date, to the opening of controversial-yet-cool Dynamight’s first agency, and ever-favorite Shoto taking over his father’s after his retirement. There were more beyond them too - Iida’s election to the head of the Hero Commission and an early achievement award for Ochaco’s foundation for displaced refugee children and adults.

Mothering and grandmothering has helped the old lady forget the many she lost that year.

Perhaps this is her own act of resistance. Feeding and caring for young Heroes and civilians in their time of need. 

She’s learned over time the value of a good meal and a warm smile.

[mar-im-o]

Gentle | Wilbur Soot QSMP fic

Hurt/comfort. Wilbur Soot is in denial about needing a cane. Philza helps him out

(this isn’t projecting what no stfu)

word count: 2538

warnings: explicit internalized ableism. brief mention of disordered eating

Frankly, he’s too young for this.

That’s always his response to the pain. It’s all in his head, it has to be, because he’s too young to be having these problems. Old men need canes. Actually disabled people who have earned the title need canes. He, a perfectly spry twenty-something, does not need a cane.

Wilbur repeats these mantras to himself as he has time and time again, slumped against a tree about two chunks from his and Tallulah’s home. He keeps rechecking the map to be sure the marker is correct, because it doesn’t seem right. There’s no way he only made it a chunk before it got this bad. Before he had to sit down.

But, alas, he could only grit his teeth and bear the pain so long before it made him want to cry. How pathetic is that? He can’t even make it from Quackity’s base to his own without having to sit down.

He’s lazy, is what it is. He’s not injured, he’s not hurt, he’s not old, so he has to be lazy. This is the fault of overreliance on Warpstones. If he had been walking more like everyone else…

But walking hurts. He has to admit it, as much as he wants to insist that it doesn’t. The soles of his feet and his ankles and gods, his shins and his calves have been acting up now! He feels like he’s falling apart, and there’s no reason for it. Everyone else can do this. Everyone else can make these distances. Everyone’s legs get tired when they walk. He’s nothing special.

He’s lazy, is what he is. Just lazy.

Wilbur sighs as he eyes the horizon. The sky’s become red with a setting sun, and he’s not at all eager for Tallulah to be home alone during the night. So, with gritted teeth, he pulls himself back to standing (no matter the protesting in his knees). He’s fine. He can make it the rest of the way.

He appreciates the density of the woods as he goes along, using the passing trees to keep his balance. He doesn’t have to go far between leaning against one trunk or another, a sad stumble between trees as he heads towards home, eyes cautiously watching the sun as it sets.

Wilbur’s eyes are watching through the canopy when he starts, stumbling in his walk at the sight of two yellow eyes staring down at him.

Philza cocks his head in a way that makes Wilbur huff, having half a mind to throw something at him. “Don’t do that. Scared the shit outta me.”

Phil laughs, hopping down from the tree with the aid of his wings before landing in the grass beside Wilbur, who doesn’t stop to greet him. Wilbur keeps on forward, though without the aid of the trees in a way that makes his legs scream at him.

Phil follows behind him, arms crossed behind his back. “Really surprised you didn’t notice sooner.”

Sooner. Wilbur tries not to show the flush in his cheeks at the thought of Phil watching him be so dramatic while walking. (Dramatic, is exactly what it is. Why is he so dramatic about all of this?) 

“I’m not exactly looking for old men in my trees, Phil.”

“Should be. Freaky shit on this server.”

“Don’t you have a kid to be watching?”

Phil chuckles a bit, shrugging as he follows alongside Wilbur. He keeps his eyes upwards, scanning the sky much like Wilbur had been, as he sighs. “School day. Sort of enjoying a few hours to myself. Not sure what to do without that fiend keeping my hands full, though.”

“So you come bother me?” Wilbur asks, though it’s less of a question and more of an tease. 

Phil shrugs. “I can go.”

But Wilbur doesn’t want him to.

It’s silly, really, and Wilbur hates the way he almost begs Phil not to leave. Really, he’s in pain, and tired, and doesn’t want to have to walk anymore, and all he wants is the company of his father. Gods, it’s childish. Childish and dramatic and lazy and–

“How’ve you been?”

Wilbur blinks away the swirling thoughts, grounding himself to focus on Phil. His eyes have fallen, watching the ground they walk on instead. Wilbur tracks Phil’s attention to his own feet, and it makes him suddenly conscious of the fact that he’s limping a bit. Favoring one leg over the other.

He clears his throat, trying to force himself to center his gravity, but it doesn’t come naturally. “Good. Busy with your granddaughter, mostly.”

Phil catches Wilbur with a gaze that clearly reads: that isn’t what I meant. But Wilbur ignores it.

He tries to focus on Phil more so than he does himself. It’s easier to ignore the pain when there’s a distraction. Or, at the least, it makes the destination seem closer.

But Phil, of all people, is anything but a distraction. Wilbur’s paranoid at this point, waiting for Phil to point out the obvious, to chide him.

It’s hard to imagine Philza Minecraft, of all people, chiding Wilbur on something like his physical health. Mental, sure (Phil hasn’t let that go unmonitored since the whole L’Manburg incident), but physical is hardly any of Phil’s concern. He’s never really cared what Wilbur did so long as he was alive and undamaged.

But here he is, damaged from something as simple as walking.

He knows the shit Phil could blame it on. He could call Wilbur out for being too lazy, claiming that this wouldn’t happen if he exercised more regularly. Or maybe he can point out the elephant in the room a la weight gain. He’s put on a few pounds since getting off the Dream SMP, mostly due to the stress which had left him with an unrecognized eating disorder. Has Philza noticed? Would he point out that the pain was correlated with putting on the weight?

Or would he insist that it’s all in Wilbur’s head? Maybe everyone feels this sort of pain. He’s just the only one weak enough to complain.

Regardless, there’s a lump in Wilbur’s throat that makes him scared to speak at all, as if Philza can sense his pain and insecurities and will bring it up.

Maybe he can.

Or maybe he had just seen how Wilbur was walking before.

Regardless, Philza takes his hat off to scratch the back of his head, avoiding Wilbur’s gaze entirely as he says, “Your feet been hurting you?”

Wilbur stumbles at the question, laughing as if he could cover up the panic that’s rising. “I mean, I guess. It’s nothing new. Not bad, though.”

Phil chuckles, stopping entirely to look Wilbur head-on. Wilbur wants to keep walking, to beeline straight to home and be able to close a locked-door on Phil’s face and say they can talk tomorrow. But something about Philza’s gaze catches him, and he pauses with him.

Phil throws a glance down to Wilbur’s feet, then up at him. “I don’t know. Just–bigger server than we’re used to. Not everything’s in one place. Been wondering if that’s hurting you?”

Wilbur swallows. Yes. Yes of course it has! He doesn’t have wings like Phil does. He can’t just fly around the server whenever he pleases. Bad invites him over and he has to walk, and every step makes him want to choke on his own breath and collapse on the ground and swear that he’s never going to walk again.

It’s fucking killing him doing this every single day. There’s so much he wants to do, so much he wants to see, but it’s all so far and he has to walk and there aren’t convenient Warpstones set up everywhere and–

And he says none of that. He just stares at Philza, focusing on his features, the familiar concern painted across them. He shrugs. “Like I said. Nothing new.”

“Wil–”

Wilbur doesn’t care to hear it. He turns to begin the walk back to his house, teeth gritted at the way his body protests. 

Phil lags behind. “Wilbur. C’mon.”

“I’m fine, Phil.”

“Mate–”

He grabs Wilbur’s arm and Wilbur rips it away, turning back to face Phil with a heat rising in his chest. He won’t explode he won’t breakdown he won’t he won’t he won’t–

There’s something in Phil’s hand.

It takes Wilbur a moment to register it, vision blurred by the tears threatening to slip down his cheeks. But once they clear, he looks at the cane in his father’s hand with some fascination. It’s black all over, wooden, with the handle weathered in a way that makes it look vintage. Wilbur’s eyes trace the red-stained carvings moving down it, and only after focusing on them does he realize they’re words. 

No, not just words. 

Lyrics. This is his band’s song. The Fall. Every word carved into the length of this cane and stained a deep red.

Wilbur reaches out to touch it, feeling the texture of the words on his fingertips as he looks up at Philza, baffled. “What’s this?”

Philza seems truly surprised by the question, laughing like it’s stupid. “It’s a fucking cane mate. How have you never seen a cane before?”

“No, I know what–” Wilbur shakes his head. “Why? What’s it for?”

“You.”

“Me?” Wilbur retracts his hand like it’s burnt him, glaring down at the cane then up at Phil. “I don’t need that.”

“Mate–” “I told you. I’m fine Phil. I’m–I’m managing.”

Philza laughs again, and fuck Wilbur hates that laugh right now. It feels inappropriate. Rude. Like there’s some joke to all of this that Wilbur isn’t getting. “Mate, you aren’t. You’re fucking miserable. I can see the look on your face when I invite you anywhere. I can tell your legs have been bothering you.”

Again, Wilbur swallows at that lump in his throat, but there’s some anger to it this time. He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t. He’s fucking–he’s young and there’s nothing wrong with him, he’s just attention-seeking, why would he need a cane?

“I just thought it could help.”

Wilbur grimaces at that. “Don’t see you using one.”

“I’ve got fucking wings mate. I’m not on my feet as much as you are.”

Again, Wilbur just scowls. “I don’t need that. I don’t–”

“Don’t what?”

“I don’t deserve it,” Wilbur hisses. He can feel tears prickling in his eyes and, fuck, it’s too much for him to bear at this point. He lets himself lean back against a tree before slowly sliding to the ground, trying to count his breaths so he doesn’t fucking cry over this.

His legs hurt in a way that makes him despise them. Dysfunctional pieces of shit. That’s all he is. Dysfunctional and over dramatic and–

Philza crouches down in front of Wilbur, discarding the cane in the grass. Wilbur looks up at him with a shaky breath, trying to steady himself, to find the words to eloquently express why he doesn’t need something like that.

“I’m fine,” Wilbur manages after a moment. “I’m fine, Phil. It’s my own fault for not, I dunno, stretching more as a kid. For not working out more. I don’t deserve something like that.”

Phil places his hands on Wilbur’s shoulder, head tilted in a softer form of concern. “Is that what you think? Mate, you don’t have to deserve being disabled. That’s not something you earn through suffering or whatever.”

Disabled. Wilbur laughs a bit harshly at that word.

He has nothing against it, really. He knows he’s disabled. He’s got a hefty list of mental disorders that have earned him that status. 

But he’s not physically disabled. “There are people who actually need shit like that.”

Another laugh from Phil. “There’s not, like, a limited number of them, mate. If you need it you need it.”

“But I don’t need it. I shouldn’t need it. I should be fine.”

“But you aren’t.”

“Goddammit, Phil, I know that.”

Wilbur chokes on a sob, pulling his knees up to his chest so he can duck his head against them. Count your breaths, calm down–

But fuck he’s in so much pain right now, and they still have a chunk to go until they hit his base, and he doesn’t want to do it he doesn’t want to fucking walk.

“I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep walking. I’m miserable, and I fucking hate being miserable, because no one else is. Everyone else is fine with all of this. I’m the one being dramatic.”

“Dramatic–?”

“In-turned fucking arches Phil. That’s all this is. Inserts and good sneakers should work but nope. And what am I supposed to fucking do? Curl up inside? Not walk?”

“Wil…”

“There are people in this goddamn Universe with real fucking problems. This isn’t real. I’m just being over-dramatic and it isn’t fucking f–”

Wilbur loses his words as arms curl around him. He hadn’t even noticed Phil change positions to be beside him, but his arms curl around him protectively, wings finding their places in a familiar sort of hug.

There’s a part of him that wants to escape. He doesn’t deserve this comfort. This sympathy isn’t earned.

But a larger part can’t help but feel relief.

No disappointment. No pity. Just love. Love from his father.

Wilbur leans into the hug, eyes screwed shut as he counts his breathing.

One. Two. Three.

“It’s real, mate.”

Four. Five. Six.

“I promise.”

Seven. Eight. Nine.

“You don’t have to earn that. You don’t have to earn being gentle to your body.”

Ten.

Wilbur releases an exhale as he blinks his eyes open. The sun has set by now, night fallen over the forest, but they’re bathed in the warm glow of Phil’s lantern. He feels safe here. He feels…

Gentle…

Wilbur sits in the hug for a few moments before, at last, unraveling himself from Philza’s embrace. Phil doesn’t stop Wil, just gently pulls his limbs away as Wilbur reaches across the grass.

His fingers wrap around the carved length of a cane, and he pulls it towards him.

“Just try it,” Phil says after a moment. “See if it helps. If it doesn’t, we’ll figure something else out. But you don’t have to be in pain, Wil. You deserve to be helped.”

—

Wilbur smiles as the warm glow of his home cuts through the trees, a welcoming spot of light through the darkness. Philza opens the gate for him, and Wilbur tries not to feel embarrassed as he makes his way through.

He sees Tallulah watching from the window of his room and waves at her with his free hand. At once she disappears, and Wilbur knows she’s coming to greet them.

So he waits. He lets the cane in his hand hold his weight, and lets out a steady exhale.

He can be gentle.

He deserves that.

[crossroadsdimension]

Can One Stop Being Immortal please?

That one's actually planned to be a sequel to Gravity and Gargoyles! The premise is that Macbeth seeks out the Pines because he wants to see if he can break the binding agreement he made with Demona. There's some curiosity about the stranger part of the Pines clan too, but he's not there looking to use them for his own ends...yet.

It's not planned to be very long -- probably a one-shot, maybe two or three chapters if I'm convinced to push it that far -- but it's not completed just yet. I think this is one I'd want to complete in full before posting it to AO3.

Here's a snippet, taken from the start of the fic:

Out of all the places that Macbeth had been to, Gravity Falls had to be among the stranger. Not the strangest, but close. It was like the region was attempting to be as close to the land of the Fae as possible, but it lost its way somewhere and became off-kilter from the rest of the world. The fact that some of the gargoyles had taken to living here of all places shouldn’t have come as a surprise, in hindsight. “Tree houses?” Macbeth leaned back and looked up at the platform above his head. There was a structure a fair distance up the tree that looked similar to a small house, but built in such a way that flying creatures could land and grip the wood without the platforms collapsing beneath them –either when they landed, or when they turned to stone at sunrise. “Well, I had my doubts that any of them would want to rest at lower altitudes in comparison to the skyscrapers of New York.” Dr. Stanford Pines, six-fingered scientist and studier of the strange side of arcane, rested his hands on his hips and looked up at the tree house above their heads in satisfaction. He was rather spry, considering his age. Macbeth respected a man who had that kind of energy despite his temporal limitations. “They needed a sturdy place to be able to glide from as well, if they wanted to get higher, and a small town such as ours doesn’t have very many places to do so. I haven’t heard any complaints from them yet, and the structures seem to be holding for now.” Dr. Pines looked to his guest and frowned. Macbeth could feel the researcher scanning him like a hunter, looking for any potential weak point to take advantage of. He knew the look all too well, having once turned a gaze like that against the very creatures he was seeing crouched up in the trees, gripping the sturdy homes with stone claws that looked like steel in sunlight. “But you didn’t come here just to check on our new arrivals. What do you want?” Dr. Pines’ eyes narrowed. Macbeth met Dr. Pines’ gaze. He was not afraid of this hunter, and he certainly had not come to this place unarmed. At the same time, he had not come to hunt. “I wish to speak with someone of your knowledge on how to undo a deal,” Macbeth said. Dr. Pines’ eyes widened sharply, only for them to narrow into tight slits. “A deal with whom?” “Do not misunderstand – I have no connection to any creature that you have experience with.” Macbeth held up a hand. “I am speaking of a deal made with the Gentry.” That made Dr. Pines’ expression shift, still guarded, but startled. “The Gentry? Why would you make deal with them in the first place?” “I was young and foolish.” A highly ironic statement, looking back. He had thought he’d known everything, seen everything, at that age. When the Weird Sisters had come to himself and Demona… …well. Macbeth hadn’t known what he was getting into at the time.

[buckyismybicycle]

Pairing: 1940s!Bucky Barnes/Lee Bodecker Rating: Explicit Tags: Age Difference, (slight) Daddy Kink, Bratty Bottom Bucky Barnes, Top Lee Bodecker, Self-Esteem Issues, Angst and Feels, Handcuffs, Not Actually Unrequited Summary:

“Please?” Bucky asks, voice coy and eyelashes fluttering. “Please what?” Lee retorts gruffly. His days are long, he’s not getting any younger… It’s harder these days to keep up with the young, pretty thing handcuffed to his bed.

Written for my SebStan Series and Hot Bucky Summer 2023 Events: Hot Bucky Summer Week 2 "Sir, Daddy" for @buckybarnesevents | O2: Right Person, Wrong Time for @allcapsbingo | O5: Take Me Instead for @badthingshappenbingo

You can also read on AO3 >>HERE<<

“Please?” Bucky asks, voice coy and eyelashes fluttering.

“Please what?” Lee retorts gruffly. His days are long, he’s not getting any younger…

It’s harder these days to keep up with the young, pretty thing handcuffed to his bed.

It’s not that he’s… let himself go. He’s just been busy. He’s the goddamn sheriff and there’s a serial killer running around in his town. Everyone’s hounding him for answers that he doesn’t fucking have and he’s losing more and more sleep by the day.

“Please let me make you feel better?”

God, if those weren’t the magic words. Bucky’s smile is the ray of sunshine in the dark, gloomy storm clouds that hang over Lee’s head. He’s not sure where he’d be right now if it wasn’t for Bucky, to be honest. Probably still chasing skirts around town or paying off the ladies of the night but he doubts that would’ve lasted much longer. He doesn’t know where he’ll end up when Bucky leaves, because there’s no stopping him now.

Poor boy’s off to war which is a damn shame. If he could, he’d keep Bucky here forever. Protect him from the terrible things that war does to a man.

Lee finally unbuckles his belt, unbuttoning his uniform and pants. He watches Bucky watching him, as if he were something desirable instead of the town’s number one target to crucify anytime something goes wrong.

“And how d’you propose we do that, my pretty?”

Bucky’s smile only widens, wriggling under the attention making the silver cuffs jangle against the metal rods of the bed frame.

“Mmmm, I got a few ideas, daddy,” Bucky answers with a wink, spreading his long, lean legs.

Lee’s jaw clicks audibly as he snaps his mouth shut, grinding his teeth while his cock fills at an alarming rate. He damn well knows he’s old enough to be Bucky’s dad, his body reminds him every single damn day, he doesn’t need Bucky to do it too.

He lets his uniform drop carelessly to the ground, wrinkles be damned and tears the undershirt off over his head.

Bucky’s tongue pokes out from between those lush lips of his that are curled up in a grin and Lee is reminded again just how beautiful Bucky is. He settles himself in between Bucky’s legs, his calloused hands running up smooth, firm muscle only a spry thing like Bucky could have.

It’s not love and he knows that — it can’t be, after all. He found Bucky too many drinks in but it’s not like he could arrest the soldier. He’s out there, fighting the good fight, while Lee’s just on the cusp of being too old to be conscripted. The only time his age was a blessing.

He misses being thirty. Twenty. He misses being giggly, misses having that electric spark in his eye, misses the spunk he used to have, giving lip to anyone that talked to him funny. All the things that Bucky is. Maybe, he just loves the idea of Bucky — loves seeing someone who could pass as a younger version of himself.

“Oh,” Bucky breathes softly as Lee presses in. Bucky’s so good to him, his body always ready and yielding, warm and tight.

“Good lord, you feel so good, my sweet boy,” he grumbles, his larger body closing in on his prey.

Bucky looks up, blue eyes large and doe-like. “Yeah?”

Lee can’t help but smile, rolling his hips just to watch Bucky’s lashes flutter. “Yes. Would I lie to you?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, but he does squeeze his thighs on either side of Lee’s torso — where he’s been watching the inches grow around his waist, watching the definition in his abs fade away. These are none of the things Bucky has seen.

Bucky saw him, as he was, and still wanted to wrap his legs around it all. His sweet, little Bucky.

He takes it slow, this time. The first time he brought Bucky home was like a hurricane. He hasn’t done that much damage to his house since his early drinking days. It was fun to see Bucky pick through the living room for his shirt though, with no luck. Lee had given him one of his older ones — back when he was smaller. It looked good on Bucky.

He didn’t expect to ever see that shirt — or Bucky — again, but there on his doorstep the next day he stood. Looking just as beautiful.

“Came to return your shirt,” Bucky said cheekily. Lee wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He let himself be corralled into his own home, only to be slightly less destructive than the last time. He tugged the old shirt off of Bucky, chuckling as he revealed bare, smooth skin. “Yeah, and what’re you gonna wear back out?” “Guess you’ll have to lend me another one,” Bucky had said, easy as could be.

Today, though — today, Bucky had worn his own undershirt underneath. Today, Lee knows it’ll be the last time he sees Bucky. So, today, he takes it slow. No tornadoes of clothes being torn off, no frantic nips and clawing.

He takes the time to savour his sins.

For a man of the law, he sure doesn’t act like it sometimes. He licks up Bucky’s sharp collarbone and bites down on Bucky’s shoulder, a souvenir for him of sorts, for when he’s overseas.

He sits back, admiring his handiwork, watches Bucky’s lips curl up in the corners. “S’that all I get?”

Damned kid. He kisses up Bucky’s twitching abdomen, to the sparse hair across his chest. His hands touch every part he can reach, committing the soft noises Bucky makes. He’s glad he doesn’t have neighbours, glad to hear Bucky unabashed and unashamed, without fear of getting caught. It was foolish for them both, but they just can’t seem to stop. Lee’s been an addict for most of his life, the only thing that’s changed is his vice and Bucky just might be the one that’s going to kill him.

It’s not love.

He buries himself deep inside Bucky’s willing body, feels himself get swallowed up and hugged, feels the way Bucky locks his ankles and rises up for even more. Even shackled down, Bucky can’t be tamed. He’s a wild thing, unbridled and headstrong like a warhorse — Lee had always thought himself an unmoving man, but even he gets trampled on sometimes by Bucky’s fierce, burning passion.

It’s not love.

“Yeah, right there, right there, fuck,” Bucky pants in his ear, a sweet melody that fills the emptiness in his house and heart.

“Keep begging,” he demands hoarsely, because he really likes the fucking sound of it.

Bucky’s laugh is airy, but he breathlessly continues. “Please, Lee, don’t stop. Feels so good, you make me feel so good, yeah —”

You make me feel good too, he doesn’t say. Instead, he paws at Bucky’s hip, thumb digging into the dip with bruising strength as he pins Bucky down, driving himself in.

“Ah, ah, unnnh,” is all Bucky can manage for a bit, nonsensical cries and moans, his eyes scrunched tight.

“Look at me,” he commands. He likes Bucky’s eyes, more than he could ever admit.

Bucky does, and Lee looks into those normally clear blue skies to see the dark whirlwind of lust in them. It makes him feel powerful, like he’s the god of thunder who could command the storm.

“Fuck – me so – good, sir,” Bucky grunts out between the slamming of Lee’s hips.

“Little brat,” he grumbles, swatting the outside of Bucky’s thighs. It only earns him a squeal.

“You can go harder, daddy, I can take it,” Bucky goads, never the one to back down. It doesn’t matter that his wrists are red under the cuffs, that he’s flushed from his cheeks to his chest. Insatiable little thing.

Bucky’s smart though, he presses all the right buttons to get Lee worked up — to get exactly what he wants from Lee.

He hauls Bucky in his lap, watches the lean line of muscle arch so beautifully for him. And then Lee sets about absolutely ruining him.

“Greedy thing you are, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky replies hoarsely.

Bucky’s cock bounces with each hard thrust, a patch of dampness spreading above his belly button. It’s a beautiful cock, really. He never lets Bucky touch himself, he always wants to see it twitch and writhe of its own accord when Bucky comes untouched. It’s the hottest thing Lee has ever seen and he’s been with every prostitute in a 10-mile radius.

“You like when I fuck you so hard you can’t walk straight?”

“Hah, nnnnfuck, yes, yes, yes,” Bucky’s voice starts to pitch higher and higher, his body tensing like a wind-up toy. It’s almost a direct correlation to how close Lee gets to his own orgasm, driving his hips in as if to chase the fleeting sound of Bucky’s gasps.

“What’ll your boys think, huh? When their sergeant shows up and can’t even run your drills.”

He’s just a nobody — a shady sheriff of Shady Glenn, but he’s nuts deep in someone who could and should probably pull rank on him. He wonders, briefly, if he would bend for Bucky the way Bucky bends for him.

“D-don’t care,” Bucky stutters, face pinched as he grits his teeth, clearly trying to hold back, the arch of his body stretched even further.

Nobody could bend as beautifully as Bucky.

“Come now, baby boy,” he coos. “You almost look like you’re in pain, can’t have that.”

“Jus’ wanna feel… you a bit longer,” Bucky pants, swallowing audibly as his voice breaks.

Lee’s entire body breaks out in goosebumps. He doesn’t know how just a few words could make him react so viscerally, but Bucky always manages. It’s always been about chasing his own pleasure but with Bucky it’s different.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere ‘til the mornin’, boy,” Lee reminds him. “I’m gonna have you again, long as you want, but I ain’t gonna last that much longer right now.”

Bucky lets out a happy sound of approval, as if that’s all he needed to hear, a promise that this wasn’t the end. If only he knew how much Lee wanted the same. With his head thrown back, arms taut as they pull against the handcuffs uselessly, he comes with a low moan that turns into a cry. His cock throbs and twitches as it explodes, a long line of it splattering across Bucky’s chest.

Lee makes a punched out sound at the sight and jackhammers a few more times to come with him, to come together.

The cry turns into a strangled mewl as Bucky’s cock releases rope after rope until his orgasm dies down while Lee’s just reaching his peak.

Bucky’s body shivers underneath him, when as sweat lines his temples, strands of that unruly mop of brown hair plastered to it. He doesn’t say a word, just bites his lip as Lee follows through, fucks him through it no matter how sensitive he is right now.

Lee’s not as pretty when he comes — he doesn’t moan and gasp all elegantly, his eyelashes don’t flutter like delicate wings of a butterfly. He comes with a guttural groan as he pulses inside Bucky, feeding everything he has to Bucky’s greedy little hole.

Even Bucky, fit as he is, still needs to catch his breath. Lee doesn’t feel so bad when he has to flop on the bed next to him and takes some time to undo the cuffs.

“You’re exhausting,” he says gruffly.

Bucky’s laugh bounces off the drab, beige walls of his room, rolling on his side and propping himself up on an elbow to face Lee. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ll be outta your hair soon enough.”

Lee clenches his jaw in order to not correct him. That it’s the opposite of what he wants. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he settles on, a hand coming up to hold Bucky’s cheek.

It’s unfair, truly. Bucky has so many years ahead of him, he’s so young that his face still has some baby fat to it. He pictures what Bucky would look like in a few years, when he hits the peak of his manhood. Underneath Lee’s palm is a strong jawline that would no doubt make the ladies swoon and this thumb sweeps across cheekbones just high enough to make any supermodel jealous.

“You gonna miss me?” Bucky asks teasingly while his hand comes to rest on Lee’s broad chest.

Oh, if only you knew.

Lee huffs through a tired smirk, but says nothing. He should say not a chance, you troublemaker but it doesn’t feel right to lie to Bucky on his last night. His eyes fall to the shimmering silver around Bucky’s neck and he takes a hold of the dog tags, fingers idly running over the raised letters.

“Do I get to know what the B stands for?” He asks. James Barnes — such a charming name for a charming boy.

Bucky’s face wrinkles. “Buchanan. Don’t laugh! He was a president or somethin’, okay.”

They’re both laughing now. Lee’s in deep if he thinks that James Buchanan Barnes is still just as charming.

“There’s a town named Buchanan just 20 minutes south of here, you know,” he tells Bucky.

“OooOOooh,” Bucky chirps, waggling his eyebrows. “You gonna think of me when you pass the town sign?”

“I’ll be thinking of this, at least,” Lee retorts, his large hand cupping and squeezing Bucky’s ass.

“Mmmm,” Bucky hums his approval. “I’ll take it.” Bucky rolls himself over to straddle Lee’s hips and leans down to kiss him before he can even come up with another thought.

▽

In the morning, they shower while he jerks them off slowly — because he’s not athletic or stupid enough to attempt fucking against slippery tiles — and get ready to leave for two very different paths. He wishes, foolishly, that he could go in Bucky’s stead. Bucky tucks his own shirt into pants and doesn’t take one of Lee’s.

“Bye for now, handsome,” Bucky says with a wink, way more confidence in his voice than he’s got any right to have.

“Yeah,” Lee says awkwardly, for fear of saying too much. They part ways and Lee’s stomach sits in a knot all day. And the next. All week.

He has no reason to be down that way, but he drives south and takes the 772 just to torture himself. He passes the street sign Buchanan Road, passes the large, pale yellow sign further down that reads Buchanan Christian Union Church.

Would it be wrong for a man of sin to step inside and pray for Bucky’s safe return?

It’s been almost a month since Bucky’s left for camp, there’s not a single trace of him left in Lee’s house. The scent on every single one of the shirts Bucky wore back to him — and his sheets — is long gone. That’s when he finally breaks down, eyes blurry as he tries not to cry for something that wasn’t really his.

It was love. It is love. He’s just realized too late.

[leatherbookmark]

this concept is bouncing around my head and refuses to stop, so... jgy spoiling lxc... in so many iterations. like

jgy inviting lxc for tea in jinlintai, knowing fully that the terrace they have tea on is facing the particular part of the landscape that lxc had admired, and said he’d love to paint it, earlier. lxc exclaims in wonder and jgy internally feels like this

but also

modern au jgy buying lxc new good quality shirts or sweaters simply because lxc muses that he should stock up on this model of shirt, or that ooh this sweater looks nice, i should get it when i have the time. because He Can Do That Now. or/and buying him dinner. sponsoring lxc’s shy forays into Non-Lan Cuisine... gazing with unsubtle heart eyes as lxc Reacts to Flavours

or even (here we depart from the original premise and enter the Gross Self Indulgence territory)

very silly modern au au, in which... maybe not the modern equivalent of the cr burning, but Some Troubles happen when lxc is in uni. lxc ends up Short On Cash and his course is intense enough that he doesn’t really have time for tutoring people or picking up a part-time job, so one evening in a bout of insanity and desperation he vaguely recollects someone (wwx.) mentioning something about only... fans? sugar kids? something like that.

uncle would be furious. but also uncle doesn’t need to know, and lxc has to help out somehow, and so

through some app he encounters a very discreet jgy, who’s doing it because (insert reason), but is firmly determined to keep the relationship most civil. they hit it off, and it’s going well, except lxc (who doesn’t even have to send any photos, they just chat for a bit, and that’s apparently enough to get him money with which he can easily live comfortably And help his uncle, only having to lie a little -- he’s actually surprised it’s so easy) hears from someone (wwx.) about what Real sugar relationships work and lets his imagination run... a little wild, truth be told. and so, confident that his kind helper is a sexy middle-aged man who wants a young, spry little thing to... have an enjoyable relationship with... he begins to flirt a little.

says that he’s bought himself a shirt and does he look good in it? (the shirt does NOTHING to hide his massive honkers) the other side is boundlessly polite and their approval is fully civil. okay. feet? some people like feet. how about these socks, do they look good? he’s been watching costume movies lately, does X think his legs would look nice in socks with garters? (his legs look LIKE THIS) X does, but he would hate for (lxc) to feel like he owes him... this sort of behaviour. he wants him to only do what he really feels like doing.

and lxc, slightly tired, slightly wined up, slightly trembling, replies with

“then... i feel like doing this”

“[photo]”

[razieltwelve]

Writing Conditions

I occasionally get asked about what sort of writing conditions I have. That is, what sort of conditions do I write in?

I’ll start off by saying that I do not write in a giant mansion, sitting atop bags of money. I’ve done okay for myself writing, but I’m far from rich. However, one can hope. Movie studios… if you’re listening, I’m totally open for a movie deal.

In all seriousness, I think that every writer has conditions that suit them best when it comes writing. Some like listening to music while they write. Others prefer to work in silence. Some like working outside in the sunshine and amidst the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Others prefer to work at home without anyone else around. If you’re a writer and you’ve found an environment that works for you, then stick with it. Writing is such an idiosyncratic thing that there’s really no ‘right way’ to do things, and each writer will have their own ideal conditions.

As for me?

Back when I was young and spry (i.e., a university student who could live off four hours of sleep a night or even go days without sleep if necessary), I used to do most of my writing sitting on my bed with my laptop in my lap. I won’t say it was particularly good for my back or my shoulders, but it was a habit I’d developed over the years, and I was very, very comfortable working like that. That habit persisted even after university because it was something I was so accustomed to.

However, as I got older and I picked up a variety of injuries, that stopped being a comfortable way of doing things. Nowadays, I have a store room/study that I write in. That might sound a bit dire, but it’s a tidy, orderly place, and I have a big table where I put my laptop, as well as a chair that’s a bit worn down but in a comfortable sort of way. The table itself doesn’t have much in the way of decoration on it. There’s really nothing on it that doesn’t need to be there except a knitted whale plush toy about the size of my fist that my sister got me. He sits atop a pile of notebooks and is positioned so he can watch me write.

The study isn’t completely isolated from outside noise. I can hear what’s going on outside, but it won’t sound particularly loud. For example, a lawnmower being used next door will be audible, but it won’t be at an obnoxious high volume. I like that since I’m not a big fan of total silence. I prefer being able to hear a bit of ambient noise.

I don’t listen to music when I write. I might listen to it before I start writing or while I’m taking a break, but I just don’t like listening to music while writing. I find it a bit distracting. I don’t listen to podcasts or anything either. The only voice I want to hear when I’m writing is that little voice in my head that’s telling me what to do. That said, I can write while listening to music or podcasts. In fact, that’s something I often do when writing other things (e.g., blog posts). But when it comes to writing fiction, I prefer to have nothing but ambient noise around.

I should also mention something about how long I write for in a single sitting. I’ll usually write for a few hours at a time. During a normal day, I’ll write in the morning and again in the evening with a break during the middle of the day. I’m also of fond of writing very late at night. For instance, I’ve written quite a few chapters of various stories while working from 11 PM to 4AM in the morning. Perhaps it’s a holdover from my university days or perhaps I’m a bit of a night owl, but I’ve also enjoyed working during the graveyard shift, so to speak.

Back in my younger days, though, I used to sit down and write for hours and hours. I’m talking about writing for eight to twelve hours straight with brief breaks for the bathroom and food. As I got older, though, sitting down and writing for such long periods of time without longer breaks in the middle would give me wrist and back pain. I also went through at least a few periods where I’m pretty sure I had RSI for a while when I used to do that.

The scary thing is that even now, if things are going really well, I can write for hours and hours without realising how long I’ve been doing it, and I’ll feel fine. It’s only afterward that everything starts to hurt, which is why I’m more conscious of taking breaks. I won’t say that marathon writing sessions are healthy in the long term, but I will also acknowledge that I went through a period of rapid development as a writer while doing them.

With regards to advice, I think that every writer should tinker with their environment to see what suits them best. Try music and then try not having music. Try writing outside and then try inside. Don’t be afraid to experiment until you’ve found the environment that makes you most productive.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

I also write original fiction, which you can find on Amazon here or on Audible here. I’ve also just released a new story, Attempted Rescuing!

P. S. Behold the power of the whale! He sees all!

[free-for-all-fics]

ehehe! my brain is happily cooking and i’m glad to dish out! i’ve got a craving for some hurt/comfort⛈😈

(i’ve never had pets either, so i live vicariously for this fat chunky tubby little emperor of music.)

could be shelter au or he’s always been your kitty cat timeline - let me know!

they say the rain cleanses the world. makes it pause and reconsider, ushering everyone inside to the comforts of their spaces and forcing them to slow down and take a pause. perhaps it forces them to deal with the train station of their own brains(the coming and going of anxiety and depression[their timetables are impeccable, you’ve noticed in the past few weeks]). you’ve felt the constant pressure to rush through the rain, leaving the consequence of sickness and wet boots to the later version of you, the you who’d have everything figured out by then.

breakfast is late.

he isn’t stupid, far from it. his stomach often takes control of his brain during times like these. if he were a spry young buck, he’d jump right on your countertop to lick the crumbs from last night’s dinner off the plates(if he didn’t already screech at you to bring them down to his level when the drippings of meat were still warm. he had a routine to keep, mind you!) needing to be washed. or, when he was younger still, he’d have used his kittenish wiles to muster up a few sugary purrs in front of your neighbors next door for a little something to eat (he’s just a little thing and his mistress doesn’t feed him. they ought to help the poor, common folk. and to apologize for the obscene cries of their baby - who do think they are to bring such a small, pampered thing near his palace that wasn’t him?). but, he’s got a little arthritis(he will bite you for mentioning that. you had to change vets quite a few times.) and he’s not in his prime anymore (what do you mean he’s giving you a dirty look? he’s just a cat, he doesn’t understand, he’s got innocent eyes!). so, like the deity he is, he must wait for a sacrifice - some poor mortal to do his bidding.

he often for forgets how lucky he is.

in your own corner of the universe, you’d been dealing with something a little more catastrophic than late breakfast (he’d beg to differ). you weren’t as bright and bubbly in the past weeks. something was brewing in your mind, a storm that was circling over and over but never seemed to choose a path of destruction. perhaps it was a minor issue, a small drop of water in the biggest pond. to you, you weren’t feeling quite alright.

the apartment was quiet. to save himself from the monotony, he’d batted at the metronome and his tail twitched with impatience at every tick. his stomach growled and one of his own escaped his throat as he got up, his joints popping and crackling at a frequency he didn’t particularly enjoy but he’d gotten used to it as he waddled his way to the kitchen once more. he sniffed the floor (crumbs were beneath him, of course. he isn’t an animal.) with a bit of impatient desire. thirty seconds passed and he was done waiting. the rotund rampage was on its way.

you’d barely slept at all - going to bed in the early morning and waking up every hour on the dot until you couldn’t stand it and finally got up. your own space heater had made himself quite comfortable with you and his weight was a common presence that dipped your mattress. he napped so easy, such a practiced art. he had a variety of poses to match his mood - the ball of comfort, the lazy stretch across the blankets, the perfect loaf. you found yourself twitching and flipping every two minutes. when you’d first started doing it, he’d whine at you for disturbing him and give you a vain flick of his tail before settling back in in a manner of seconds. he didn’t understand it - if you were the more “complex” being (he laughed at this), why were you having so much trouble?

your bedroom door was open (he’d have a fit if it were shut. the whole house is his, so why couldn’t he access it at all times?) but all was dark inside. he sat impatient in the entryway, starting to yowl with hunger. the pitch of his scream increased with frustration when he couldn’t hear any movement. he hissed as a warning, back arching slightly. fine.

the rain was beating as heavily outside as it was in.

you were curled up in the fetal position, wrapped up in the covers of the bed and were motionless. he’d have thought you were dead but he may be old, not stupid. he knew laziness, could smell it in the crevices of humanity. people reeked of incompetence to his upturned nose.

he slowly plodded to the foot of your bed, still mewling for your attention, precious little prince he was. his eyes narrowed once more at your behavior. his stomach roared with impatience as he huffed, crouching low and starting to wiggle. your bed was perfect to jump onto (unlike those infernal kitchen counters!) and he leaped onto the softness with an unceremonious ‘thump’.

a minuscule part of him was glad you didn’t see him like this - as a battered and palsy-riddled pet. to him, he would always remain the sleek beast who demanded and deserved the best. he stood silent for a bit, watching your motionless form (no, he wasn’t catching his breath! he just finished a bit of exercise, that’s all…).

a sharp clap of thunder boomed across the sky and there was a growl of lightning brewing in his throat. what was wrong with you? when the emperor made demands, his people should follow them, not cower in fear! his paws sunk into the squishy texture of your bed as he made his way closer, fur standing on end. then, you moved.

to be perfectly honest, he’d been expecting a harsh downpour that hammered the roofs from outside but he’d been surprised with a trickle of wetness coming down your pretty face. a soft but steady stream of tears were glistening in the low light of the room.

he thought at first you were begging his forgiveness and pleading for his mercy for forgetting his breakfast but he couldn’t help noticing that none of the words you were murmuring had anything to do with food. they were…scary. things like ‘image’ (you were a goddess among humanity! how dare you think such terrible things about yourself!) and ‘relationship’ (he bit back a hiss. the most important relationship is of course between master and subject!) tumbled off your tongue as you pressed your face into your sheets. these words made him bristle, sure. but, it was the question you were asking yourself that gave him pause.

was everything going to be alright again?

he felt himself stiffen at your words and it wasn’t because his old bones were acting up. then, it all made sense in his mind. the nervous little looks you’d have on your face, the increased insecurity that plagued your mind, and the longing sighs hidden deep in your words when you’d spoke. while he gorged himself, you’d hardly eaten anything. he’d growl for attention and reveled in the scratches you’d given him, totally unaware of your often spacey mood and automated ministrations on his fur.

good relationships happens when the two involved gave equal parts. to him, that meant you gave him everything and he’d reward you, if you were lucky, with perhaps a cute expression or a little meow and a warm bed. but…had he actually become a parasite to your relationship. in short, whether he liked it or not, he had.

you were suffering and he’d been too blind to see it.

he found himself at a stalemate. he knew he couldn’t scratch or bite your problems - that would seem like he actually cared about you. but, he couldn’t just ignore them either. after all, he couldn’t just have you nope about and not feed him. he’s clearly the one suffering here!

his thoughts were interrupted when you rolled over in your bed and he cringed automatically at the state of your appearance. you looked unwell and worn down. he couldn’t have his beloved worshipper looking like that!

his stomach overcomes his brain and he strides over to sit squarely on your chest, pawing at your face irritably. this was no time to sleep!

you wake with a start and the look you give him is pitiful as your voice, scratchy and hoarse (perhaps from crying or just from waking up. he wanted to believe it was the latter but even he couldn’t lie to himself sometimes.), apologies to him sincerely for being late to one of the most important meals of the day. you look so anxious, so sad, that he can feel his cold heart warm slightly with each stutter you make. he surprises both him and yourself when he stops you from getting up, curling and snuggling on your belly and pinning you down. he isn’t afraid to throw his weight around, it seems.

your first thought is how soft and how warm he is and you instinctively reach to lay a hand on his back. a soft trilling sound escapes his throat and you’d have thought you were stroking a downy little kitten, not an old ball of blubber. gorgeous eyes bore into yours and you get the feeling he’s looking right through you. however, there isn’t a hint of malice in his irises.

your stress and worry, who’d normally yap like excited dogs when you’d get up, were held at bay by a cat who’d probably seen more of the world than you did. those little barking puppies were no match for the elegant priss who was gentle and still, resting on top of you.

a throaty and velvety purr echoes from him as the rain outside seems to let up into a gentle mist. you could swear he was actually speaking…uttering kind little morsels of praise under his breath. you felt a sense of safe and comfort that you’d thought had long abandoned you. he commanded it back, like a king demanding the very best for his queen, and what a queen you were - not everyone got to witness this side of him.

deep, deep inside the chambers of his heart, he’d come to his own conclusion. he loved you, truly. while he was downright mean sometimes, you were the person he relied on. you were his rock, a constant reminder that someone did care for him. he often got caught up in his own mind but you were a splash of reality. perhaps he just needed a chance to be the one to get others wet.

your hands were gentle as always as you brought him closer into your cocoon of blankets. for once, his aches didn’t seem so awful and your anxiety didn’t seem so pressing. who knew a cuddle was so curing? (he knew, smug little thing he was. but, do you listen to him? noooo…)

all that remained of the storm was the distant rumbles of the clouds rolling by…and the quiet little grump who wanted to be fed. breakfast was late, after all.

hope you liked what my brain whipped up 🫶

Omg Nonnie sorry it took me so long to answer this! Much like Cat! Hollenius I have also been very sleepy these past few days lol. Always love to hear from you! 💛🐱

- Arthritis?? How dare you! He is the picture of perfect health! And even if such a nasty rumor has any grain of truth, he wouldn’t let it slow him down or stop him from doing whatever he wants on a daily basis!

- You have to literally bribe or trick him into getting into the dang cat carrier to go to the vet with treats or something because man is STUBBORN. It is a PROCESS. “There’s no way you’re getting me in there. Oh look, a treat. Oh, another treat. Oh, another treat. Betrayal.”

- This is a cat who has THREE caution stickers on his medical file. You ALWAYS tell the nurse that he’ll need to be sedated, and if they don’t believe you, they always come back within ten minutes later, clutching their hands from an obvious scratch or bite he inflicted. Every. Time. The one time he WASN’T sedated he screamed so loudly with such unbridled fury that he caused small children in the waiting room to burst into tears.

- He’s so heavy that when he lays on your chest, you jolt awake, thinking you’re being suffocated in your sleep. Nope. Just him. You want to get up? Too bad. It’s illegal. You’ve taken such great care of him in the time since you adopted him (he hisses and grunts when you tease him and call him your spoiled baby or little man but that doesn’t mean he denies it), that it’s his turn to take care of you for once.

- Like other cats, he believes the power of purring or licking you will magically heal your invisible wounds or sickness and make you feel better. His purrs are the most intensified you’ve ever heard them, you’d almost wonder if you left your car running or something. He’s your heated blanket now. He also does that cat thing where he will knead and make biscuits on your stomach or arms or chest. He’s Doctor Kitty.

- Humans need to eat! So even though it’s beneath him, he’ll bring you food. (This means grabbing whatever stands out the most to him on the counter. Whatever looks the most colorful is what you’re getting. A bag of bagels? Hotdog or hamburger buns? A banana? This chocolate peanut butter granola thing? He doesn’t know, he can’t read but it just looks bright and cheerful so you’ll like it, right? It’ll make you feel better, right?

- He brought you your breakfast, now can you bring him his? Pleeeeeeeease? He’ll eat literally anything you place in his bowl at this point. For one rare instance, he won’t complain about what you feed him. His stomach got the rumblies big time.

- After you both have breakfast, you go back to bed and just have a lazy day. If it’s a weekend, all the better. If it was a work day, you called in. It’s just you and him and the comfy bed alllll day, listening to the thunderstorm.

- if you’re scared of thunderstorms, he will absolutely do everything he can to comfort you and make you smile or laugh. He’s the best emotional support animal you could ask for.

[thequeendomhq]

NAME. Nero AGE & BIRTH DATE. 40 & March 18th, 2984 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Cismale & He/Him NATIONALITY. Lysaran SPECIES. Cubi FACTION. Nightingale OCCUPATION. Perfumer FACE CLAIM. Daniel Sharman

biography

( tw: death, spousal cheating )

The streets of Eterna had once been home, a harsh teacher in the ways of the world and being a mere mortal child running about with boys who shared his predicament, said world was cruel. Once named ‘Cole’, he’d been quieter, considerably softer, at least before he’d realized it was something he’d grow out of. When big blue eyes and a wobbling lip stopped gaining him sympathy from passersby, he had to adapt. For a few coins, he’d run errands, he’d gather secrets, offer directions to the weary traveler. Putting grimey little hands onto loose change and jewelry was something he hated doing, but he did if he had to, if it meant surviving another day.

Nobles were always coming and going with their finery, their horses, carriages, coming from all over. Not quite yet a man, he’d watch them parade by, but his favorite people to see were the knights. People clad in armor bearing this crest or that, luxurious cloaks, carrying swords with intricate hilts, he watched them go about with wide eyes, clambered to ask if those coming from the Isles or Silverlands needed directions. They weren’t just a hustle like any of the nobles, knights were actively people he admired, envied almost. People with courage and swords who traveled with their squire, a lord, an entourage of people either on some adventure or in town for some tournament of sorts. They were off limits for sticky fingers out of respect, but one day he doesn’t have a choice.

The day that Nero’s fingers had curled around the wrong mans coin, a man there in armor, with a squire that seemed to be struck by a remorseful and starving boy on the cusp of manhood. He was taken in by the knight, Veritas, a kind man who saw potential in someone like him, a boy with nothing but the means to do what was necessary to survive. It was all so different, to be taken off of the streets and put into a nice home, nice clothes, he had more food than he knew what to do with. But it didn’t come without the price of learning all about this whole new world of nobility, what being a knight entailed. Scrubbed away was all the dirt and grime of the streets, he was fed and trained until he wasn’t just some scrawny street urchin and in that boy’s place was a capable young man.

A herald to Veritas, that’s what he became over time and he was constantly learning from the man and his squire until he was old enough to become one himself. For it wasn’t enough to be able to just swing a sword, to polish a shield, project your voice loud enough to be heard. There were politics involved, rules to be followed when it came to rubbing elbows with the nobles of Lysara. Conversation was an artform, making connections was key, and even though he wanted for little now, he was always thinking of a back up plan, waiting for the rug to be pulled from under him. But it never came, his life had gotten better with no consequences, he was simply lucky to be taken in by and mentored by Veritas, to travel between Eterna and it’s surrounding areas, to make friends with (and sometimes they were more than friends) young nobles. The charm he’d had to acquire to swindle people on the streets simply made him allies, got him into important gatherings, he was truly experiencing all the finer things in life without consequence.

Until Quistis.

Over time, while Nero was in his mid twenties, Veritas’s ex squire had a son and that son needed a nubile and spry young man to accompany him. And frankly, Nero was far more than spry and had literally jumped at the offer. Because Quistis wasn’t just any knight, he was up and coming at tournaments and he was possibly the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. While he’d pined before, had taken many people to bed, it was truly nothing like what had transpired between him and the young knight with golden hair.

Fate would have it that they would fall in love, enamored with one another, or at least for a time. For Nero was in love with Quistis, but Quistis was in love with his reputation. He was kind and affectionate, generous with his love when he was in good standing. When he did well in a tournament or finally got invited to this or that gathering, that’s when things were good. It was some sort of insecurity that manifested in passive aggressive jealousy and sulking. Nero loved him regardless, couldn’t bring himself not to, for this was his first and surely only love.

Wanting what was best for the both of them, for their relationship, he had turned to none other than the god of love himself, Cupid. Never particularly religious, but with his luck, surely someone had to be looking out for him somewhere, he turned to prayer. Everything else in his life had fallen into place well over time, the only thing that had remained out of his reach was the attention and affection of what he considered his true love. Offerings were made, ample time was taken out of his day to just praise the deity and perhaps that was it, he had been given all the gifts the Gods had to give him.

Until things started changing and at first he thought perhaps it was his imagination, that he was too hopeful. But gradually, Quistis seemed more attentive, happier. He laughed louder, he seemed more sure of himself and this brought about some newfound confidence.

That he wound up burying in someone else night after night.

Heartbroken to find the golden haired knight with another, Nero headed back for Eterna to drown in wine. That’s where he was when he awoke one morning to find a singular arrow at his bedside. The offerings had not stopped even when his beloved seemed far happier, he knew Cupid was responsible then and he was responsible now. It should have been an easy decision, he was scorned, he was furious and yet he couldn’t bring himself to harm Quistis, he was the only person he’d ever loved, even if he hadn’t loved him back. And in doing so he had doomed himself to losing his life, for the morning he decided he wouldn’t complete Cupid’s task was his last one alive.

Born of the God of Love’s displeasure, the man was once again warped in some way, a mere reflection of the man he’d once been. Something driven by desire, but still just clever enough to use those shades of his former self to his advantage. He rebrands himself officially, gone was mere mortal Cole, and in that heartbroken young man’s place was Nero and perhaps it was out of spite or a favor to that street urchin that dwelt in his memories that he took up a business, joined the Merchant’s Guild. It feels like healing in a way, or at least it might if he didn’t feel so cynical about it. He crawled into bed with people who gave him secrets he passed along, he took their souls back with him sometimes, sue him! He’d unknowingly sung to Nightingales for a few coins here and there in the past and he was petty enough now to spill the secrets of those nasty nobles to them daily, amongst what actual news he heard.

Knight’s Nectar, he always laughs at the sign in self deprecation as he switches it from open to close each day or vice versa. The end of the night is better than the harsh light of day, there’s a sense of calm that washes over him. Part of the routine is looking towards the streets of Eterna out the front window before he retreats to his office in the back of the shop. Less an office and more a study, set up with a nice desk, a couple of tables covered in fanciful jars and little vials of bergamot, rose, amber, and the like. It’s fairly organized despite how busy the surface of everything looks and he glances from labels that separated out top notes from heart notes before settling rather unceremoniously into a worn chair behind the desk.

The forefinger and thumb of his right hand rub at his eyes and a heavy sigh escapes him and it feels a bit like deflating for the evening and in a way, it is. While the shop is open, while he’s taking inventory and whispering in the right ear, rubbing elbows, he’s something larger than himself. If people are present, he is far from the child that had grown up on the streets of Eterna, scrambling around for spare coins for a meal. No one would look at the blue brocade on his jacket, the couple of gold rings on his fingers, and think he’d ever been anything else other than the charming, boyish merchant.

Sometimes he thinks he is wearing several different hats, throwing layer upon layer in hopes that no one will strip him down to what he is at his core. There in his office in the evening, undoing a couple of buttons on the top of his shirt, he’s a man whose personal life is painfully empty. It is the cost of who he was now.

personality

+ charming, passionate, resourceful – cynical, wistful, insecure

played by m. est. she/they/him.

[twdbegins]

Dating Rick Grimes (Young! Fem!)

__

Rick Grimes x Fem! Reader

Request: This is such a weird request but- what about Rick with an s/o like in their 20s or something yk? (👀)

A/N: Disclaimer that the reader is of age...just a bit younger :)

__

Even Rick would admit that he felt a little dirty the first time he found himself attracted to you.

A man in his 40s crushing on a 23 year old?

A young, spry, energetic woman with a heart of gold?

You were closer to Carl’s age than his.

So yeah, he felt a bit creepy.

You were a grown woman, though.

And that was very clear to him.

He was drawn to...well, everything about you.

Your personality was something he found comfort in.

He liked hearing you talk about your interests and experiences. 

Seeing the way you interacted with others was intriguing.

You could go from soft spoken and kind to bad bitch and guns a-blazing at the drop of a coin.

Not to mention, you had a body that he’d be a fool to ignore.

You were the whole package.

He just hoped that you didn’t see him more as a dad than a potential lover.

Despite your age difference, the two of you had much more in common than he thought.

It wasn’t at all difficult to engage in conversation with you.

Which didn’t help his attraction towards you.

Eventually, things just sort of...happened.

He spent much more time with you.

Taking you almost every time he went somewhere.

You’d have dinner together at late hours of the night when everyone else had gone to bed.

And the first time he kissed you?

That’s when Rick knew he was in trouble.

His heart felt like it was going to flutter out of his chest.

Suddenly, you and Carl were the most important people in his life.

Not everyone was as on board with your relationship in the beginning.

Daryl saw you as a little sister.

And the fact that Rick was dating you...

It worried him, but displayed it as anger.

Daryl was suspicious that Rick wasn’t thinking clearly, and was taken advantage of you.

It took some time for him to see that what you had with Rick was real.

On the flip side, there were some people that were stoked about it.

Carl was likely your biggest fan.

Judith coming in at a close second.

You and Carl had already been close, but this just sealed the deal.

Carl was happy that his dad found comfort and happiness with you.

Not to mention, you were a badass with a whole lot of things you could teach him.

Now back to Rick.

Your sex life?

So good.

So so good.

Admittedly, you have a little more stamina than him.

And after he’s had a long day, you have to be on top.

But something about your young and high sex drvie put some pep back into him.

He likes to make you cum multiple times.

Like until you’re shaking and so sensitive that you can’t even handle his touches, he won’t stop with you.

Rick likes showing and telling you about things from when he was your age.

It was one of those situations where you learn just as much from him as he did from you.

Whenever you went on a run with him, he likes you close.

You never know when a walker (or a person) is going to sneak up on you.

He’s SUPER protective.

Do not touch his girl in a way that has negative intentions.

He will go season 7 Rick on anyone who lays their hands on you.

Sometimes he can forget that you can handle yourself.

Which frustrates you.

“Rick, I can open the door myself.”

“Yes, Rick, I know that my gun is loaded.”

“I’m aware that my knife can cut me, Rick.”

Concerned about your safety always.

He doesn’t ever want to worry you about this or put pressure on you.

But he’s constantly worried that he’s going to lose you.

He can’t stand the thought of it.

It TERRIFIES him. 

Despite the fact that he’s never told you, you know this.

Some days it bothers him more than others.

You always know those days when his kisses are little longer and a little more passionate.

Sometimes even when you’re with him, he doesn’t seem to know that you’re there.

It’s a strange feeling to him.

You’ll catch him staring at you as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away.

You’ll take his face into your hands, rubbing his cheeks softly with your thumbs.

“I’m right here, Rick.”

“I know.”

He’s beyond thrilled to spend his time with you.

For as long as he can.

[palmofafreezinghand]

Is this where you asked for a prompt?

Carlisle and Esme remembering their first kiss… and they have very different takes on it.

thank you for the prompt, sorry this took me a little bit! on ao3 here. 

1936.

Carlisle found his wife sketching on the ledge of their bedroom window. Although it appeared she was using sketching as a disguise to really just stare out the window, watching as Rosalie and Emmett teased each other under the guise of gardening.

“Spying are we?” Carlisle asked quietly from their bedroom doorway.

She turned to look at him, caramel curls swinging over her shoulder, a hint of lavender and honeysuckle wafting through the air.

“They’re so cute,” she whispered, tilting her head towards the window.

He nodded, making his way across the room to stand beside her. He stifled a laugh as he watched Emmett turn the garden hose on an annoyed Rosalie. “Ah the immaturity of young love.”

“That used to be us,” Esme sighed as his arm wrapped around her shoulders, she leaned into the embrace. “Now we’re old, and boring, and decrepit.”

“Speak for yourself, Mrs. Cullen,” he laughed, leaning down so they were at the same height. “I’m as spry as a goat.” She rolled her eyes in an attempt to hide her smile.

“Please don’t talk livestock, it only makes you sound dumb,” she said, feigning annoyance but not leaning away as he leaned closer and closer.

“Does it?” He asked, kissing her before she was able to get out an answer.

“Do you remember the first time we did that?” She asked as she pulled away, hands cradling his jaw.

Carlisle nodded, his eyes still closed. “One stormy December night -”

“December? It was August,” Esme exclaimed. Carlisle’s eyes opened as he frowned. He could remember every detail of his second life but their first kiss was one of those memories that was a fundamental piece of his being. And their first kiss was certainly not in August.

“August! There was snow on the ground.”

“No there was not,” she argued. “It was in August. We were at that work thing and people were saying they didn’t believe we were together and I asked do you trust me and you said yes and then I…”

Carlisle paused, now that was a memory also a fundamental part of his being but that wasn’t their first kiss, technically. “You put your lips on mine,” he muttered. “But we weren’t together, it doesn’t count as a kiss.”

“That’s the definition of a kiss!” Esme exclaimed.

“No it is not. There’s passion and emotion behind a kiss, it's not merely lips touching.”

“First off, there was passion on my side. Second, that is the Merriam-Webster definition of a kiss,” Esme argued, arms crossed, eyebrows furled. This was how a lot of their fights went, over utterly asinine topics with complete and sincere passion.

“In that case our first kiss was in a morgue when I performed mouth to mouth,” Carlisle refuted petulantly.

“Fine with me. Your first kiss was with a dead body. Congratulations, Victor.”

Before he could respond to the utterly insulting literary reference Emmett’s voice interrupted him.

“Your first kiss was with a corpse?” Emmett called loudly from the garden.

“I told you he’s disgusting,” Rosalie sneered.

Carlisle sighed a full body sigh, his forehead resting on the top of his wife’s head. “See what you did?”

“It was in August."

[aao1024]

Darlin’

Prologue

Series Masterlist

Lee had lost track of how long he'd been running after the suspect. He was becoming more exhausted as the chase went on. His breathing got heavier as he was not as spry and in shape as he was when he joined the force. He was not a young and fit deputy anymore. Just as the sheriff loses hope, he spots the man he'd been after for the past few hours. With his men behind him, he attempts to tackle the man to make his arrest. As Lee inches forward, his tunnel vision increases, blocking out any other possible dangers. As Lee moves to apprehend the suspect without missing a beat, he feels the ground give way beneath him. He felt immense pain in his right leg. The deputies directly behind him were able to grab the suspect while a few others helped Lee out of the now large hole in the ground. As he hobbled to his vehicle, the pain was getting stronger, and he knew he wouldn't be able to just walk it off. As he slid into the backseat of his cruiser, he could feel the swelling and pain become worse. Knockemstiff was a small town with a small-town doctor. He could fix any cough or cold, but Lee knew he couldn't fix this. He settled in the backseat and had his right-hand man, Deputy Wilson, drive him to the closest emergency room a few towns over.

After what felt like an eternity, they made it to the hospital. He used Deputy Wilson as a crutch to get himself into the building. As they near the receptionist's desk, the woman behind their desk's eyes grew wide as she saw he was a man in uniform. She hurriedly grabbed a wheelchair and gave him some paperwork to fill out while he waited. Even though he is an officer, that doesn't mean he gets to cut in line.

"Wilson, head on home. It's going to be a while, and I'm sure your wife will want you home in time for dinner." Lee said

"Are you sure? How do you plan on getting back home?"

"I have a feeling that I'll be here until at least tomorrow. Go home and get some rest. We had a big day today."

"Alright Sheriff, good luck. I'll be back tomorrow for ya."

"Thank you Wilson, have a good night.”

And with that, Lee was sitting alone in a wheelchair in more pain than he'd been in, in a long time. To pass the time, he thought of how nice it must be to have someone to go home to. Lee always wanted a family. He had been through his fair share of women, including his ex-wife, Florence. They met shortly after high school, fell in love, got married, and bought a home. But no matter how much they tried, they never had any children. Lee tried to be a good husband, but Florence wasn't a good or faithful wife. He always had his suspicions, so when he found her in bed with their neighbor, he was quick to kick her out and file for divorce. She didn't want anything from him, so he kept the house and everything in it. It was a daily reminder of his failed marriage and the family he never got to have. He hoped that one day it would all magically change for him.

Lee had lost track of how long he'd been running after the suspect. He was becoming more exhausted as the chase went on. His breathing got heavier as he was not as spry and in shape as he was when he joined the force. He was not a young and fit deputy anymore. Just as the sheriff loses hope, he spots the man he'd been after for the past few hours. With his men behind him, he attempts to tackle the man to make his arrest. As Lee inches forward, his tunnel vision increases, blocking out any other possible dangers. As Lee moves to apprehend the suspect without missing a beat, he feels the ground give way beneath him. He felt immense pain in his right leg. The deputies directly behind him were able to grab the suspect while a few others helped Lee out of the now large hole in the ground. As he hobbled to his vehicle, the pain was getting stronger, and he knew he wouldn't be able to just walk it off. As he slid into the backseat of his cruiser, he could feel the swelling and pain become worse. Knockemstiff was a small town with a small-town doctor. He could fix any cough or cold, but Lee knew he couldn't fix this. He settled in the backseat and had his right-hand man, Deputy Wilson, drive him to the closest emergency room a few towns over.

After what felt like an eternity, they made it to the hospital. He used Deputy Wilson as a crutch to get himself into the building. As they near the receptionist's desk, the woman behind their desk's eyes grew wide as she saw he was a man in uniform. She hurriedly grabbed a wheelchair and gave him some paperwork to fill out while he waited. Even though he is an officer, that doesn't mean he gets to cut in line.

"Wilson, head on home. It's going to be a while, and I'm sure your wife will want you home in time for dinner." Lee said

"Are you sure? How do you plan on getting back home?"

"I have a feeling that I'll be here until at least tomorrow. Go home and get some rest. We had a big day today."

"Alright Sheriff, good luck. I'll be back tomorrow for ya."

"Thank you Wilson, have a good night.”

And with that, Lee was sitting alone in a wheelchair in more pain than he'd been in, in a long time. To pass the time, he thought of how nice it must be to have someone to go home to. Lee always wanted a family. He had been through his fair share of women, including his ex-wife, Florence. They met shortly after high school, fell in love, got married, and bought a home. But no matter how much they tried, they never had any children. Lee tried to be a good husband, but Florence wasn't a good or faithful wife. He always had his suspicions, so when he found her in bed with their neighbor, he was quick to kick her out and file for divorce. She didn't want anything from him, so he kept the house and everything in it. It was a daily reminder of his failed marriage and the family he never got to have. He hoped that one day it would all magically change for him.