#Through (Thru) Bolts

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

🎉 GOODFIX & FIXDEX Group Invites You Visit Our Booth D18 On Hardware Too...

[jeysbvck]

even if it's a false god (we'd still worship this love)

a/n; ive been working on this for over a year, & after four rewrites, its finally here! thank you to @pedroassmanpascal for your help when i was conceiving this & working on it last year! this is my first time working in this genre, & it hasn't been beta read all the way thru, so please let me know what you think!

warnings; pov change, a butt load of angst, age gap (reader is in her thirties), violence, death/murder, near death experience, voyeurism, female masturbation, male masturbation, male!recieving, female!recieving, penetrative sex (if ive missed any feel free to let me know!!)

taglist; @likedovesinthewnd @harmshake @nightmare-viper

word count; 7.3k

summary; Joel's been pretending you don't exist for weeks now, and you have no idea why. But when you get caught up in a life or death situation, confessions are made, lines are crossed, and your relationship is changed.

Every single part of Joel's body hurt, and he was exhausted. Joel was always exhausted, but this day had been particularly hard. Everything that he - and you had gone through had been for nothing. The supplies and weapons you had been looking for had been looted already. Only a few old, rusty tins of food covered in at least a years worth of dust had been left behind. Not to mention the constant hoards of infected you had to fight through. Now, it was a fight to get back to the QZ to make another plan that could end the exact same way. Yeah, he'd had plenty of bad days, but this one would sting for a while. The hope that had been reignited had gone out again. Now he was just tired.

No matter how hard he tried though, he couldn't sleep. He was just lying on the hard floor -the fabric floor of the tent and his blanket doing nothing to help with the lumps under his back- with his eyes closed and ears alert. He knew how dangerous it could be, the horrors lurking in the woods, even when it was calm and quiet, and he hoped you had heeded his advice and were asleep with your gun.

But then he heard a whimper, and his eyes shot open as he stayed silent, his hand on his pistol. A barely heard whine, and he sighed with relief as he realised it was you. These past few weeks had been taxing - although the past twenty years hadn't exactly been a cake walk - and it dawned on him that you were probably crying. Joel had been so drained and tired during dinner that he selfishly hadn't noticed you were unusually quiet. He also didn't think about it when you retired to bed early. Joel tried to ignore the sounds, but he couldn't, he was just picturing you curled up in your tent, crying yourself to sleep, and the guilt of not noticing anything was wrong was gnawing at him. He groaned and slipped out of his tent, making his way to yours while putting the gun in the back of his jeans.

He quietly navigated the campsite and stopped outside your tent, unsure how to proceed. Did he knock on the fabric door, or did he call out your name? He wasn't good at this stuff, and he hadn't been for a long time, but he also knew that you needed someone; or, more specifically, you needed a friend. You were just that kind of person, even if the world had forced you to pretend you weren't. For a few seconds, he couldn't hear anything, but just as he was about to give up, he heard another noise, but this one sounded more like a moan. Then another one, louder now, and there was no mistaking it that time. Joel's body stiffened, and he started to get hot as his cock twitched at the thought of you getting yourself off, mere feet away from him. He heard your sleeping bag rustle slightly, and he bolted back to his tent, breathing heavily as he zipped the tent door.

He stared up at the roof of the tent, trying - but ultimately failing - not to think about what he'd just almost interrupted. His jeans were uncomfortably tight, and he had to unbutton them just for some relief. He tried to divert his thoughts, to think about anything else, but his mind took some winding paths just to get him back to thinking of you. Joel groaned. He needed a release, and it had been a long time since he'd done, well, anything. It wasn't going to hurt anyone, and you were doing it just mere feet away from him, so what was stopping him? They were all flimsy arguments. He knew that, but it was the easiest solution to the problem at hand.

Joel slipped a hand into his boxers, his cold touch sending goosebumps down his spine, the sensation making him harder. He began to stroke himself, and when he closed his eyes, he could see you writhing around in your tent, your fingers deep inside yourself. He could hear you from your tent still, your quiet whimpering and moaning sounding out through the stillness of the forest, and Joel caught his own moan in his throat as his movements got quicker. He couldn't bring himself to care about the possible dangers lurking, the grip he had his cock on tightening slightly as pictures of you clouded him. He imagined you being in here with him, imagined that you were both watching each other. It didn't take long for Joel to make himself orgasm, and he cleaned himself up, hoping sleep came to him before the guilt did.

-

Joel spent the next few days convinced he was going crazy. Every time you looked at him, he was sure you could see the guilt he was struggling to hide, like his memories would be projected for you to see. Every time you said his name, he was waiting for you to tell him you knew what he'd done, that you'd seen him outside your tent, and heard him in his. He felt so dirty, creepy, ashamed, and at some point, he shut down completely. He knew you were confused, you weren't as good at hiding your emotions as you thought, and you were confused by what you could've possibly done to warrant the cold shoulder from Joel, who could barely look at you, and it made him feel worse. He just didn't know what else to do, so he went back to what he knew best.

After traipsing through the woods for what felt like forever, Joel just wanted to set up camp and get through the night. He was tired, sore, hungry, and needed a moment away from you, without your sad eyes staring at him, without your attempts to get him to open up. So when you announced that you'd had enough and insisting that you stop for the night, Joel didn't argue. While Joel set up the tents, you gathered some wood from the perimeter of the "campsite", and Joel took a moment to watch on fondly, smiling to himself at the smug look of accomplishment on your face, taking the "win" against Joel.

Dinner was silent that night, as the past few had been, and while Joel refused to look up from his food, you were refusing to take your eyes off Joel. Your gaze was burning a hole in his head. He felt scrutinised as he ate, and it took everything in him not to engage. He didn't know if you were trying to annoy him into talking to you or if you were lost in your own thoughts, but he didn't ask.

Once again, straight after dinner, you headed into your tent, sending a soft "goodnight" Joel's way. He looked up but not before the sound of the zip echoed out, and he sighed, rubbing his temples.

The fire had died long ago, but Joel still hadn't found the energy to crawl into his tent. He stared up at the starry night, and just as his mind started to wander into dangerous territory -somewhere he never went if he could help it- he heard the noise that had been playing on a loop in his head for the past two days. His cock stirred and he covered his face with his hands. Not again.

He knew he had to get back to his tent and fast, but he had to do it quietly. He began to slowly move the canisters and empty tins, careful not to make any noise. He didn't want you to think he was a pervert. Although that's exactly how he felt right about now. He was about to stand up when he heard a single word from your mouth that made him stop in his tracks.

Joel.

Fuck. Oh fuck. Did you know he was there? Did you hear him? Could you see his silhouette projected on your tent, like it was a cinema screen? He ran through a hundred excuses in his head as he slowly turned to look over his shoulder, and he let out a sigh of relief when he saw no signs that you'd heard him. He scoffed at himself and shook his head. He really was going crazy.

Mmm, Joel, don't stop!

He definitely wasn't going crazy, there was no mistaking it. Not only were you masturbating, mere feet from Joel, but you were moaning his name, and he had never been so hard in his life. He couldn't stop himself, and once again, he unzipped his jeans and pulled out his cock, and while you moaned and gasped from inside the tent, Joel pleasured himself.

His precum was seeping out and over his fingers, and he bit down harshly on his lip to stop his own sounds from escaping. His motion got quicker, matching the sweet sounds coming from your tent, and when you brought yourself to orgasm and Joel's name slipped from your lips, he came undone. He emptied himself onto the dirt, too entranced by your gasps to notice the streams spilling over his fists. He dropped his head against the log behind him and groaned.

"Shit."

-

It happened three more times, and Joel had never been more conflicted. He was constantly stressed and on edge; the guilt from what he was doing was eating away at him. He'd always been someone that could control himself - he had to be - but when it came to this, to you, it was like something triggered inside him. He'd known you for years and had never had these thoughts or these feelings. Then again, he'd never spent this much time with you, and he'd never heard his name fall from your lips like that.

Joel couldn't deny he thought you were beautiful, and that maybe it inflated his ego a little, that you were thinking about him while you fucked yourself with your fingers, or dreaming about him, but he was under no illusions that it meant anything. You didn't have feelings for him. He was just the only person you'd seen in weeks that wasn't trying to kill you, and feelings get warped. Especially with the way the world was now. Besides, he'd seen the guys that hung around you like moths drawn to a flame. They were much younger and fitter than Joel was. Yet, he found himself as one of those moths, and he couldn't help but imagine how it would feel to be caught in your flame.

Joel was no longer waiting to hear you to get himself off. His mind would conjure up images that made it so he couldn't help himself. Images of your mouth around his cock, your hair tangled in his fingers as he fucked your face. His head buried deep in between your legs as he ravished you, his hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your moans of ecstasy. Of his cock slamming into you, his fingernails leaving little indents in your ass as he gripped firmly. The fact that he would never get the real thing didn't bother him. He was content with his fantasies. But he still felt guilty, and the tension between you and Joel was getting worse.

But things were beginning to simmer inside Joel, and his secret masturbating habits were no longer the sole reason for his behaviour. Joel would look over at you, by the fire feading the book you'd memorised front to back, and he'd let himself imagine running his hands through your hair as you sat lazily against him. When he slept, his dreams were of a life he'd never thought he'd want - or have again, and you were always by his side. He'd dream of dancing with you in the living room, waking up beside you, the sunlight making you glow like an ethereal figure. He'd dream of being happy. He'd put it down to the ridiculous situation he found himself in and told himself that once you were both back in the QZ, things would go back to normal. You would go back to people your own age, and Joel would just be a memory of a small fantasy you had while on a difficult run.

But then, as if the universe was trying to intervere, everything changed. The abandoned building you'd been hiding out in turned out not to be not so abandoned, and the two of you had gotten yourselves into a sticky situation. Hunters had cornered you, and in all the chaos and commotion, the last man standing had grabbed you, now using you as a human shield with his arm almost choking you, a knife pressed just above your collarbone while Joel had his gun aimed right at him.

"I'll take yer girls head off!" The guy yelled. Joel could see you were terrified, and it took everything in him not to let his rage consume him. He knew that one wrong move could get you killed. He needed to be smart about this.

"Look, man, we don't have much, but you can take it all. Just let her go." Joel said, trying to keep his voice even. He was terrified that he wasn't going to be able to save you, and he couldn’t live with that. It wasn't just about someone else that he cared about dying or about him failing. You understood him, and somewhere along the way, you had unknowingly brought him out of the darkness. You were his beacon of light, and if he lost that, if he lost you, he wasn't sure he'd ever find his way out of the darkness again.

"Yeah? What if I want 'er?" The hunter sneered, caressing your cheek with his knife, pressing the tip into your skin ever so slightly.

"Not an option." Joel growled.

"Seems like it is to me. I could drag 'er outta here right now. There ain't nothing you could do about it."

-

You felt sick. You couldn't believe you'd let yourself be distracted by Joel being tackled to the ground, and now this disgusting pig had you in a fucking headlock. You'd seen Joel take down hunters and the infected, sometimes effortlessly, so why the hell did you freeze when Joel had been pinned to the floor momentarily? Your feelings for Joel were getting more and more confusing, and you didn't like it one bit, they were going to get you or Joel killed if you carried on like this. 

It's not like you wanted to be attracted to Joel, not when there wasn't a single thing you could do about it. Why would Joel ever go for you? He was twenty years your senior, old enough to be your father. There was just no chance in hell. Yet, you couldn't stop yourself from fantasising about him. It wasn't hurting anyone, and it was keeping you somewhat sane, and he'd never know.

"You won't make it out of this room." You heard Joel say in his deep, gruff voice, and it sent shivers down your spine. Your eyes squeezed shut when you felt the man breathing on your neck, the hot air making your stomach twist, bile rising up your throat as he inhaled your scent, his own vile one violating your senses. You clenched your fist and felt the cold blade of your dagger against your arm, the one you'd forgot you had up your sleeve, literally. How big of an idiot was this guy? How didn't he see you had a knife? As Joel and the hunter traded words, you quickly formulated a plan. If you could somehow manage to stab - or at least slash the guy - maybe he'd let go of you, and then Joel could get a shot in.

"Let go of me!" You shouted, struggling slightly, while slipping the knife further down your sleeve. It worked, and you smirked proudly. You raised your eyebrows at Joel before glancing down at your hand, subtly flashing the knife. You looked back at him, then darted your eyes to your captor. Joel took a second, and you knew he was weighing up his options before he nodded slightly. His eyes darted down to the guys leg, and you winked to let him know you understood the plan. The man still had a fucking knife to your throat, and you didn't want to give him any warnings or ideas.

"Don't worry." The hunter said, 'I'll look after 'er good."

Joel nodded to you, and you clenched the knife, stabbing right into the hunter's thigh. His yells of pain echoed around the room, and he released you from his grip, the knife in his hand clattering to the floor. You stumbled forward, kicking the weapon across the room, but you thankfully managed to stay on your feet. You grinned at Joel, feeling victorious, but it was a fleeting feeling.

"Fuckin' bitch!" The hunter shouted and you turned around, but not quick enough. The knife was sticking out of his thigh, but it didn't seem like he felt it, he was too overcome with rage, and the back of your head slammed against the wall as the hunter pinned you by the throat. You gasped for air, the guys hands squeezing the life out of you, spit flying as he screamed in your face.

"I'll fuckin' kill you, you goddamned bitch!"

You tried to pry the man's hands from around your neck, but it was no use. He was too strong, and your vision was fading rapidly. You were barely able to gasp Joel's name, and you were quickly losing consciousness. All you could do was stand there and let the darkness consume you as you thought about Joel. The way he'd try to hide his smile when you did something wrong, or when you said something silly. The way he laughed, how it was the rich sound you rarely got to hear. How he protected you, even though he clearly didn't want to be around you. How you were going to die, not knowing what you did to make him ignore you the past couple of weeks. Not knowing why he had this sudden disdain for you.

But then, the pressure around your neck suddenly disappeared, and you fell to the floor, gasping for air as you clutched your throat, your eyes wide and darting around wildly, searching for Joel.

He appeared on his knees in front of you and grabbed your face, his panicked, brown eyes staring deep down into your soul.. "Hey! Hey! Are you alright? Come on baby, just breathe for me."

His large hands were warm on your cheeks, the hunter's blood that stained them smearing across your skin as he caressed your cheek, but still, you leaned into his touch. He had never been this gentle before; in fact, he'd never really touched you unless being dragged by your wrist as you ran from infected counts. "I'm okay," you managed to say, and Joel sighed with relief.

"We need to move. Can you stand?" Joel asked, and you nodded, eyes closed as you took a few extra slow, deep breaths. "Okay. Take my hand."

You opened your eyes to Joel's outstretched hand and you took it, letting him haul you gently to your feet. He hooked his arm under yours to help you walk, and as you concentrated on walking with shaky legs, Joel guided you to the door. "Wait here." He said, disappearing out the front door to check for any danger.

As he did so, you turned to inspect the chaos you were leaving behind. Your stomach lurched as you saw the blood pooling around the dead man with a clean, almost surgical, maroon slice straight across his neck, and you wondered just how many times Joel had had to do it, to get such a clean cut. Your eyes snapped back to the door, where Joel was staring at you, his eyes wide and sad, like a puppy, before they hardened. "Let's go." Joel said. "We'll find a house to hide out in."

*

The universe had decided you could both use a break, and less than two hours after the attack, deep inside the seemingly never-ending woods, the two of you came across an unlocked cabin, the keys just sat on the side table. Joel put his finger up to his lips, and you nodded, following his lead as he crept through the front door. He pointed at you, then at the spot you were standing, and you nodded, doing as you were told while Joel checked it out. Neither of you wanted to take any more chances after today.

"Hey, you might wanna come check this out!" Joel's voice echoed through the cabin, and you closed the front door before heading towards the sound of his voice.

The cabin was rustic and run down, and looked to have been abandoned for a decade at least. It had been a hunter's cabin, judging by the animal heads mounted up on the walls, staring down at you with their black, beady eyes that seemed to follow you everywhere. The fireplace was brick, an axe resting against it with piles of wood stacked in front. You turned around and found Joel in the kitchen, staring down at the sink. As you got closer, you heard the familiar sound of a running tap, and you smiled. You'd take any kind of water right now, anything to get rid of this day.

But then you saw it, dancing through the air, rising from the tap. You were convinced you'd imagined it until you saw Joel's fingers rolling together under the water, a look of shock on his face.

"Is that what I think it is?" You asked as you got closer, and Joel nodded. You gingerly held your fingers out, anticipating cold water, not wanting to get your hopes up. But when your fingers hit the warm water, you let out a bewildered laugh, cupping both hands under the water, letting it spill over as it slowly but surely got hotter. "I can't believe it!"

"Yeah, well, we deserved a win eventually." Joel replied. You made eye contact, and the corner of his mouth curled upwards slightly, his eyes darting down to your neck before he took a sharp breath and turned away. "You should go have a shower."

"What about you?" You asked, and he sighed.

"Just go. I'll wash up here."

-

After stripping off your clothes, you looked at your reflection. Only then did you notice the bruising around your neck, and the blood smeared across your cheeks. You could still feel the way the hunter's hands squeezed so tight that you could feel the life draining from your body. You could still feel the panic and terror you felt and the relief when Joel forced the hunter to let go. The look in Joel's eyes when he held your face, the gentle touch as he caressed your cheeks and brushed your hair out of your face. You thought you'd made your peace with dying long ago, but that was until you almost met death, and it made you realise you didn't want to leave Joel. If Joel was in your life, maybe living was worth it.

You were so lost in thought, staring at your scarred body in the mirror, you didn't hear Joel knock on the door. It was only when the door burst open with Joel shouting your name that you turned around, surprised.

Joel kept his eyes on yours, refusing to let himself cave and look down; although it's all he wanted to do. You knew you should grab the towel, or the shower curtain, anything to cover yourself, but you were frozen, like Joel's gaze was keeping you locked on the spot.

Joel cleared his throat and shoved a bundle of clothes into your arms. “Sorry, I-uh, I thought maybe you were- it doesn't matter. I found those, thought you'd want some clean clothes.”

He left, slamming the door behind him, and you exhaled. You ignored the thoughts creeping in and the heat rising up your body and climbed into the bathtub under the running shower; watching the dirt and blood trickle off your body and down the plughole. Once the water ran clean, you stepped out, patting yourself down with the small towel. You then filled up the bathtub with hot water and then threw your underwear and clothes into it. It wouldn't fully clean them, but it'd be enough for now. You picked up the oversized flannel and pulled it over your shoulders, forgoing the jeans that were way too big for you, even with the help of a belt. You sighed and headed back out to Joel.

The fire was burning, the crackling wood echoing through the cabin. Joel was sitting at the wooden table in front of the window, sipping on a glass of wine. There were two plates of pasta on the table, a glass of wine next to one of them. You padded across the room and dropped into the seat opposite Joel, studying his face as he stared out the window. The sky was pink and orange as it set through the trees, the view almost as beautiful as the one sitting next to you; the light of the sunset cascading over Joel. He turned his head to you, and you glanced down at the food. Joel cleared his throat.

"I found some pasta and wine in the cupboards. It only went out of date a few weeks ago." He explained. "It should be okay for us to eat."

"I'm sure it's fine." You replied, "anything's better than beans again, right?" You leaned forward and took the glass of wine, taking a long sip, basking in the way it burned your throat slightly. It had been so long since you'd had even a sip of alcohol, you could swear your head was already fuzzy.

Like most dinners lately, this one was silent. But this was slightly different, considering you were probably the safest you'd been in a long time, and you were eating actual food off actual plates. If you and Joel were in a better place, it would be almost considered domestic. You might even consider staying here, leaving the QZ far behind. But you weren't, Joel could barely bring himself to talk to you — he couldn't even look at you. You really thought you were turning a corner with him until his behaviour changed one morning without warning.

"We should stay here for a couple of days, then head back to the QZ." Joel said. You sighed and finished your glass of wine, but it wasn't enough.

"Great." You replied, looking around for the bottle of wine. "Then you can go back to pretending I don't exist." You weren't sure where the outburst had come from, but you were pretty sure it had something to do with the alcohol running through your blood.

"Pretending you don't- what? I don't do that!" Joel insisted.

You scoffed. "Oh please, you're not as mysterious as you like to think." You said, although there was little truth to it. "You didn't even know my name in the QZ, yet we were around each other for months! I thought we were getting somewhere, but lately, you've been acting like we're strangers!" You told him.

"What?! Okay, maybe I was a little isolated in the QZ, but it's not like that now!" Joel replied, his fork clattering on the plate when it dropped from his hand. "All I do is worry about your survival!"

"Riiiiight, because you care so much." You said, rolling your eyes.

"It's my job to pro-"

"Your job?" You repeated, offended by his words, although you couldn't place why. "Well, allow me to relieve you of your duty." The chair screeched across the floor as you stood up and grabbed your unfinished plate and glass.

Joel inhaled through his nose and groaned. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Well, I mean it. Leave. I didn't need a babysitter before, and I don't need one now!" You said loudly, heading to the kitchen for a reprieve.

Joel growled and slammed his palms on the table as he stood up, refusing your reprieve, following you to the kitchen. "I'm not leaving you to die out here. Which, you would've already if it wasn't for me. You've proven that multiple times!"

"Maybe," you replied, dropping the plate in the sink, staring at Joel, whose eyes darted away. "But I'd rather die alone than with someone who can't even stand to look at me!"

"I can't look at you because you drive me fucking crazy!" Joel exclaimed, his patience finally having worn thin. "Ever since I heard you moaning in that fucking-" He stopped, his eyes wide and on you as he realised what he said; watching his words dawn on you as your face cracked.

Nausea, or quite possibly embarrassment — rose from your stomach up through your oesophagus, and you drank from the glass of wine that was in front of you — which wasn't quite the best course of action as it didn't sit well on your spinning stomach. Joel had heard you masturbating. That's what he was saying, right? There wasn't anything else he could possibly be referencing. But why would it drive him crazy? Joel could be uptight sometimes, but it didn't seem to be in a "women shouldn't pleasure themselves" way.

You blinked a few times, and Joel's face came into focus. He had closed the gap between you both, now only a few feet away. He looked awkward as he shifted on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable.

"You heard me mast -" You stopped, unable to say the word out loud, and you sighed, feeling ridiculous. "You haven't been talking to me for weeks because you heard me -"

Something clicked in your head, like a light had just been switched on. You hadn't just gotten yourself off once. And at some point, you began to fantasise it was Joel's fingers, or mouth, even his cock instead of your own hand. You were aware a couple of times his name had slipped from your lips, and you'd clasped your hand around your mouth afterwards, praying he hadn't heard you.

It was beginning to seem very likely he had heard you, and something in you shifted from embarrassment to…something else, and you arched your eyebrow, finishing off the glass of wine for some extra courage.

"You heard me say your name.” You said, arching your eyebrow. Joel stared before he nodded slowly.

“I heard.” He confirmed, refusing to break eye contact. The air in the kitchen had shifted; it was thick with tension, and Joel wondered where this was going.

You hummed and tilted your head. “What did you do?” You asked, smirking when it was clear it caught Joel off guard.

"What?”

“What did you do, Joel?” You asked, leaning back against the counter. Joel's eyes darted to your bare legs before slowly dragging them up your body, stopping at the three open buttons that exposed your cleavage.

“I thought I heard you crying, so I came to check on you.” He explained. “When I got to your tent, I realised you weren't, and I went back to my tent.” His eyes darted to your face before he closed the gap between you until he was practically on top of you. “I tried to ignore you, but I couldn't help myself.” He lifted your chin with his index and middle fingers, so you were staring at him through your lashes. Your lips parted slightly as your chest rose and fell, your heart pounding against your rib cage. “I kept hearing your moans and thinking about you in that tent, and it got me so - I had to -”

His eyes were dark, full of lust, and you instinctively licked your lips slightly. "You- couldn't help yourself, huh?" You asked. Joel arched his eyebrow and tentatively reached his hand up to your cheek. He traced his finger over your cheek gently, and you closed your eyes as you inhaled. "Hearing you moan my name," He said, running a path down your jaw to your neck, "it sounded too good."

You reached up, closing the gap between your lips. Without hesitation, Joel reciprocated the kiss, his hand still around your neck as the other slipped around your hips, resting on the bottom of your back, pulling you closer to him. His bulge pressed into your crotch and you could feel it getting harder as the kiss deepened. You tugged his brown, leather jacket from his shoulders while Joel started an assault on your neck. If this lasted forever, it still wouldn't be long enough.

"Is this a good idea?" You asked through the gasps as he nipped and sucked at your neck.

"Mhmm, giving me some mixed signals here." he mumbled against your skin before pulling away, his mouth inches from yours. "I think it's a fucking great idea. Don't you?"

“I'm not sure.” You confessed. Joel cupped your cheek with his hand and stroked your cheek with his thumb, his eyes soft, even if still full of lust. Was this a good idea? He'd spent weeks ignoring you, and it felt like Hell — but the way he kissed you, the way he touched you; it felt like Heaven.

"I don't care if it's a good idea or not." You replied, and Joel grinned.

"Good," he replied, "Because you have no idea how much I need you right now."

"Then show me." You said, and Joel growled before he pressed his lips against yours and instigated another passionate kiss, illicting a moan from you. He picked you up and dropped you onto the counter, spreading your legs so he could step in between them.

The kiss was messy, teeth and tongues clashing together as both sets of hands roamed each other's bodies. Joel's hands cupped and massaged your breasts as yours unbuttoned his jeans, using your heels to push them down his legs. One hand trailed a path from your breast to your stomach, dancing around the place you needed him the most.

"No panties, huh?" He said into your mouth, his finger tracing a path up your slit so gently, it was like he was using a feather. "I never would've known you were such a slut." His finger grazed your clit, and he grinned as you bucked your hips.

"Maybe if you'd acknowledged my existence, you might have found out earlier." You replied, grabbing his bulge through the fabric and squeezed, tight. Joel gasped into your mouth as he thrusted into your hand, and it was your turn to smirk against his mouth. If he could tease you, you could do the same, you thought as you slipped your hand into his boxers, relishing the feeling of his cock in your grasp.

Joel growled, his hips bucking before he shoved two fingers inside you without warning. A yelp mixed with a moan slipped from your mouth as you threw your head back, and Joel groaned. He kept his pace up, pushing his fingers in and out of you, feeling your walls clench around them as he watched your face contort with pleasure, your moans echoing throughout the kitchen. Not even his fantasies could have prepared him for how incredible this felt. If using just his fingers made him — made you feel this good, he couldn't wait to use his cock.

But he would wait. For weeks, you had — albeit unknowingly, driven him to the brink of insanity. Clouded his mind so he couldn't focus on anything; which is why he didn't notice the threat today, which almost cost you your life. So now, he had to drive you insane in the only way he could.

He dropped to his knees and pulled you by your legs so you were hanging off the counter. He then hoisted your legs over his shoulders, and you watched Joel as he studied your cunt — the look in his eyes resembled one of a wild animal, one that was finally allowed out of its cage, to roam free as its right. Yet, he was biting his lip; almost like he was holding onto that last tiny bit of control he had left. But you wanted — no, you needed the wild animal, and so you tangled your fingers into his hair. He looked up at you, locking eyes as he let you guide his head to where you needed him to be.

Shivers ran down your spine as his beard tickled you as he dragged his tongue over the skin on the inside of your thighs. Once again, he touched every piece of you, but not where you needed.

“Joel,” you whined, the grip on his hair getting tighter as you bucked your hips, "Please." You begged.

“Oh baby, you're already so wet.” he tutted, his finger running through your folds and teasing your entrance before he lifted it to your mouth and pushed it between your lips. “Your pretty pussy is glistening for me.”

You tasted a hint of your juices as you wrapped your tongue around his finger, keeping your gaze on him as you did. He groaned, imagining how good your mouth would feel wrapped around his cock. He pulled his finger out, and you gasped when he pushed it inside you. When he flicked your clit with the tip of his tongue, you gasped and arched your back. “Oh shit, fuck, Joel.”

Every sense was heightened as Joel flattened his tongue and lapped at you. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head when he swirled his tongue around your clit. You pushed yourself against him, practically hanging off the counter, making Joel grab your ass with both hands as he buried his face into you. With his beard grazing against you and his tongue pushing you further to release, your thighs gripped his head. Every single part of you was on fire as his assault on your cunt continued, and you could feel your orgasm brewing.

So could Joel, which was apparent as his pace got quicker, bringing in his fingers to help finish the job. With his thumb circling your clit and his tongue deep inside you, you reached your climax, Joel's name spilling from your mouth. As you threw your head back, grinding yourself against his face; you saw stars, all while Joel kept up the relenting pace.

He finally pulled away and stood up, grinning as he leaned towards you. His beard was glistening, and when he kissed you, you could taste yourself on him, mixing with the wine you had with dinner. Joel hooked his arms under your legs and scooped you off the counter; carrying you fireman style out the kitchen, through the sitting room and into the bedroom, where he dropped you on the bed. He crawled on top of you and dipped his head to kiss you. It was a soft, sweet kiss, one that you didn't want to end, so when it did, you whimpered, and Joel smiled softly.

“You still wanna do this?” He whispered. “We can stop if you want to.”

You leaned up on your elbows and gave him your answer with a kiss. He pressed his palm on your cheek and deepened the kiss, pushing you back down as he did. The two of you made out like two teenagers, and you could feel Joel's cock hardening against you. You slipped your hand in between your bodies and gripped his cock, rubbing the head against your entrance. Joel groaned, his head falling into your shoulder. He bit down as you pushed his cock inside yourself, your moans harmonising, the sensation almost too much.

Joel took over, grabbed your hands, and pinned them above your head. The animalistic look was in his eyes again, grunting with every thrust, his grip against your wrists tightening. You closed your eyes, and Joel growled.

“You thought about this while fucking yourself.” He said, his voice low. “Open your eyes and look at me while I fuck you.”

You opened your eyes and were met by Joel's big, brown ones that were now practically black. He fucked you harder, thrusting in and out as his thumb once again circled your clit. There was a ninety-eight percent chance that someone on the other side of the forest could hear everything, but at this moment neither of you cared. After weeks of awkwardness, of fantasising about each other while you touched yourselves, this felt right, like something had finally clicked into place — and you'd be damned if this was the first and only time it happened. Now you'd had a taste, you couldn't ever go back.

Joel picked up the pace, and you could once again feel your orgasm rising. You pulled Joel closer, your foreheads touching, your vision falling out of focus as you stared into Joel's eyes, but you refused to look away.

“Fuck, Joel, I'm so close” You whimpered, bucking your hips to meet his thrust, his cock hitting deeper each time you moved.

“If you keep doing that, I'm gonna -” Joel grunted, your synced thrusts getting faster. “Fuck, baby.” Joel moaned. “I'm gonna, shit -”

“Let go for me, Joel.” You whispered in his ear. “Come for me, and next time, I'll show you what I can do with my mouth.”

It only took a couple more thrusts before you and Joel finished together, and he slumped on top of you, breathing heavily. You lifted his head up, brushed his hair out his face, and smiled up at him, hearts practically in your eyes.

“So…” you said, and he reciprocated the smile. “Sooo…” He repeated.

“Are you going to be all weird with me again?” You teased, and Joel arched his eyebrow, a smirk dancing on his lips.

“I don't think so,” Joel replied, dipping his head for another kiss. “Especially if I want this to happen again.”

“Oh yeah? What makes you think we're doing this again?” You asked, and Joel grinned.

“Oh we're definitely doing that again.” Joel answered, and you giggled as he rolled off you and reached a blanket that was on a chair next to the bed. He flung it over the two of you before pulling you into his chest and pressing his lips against your temple. “I wanna know what you can do with that mouth.” He mumbled.

You giggled again, your heart fluttering as he linked his fingers around yours and kissed your knuckles. “Keep this up, and you'll find out.” You replied before a yawn slipped out.

“Alright you little tease, I think I can hold out until tomorrow.” Joel chuckled. “Right now, I think you need to sleep.”

You snuggled into Joel's chest, his fingers running through your hair. You never thought you'd be in this position, in bed with Joel Miller. You knew there was a lot more to talk about, but right now, you didn't care. You just focused on Joel's heartbeat under your head, on his fingers in your hair. Focused on how — even though there were still many dangers to staying in this cabin, it was still the safest you'd been in a long time.

The last thing you heard as you drifted into a peaceful sleep was a quiet confession from Joel; one you weren't sure you were actually meant to hear. “I'll always keep you safe. Even if it means giving my life.”

[fandomnerd9602]

Scarlet Trials

Wanda Maximoff x Spider-Man!Reader

You had it all. The loving witch turned wife. Two beautiful, amazing twin boys. A nice little home in Queens. It was the perfect life.

You and Wanda were just enjoying a nice little date day flying through the New York skyline. The boys were with their Uncle Wong, as you called him.

Wanda couldn’t help but giggle, this life she had with you was absolutely perfect, the best kind of domestic bliss. You found a little nook hidden by the buildings and set up a little web hammock for you and your witch lover. She curled into your side, relaxing.

“Best life” she whispered into your ear before topping it off with a kiss.

“Only life” you whispered back.

And then he appeared. Miguel O’Hara the 2099 version of Spider-Man. He burst through a portal in front of you and Wanda, claws drawn.

You and Wanda quickly evaded him, his claws slashing through the web hammock.

“Detka!” Wanda screamed. Miguel went right for her. He wrapped her in an electrified webbing.

“Wanda Maximoff” he growled, “you are under arrest for crimes against the Web of Life!”

“Back off Cyberpunk!” you screamed as you socked the muscular Spider-person right in the jaw. He stumbled only a little before immediately trying to slash at you.

Wanda broke free and fired off a couple bolts of her own. Boom! Miguel was only knocked back a few feet.

“Who are you? What do you want?!” Wanda growled.

“My name is Miguel O’Hara.” he answered back, “your mere presence here is a threat to the multiverse”

“Back off!” You shout, “your little multiverse hypothesis has no proof!”

“Proof?! You want proof?” O'Hara retorts, "I've seen universe fall to pieces with my own eyes because of the magic that little witch exudes every time she sends out a little blast!"

You and Wanda look to one another, resolute, standing together as one unified team. This was your home, your world, your family. No one was gonna ripped that from either of your hands.

"We won't let you take our home from us, Miguel," you replied, steeling yourself for the battle ahead. Wanda's hands began to shimmer with crimson energy as she prepared to unleash her powers, standing resolutely by your side.

You and Wanda charged at Miguel. He came at the two of you claws drawn and vampiric teeth bared.

The ensuing clash was a whirlwind of webs, magic, and futuristic tech. Miguel's agility and advanced gadgets made him a challenging adversary, but your teamwork with Wanda was unparalleled. As you dodged Miguel's attacks, you coordinated with Wanda, using her telekinetic abilities to create barriers and disarm the cybernetic Spider-Man. The fight raged on, but eventually it reached a stale mate, with buildings around you bearing the scars of the intense confrontation.

In a decisive moment, Wanda conjured an energy blast that momentarily disoriented Miguel. Seizing the opportunity, you ensnared him in a web cocoon, immobilizing him. "This isn't over," Miguel warned, his voice strained. "The multiverse is at stake." Wanda approached, her eyes glowing with determination. "We understand the stakes, but we'll find another way to protect it without destroying our home."

"There's always another way, O'Hara" you stated as you took your favorite witch's hand. He sliced thru the cocoon and pressed a few buttons on his wristwatch. A brilliant orange portal appeared behind him.

"Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you" Miguel intoned before jumping thru the portal, leaving your world for good.

You and Wanda swung home, Wong had long put the twins to sleep. You and your loving witch could only gaze at your sleeping boys with a sense of awe.

"Do you really think we weren't bound to meet?" Wanda asked you as she leaned her head against your shoulder.

"With how perfect we are for each other" you smiled, "and the amazing life that I have with you, I think we were made for one another. In every universe"

You gave her a kiss on the forehead. Your favorite witch couldn't help but giggle.

Tags: @lifespectator @konstantin609 @aloneodi @family-house-of-m @holiday-house-of-m @multi-fandom-enjoyer @moonpheus @iiconicsfan25 @iamnicodemus @deafeningsharkslimeempath @russianredassassin @revanshand @supercorpdanbeau @scarletquake-n7

[sunsetsimon]

SO ABOUT THE RECENT PREGGO Y/N. IMAGINE. SIMON FINDS HIS POOKIE BOO BEAR CRYING HER EYES OUT EVEN AFTER HE GOT HER WHAT SHE WAS CRAVING, “I know I said McDonalds sounded good but it doesn’t sound good anymore..” AND SIMON JUST IMMEDIATELY BOLTS OUT THE ROOM TO BUY HER CRAVING.

ARE YOU IN MY BRAIN AND READING MY THOUGHTS????? I WAS JUST THINKING OF THIS

simon had just returned from his daily run, drenched in sweat and his cheeks are bright red from being nipped by the cold air. he found you on the couch, folding the basket of laundry fresh out of the dryer. kissing your temple, he grabs one of the piles of towels and walks it to the kitchen drawer to put away.

“what do you want for dinner tonight, lovie?” he asks from the other room. you can hear the fridge open, simon looking for something to make. "we have this chicken we can do something with. unless you want somethin' else."

you're silent, pondering what you want to eat. you aren't feeling the chicken, so you start thinking of every restaurant near you, going through the list to find something appealing. simon walks back into the room, about to ask if you're okay but he can see you're deep in thought.

before your pregnancy, you were usually fine with anything that was in the fridge. but now your cravings are so intense, you have to contemplate exactly what you want or else you'll end up not wanting to eat. although tonight nothing is sticking out to you, for once ot able to tell him what you want.

"i don't really know.. maybe something quick like mcdonalds i guess," you shrug, lowkey upset that you're lacking an appetite right now.

"are you sure?" simon's shocked that you aren't really hungry, feeling the annoyance start to drip off of you as you just huff a yes and he leaves before he pisses you off even more.

his girl's mood being ruined because she doesn't have a craving right now, how cute, he thinks. making his way to the mcdonalds, he pulls through the drive thru line after ordering your regular, and for him a double quarter pounder meal, with a 10 piece nugget on the side. though he knows it's not good for him, his stomach is growling at the smell of the fast food.

he's passing the mcdonald's worker his card as your ringtone erupts in his car, an incoming call connecting to his bluetooth. immediately pressing answer, he grabs the two drinks from the worker and sets them in the carrier. "everythin' alright, love?"

your beautiful voice fills the air, the corner of his lip twitching into a smile as he feels the relaxed tone of your voice, everything is okay. your mood seems better too.

"yeah everything's fine. i was thinking, instead of mcdonald's, we can get that new chinese place that just opened up on cavell street."

as you say that, the worker hands him back his card, then the bag of your food. nodding a thank you, he pulls forward, "m'already leaving mcdonald's now, love. just got our food."

"oh," you say, voice dropping with sadness. he feels bad as he can tell you were excited at the idea of trying something new. "okay. maybe next time then."

he can hear the constriction in your throat, voice quiet as you're fighting back tears. his heart clenches, grabbing his phone to search in the address of the chinese restaurant, it's only 6 minutes from here, he can make it.

"call in your order under my name, gonna go pick it up."

"you already got the food!"

"i'll eat your meal too. call it in so i don't have to wait long! i love you!" he says, quickly ending the call before you can continue to protest, knowing you're giddy and excited at home that you got your way once again.

and of course he's right, as you quickly run out to the car when you see the lights pull in. greeting him with a kiss as your hand reaches over him to grab the bag and your drink, leaving simon with his mcdonalds. it smells amazing, the aroma of the spices and seasonings fills your nose.

"you hungry now?" he laughs, following you in and kicking the door closed with his foot. you're smiling, licking your lips as you nod at him, too focused on opening the bag to speak. revealing your order, you take a deep inhale, humming and buzzing with happiness as you get to eat your craving.

"thank you so much simon!" you say, giving him a few pecks on his cheek.

"anythin' for you, mama."

[the-californicationist]

Ok but imagine price being a dockworker and coming to the bar the reader is a server at after long days. Smelling like the salt on salt, chest hair peeking thru his shirt. She knows his exact order down to how much froth he wants on his beer and he just melts into his chair once he sees her on shift but their asses won’t even kiss yet (they wanna fuck diiiirty in between all the barrels out back tho)

Thank you so much for the ask!! I wish I got more of these <3 I love impromptu writings!! ^_^

MDNI

Somehow, you knew it was him by the sound of your door. The way that it creaked and popped, and the force with which it knocked the tinkling little bell at the top - all of these noises were the same, or at least they should have been, no matter who was coming or going from your bar. The way the metal bolt clicked out of the frame, the way the warped wood of the threshold whined and bent, the way that one pane of glass shuddered in the top left corner... it shouldn't have sounded different when he walked in. But, it did.

He sat in his seat, objectively the worst one in your bar. It was out of the line of sight from the television, and it was down at the fruit-filled service end, far from the keg taps. It was where you ran credit cards and kept your phone to take breaks, and you flattered yourself that the reason he sat there was to spend time with you.

John Price was a piece of work, that was for sure. He would come by right before close and linger. It was nice to have someone walk you to your car, especially on cold nights, since you were so close to the docks. He'd ride his old Triumph over from his work as a shipping and receiving foreman in the harbor, and he'd smell like sweat and the salt from the sea. His clothes would reek of tobacco from those fat cigars he'd always smoke, and you knew his beard would smell like it, too.

You wondered what it felt like, his beard. You wondered if it was as soft as it looked. You wondered what he would say if you asked him to give you a ride back to his place on that old, worn-out bike and lay you on his bed so he could kiss you from behind that beard all night. You wondered, over and over when you lay in your own sheets alone, what it would feel like for him to drag that rough-shaven chin over the swell of your breast. How would it feel on the insides of your thighs? Would it hurt you?

"You want the usual?" You asked him, trying your best to concentrate on shining the glass in your hand and not about having his body between your legs.

He smiled up at you and nodded,

"Sure, love. The usual."

As you poured his lager, keeping a little extra foam at the top, just how he liked it, you caught yourself staring again.

It was cold out, so he was in a thick coat, but he never had his collar buttoned up. There was always a bit of his chest on view for you through the drab plaid shirts he wore. He had a cut tonight, and you could see it soaking through the white of his undershirt.

"You okay, John?" You set his beer down and motioned to his gash.

"Oh," he chuckled warmly, "Yeah. Just got a little too close to the off-loader crane and paid for it. No harm, really."

"Let me clean it up for you. C'mon," you opened the bar's side door and lifted it so he could duck underneath, taking his beer with him and following you upstairs to your office.

Your barback would take care of the two other patrons you had. It was a Tuesday after midnight. You could close without any harm done.

As John wandered into your space, he noticed your makeshift cot in the corner.

"Surely you're not sleepin' at work, love?"

You laughed a little nervously,

"Don't tell the health inspector on me. Have a seat in that chair. Lemme get the first-aid kit."

He sat. Your heart pounded in your throat. As you dug around for the kit, you felt your nerves fraying. Maybe you liked John a little more than you thought.

"Here. Alright, can you show me the cut?"

You knelt in front of him so you could be in line with the wound. You tried to clean it, but his clothes were getting wet.

"Oh, sorry. Uh -"

"Here, love," he shucked his jacket off and peeled his shirt off from his back, leaving it around his arms, pinned in the sleeves, "That better?"

You nodded, feeling your breath catch in your throat.

He was huge. It was almost monstrous, the way his body bulged out around his bones, enormous snapping muscles rolling around his shoulders and neck, making him look like an animal. He was covered in soft, brown fur, and as you went to touch him, you made a grave mistake.

You hesitated.

Ever observant, you knew he caught you stumbling over him, frozen in place like a scared doe. But, mercifully, he said nothing, and allowed you to get to work.

Clean. Dry. Salve. Bandage. Smooth the edges. Make an excuse to do it again, once more to seal it down.

"There, all done. You have been a very brave patient," you smiled up at him and went to box up the supplies back in their little tin.

"You know," he purred, "Brave patients usually get some sort of prize."

You laughed softly,

"Fresh out of lollies and peppermints, I'm afraid."

"Sure there isn't anything else you'd offer me to suck on, love?"

His voice was low, dark, and deep. It crawled to you on its belly from the bottom of the sea, from the pressures and the cold, black hell of the fathoms of the water, lapping at the sides of your boat, threatening to sink you. He looked at you like a tiger shark studies a diver, with a chilling curiosity from the mighty to the fragile, wondering what you taste like and deciding if he'll bite.

John's arms were still bound by his clothes. If you wanted to flee, you would've had plenty of head-start. But, you didn't. You were moving outside of your own volition. It was as if you were dreaming, watching yourself be piloted by an unknown force. You stared him down and stood, stepping right between his knees, forcing him to look up at you and wait for your reply.

You peeled off your white tee shirt, revealing your bare breasts to him. Going bra-less meant usually meant more tips, but tonight you weren't concerned about the money. You wanted him to praise you. You wanted to call his bluff. You wanted him to fuck you on the stack of kegs in the corner of your office and let the sharp metal rims dig into your belly as he stuffed his cock into you from behind.

His shirts were gone from his arms in a second, and he leaned forward just enough to put his face to your breast, letting you feel the heat of his breath on your skin, sighing into you. John held your eyes captive in his the whole time, as if he may look away and break the spell. Then, he watched you watch him take your nipple into his mouth, suckling on it as gently as he possibly could, as gently as anyone had ever done.

You trembled, letting go of a breath you'd been holding, looking down at him as he sucked your flesh between his wet lips. You were right about the smell of the tobacco.

[sturnsbaebackup]

IS IT OVER NOW? - MATT STURNIOLO (PART TWO)

i highly recommend reading part one before you read this, which is linked here!

summary: after seeing matt at the party and admitting you still have feelings for him, things aren’t so radio silent between you two anymore.

warnings: not proof read lolll sorry if there’s typos 😛

—

immediately after the party, a week went by of still no contact from matt after your heated encounter with him.

at that party a few weeks ago, you spat out plenty of angry words at him and he did the same to you, which had been keeping you both up at night. both of you wishing you could take the entire situation back. you and matt just wanted each other, but neither of you knew how to break the silence. that was until matt decided to text you last week, asking if you wanted to go for a drive.

…

you hear your phone buzz as you begin to start falling asleep, and you groan in annoyance. you roll over in your bed and grab your phone off of the charger. your eyes nearly bulge out of your head as you see the familiar contact photo appear on your lock screen.

“what the fuck?” you blurt out, immediately sitting upright in your bed and opening his text.

matt | can i come pick you up in like 10 mins? i’m in the car and im not too far from you. we gotta talk

read 12:24 am

you take your sweet time rereading the text to make sure you’re not dreaming. it’s been pure radio silence from matt since the party, and the first thing he texts you is that?!

matt | you have your read receipts on yk

read 12:26 am

“oh fuck,” you mumble, immediately starting to type out a response. your hands are trembling a little due to all of the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

you | oops sorry but yeah ofc just text me when you’re here

he reacts to the message with a thumbs up, and you immediately bolt out of bed. you curl your eyelashes quickly and add a little bit of blush on your cheeks and nose. he knows you were about to sleep, so there’s no point in putting on obvious makeup. you grab a random hoodie from your closet and throw on some slippers. you look homeless, but who cares. it’s just matt.

that’s what you keep repeating in your head to yourself in an attempt to calm the nerves that are practically doing somersaults in your stomach.

it’s just matt. it’s just matt. its just matt. nothing to be scared of. it’s just matt.

your thoughts are broken up when your phone dings with the message of matt letting you know he’s waiting in the car outside. you exhale deeply as you lock the door behind you, shivering in the cold, late night, los angeles air. muffled music can be heard from the outside of matt’s car, and his eyes are glued to his phone. he’s just as nervous as you are, maybe even more.

your hand wraps around the door handle, and you pull it gently in an attempt to not frighten matt. his eyes look up at you and lock with yours, making your heart skip a beat.

“hi matt,” you say awkwardly as you sit in his passenger seat.

“y/n, hi,” he smiles softly, beginning to put the car in drive. you keep your eyes down at your feet as the car begins to drive away, the silence killing you internally. in previous moments like this, you both would be fighting over aux not even a minute into the car ride, but this time it’s dead silent with quiet music playing in the back.

“so, you wanted to talk?” you blurt out, your mouth moving faster than your brain.

“yeah, but i was hoping maybe we could get some mc donald’s before we have the serious conversation? you know, like old times,” he says, reminding you of the times where after a bad fight you guys would talk things out in a parking lot over a shared mcflurry and fries.

you let out a soft chuckle, “yeah okay, sounds perfect.” the silence isn’t as awkward as before, but the tension is so tense you genuinely could cut it with a knife. your thumbs fiddle in the front pocket of your sweatshirt as you wait for the traffic light to change, the mcdonald’s drive thru being at the other end of the intersection.

“can i get two oreo mcflurrys and a large fry?” matt asks the lady working the drive thru. she calculates the total and you immediately reach for your wallet to grab your card, but matt quickly stops you.

his hand now rests on your forearm, “no y/n. let me pay, i’m the one who dragged you out so late,” he smiles softly. when he notices his hand on your arm he quickly takes it off, making your heart sink a little. ‘things aren’t how they used to be, we aren’t dating, and you need to realize that,’ you mentally tell yourself.

eventually you guys get your food and pull into the far back corner of the parking lot. it’s very dimly lit but the flickering florescent street light that’s shining on matt is making the dark bags under his eyes extremely visible. you’re quick to notice them, and you instantly know he hasn’t been getting much sleep at all, and you have a guess that the reason is what he’s about to talk to you about.

he unbuckles the seatbelt and rotates in his seat, resting his back against his door facing you. “so… first of all how’ve you been?”

you pick up a fry from the bag that rests on the center console, letting it cool off between your fingers as you speak up. “i’ve been uh— you know. just living, i guess. how have you been?” you shrug, putting the fry in your mouth.

“not good, honestly. that’s why i texted you,” matt admits, looking down at his thumbs that reside in his lap. your heart drops at his statement and an overwhelming feeling of sadness rushes over you. if you and matt were still dating, you would be pulling him in a tight hug and holding his head against your chest. but you can’t do that, so you just sit and looking at him.

“what?” you ask, hoping you heard him wrong.

“i haven’t been getting much sleep. like, at all. i really miss you, and i fucked up at that party. i never should’ve been trying to make you jealous with her. that wasn’t fair to either of you, and your words keep playing through my mind every night. it keeps me up at night.”

you take a moment to process what you’re hearing, and sigh. “matt come here,” you say, putting your mcflurry down into the cupholder and leaning over the center console to hug matt. he looks up at you with sad eyes, confused at what you’re about to do, but as soon as he realizes, he immediately hugs you back.

you pull his head into your chest and rest your hand over his left cheek, making sure to hold him as close as possible. you press gentle kisses on the top of his head as your fingers play with the ends of his hair.

“i miss you, y/n. i love you so much and i’m so sorry i thought we needed space, i was so unbelievably wrong. i was just going through a weird phase for like a month and shoved you away, but i really think you’re the only person who can calm me down. you bring me back to earth, y/n,” matt mumbles against your chest.

“shh matty, it’s okay. we don’t need to talk about it yet, let’s just enjoy the moment,” you mutter into his hair softly. eventually you and matt break the hug and continue to catch up on everything you guys have missed in each others lives within the last few weeks.

“speaking of clothing— is that my hoodie?” matt asks you, sidetracking from your conversation.

you look down at the gray nike sweatshirt that rests on your body, and your cheeks flare up with heat. “oh my god! that’s so embarrassing, i had no idea this was yours. i just grabbed the first hoodie i could find. i swear i thought i gave this back to you,” you blush.

matt chuckles, “keep it. it looks cute on you. plus, you’re just gonna end up stealing all of the hoodies you gave back to me.”

“you know me so well,” you laugh as you throw a fry at matt.

“hey watch it! i just got the car cleaned!”

[wannabehockeygf]

the city - connor dewar

"I ride the subway 'cause I look for you in every face, Don't wanna find you, though, 'Cause 8 million strangers lose their distance once you take their place, 8 million bodies and they're yours and now I'm out of space."

*** request: "hello I love ur work and idk if u still are taking Dewey requests but I was thinking of famous!reader where she's goes to a game or something but no one knows they've been dating and no one expects it since she's so comfortable in the spotlight and he's like a deer in the headlights every time he does post game interviews. And the guys tease him about how often he looks at her thru out the night until after the game she comes up to him in front of them for a post game smooch🤭" summary: in which, your boyfriend worries about being clingy all while you worry about keeping him out of the spotlight. word count: 8.2k pairing: connor dewar x fem!reader warnings: slight sexual innuendo(feeling up? idk how to describe it) but other than that nothing. notes:

this is the first ever dewey fluff i've done and that's kinda embarassing LMAO, i used to get so many smut requests for him

but he's so sweet and awkward so this feels more right

^ he would definitely have a crisis about his masculinity.

speaking of my dewey smut fics... i feel like they're so half assed and i could do so much better if someone wants to request(although tbh i prefer fluff)! i almost delete like all of them every day.

^ he's still hot as hell though.

ty for being so detailed in your request anon & thank you!

the ending is a little silly lmao but this is my hate letter to toronto media

*** He wasn’t having a good day.

He wasn’t having a good day, so he was in his head.

He was in his head, so, after practice, he went to the gas station, went inside while pumping gas to buy a red bull, and almost caused a fire. He then proceeded to crush said red bull while going fifteen over on the highway, before circling your apartment building about ten times debating to go up–what would he even say?

“Hey, babe, I kind of feel like I’m your girlfriend right now, can we talk about that?”

Connor groans, fisting his hands in his hair, tugging at the strands as if it’ll make him think more clearly. "No, fuck, that’s stupid," he mutters, catching a glimpse of himself in the side mirror, which only makes him let out an even more pained groan. "Hey, not to worry you or anything, but, do you think I’m, like, too much?"

He raises his eyebrows, nodding slightly, chewing on the inside of his cheek like he’s just found the perfect key to his problems. It’s not even really a problem; it’s the fact that he’s scared he’s being too overbearing, too worried about being seen with you even though he’s wildly in love.

It’s been a non-stop nagging thought in the back of his mind ever since the guys started teasing him about it. He thought nobody would notice, but nope. Every night, even if he knows you’re busy with your modeling—or whatever the hell you do, all he knows is that he hit the goddamn jackpot—he looks for you.

Especially on the bench, and that’s what gets him. When he stands up, crossing his heart for the National Anthem, his eyes are glued to the far corner of the arena, where he knows the VIP box suite is, and that’s when one of his linemates notices. He’s supposed to be paying his respects, goddammit, but how can he when the only person who can turn him into a soft, cuddly mess is up there?

“You’re lucky she’s a Leafs fan.”

“She’s got you whipped, dude.”

“I promise, Mrs. Dewar, she has no idea you exist. Snap out of it.”

He doesn’t feel strong enough. And even though he knows it’s the testosterone coursing through him, almost daring him to flaunt his toxic masculinity, he just wants to feel like exactly that—a man.

Connor grips the steering wheel tighter, staring blankly out the windshield, his mind running in circles again. He hasn’t even parked in a proper spot, just hovering at the curb like he might bolt at any second. The city’s waking up, early morning sun casting a lazy golden glow over everything, but Connor is buzzing—nervous energy, caffeine, and something else entirely.

His foot taps against the brake, a jittery rhythm matching the beat of his heart, which seems lodged in his throat. He glances up at your apartment building for the fifth time in as many minutes, each floor seeming more intimidating than the last. The thought of seeing you, of saying what he’s been rehearsing in his head for hours, has him spiraling.

What if you laugh? No, you’d never do that. But what if you think he’s being dramatic? Connor, dramatic? Nah. But still, maybe you won’t understand—maybe he’s being clingy. He can feel the sweat forming under his hoodie, despite the cool breeze filtering through the crack in the window. God, he’s losing it.

He rubs his palm against his gym shorts, the rough material grounding him for a second before his brain kicks back into overdrive. His teammates’ voices echo in his head again, teasing him, prodding at his insecurities like they’re poking a wound just to see him flinch. He hadn’t meant to stare at you during the game, but the moment he caught sight of your figure, tucked into the shadows of the suite, he couldn’t help it. His heart had skipped a beat, his focus had slipped, and, well, he got roasted for it.

He cringes at the memory. That’s supposed to be a good thing, right? That he can’t keep his eyes off you? But now, here he is, debating whether or not he’s being a total loser for wanting to be around you every second. Is that normal? Is it just... too much?

The little voice in his head—okay, his coach’s voice—tells him to man up, but every time he tries, it just makes him feel worse. He’s not some alpha-male, testosterone-dripping asshole who can shake this off like it’s nothing. No. He’s Connor Dewar. Insecure, maybe a little too soft for his own good, and deeply, hopelessly in love with someone who makes him feel like he’s not enough, even though you’ve never actually said anything to suggest that.

Before he knows it, he’s out of the car, the sound of the door slamming behind him barely registering. His legs move on autopilot, carrying him through the front entrance, into the elevator, and up to your floor. His stomach twists with each ding as the elevator climbs, the buzzing in his chest growing louder, almost unbearable. What is he even going to say? What if he wakes you up? It’s still so early, and you’re probably sleeping, all cozy and peaceful, totally unaware that your boyfriend is losing his mind.

The door to your apartment comes into view, and suddenly, everything feels too real. He stares at the door for a moment, his breath coming out shaky as he raises his hand to knock. Just do it, man. It’s fine. You’ve been here a million times. But today feels different. Today feels like everything he says could either solidify his worst fears or wipe them away. There’s no in-between.

He knocks, three soft raps that barely echo in the hallway, and immediately regrets it. What if you don’t hear? Or worse—what if you do? His mind races again, and before he can second-guess himself any further, the door creaks open. There you are, hair mussed from sleep, wearing that old oversized shirt of his he loves on you. You blink at him, eyes still heavy with sleep but soft, like they always are when you first wake up. It’s like looking at the sun.

"Connor? It’s… so early, what are you doing here?" Your voice is a low, sleepy murmur, and for a moment, all he can do is stare. You always look beautiful, but like this? It’s almost too much for him to handle. His heart twists again, this time with something warm, something soft, and the words he’s practiced—Hey, babe, am I being too much?—disintegrate the second he opens his mouth.

"I—I’m too clingy, aren’t I?" he blurts, the question tumbling out before he can stop it. His cheeks flush immediately, embarrassment washing over him. Great job, idiot. Not exactly the smooth, calm approach he’d envisioned.

You blink, tilting your head slightly like you’re trying to figure out if you’re dreaming. Connor groans inwardly, hands falling to his sides, fingers twitching. He’s not even sure if he wants to hear your response. Hell, he’s not even sure why he came up here so early in the first place, aside from the fact that he’s been spiraling all morning thinking about it.

he door barely clicks shut behind him, but the sound feels louder than anything he can handle right now. Connor stands awkwardly in your entryway, shifting from foot to foot, his sneakers squeaking against the hardwood like they're mocking his every move. His heart pounds, loud and relentless, almost drowning out the soft hum of your apartment—so quiet, so peaceful. Everything smells like you, warm and familiar, and somehow that makes it worse.

God, why did he say that? Of all the ways to start this conversation—Am I too clingy?—he had to go with that. His mind is already spiraling, replaying every second of the moment he blurted it out, the way your eyebrows knit together in confusion, still half-asleep, your hair a mess, and your body wrapped in that oversized shirt he loves. It’s unfair how effortlessly beautiful you are, even at eight in the morning.

You blink at him again, slower this time, your lips twitching like you're trying to suppress a smile. "Connor, it’s—what, eight in the morning? Why are you here talking about… clinginess?" There’s a soft chuckle in your voice, and he winces. Not because you’re making fun of him, but because he’s making fun of himself in his head, and now you're awake, and this is real.

He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Great. Now he can’t even speak. His tongue feels too thick in his mouth, and his throat is dry, probably from that Red Bull he downed like his life depended on it. His fingers flex at his sides, the faint smell of gasoline still clinging to his skin. He hadn’t even washed his hands after almost blowing up the gas station. Awesome.

Connor rubs the back of his neck, suddenly hyper-aware of how sweaty he feels. “Yeah, um, I don’t—shit, I don’t know. I just—” He trails off, eyes darting around your apartment like maybe the right words are hiding somewhere in a corner. The soft morning light spills through the windows, casting golden streaks across your couch, your coffee table, your bookshelf—everything that screams you. It’s so you in here, and that just makes him feel like an intruder.

You step closer, arms crossing loosely over your chest, and the sight of you makes his heart skip a beat. You’re not even fully awake, and yet there you are, standing in front of him, looking at him like he’s the most confusing but endearing thing in the world. He swallows hard, trying to gather his thoughts, but they scatter like leaves in the wind the moment you tilt your head, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

“Did something happen?” you ask softly, and there it is—that voice. The one that always makes his insides twist in that stupidly vulnerable way, the one that makes him feel like he could tell you anything, even though his brain is screaming at him to keep his insecurities locked up tight.

Connor exhales, his shoulders sagging. "I just… I don’t know. I feel like…" He trails off again, his eyes flicking to the floor, tracing the grain of the wood beneath his sneakers. He wants to say it. He wants to tell you everything—how the guys have been teasing him, how he can’t stop staring at you during games, how he feels like a lovesick puppy every time you so much as look at him. But that all sounds so pathetic in his head.

Instead, he runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until they stand up in all directions. "The guys… they’ve been saying stuff. You know, about… how I look at you." The words feel heavy, clumsy, like they don’t quite fit together the way he wants them to. His voice cracks slightly, and he winces at the sound of it.

You raise an eyebrow, taking another step closer, your bare feet barely making a sound against the floor. “What kind of stuff?” you ask, still half-smiling, like you can’t quite believe this is a conversation you’re having before your morning coffee.

Connor’s face flushes. This is even worse than he thought. Why did he have to say anything at all? Why can’t he just be normal, like a normal boyfriend who doesn’t freak out about stuff like this? His teammates’ voices echo in his head again, louder this time, teasing him, making fun of him for staring at you during the game, like he’s some lovestruck idiot.

“They—uh, they think I’m, like… whipped. You know?” He forces a laugh, but it comes out strained, like he’s choking on the words. “Like, they’re always making jokes about how I can’t stop looking at you when I should be paying attention to the game. And, even though they don’t know about us, I don’t know… it just… it got to me. You know?”

There. He says it. Sort of. He risks a glance at you, half-expecting you to burst out laughing or roll your eyes or something, but instead, you just stand there, looking at him with those soft, sleepy eyes, your head slightly tilted like you’re trying to figure him out.

“I mean, it’s dumb, right?” he blurts, his words spilling out too fast, like he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts. “It’s not like I don’t care about the game—of course I care about the game! I just… I can’t help it when I see you up there. I get distracted, I guess. But, like, they’re giving me shit for it. And I don’t know, maybe they’re right? Maybe I’m too… attached or something. Maybe I’m too clingy.”

The word hangs in the air again, making him cringe. Clingy. He hates the sound of it, like it’s this ugly thing that has attached itself to him and now won’t let go. He runs a hand over his face, trying to rub away the embarrassment, but all he can feel is the warmth of your apartment, the smell of you wrapping around him like a safety net he doesn’t deserve.

His mind starts spiraling again, dragging him down into that familiar pit of insecurity. Was it normal to be this caught up in someone? Sure, he loves you—really loves you—but maybe the guys are right. Maybe he’s acting like your personal bodyguard or something, hovering too much. And then there’s that other thing—the one he tries not to think about too much, but it keeps sneaking up on him, especially when you wear those heels, the ones that make you look even taller than usual.

Connor’s eyes dart to the floor, catching a glimpse of your bare feet. He can’t stop himself from doing the math in his head: barefoot, you’re still only a couple of inches shorter than him. When you put on heels? He swallows hard, a knot forming in his throat. You’re not just beautiful—you’re tall, and tall in a way that makes him feel like he isn’t, well, enough. Not that you’ve ever made a big deal out of it, but in the back of his mind, it gnaws at him.

“I’m, uh…” he starts, his voice trailing off as he tries to find the right way to say it. How am I supposed to tell her I feel weird about not being tall enough for my model girlfriend? His cheeks burn with embarrassment again, and he can feel himself sweating even more, like all his dumb insecurities are trying to crawl their way out of his skin.

“You’re just… you’re so…” He gestures vaguely at you, his hand flailing like it can explain the mess of thoughts in his head. “You know. You. And I’m just… me. I’m not even that tall, and I know that’s dumb, but it’s been in my head ever since you wore those heels to that restaurant and suddenly we were the same height, and… I don’t know. I just feel like…” He groans, tugging at his hair again. “I feel like a fucking idiot.”

The words tumble out before he can stop them, and now they’re out there, hanging between you both like some kind of confession. His heart pounds so hard he swears you can hear it. Why did he even bring this up? You’ve never mentioned it, never teased him about his height, but now he’s the one spiraling over it. He stares down at his sneakers, the scuffed rubber soles suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

He’s a mess. How is he supposed to be your boyfriend—the guy who’s supposed to have it together—when all he can think about is how ridiculous he must look next to you? You’re this confident, glamorous model, and he’s just some hockey player who can’t stop staring at you from the bench. Maybe he’s being clingy. Maybe he’s too much.

You take another step forward, which seems to stop his ranting. You're close enough now that he can smell the faint traces of whatever shampoo you use, something warm and sweet and unmistakably you. Your hand reaches out, brushing lightly against his arm, and he feels his entire body tense up at the contact.

“Connor,” you say softly, your voice a gentle lull that immediately makes his heartbeat slow, just a little. “You’re not too clingy.” Your lips quirk up in that way they always do when you’re trying to hide a smile, like you think he’s the most ridiculous, lovable thing in the world. “You’re just… in love. That’s all.”

He blinks, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut, but in the best possible way. In love. Of course he is. He knows that. But hearing you say it, so simply, like it isn’t something he needs to overthink or worry about, makes him feel like the ground has finally stopped shifting beneath his feet.

You step even closer, your hand sliding down to take his, your fingers cool against his sweaty palm. “And for the record,” you add, your voice dropping to a playful whisper, “I think it’s kind of cute that you can’t keep your eyes off me during the game.”

Connor’s mouth twitches into a shaky grin, a rush of warmth spreading through his chest. “Yeah?”

You nod, giving his hand a little squeeze. “Yeah. I mean, you could try to focus a bit more, but... I like knowing you’re thinking about me.”

His heart feels like it’s swelling, and suddenly, all the noise in his head quiets. You’re not laughing at him, you’re not rolling your eyes, you’re not even upset that he’s so wrapped up in his feelings. If anything, you seem to understand, like it isn’t the giant problem he’s been building it up to be.

“Okay,” he breathes, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Okay, yeah… I just didn’t want to, you know, be too much.”

You shake your head, tugging him gently toward the couch. “You’re never too much, Connor.” You plop down, patting the cushion beside you.

Connor flops down beside you with a soft grunt, his large frame taking up most of the space. He shifts awkwardly for a second, trying to find a spot that doesn’t feel too close, but also close enough that he can breathe in that familiar, comforting scent of you. There’s something so grounding about it — like he can finally shut off the part of his brain that’s constantly screaming at him to be perfect. His breath catches in his throat when you reach up to trace your fingers lightly along the hem of his hoodie, and he swears his heart just stops altogether.

“Relax,” you whisper, your voice low and sweet, the kind that always makes his pulse pick up. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He blinks at you, his mouth dry as you lift the hem of his hoodie, slipping your hand under the fabric. Your fingers are cool against his skin, the touch sending a shiver up his spine that makes it hard to breathe. He isn’t sure if it’s the warmth of your hand or the way your fingers spread out across his abs, but holy, it’s doing something to him.

“See?” you murmur, your voice teasing as your hand trails up, brushing over the slight ridges of muscle. “I’d say you’re plenty manly.”

His cheeks burn, his heart doing a quick stutter-step in his chest. “You—” He coughs, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. “You think so?”

You nod, your thumb brushing over his ribs, and he swears he feels a flicker of heat right there, just beneath your touch. It’s almost ridiculous how much one little movement can send his mind spiraling, but it does. His breath catches again, this time somewhere in the back of his throat, and he has to fight the sudden urge to pull you even closer, to kiss you until his thoughts finally stop their endless loop of doubt.

You smirk, your hand sliding back down, grazing over his abs again, your nails scraping lightly in a way that makes his skin prickle. “Mhm. And you know, you’re pretty hot too. Just in case you were wondering.”

“You’re just saying that,” he mumbles, trying to sound playful, but his voice wobbles slightly. He doesn’t want to seem too eager, but the way your fingers tease along his skin has him feeling dizzy, like he’s already halfway to losing himself in you. He can’t help but feel every brush of your thumb, every inch it travels over his stomach, like a wildfire burning under his skin.

You just smile, leaning in a bit closer, your breath warm against his ear. “Trust me, baby. I don’t need to say anything I don’t mean.”

His face burns at the simple words, the sincerity laced in your tone. The tips of his ears probably match the red of his hoodie by now. His brain feels scrambled, a weird mix of giddy and hot, as if all his nerves have decided to flip on at once. He wants to believe you—no, he does believe you—but there’s this nagging voice in the back of his head, the one that whispers maybe he isn’t quite enough.

But then, your hand shifts just slightly, your palm spreading wider across his chest like you’re staking a claim, and that flicker of doubt disappears. You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you? Teasing him, proving your point in the most devastating way possible. And God, is it working. His heart is thudding, heat pooling in his stomach as your fingers trace a line up his ribs, sending a shiver that he can’t suppress.

“You’re… you’re sure about that?” His voice comes out hoarse, not nearly as casual as he’d hoped.

You smile softly, your thumb brushing over the faint ridges of muscle just under his skin. “Mhm. I’d say you’re more than manly enough.” Your fingers slide up a little higher, grazing his side in a way that makes his breath hitch. “Honestly, these abs are kind of unfair.”

Connor lets out a shaky laugh, but the way his body is reacting makes him feel anything but in control. The fact that you can do this to him with just a few words and a touch is almost terrifying. He groans, tipping his head back against the couch, his hand shooting up to grab your wrist—not to stop you, but just to ground himself, to hold onto something that isn’t his spiraling thoughts. His mind scrambles, trying to find something to say, but all he can focus on is how warm your hand feels, how close you are, and how easy it would be to just pull you on top of him right there on the couch.

“You’re killing me,” he mumbles, his eyes squeezing shut as he tries to breathe through the haze of heat building between you. “You know that, right?”

“Mmm, I don’t know,” you hum, your lips brushing against the side of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. “You seem to be doing just fine.”

“Fine?” His voice cracks as you slide your hand back down, your fingers ghosting over his abs again, slow and deliberate, and all he can do is breathe through it. “I’m—” He cuts himself off, unable to form a coherent thought as you continue your little exploration. Jesus, is he about to beg? Is that where this is headed? He might actually be on the verge of begging.

The silence stretches, filled only by the sound of your breathing and his desperate attempts to keep it together. But it’s not working. Every touch, every brush of your hand has him unraveling, and when your fingers dip just under the waistband of his shorts, Connor lets out a small, pathetic whimper, something he immediately regrets but can’t stop. He’s falling apart. Completely. And you know it.

You let your fingers wander back up, tracing the faint ridges of his abs, feeling the slight tremor in his muscles. It’s so easy to mess with him, to push him just to the edge, and you’re enjoying every second of it. The control, the way his breath hitches every time you move, how his eyes flutter shut as if that will somehow help him focus. But there’s no way he can focus—not when you’re here, teasing him like this.

And God, you love the way he looks right now. All disheveled and flushed, like he’s caught somewhere between embarrassment and desire. His hoodie is bunched up under your hand, exposing just a sliver of his toned stomach, and it’s almost criminal how much you want to touch more, to tease more, just to see him unravel completely.

“Look at you,” you tease softly, brushing your thumb just under his ribs, feeling the way his breath hitches. “You’re so worked up over a little teasing.”

His laugh comes out strangled, more of a breath than a sound, and his cheeks flush deeper, the red creeping up to his ears. “You’re… you’re evil,” he rasps, his voice barely audible as he tilts his head to the side, exposing more of his neck to you without even realizing it. “Do you even know what you’re doing right now?”

You raise a brow, letting your lips hover near his throat, not quite touching but close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “Mhm,” you hum softly, dragging your hand slowly down his stomach again. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

And that’s when you feel it—the subtle shift, the way his body tenses even more, the way his breathing grows more labored, like he’s holding on for dear life. His hand tightens around your wrist, his other arm moving to rest on the back of the couch as if he needs the extra support.

You know you have him. He’s yours.

But just as you’re about to push him even further, to see how far you can take this, Connor’s voice breaks the spell. “Are you—” His voice cracks slightly, and he swallows hard, trying to find his words. “Are you coming to my game tonight?”

You hesitate, your fingers freezing for just a moment against his chest. You’ve been hoping he wouldn’t ask, but now that the question is out there, you can’t avoid it. Taking a deep breath, you look up at him, meeting his curious gaze with a soft, apologetic smile. “Actually… my agent doesn’t think it’s a good idea.”

Connor blinks, his brows furrowing in confusion. “What? Why not?”

You bite your lip, your heart pounding as you brace yourself for his reaction. “Because people are starting to catch on. I, uh… I might’ve posted something on Instagram that’s making people suspicious.”

“...What did you post?”

You bite your lip again, feeling the weight of his gaze on you as you struggle to explain. His body is still tense beside you, his hoodie still bunched up, his skin flushed from everything that’s just happened, and it makes this moment feel all the more precarious. “For our anniversary,” you start, your voice faltering slightly as you try to explain. “It was faceless! I made sure you weren’t in it… well, not fully.”

The look on his face tells you everything you need to know. His confusion hasn’t lessened at all, and now there’s a flicker of something else—worry, maybe? “Not fully?” he repeats, his voice soft, like he’s not sure if he should be alarmed or not.

“Okay, so maybe there’s… something.” You wince at your own words because you know how it sounds, and you know exactly how the internet works. One small detail, one little hint, and fans will be all over it, dissecting every pixel of the photo, theorizing, speculating. You can already imagine the threads on Twitter, the conspiracy theories on Reddit, people zooming in on the tiniest reflection in the background to try and prove something.

It had seemed innocent enough at the time—a shot of the two of you from behind, your head tilted slightly to hide your face, his body next to yours, faceless but recognizable to anyone who pays enough attention. And in the background, just barely visible, is the faint reflection of something unmistakably his—a Leafs logo, half-obscured but still there, like a breadcrumb trail waiting to be discovered.

“It’s nothing super obvious,” you start again, trying to sound reassuring even though you know how sharp his teammates are, how fans can latch onto the smallest detail. “Just… something in the background. A little reflection, maybe.”

Connor’s eyes search yours, that hint of worry deepening into something more serious. His grip on your wrist tightens again, not in frustration but as if he needs to hold onto something solid. “What kind of reflection?”

There’s a beat of silence where the tension thickens, pressing down on you both. You can almost hear the wheels turning in his head, can almost see him picturing the post in his mind without even having seen it yet.

“Well,” you start slowly, your voice quiet and hesitant, “it might’ve been… your practice bag? In the background. But it’s super faint! Like, barely visible unless you’re really looking.”

His face pales a little, and you watch him process the potential fallout. It’s like you can feel the gears shifting in his mind, each little piece of information clicking into place. His mouth opens slightly, but no words come out at first—just a soft, almost incredulous exhale.

“You mean the one with the Leafs logo and my number on it like, a million times?” His voice cracks slightly, and you can see him fighting to keep his cool, even though his brain is probably already racing through every possible outcome. “Do you—do you have the post? Can I see it?”

You hesitate, your fingers still resting lightly on his stomach, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the growing unease between you. He looks so vulnerable like this, lying back with his hoodie bunched up, cheeks flushed from the teasing, but now there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—something closer to panic.

With a slow nod, you reach for your phone, handing it to him with shaky fingers. "I didn't think it would be that big of a deal," you murmur, but as you unlock the screen and hand him the device, you can’t help the growing knot in your stomach. What started as an innocent post is about to become much more complicated.

You watch Connor’s expression shift as he stares at your phone, his thumb scrolling slowly through the post. The tension in the air is thick enough to cut, but you can’t look away from his face—his brows furrowing deeper with every passing second, his lips parting as though he wants to say something, yet can’t find the words. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, every muscle in his body tightening as the weight of the situation settles over him.

His silence stretches on, the sound of his breath—still shaky from your earlier exploration—filling the small space between you. Moments ago, you had him on the verge of completely losing control, but now the dynamic has shifted entirely, and it’s your turn to feel that flutter of uncertainty gnawing at your insides.

“Baby…” you begin softly, your voice barely more than a whisper as you shift beside him, your hand still resting against his warm skin. But he doesn’t respond right away, his eyes still fixed on the post, his face a mixture of disbelief and concern.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he speaks—his voice low, almost incredulous. “You posted this… for our anniversary?”

The way he says it makes your stomach drop. There isn’t anger in his tone, not exactly, but there’s something else—something that makes you feel like you’ve made a terrible mistake. You nod, chewing on your lip, your eyes scanning his face for any hint of reassurance, but all you see is the worry creasing his features deeper.

“I thought it was sweet,” you try, your voice trembling just a bit. “It was supposed to be… you know, low-key. Nothing obvious.”

“Low-key?” He blinks, his thumb hovering over the faint reflection in the background, the bag barely visible but unmistakable once you know what to look for. “Anyone who knows me—or follows hockey—could figure this out in two seconds. I mean, look at that.” His voice cracks on the last word, and he looks up at you, his expression a mix of disbelief and… something else. Something that almost looks like fear.

Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. You didn’t mean for any of this to happen—for things to spiral like this. It was supposed to be a quiet, intimate moment between the two of you, something only you and he would understand, like a shared secret between lovers. But now, the reality of it all is crashing down around you.

“I didn’t think anyone would notice!” you blurt out, suddenly defensive as you sit up straighter. “It’s just a tiny detail! I mean, who zooms in that much on an Instagram post?”

“But they will.” His voice is quiet again, softer this time, but filled with that same underlying worry that makes your chest tighten. “You know how people are. They’ll pick this apart until there’s nothing left. And then… what?”

His words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of their implications. You can feel the gravity of the situation pulling at you, dragging you down into a pit of guilt and uncertainty. But more than that, you can feel the shift in him—the way he seems to retreat into himself, his usual easygoing confidence replaced by something far more vulnerable.

And that vulnerability only makes your heart ache more.

He’s not angry—not at you, at least. No, this is something deeper. This is fear. Fear of losing the carefully constructed privacy you’ve both fought so hard to maintain, fear of what might happen if the world finds out about your relationship, fear of how it would change things between you. And that fear is written all over his face, etched into every line of his body as he sits there, staring at the screen in his hands like it’s a ticking time bomb.

You swallow hard, reaching out to brush your fingers against his arm, feeling the tension beneath his skin. “Connor… I’m sorry. I didn’t think it through.”

He lets out a shaky breath, his hand falling away from the phone as he leans back against the couch, his head tilting back to rest against the cushions. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you see him let go—just a little. The worry is still there, simmering beneath the surface, but for now, he’s trying to let it go.

“I know you didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper as he opens his eyes again, looking up at the ceiling. “I just… This is why I don’t use social media. People are fucking insane. I don’t know what’s gonna happen now.”

You shift closer, leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder as your fingers trace gentle circles along his arm. His skin is still impossibly warm, and yet now, all you can focus on is the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his breath as he tries to calm himself down.

“I’ll fix it,” you promise, your voice soft and earnest as you press a kiss to his shoulder. “I’ll take it down, and we’ll be more careful. It’ll be okay, I swear.”

He lets out a soft laugh—a humorless, breathy sound that makes your heart ache even more. “You think that’ll be enough?”

You don’t answer right away, because honestly, you’re not sure. The internet is a beast, one that can’t be easily tamed once it latches onto something. And if anyone has already seen the post and started piecing things together, it’s only a matter of time before the whispers turn into something louder, something you can’t control.

But still, you have to try.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” you say quietly, your voice filled with determination. “I won’t let anyone ruin this for us.” ***

You find yourself at Scotiabank Arena, despite everything. It wasn’t planned, and you certainly hadn’t told Connor you were coming—not after the earlier conversation that left you both teetering on the edge of something precarious. But there’s something about him, the way his voice cracks with worry, the tension in his jaw as he tries to hide how much it all matters to him, that makes it impossible for you to stay away.

You've spent hours trying to distract yourself, flipping through work emails, scrolling aimlessly on your phone, even considering posting a selfie—one that has absolutely nothing to do with hockey, Connor, or the tangled mess your lives have become. But none of it works. The pull toward him, toward the place he is, is too strong.

So here you are, in the dimly lit VIP box, hidden away from the bustling crowd below, your heart pounding as the game unfolds in front of you. You’ve dressed down, keeping it simple and low-key, with a hoodie thrown over your shoulders, the hood pulled low to cover most of your face. It’s strange—being here and not being here all at once, as if you’re an outsider watching from a distance, too close to touch but too far to be seen.

The arena buzzes with energy, a palpable hum that vibrates in your chest, matching the erratic beat of your heart. The air is thick with the sharp scent of ice and sweat, the echoing sounds of blades slicing across the rink, and the deep, reverberating roars of the crowd as they cheer for their team. It’s all-consuming, the kind of environment that makes it impossible to think straight, but all you can focus on is him.

Your eyes find him immediately—Connor, number 24, skating across the ice like he owns it, his movements smooth and calculated, every shift of his body a display of raw power and precision. It’s mesmerizing, watching him like this, and for a moment, you forget why you’re hiding, why you’re holding your breath every time someone glances in your direction.

He’s so focused, so in his element, but you catch it—those subtle glances toward the stands, the way his eyes dart up, scanning the rows as if he’s looking for something… or someone. The realization hits you like a punch to the gut: He’s looking for you.

You sink deeper into your seat, pulling your hood further down over your face, your stomach twisting in knots. He doesn’t know you’re here, and maybe it’s better that way. If he knew, if he saw you, it might make things worse. You hadn’t exactly parted on the best note earlier, with him still reeling from the Instagram mishap, his worry about the public scrutiny, and the weight of maintaining your secrecy.

But God, it’s hard to stay hidden when all you want to do is run down there and throw yourself into his arms.

Your fingers twitch in your lap, itching to do something—anything—but all you can do is sit there, watching him like some kind of lovesick teenager, your heart in your throat as he skates with that same intensity you’ve always admired. There’s something different about him tonight, though. Something heavier in his movements, like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He looks good, though. Really good. The way his muscles ripple beneath his jersey, the way the lights catch the sweat on his skin, the determined set of his jaw as he focuses on the game. And then there’s his hair, damp from the effort, sticking out in messy, endearing tufts from under his helmet.

You bite your lip, unable to tear your gaze away, and a small, traitorous thought slips into your mind: He’s so damn clingy, and yet you love it. You love the way he’s always checking in, the way he wants you to be part of everything, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. Maybe you should be annoyed, maybe you should feel suffocated, but instead, it makes your chest swell with something warm and overwhelming.

You pull your phone from your pocket, the screen lighting up in the dimness of the box, casting a soft glow across your face. Your fingers hover over the Instagram icon for a moment, hesitation gnawing at you. Posting something was what started this whole mess. Maybe you should lay low, let things cool down, but…

You glance at the ice again, your gaze locking onto Connor’s form. He’s in the middle of a play, skating fast, his stick slicing through the air as he chases after the puck, but every now and then, you swear you see his head tilt up, scanning the crowd again.

He’s looking for you.

Your heart clenches, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you snap a quick picture of the rink for your story—just the ice, nothing that could give away your exact location. No reflections, no telltale signs, just a simple shot of the game. You add a heart emoji to the caption, vague enough to mean anything, but you know he’ll understand.

You hit post and slide your phone back into your pocket, leaning forward in your seat as the game picks up in intensity. The crowd roars as the puck flies across the rink, players clashing in a chaotic dance of speed and strength. Connor’s in the thick of it, his focus unwavering, but there’s still that occasional glance toward the stands, that flicker of something in his eyes that tells you he’s still thinking about you.

The game drags on, each passing second a fresh assault on your nerves. Overtime looms, and the tension in the arena thickens, wrapping around you like a vice. You can feel it in your bones—this is going to be one of those moments. The kind of moment that’ll be replayed a thousand times on every sports network, the kind that’ll haunt you in the quiet hours when you’re alone with your thoughts.

And then it happens.

It’s like a flash of lightning. Connor, barreling down the rink with a speed and grace that takes your breath away. The puck dances between his stick and the ice, a blur of black and white, and suddenly he’s in front of the goal. Time slows. Your heart slams against your ribs as you lean forward, not even realizing you’ve stopped breathing. The crowd holds its collective breath, and then it’s over. The puck finds the back of the net with a resounding crack that echoes through the entire arena.

The place explodes. The deafening roar shakes the very foundations of the building, and you swear you can feel the vibration under your feet. He did it. Connor fucking did it.

You can’t help it—your body moves on its own, rising from the seat as your hands clap together, heart swelling with pride and something else, something deeper. The grin on your face is unstoppable, and you know your fingers are itching to send him a text, something cheeky and teasing about his performance for him to read later, but there’s no need. He’s already looking up at the stands again, that same searching glance, like he knows you’re here.

He skates over to his teammates, practically drowning in their celebratory shoves and slaps on the back, but there’s something in his eyes, a flicker of longing, as though he wishes he could be anywhere but there, anywhere but under the bright, burning lights. You know him too well. He hates this part—the interviews, the cameras. He’s like a deer in headlights when he’s in front of them, so unlike you, who thrives under that very same spotlight. The thought makes you chuckle under your breath.

Without really thinking, you pull your hoodie tighter around your face and slip through the back of the box, your mind spinning with a new plan. You know exactly how to get into that press area. Being a world-famous model has its perks, after all.

The energy of the postgame is chaotic, the air buzzing with a strange mix of triumph and exhaustion that clings to every corner of the arena. You thread your way through security and the press with a confidence that comes from years of walking down runways and posing for flashing cameras. Your heart, however, is racing for an entirely different reason now.

Connor is there, caught in the glaring lights of the press area, his posture stiff, shoulders squared but tense, and that telltale fidget of his fingers at his sides. He hates this. You know he does, and watching him stumble through the interviews, awkward and clearly uncomfortable, tugs at your heart in the most bittersweet way. There’s something so endearing about the way he handles the attention—on the ice, he’s this untouchable force of nature, but off it, he’s like a fish out of water, out of his element.

The cameras are all around him, flashing and clicking, microphones thrust into his face, and he’s trying so hard to keep it together, but you can see it—the slight widening of his eyes, the way his jaw tightens as he stumbles over his words, a nervous laugh escaping him as he answers a question about the overtime goal. Your chest swells with a mixture of pride and amusement. He’s so bad at this, but that’s what makes him yours, the part of him that only you seem to understand.

You glance at him again, just for a second, and something inside you shifts. He looks so damn good, even under all this scrutiny. His hair is damp, sticking out in wild tufts from the post-shower mess, his face still flushed from the game, with that fine sheen of sweat on his neck, the sharp angles of his jawline more prominent in the harsh lighting. His compression shirt clings to every muscle, the fabric stretched tight over his chest, showing off the powerful build that still makes your breath hitch every time you see him.

God, you’re in deep, aren’t you?

Your thoughts are spiraling, tumbling one after another in a rush, but there’s one thing that stands out more than anything: you can’t keep watching him like this. You can’t stand by and let him feel this out of place, not when you’re right there, not when you could help.

Before you know it, your legs are moving on their own. You slip past the last barrier of security with a nod that’s far too casual for someone about to blow their secret relationship wide open, and within seconds, you’re right there, right in front of him. The look on his face when he sees you is priceless—his eyes widen, his lips part slightly, and for a moment, it’s like the rest of the world falls away.

And then, before he can say a word, you grab him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him down into a kiss that’s anything but discreet. The press area falls deathly silent for a split second, and then, as if on cue, the cameras start flashing, capturing the moment in all its glory.

You pull back, just enough to meet his gaze, your lips still tingling from the kiss. His eyes are wide, his face flushed, but there’s that familiar softness there too, that look that tells you he’d follow you anywhere, even into the spotlight he hates so much.

His lips part for a moment, as if he’s going to say something, but then he turns his head right, then left, taking in all of his teammates’ gaping jaws, and you think he’s coming up with something good. But then, he does something you could never envision him doing. He snakes one of his arms around your waist, pulling you into him almost forcefully, and looks directly into the camera.

He lets out a single, incredulous laugh before pointing at it, “You guys can all suck it.”

[ktkat99]

Y'all ever get customers you see once and then never again, but you still find yourself wondering what they're up to years later?

Some of my personal favorites include

(TW: Some of these will be gross. Sorry.)

*The super polite woman who asked and had to confirm multiple times that she wanted an extra ten pumps of flavor in her drink (the usual amount being four)

*Bolt the mastiff who walked himself down to us

*The super corporate-professional looking man wearing a completely dead inside expression and charcoal gray business suit that matched his Prius, other than the rhinestone decals that covered nearly the entire car in phrases such as 'Princess' and 'Daddy's Gurl'

*The straight faced woman who had a hairy sex doll in a speedo and covered in tattoos in her backseat

*The elderly man who shuffled slowly as he walked everywhere who one day just folded and held himself effortlessly in the most awkward, off balance, sideways leaning pose I've ever seen to stare at something. I had to move to see what was holding his attention. It was a woman's butt

*SANTA

*The pants-less woman who, when I gave her the total, reached UP BETWEEN HER LEGS and pulled out a very foggy and nearly empty gallon Ziploc bag, pulled out exact cash in quarters, and casually paid. I was too stunned to take my hand back and had to wash my hands

*Bobby Singer.

*The woman who wanted an ice cream cone for her 100th birthday. You bet we gave her the ice cream cone and a mini celebration at the window

*The man who effortlessly steered a FLATBED TRUCK with a car on top of it through our drive thru and didn't hit a single thing

*The poor tourists who looked miserable the entire time they were in our lobby, both completely decked out in merch for a major tourist attraction with a very similar name to our local one that was on the opposite side of the country

*The totally normal couple who came through who, when they drove off, apperently had a middle aged woman in their backseat on all fours baring her teeth and glaring at me

*The woman who got handed her order in the backseat of a cop car, because it's a small town and she told the cop arresting her she was hungry

*The woman who handed me a handful of broken glass as payment

*The college kid who fell asleep in his car in the drive thru, prompting another customer to freak out that someone had died

[amberskyyking]

Dying Isn't Very Regulation: Chapter 12

It's not over when you die, it's over when you say it is. And it's not over. Not yet.

(Or, a self-indulgent 5 9 16?? chapter fic inspired by Snapback by @toomanyteefs with Fives and Ninety-Nine, because I have emotions about this, they deserves the world, and the narrative has officially run away with me!)

Five men remained standing at Commander Thorn’s side. Five men dug in their heels and gritted their teeth along with him, back to back in the onslaught as the metal bastards closed in, giving them hell as they made their final stand.

And they fell. Lowkey was the first and Thorn let out an enraged roar as he filled the droid who did it full of holes! He fought with fury and purpose as the rest of his brothers dropped until only he remained, but still, he wasn’t done. Not yet. He snarled and leaned back against the weight of his Hammer, firing off a huge spray of blaster bolts into the attackers and-

“AGH!” A blast tore through his armor and threw him back. A commando droid pounced but Thorn was faster, stronger, angrier. He growled in retaliation, taking advantage of the momentum to heave Hammer at the clanker and it went down! It wasn’t over. He wasn’t done. He swung it at another, and another, until five more droids had been downed by the Hammer and he fired it back up.

“FOR THE REPUBLIC!” Thorn roared, aiming his beloved rotary blaster cannon at the rest as they closed in. As long as he was breathing he could take out just one more, as long as he was standing it wasn’t over. He slammed Hammer into another and fired a series of shots but a second blast tore thru his chest-

Not yet. He was still standing dammit, he made a feeble attempt to lift Hammer just one more time as red rimmed his vision but another shot ripped through his shoulder and a fourth brought him to his knees. 

Thorn tasted blood. He stared livid up at the commando droid and found he couldn’t breathe, his vision was fading, but it wasn’t over, he wasn’t down. Thorn fought to stay upright in pure malicious defiance if it was the last thing he did.

And it was. 

The droid fired one more time and the fifth shot did what the first four couldn’t. Thorn fell backwards. He hardly felt his body hit the ground as a strange grey smoke enveloped everything, obscuring the ugly karking droids that loomed over him, so the last thing he saw was the darkness of Scipio’s sky…

But he wasn’t ready. He drifted, but some part of him writhed against this outcome. There was still a war to fight, still clankers to kill, it wasn’t over, it couldn’t be! He tried to let out a scream but he couldn’t, he was nothing, nowhere, paralyzed in the smoke! He wanted to claw himself back somehow, pick up his Hammer again and fight on! Vague pains still burned across his shoulders and chest from blaster shots, the only thing he could still feel as the smoke began to take on a dim glow…

… “There you are, vod,” A voice echoed sadly from somewhere nearby. “Took you long enough. Show off.” 

Full Chapter (And Story!): I'll Keep Fighting Till I Run Out Of Life Or Ammo (And Then Some)

[freesidexjunkie]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤️

ahhhhhhh but your fics are the lovely and perfect ones!! 🥺💕

okay okay top 5, which i did have to stretch a little bit bc my real number 5 is still in drafts...

5. Nuts & Bolts, a Fallout 4 crack fic that has no right to exist. This is my legacy among my friends. The lines in here still live in my brain rent free nearly a decade after writing them. My Immortal had a very brain-chemistry-changing effect on me in high school. I'm so sorry.

4. to have someone kiss the skin that crawls from you, a durgetash piece that was my first attempt at writing actual smut and part of my effort to break thru my years long writers block and get going again

3. First Light, Rolan x tav fic that took me nearly 6 months struggling thru angst and pain and imposter syndrome to get out. i felt like i would never be able to get this first chapter out or halfway presentable but in the end, im really very proud of it and glad i stuck it out!

2. tell me you're mine, durgetash smut that im really proud of for both the actual smut part and the intense opening scene (which im gonna paste below because. this is my fridge and i choose the magnets)

1. Din'an All Elgara, my solavellan fic that has my heart and soul and has to take the number one spot ❤️💕

“And what about the bhaalspawn?”

Gortash knew he shouldn't be listening. He had better things to do than listen to every bit of gossip that passed between these cultists. Nevertheless, at the mention of his co-conspirator, he found himself rooted to the spot, skulking behind the half-opened door frame like a common thug.

“You’d have to be mad to even try,” a drow woman said to the elf in front of her. “She’s likely to carve out your heart where you stand if you got too close.”

The elf snorted, puffing out his chest a bit. “I bet I could handle her,” he replied, insufferably cocky to Gortash’s ear. “She wouldn't be so scary once I was–”

Enver had heard enough, he decided. He threw open the door as he stormed into the room; a bit more dramatic than was likely necessary, but it certainly made his presence felt. The cultists’ eyes grew wide with shock as he leveled a fearsome glare at them.

“Y-your holiness!” The elf stammered out as the pair fell to their knees, eyes pointed downwards as his face colored.

“Such reverence,” he replied, the unnervingly calm in his voice not reaching his eyes. “Such respect . Tell me, do you only blaspheme against your God's Chosen in secret, then?”

“N-no, my lord!” The elf replied, head bowed low as he kneeled at Gortash’s feet. Sniveling little worm, he thought; all bravado, and no judgment. Useless.

“Oh, by all means!” He drawled, almost sweetly beneath the venom. The wicked snarl on his face was a challenge as he looked down on the man, wallowing pitifully into the dirt. “Do continue. Tell us how you would show due respect to your leaders. Enlighten us .”

“I… I–” The elf’s eyes darted around the room as he spluttered pathetically, desperately searching the faces of his compatriots for aid. But he found none; all averted their eyes from him, as if his doom might be catching.

Gortash could feel nothing but disgust for the man. He was clearly useless to their cause; he seemed to think himself above his betters, yet showed no spine when challenged on it. He could do nothing but weaken them. Gortash turned his sneer on the drow with him. “Does this man speak for you?”

“No, my lord,” she answered, her voice calm and her eyes cast down as she knelt.

He unsheathed his short sword and threw the blade at her feet, a snarl escaping his lips as he bid her, “prove it.”

The drow gave a curt nod as she lifted the blade. “Yes, my lord.” He watched as the elf’s eyes widened in terror as he looked to his former friend, a silent realization dawning on him. The sword was through his chest before he could make any plea for his worthless life; his only answer a little gasp as the blade was pulled from his chest as harshly as it had been thrust in. The room watched in silence as he collapsed to the floor, a few more pitiful gurgles before the elf quickly succumbed. The only pair of eyes not watching were the drow, still cast down reverentially as she presented Lord Gortash’s sword to him, her charge fulfilled.

He watched her, looking for any sign of weakness; but she showed none. He considered for a moment that he may punish her regardless for her complacency. But no – she showed promise, and he trusted that this would serve as a lesson for all who had watched. He took the sword back without a word, turning his back as he settled it back into the sheath. His gaze swept over the room, eyes still full of fury as he watched the onlookers busying themselves with their work, none of them eager to share the elf’s fate.

Gortash spared them one final displeased grunt as he left the room. “Clean up this mess. Give it to the gnolls, perhaps,” he called behind him as he left the room, letting the door slam behind him.

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

[fionarara]

omg fifi i loved your dissertation on my selfship answers 😭 let’s talk about it!!

Taka having to grow up raising two sisters seems to be a dead giveaway to his ability to be patient!! mana and luna probably had their share of mood swings, pouty episodes, etc. not to mention, boy seems to be pretty familiar with depression and crazy family issues (bc of the shiba’s). i’m the type of person who would constantly give him an “out” because i go through waves of emotion sometimes, but GODDAMMIT Taka is just that type to keep holding your hand, rub your back, help you take a breath… how is one person so fkn composed?! 😭 he’d make your your favorite meal and run you a bath— man does he make little butterflies flap around in my stomach 😵‍💫😩

i also love that you love my tickle headcanon for Shuji. yk this guy being such a hardened delinquent and probably kept everyone at an arms length at all times, imagine his shock when you wiggle your hands into his sides and he jumps like two feet in the air like “what the fuck was that�� and i just… personally i feel like he deserves to laugh and be a giggly goofy guy 🥲

and don’t EVER apologize for saying a lot bc i also have a lot to say about all these fine ass gang members 😌🤭

♡♡♡ EVERYBODY LISTEN UP ! I WANT IT SPREAD FAR AND WIDE ACROSS THIS FANDOM THAT SIN AND PUNISHMENT HAVER AKA HANMA SHUJI IS A CANON TICKLISH BISH (affectionate), little tickly fingers are his achilles heel which he has gone thru great lengths to hide, has spent a considerable amount of time trying to do so—not even kisaki knows—the only person that does know is the one he's dating,,, and whenever you do end up finding out that very first time, he just pounces you, wild and wide-eyed, pinning you to the couch. one playful tatted hand is clamped over your giggly mouth and his other has a tense singular index finger bolted up and out where it's then pointedly directed down at your face, while you're giddy and squirming beneath him, as he gleefully glowers down at you, it's a goofy lil threat, "—but don't you dare tell a fuckin soul ! " and oh mitsuya definitely has the best soft dom game out of the TR-verse, ~aftercare master extraordinaire~ ,,, only closely rivaled by draken's game, buuut tbh that's probably why they were bffs from way back ^_^ u know when they both had mohawks together ? they like gravitated toward each others' energy bc they have v similar nurturing dispositions\tendencies and sensed it in each other like finding your kin in the wild, since YEA they actually both grew up around vulnerable females, taka w his baby sisters, ken in the brothel, but i digress,,,lalala no no, rly, lex u speak big truths about mitsuya's love language: huge ACTS OF SERVICE guy, and when he's done running you a bath he will even brush the tangles out of your damp hair so gently because he is so practiced at it, please he fucking LIVES for that soft labor. . + .

[valaruakars]

I'm so happy you opened up prompts. Don't worry about poor time management; life is too short to fret! Work on your own schedule and do what makes you happy. 😘

Always casually pulls up in your inbox like a Mcdonald's drive-thru.

*taps on mic* Can I get a uhhhh number 35 with perhaps pervy Viktor? 🥴

Uhhhh yeah, pull around 👍

Tags/Warnings: 18+, Viktor x AFAB Reader, unethical student/teacher relationship, masturbation, finger sucking

It’s not weird that you’re waiting for him in his office. Viktor lets you do that sometimes. Sorry, Professor Viktor. He’s generous that way, so that you might work comfortably while you pass the time. Generous in a way you’re not sure he is with anyone else, but perhaps it’s only hubris to presume that you’re special.

It gets a little weird, though, when you have the horrible thought to lock the door behind you. Weirder, when you settle into the fine leather chair at his desk and let your thighs inch wider as the pressure builds and the cling of cotton between your legs feels distinctly wetter. He’s not due out of class for at least twenty more minutes…

You have time.

Time to arrange your latest research results to show him, yes, but first… Time to slip the button of your pants through the eyelet, to shimmy them scantly down your hips. Oh yes, you have plenty of time to touch yourself in his office, just as you’ve fantasized about ever since he first spoke your name and called your work inspired.

Your head tips back against the chair as two of your fingers drag up the sticky seam of you, and it’ll be quick, you think. Scratch that—you know it’ll be quick, because you’re imagining that they’re his when you roll your hips into your hand and slip them inside you. In and out in quick, panting flicks of your wrist, your clit catches the heel of your palm over and over and over. Your teeth bite blunt into your lower lip as you imagine, too, how he might coo for you to be a good girl and keep quiet. Wouldn’t want anyone catching an academy professor with his hand between the legs of a student, now would we?

The sensation, the risk, the deviance—it all sets your nerves alight and you are so close, so quickly. The brink is right there, but, well, so is the sound of a key sliding into a lock.

You scramble to wipe your dirty fingers on the inside of your pants and pull them up properly. They’re not even buttoned all the way and there he is. Early, for fuck’s sake. He’s never early!

His eyes are pretty and wide and a little too searching for comfort when they fall on you, but at least he smiles.

“Hi,” is all you can say with your thick, stupid tongue and something in the way he’s looking at you changes.

His eyes sharpen like he’s running a calculation. You plus a locked door, plus an utterly disheveled appearance equals…

He huffs a quiet laugh as he closes the door behind him. And, wait… Was that the bolt of the lock?

“Good afternoon,” he says, ever casual as he comes closer. To put his things down, of course, why are you panicking? He’s too polite, too sweet to suspect you’ve been so vile, but he’s got that smug spark in his eye. The one he gets when he knows he’s done his math right. “Apologies if I’ve kept you waiting. May I see your hand?”

You nearly choke. “My what?”

“Your hand, please.” And because he’s smart, smarter than you, he specifies: “The dominant one.”

You pray it’s not still wet when you place it in his waiting hand, though that doesn’t really matter in the end. Not when he takes it with that wicked little smile and makes sure you’re watching when he kisses the knuckles that you’d sunk all the way inside yourself. He inhales deeply against your skin, and your heart nearly stops.

“So… You touch yourself to the thought of me?” he asks, his voice low and utterly pleased.

You can’t stop watching, awe-struck and throbbing, when he draws two fingers into the warm, wet clutch of his mouth for a taste. For confirmation, because apparently the way you whispered, “Yes,” wasn’t quite enough.

He’s nothing but thorough, cleaning the lingering salty sweetness off your skin with lewd, slick noises as the color deepens along his cheeks, and a prominent strain in his slacks becomes very noticeable.

He pulls off and cradles your hand close, eyes molten.

“I’d like to see that in action.”

[merge-conflict]

wip wednesday uhhhhhh

tagged by @streetkid-named-desire 🙏

workin' on:

adjusting to new work schedule without going insane

listening to schism on repeat until it stops making me feel things

finishing phantom liberty (things are going to go so bad I can feel it. reed and valentine are two birds of a feather. a songbird in hand is worth more than bush– ok idk where I was going with this. why is everyone in this dlc so hot. the edible hit just as lizzy wizzy was doing her thing I was absolutely 👁️👁️ zonked)

[outline] ffor - kerry vs manager death match meeting ft. valentine being the kind of incorrigible and professionally unpleasant asshole you want on your side in an argument –> well-crafted excuse to have johnny watch kerry and go through the confusing mess of jealousy, lust, possessiveness, smug superiority and affection from behind a screen where he can't pitch a fit or ruin everyone's day by being snide or making himself the new center of attention. lol

[draft] ch. 12 of the damn things overlap – putting johnny failover thru some horrors because it's fun ¯_(ツ)_/¯

Featuring my notes from PL on characters (going thru one of my adhd note-taking phases), not intentionally incomprehensible but uhhh gotta write fast while they're still talking:

And a snippet of Johnny definitely not Going Thru It (it's his body unless it's a fear response, then it's V's weird hormones or something idk):

The answering burst of distorted laughter sent adrenaline screaming up the inside of Johnny’s lungs. Half a century later and Smasher was less human than ever: a ghoulish half-skinned skull bolted onto a brutal metal frame and armored with enough heavy plating enough to make the float shift when he did. He towered over Oda, shoulders hunched so the launcher perched on his shoulder didn’t scrape the ceiling. Behind him was the smoking ruin of the hole he’d blown open, the unsettled dust and debris making his red eyes glow like hellfire. Arasaka’s oldest rabid dog. Something about the angle he was leering down at him made Johnny feel like he was standing in and out of a dream, unarmed and paralyzed while his mind tried to catch up with V’s hammering heart. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his arm ached bone-deep, numbness flickering up and down from his elbow to his fingertips. The air stank of charred flesh and scorched metal, like saltwater and bloated decay. He reached again for V, but she was gone and he was alone. No V, no Hand, just him. “Too stupid to stay dead,” Smasher spat, leaning over Oda in a way that made the man instinctively tense, grip tightening painfully. “That really you, Johnny-boy?” Time finally snapped back into focus, adrenaline reaching his smoldering gray matter, and Johnny felt his mouth twisting into a grin– V still haunting her own nervous system, dark laughter bubbling up out of terror like tar. “In the flesh, so to speak. More than I can say for you, you ugly bastard.”

it's missing something, but I won't know what until I take Johnny for more of a spin for the rest of the chapter...however it doesn't stop me from wanting to pick at it.

tagging @wanderingaldecaldo, @fly-amanitaa, @corpocyborg, @vox-monstera (no pressure!!! :3)

[cosmiccannibalcamille]

YOUR 2024 August Horoscope

     August 2024 is one helluva cosmic rollercoaster. One of those roller coasters that you find at a fly-by-night carnival, and wonder to yourself “did they install this correctly? Are ALL the nuts and bolts in place?” This is actually the same type of question you’ll likely have for yourself as you move through August.

     Because Mercury does station retrograde. On the Leo New Moon, (which as a Leo Rising, pisses me off MAJORLY). Then, we have Venus changing signs twice, and some tricky, potentially sticky-but-hopefully-not-too-incendiary interactions between Mars, Jupiter and Saturn, followed by a really WILD CARD Aquarius Full Moon. By the time the Sun enters Virgo, though, things begin to cool off and de-crunch. Sorta. 

     If all of that sounded like a bunch of mumbo jumbo, fret not! In layman's terms, it means that for the majority of the month, technology, communications and your Insta feed are going to get a little wonky. Mercury retrograde is the reason you lose your keys, misplace your documents, have to buy a new phone because your other one just suddenly stopped working, can’t download/upload that file, and much, MUCH more.

     So, yes: August is essentially filled with the aforementioned tech glitches and communication mishaps—because Mercury is retrograde Aug. 4 thru Aug. 28—but it’s also a great month to slow the f*ck down. Not just because of Mercury Retrograde. Yes, Mercury Retrograde encourages you to slow down, to assess and review, but also forthcoming squares from Mars & Jupiter (in Gemini) to Saturn in Pisces are going to FORCE you to slow down. They are metaphorical red lights. They are also days of friction, tension, and restless indecisiveness. 

     When the planets of action, confidence, and expansion (Mars and Jupiter, respectively) butt heads with the planet of limits and restrictions (Saturn), your forward motion is stalled. It’s like trying to drive with the emergency brake on. You can move, but accelerating is a challenge. This happens on Aug. 15 & Aug. 17. Before that, Mars & Jupiter collide in Gemini on Aug. 14, and it’s like full-blow traveling circus energy. Jamboree, free-for-all, fuck it and find out. (except you don't WANT to say "fuck it and find out!")

[moltengoldveins]

Alright, so writing sci-fi is a strange combination of wonderful and horrible. On the one hand, I know a lot of science and I’m decent at physics-based mathematics. I can grasp stuff quick and I don’t tend to write stuff that’s blatantly unscientific unless I decide to for the sake of vibes.  On the other hand….. ya girl has to put so much more effort into her work than she would if her perfectionist tendencies would let her handwave crap for the plot, so here’s a list of fun science stuff I’m fielding as ideas for Only We Will Remain- 

while space combat itself is absolutely nothing like the ww2 dogfights most sci fi bases them off of (no air resistance, no reason for individual fighters, scanners that can see enemies coming from literal lightyears, etc), NEBULA combat, as far as I can tell, should be a bit more familiar. Atmospheric or low-atmospheric conditions, mid-to-low visibility, interference with long distance scanners, and reason for individual fighters and pilots as opposed to capital ships whaling on each other. All I need is an excuse for the vast majority of hyperspace stops/populated areas to be around nebulae, say, oh…… hyperspace fuel is only found in nebulae? And I’m golden.

Warp jumps being as fast as they are in Star Wars or Star Trek feels unrealistic, even for a piece of technobabble. I don’t see why they wouldn’t be Significantly more complicated and require extended startup time. This allows for ambushes, captures, and, most importantly, piracy.

Pirates boarding a ship from the airlock? Idiotic and dangerous: they’d be dead in seconds, that’s a bottleneck the crew already knows about. The knife boarding ships from clone wars for the droids that punch at random thru the hull and deposit a group of fighters? Literally incredible, you just need something that’ll block the atmosphere from escaping. 

My main problem with sentient AI is the lack of a source for a soul. No I don’t know where or when exactly the human soul comes from or how it’s formed, I follow the Bible on principle but it doesn’t give details. So I’m left with a dilemma: AI are really frikken cool, I just don’t think I can justify their existence. BUT. I know that ensouled people come from other ensouled people because Babies Exist And Become People, and I know that if a human clone were to be made, I’m almost certain that they’d ALSO have a soul (tbh clone wars prevents me from having any other opinion) so, I think I could excuse a sentient AI if it were somehow, like, the clone or child of a person. With that thought, all sentient AI start as non-sentient AI implants in sentients’ brains and develop a separate soul at some point due to their connection to the person. No, nobody knows how this works. No, nobody is sure what exactly constitutes a ‘souled’ AI as opposed to an empty one. But I can’t conceive of a computer developing one spontaneously for no reason, so this is the next best thing. 

Literally why would you carry guns or blasters that could puncture metal in space that’s so dumb. I’m using blasters with electrical or plasma bolts that damage biological materials and disperse on denser materials because holy crap you can’t miss even one shot. What if a bullet goes through someone? You’re all cooked.