#for real about to break my no ao3 streak

[jerek]

-pops open my dbxv2 locket- le Fu i'm afraid i've been thinking.

[joeloverture]

snowbound | dbf!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | updates blog | ao3 mirror pairing: dbf!joel miller x f!reader summary: [no outbreak] joel is the only guy you know with four wheel drive in the rarely-snowy state of texas, so it seems like a no-brainer to have him pick you up from work — until his truck breaks down, leaving you two to the classic 'huddle for warmth' solution. warnings: (18+ mdni) dbf!joel, age gap (assumed 20s/40s), reader borrows joel's coat, but does not wear it and uses it as a blanket, self-indulgent humor & banter, joel has sarah and she's a 15y/o menace which means liberties are taken with the timeline, blink & miss it drug mention, close proximity, unprotected piv sex, vaginal fingering, (mocking) dirty talk & dirty talk alluding to anal but no actual anal, daddy kink, degradation, dom!joel, brat!reader, brat tamer!joel, mild bondage (with a scarf), rearview mirror sex, clit stim, riding, doggy, a few pussy spanks, 2 spanks, truck sex, sort of edging, getting caught after the act [no use of y/n] word count: 12.3k a/n: this fic was a labor of love from a request i received earlier this month. i didn't expect it to be this long but i really enjoyed these two! massive massive massive shoutout to talia, @lovesickonmybed, for putting up with me + advising. this fic was way too much to handle on my own. they're the reason i pulled it off. joel is latino here, but i think game!joel can be interpreted as latino too, so read who you'd like.

“Looking ahead for our chances at wintry precipitation tonight – measurable snow, freezing rain, or sleet. It’s hard to get snow here in central Texas – if only, huh? We’re seeing some strong flurries tonight, turning into snow showers in the early morning. Low chances of any significant build up, but you can expect hazardous driving conditions. Black ice and low visibility will make extensive travel dangerous–”

The radio in Keith’s Hardware is old fashioned, curving around the volume and tuning knobs. It’s one of the ones that still has a dial pointer, which is almost always aimed at 92.7 if Keith’s in the back (country); 96.7 (pop) if it’s just you and the only other girl that works in the carpenter’s wet dream of a store. Right now, though, it’s neither of those stations. The pointer is at 162.4, the weather station.

You’d known you were in for it on the drive into work. Watch the weather and it’s real nasty out there airing from your parents lips on your way out of the house for your eight hour shift. The drive had been a gunmetal sort of gray, clouds streaked through the sky and spitting bullets of sleet at your windshield.

For a little bit, the weather had almost cleared up. You’d sworn you’d seen a splotch of sun when you’d tried to step out for break, just to be driven back in by your too-thin jacket and the cold as balls temperature.

Now, though? It’s fucking freezing, and the flurries that the weatherman mentioned are starting to fall. And as much as you’d told Keith that your shitty two-wheel-drive couldn’t handle it, he’d insisted on scheduling you and Liz for close.

Which is where Mr. Miller comes in.

Joel Miller, your dad’s buddy. Joel Miller, the grumpiest secret-softie you’ve ever met. Joel Miller, a knight in shining armor with his 4x4 Ford F150 instead of a horse. Although, if your fantasies are correct – and you like to think they are – what’s between his thighs certainly makes up for the lack of a horse. But he isn’t bringing you for a ride on his cock. He just so happens to be the only man your dad knows with a four wheel drive vehicle, or at least the only one willing to spare you from spinning out by giving you a ride home. Just thinking about it has a knot pinching in the back of your throat. His hands, big and wide and stretching over the gear shift. One muscled arm dangling over the wheel. Looking over his goddamn shoulder to back out —

Liz hops up on the check-out counter where you’re counting up the last of the cash, a spread of Hamiltons, Grants, and Jacksons. You wouldn’t expect a girl like her to work at a hardware store, especially one in the backstreets of the seedy part of town. Some sort of family emergency had driven her back to Austin from NYU design school, which you’re thankful for. Mainly because you get out of cutting wood panels since she has the better eye for measurements, but also because after years of sulking in Keith’s, you finally have someone to talk shit with.

“Those heart eyes aren’t for fuckin’ Alexander Hamilton,” Liz says, tapping her acrylics on your ledger to get your attention. You cough, flipping her off with your pen still in-hand. Liz hums, pretending to think about it as you put down the last numbers. “Although I wouldn’t be too surprised. You do love a geriatric man.”

“Joel isn’t that old,” you scoff, arranging the bills into slim white envelopes and then licking them shut. “He’s just an… acquired taste.”

“Sure, his jizz probably tastes like prohibition-era booze–”

“What the fuck,” you wheeze, hands going out to brace yourself on the closest display case. Your head dips as your chest shakes with laughter.

Liz stays completely straight-faced as she continues, “You’ll have to have 911 on speed dial because if you clench, his heart’s giving out.”

“It is not,” you say, voice still strained with the laughs that won’t stop punching out of you.

She puts her hands up in defense and crosses her legs at the ankles. “Hey, it’s not my fault you like playing whac-a-mole with Great Depression dick.”

“Liz!” You playfully shove her off of the counter, thrusting the envelopes into her hands. “You’re nasty. Fucking nasty.”

She splays a wounded hand over her heart, fanning herself with the envelopes. “You know you love me.” She slips into the office behind the register. You hear the click of the safe before she calls over her shoulder, “Any particular reason you’re fantasizing on the clock?”

“Not fantasizing,” you refute. Liz pops out of the back with a uncertain look scrawled on her face. “My dad talked him into picking me up today so I don’t drive into a snowbank.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a shitty porno.”

“Don’t give me hope.”

“I’m just saying,” she grins. “You can still come to mine. Only a five minute walk with zero chance of rejection.”

“You have such little faith in me.”

She purses her lips. “Mkay…. Pro-tip: Keith probably has some Viagra sitting around in his desk drawers.”

“Liiiiiiiz,” you say. You’re about to tune her out completely when familiar headlights light up the wet asphalt, beaming through the windows. The engine idles, a soft rumble through the linoleum floors. The truck lights dim, leaving Joel in the buttery shine of the streetlamp. His thick arms stretch across the wheel, and he rakes one large hand through his hair. “Shit, speak of the Devil.” You clip off your nametag, tossing it into your half-open bag. “Can you finish closing tonight? I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“No problem, no favors necessary.” She closes the register. You fumble to get your bag over your shoulder, not wanting to keep Joel waiting. “Use protection!” she calls after you, and you make sure to flip her off one more time as the door clangs shut behind you.

A wall of cold hits you like a blade of lightning. Wind unfurls, mauling telephone lines and frosted treetops, rippling your jacket. Not even the worn scarf around your neck seems to be doing its job. Suddenly, every one of your limbs feels like an icicle. Joints almost freezing up, you half-jog, half-penguin strut your way to Joel’s passenger side. You wipe the ice off of the door handle with your sleeve. A few stray flurries dust you as you tug the door open, exhaling in relief as you haul yourself onto the side steps and into the toasty warmth of the Ford F150.

You cozy up in the seat, too preoccupied by thawing your hands with long, winded breaths to notice the affronted look Joel is throwing your way. “Are you tryin’ to catch your fuckin’ death, girl?”

“No death to catch. It’s not that cold.” The way you’re shivering says otherwise. Joel pins you with the raise of his brow.

Before you know what he’s doing, he’s groaning as he reaches over the center console into the backseat. You see a flash of his trucker jacket before it lands in your lap, flannel-lined and heavy. You use it like a blanket, draping it across your torso and wrestling your hands into the inside pockets. The canvas smells like car exhaust and off-brand Dollar General deodorant, two things that are so inextricably Joel. As much as you hate to admit it, the warmth is already inking its way across your skin – or maybe it’s just being next to Joel that’s heating you up. “Thanks,” you grumble.

When you adjust in your seat, the inside of your foot catches an empty Dr. Pepper can on the floor. It rattles when you accidentally kick it forward. You lean down and pick it up, going to place it down in the cupholder, only to find it overpopulated with random Home Depot and Whataburger receipts.

“Tax deductions,” he shrugs. “Gotta eat on the job.”

“And a…” You pick up the receipt and squint at the faded typography. “$3.29 strawberry milkshake is part of that, I figure?”

Joel grunts, “Tommy’s order.”

You smirk. “Sure it is.”

“Quit shit stirrin’ and put on your fuckin’ seatbelt.”

You reach back, fingers snagging it and tugging it down. Groping for the belt between the seats and the center console, it goes on for at least five seconds too long before Joel grabs the buckle and shoves it into the slot. His fingers brush your thigh as he pulls away from you and settles his foot over the gas pedal. The singular touch shouldn’t make butterflies beat at the walls of your stomach, but it does. Everything about him does.

Now that you’re all settled in, everything about him is also settling in. The fact that he’s only wearing a tight-fitting white t-shirt now that his coat is off. His sleeves are constricting enough that his muscles bulge below the strip of fabric. Ample scruff dapples his jawline, and his hair is disheveled in the way that you’ve learned you like it. You trail your eyes down his body, his tummy, across the undone drawstrings of his dark gray sweatpants, and no, you move on quickly from there, because you refuse to get riled up in the passenger seat.

He’s slowly peeling out of Keith’s parking lot, arm thrown over the back of your seat. You’re starting to fail at your mission of not getting riled up when you see the flex of his bicep, the way his eyes meet yours as he turns to look through the back window. He turns out of the parking lot and onto the relatively barren, icy streets–

“What the hell are those?”

Joel side-eyes you, brows furrowed. He follows the line of your gaze to his feet, which you’re used to seeing in New Balances or steel-toed work boots, but are instead wearing… fur-lined crocs.

“These here? Yeah, got ‘em recently, good for my days off with all this nippy weather. Sarah told me they’re ‘all the rage’ with the youth–”

You can’t help it. You damn near double over with laughter, clutching at your stomach. Joel’s coat nearly slides off of you, but you hang onto it with your pinkie finger, quickly going dizzy from lack of air. “‘All the rage’? Oh my fucking God– Joel, she was pulling your leg. Those are fucking hideous.”

“Hey, now–” He sighs, pinching his nose bridge with the hand that isn’t dangling over the wheel. “Zip it, I don’t needa justify my shoe choices to ya.”

“Does she do anything other than give you shit these days?”

“You’re one to talk about givin’ shit, y’know,” Joel says. Unfailingly, he smiles. The smile that pulls at the edges of his lips. The smile that he only ever gets when talking about Sarah. It doesn’t matter where – loading up his plate with barbecue, your dad asking him while he’s picking up junk mail in the morning, or on the job. If someone asks him about his daughter, Joel fucking beams.

He sucks on his teeth for a second, and then, “She’s picked up soccer. Goalkeeper. Damn good at it, too, all them other kids on her team can’t match her collapse dive.”

“Of course they can’t,” you say. “She’s got better reflexes than a house fly.”

Joel hunches over the wheel, effectively ending the conversation as he concentrates on the road. The only noise is the rumbling engine and the wagging of the windshield wipers as he attempts to navigate the black ice polka-dotted roads. It shouldn’t be as arousing as it is, seeing him in such a state of focus, his thighs tensed as he manipulates the gas and brakes to stop early, start slow. His arms thickening when he makes a right turn. Thumbs drumming drumming drumming on the wheel and maybe they’d do the same between your legs—

“So how’s work?” you blurt out.

Joel mumbles something that you can’t quite make out.

“Huh?”

“Fuckin’ ‘big shot’ gringos up my ass all day. Goddamn shitshow.” He shakes his head, his lips thinned. “I tell ‘em terraforming is gonna make it look like a Flinstone-owned-and-operated putt-putt course. They say do it anyway. I tell ‘em that orderin’ custom windows is gonna put us months behind. They say do it anyway, then come up jibber-jabberin’ all ‘bout how long it’s takin’. And it’s fuckin’... window madness, not one window in that hellhole matches another. Ain’t had so much trouble buildin’ a house since Sarah had me build her one from Hobby Lobby when she was little. Their architect musta been doin’ lines.”

You think you’ve seen Sarah’s dollhouse before when visiting, just in passing when the guest bedroom door was left open a smidge. You remember stalling in the hallway to look at it, with a fleece of dust growing on the tediously placed shingles and the oakwood front door left open like it’d been waiting for someone to come home. But Sarah outgrew it, and although Joel would never admit it, you know he’s too sentimental to leave it on the curb.

“How bad can building a dollhouse from a kit be?”

“With a five year old yellin’ like a drill sergeant in your ear? Worse than you think. She even made me rig the damn thing with electric so she could have her pink chandelier.”

You pout at him, “Wah wah, I’ll bet you loved it.”

“Was a nuisance at the time. But, uh, she was fiddlin’ with some ‘a the dolls I’d gotten her. Don’t think she knew I was watchin’, had gone to put ‘er to bed ‘cause it was a school night. She was readin’ this book I always read to her. Something about… a stuffed bear with a missin’ button and a girl that was tryna to buy him. I don’t fuckin’ know–” “Corduroy?”

“Yeah, that. Anyway, she was reading, usin’ the same tone I always used with her, tucked her dolls in for the night, and switched off the lights. I don’t think I loved it until then.” There’s a glistening in his eyes at the memory.

You smirk, “Sentimental bastard–”

The truck slides. Or maybe it coasts, skimming across the thin film of black ice. Joel eases down on the brakes, hauling to a stop next to a Minivan with its warning lights on. It’s a long stretch, and you can’t even see all the way down the highway with how thick the snow is. No two snowflakes are the same, but you find it difficult to believe when you’re looking at what must be millions of them. They pirouette, landing on window panes, rooftops, and wind-agonized tree branches. Everything is blotted with white. Red warning lights glare on the ice back at you.

“Shiiit,” Joel says as he squints at the road ahead of him. He scratches at his scruff.

“Tell me you’re not going to drive through that shit.”

“I’m not,” he says.

“Then how the fuck are we getting home?”

“Chill it–” “That’s the last thing I need to do,” you huff.

“I’m takin’ the detour.”

With that, he jerks the wheel — a bit too recklessly considering the weather, in your opinion – and pulls off onto a slippery backroad. The snow seems to have clung to the trees more back here, a sort of incandescent saran wrap over the oaks. At a bend in the road, icicles hang from a yellow sign that says CURVE 30 MPH. Joel takes it at ten.

You’re not checking out his hands while he drives, no, of course not. You’re looking at the gazillion lights on his dashboard display. “You usually have that many lights on?”

“Ain’t your truck, ain’t your business.”

“I’m ridin’ in it, ain’t I?” you mock his accent. 

Joel sighs heavily. “Drivin’ me up the fuckin’ wall.” His hands clench briefly around the wheel. “Auto repair shop’s been price gouging, I’m tryin’ to get Tommy to hook me up with his buddy in San Anton–”

“Won’t be able to drive to San Antonio if your bumper falls off halfway there.”

Joel’s voice is dry as bone. “Ha ha. You get off on bein’ a smartass?”

It’s three words – that’s all it is. Just a throwaway phrase that he probably doesn’t even realize he said. If it were anything more, you’d know. But Joel, saying those words in that order? Damn him, because it turns your blood effervescent. You stop yourself from rubbing your thighs together underneath his coat. You’re about to make another quip that’ll not only distract you, but also surely drive Joel up the wall, one of your favorite activities.

His truck putters from ten miles per hour to eight.

Eight to six.

Six to four.

“Motherfuckin’.... shit,” Joel says again, this time much more urgent as he wrests the wheel to the side. The truck skims over the frosted roads and onto the shoulder, rolls for two seconds, and then falls to a complete, utter stop. The windshield wipers pause while they’re still up. Heat no longer spits out of the dusty air vents.

It’s the loudest silence you’ve ever been in.

“...So do you get off on letting your truck break down or–”

Joel sighs in the way that dogs do. “Thin ice, missy.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and pulls out his phone. “I’ll give Tommy a call.” He stares at the screen for ten seconds. Taps it. Shakes it.

“No service?” you ask.

“No service.”

“Let me try mine,” you mumble, shifting in the car seat. Sure enough, zero bars. Even though you know it won’t work, you press your dad’s contact. It goes straight to voicemail. “Well, shit.”

“Shit,” Joel echoes.

It’s unspoken, but you both know the harsh reality of this harsh wintry night: no phone service, no operational truck, and… no heater.

“Hang tight,” Joel says, reaching over the center console and hijacking his coat from your lap. He wrestles his arms through the sleeves and zips it up. He shoves the door open against the hoarse wind that keeps the trees at a slant, hops out, then slams it shut hard enough for the vehicle to rock. From how hard the wind was blowing, stray flurries dust the truck’s interior.

You can’t really see what he’s doing – the snow’s too heavy, the hood popped wide open for him to investigate the truck’s viscera. You run your hands up and down your thighs, already feeling cold. Without the heater, it won’t be much longer before you turn to an icicle in the passenger seat. The hood bangs back down.

Joel climbs in from the backseat, slams the door as hard as humanly possible, and then scoots to the middle seat. 

You crane your neck to see him as he shakes out his cold-reddened hands before puffing air into his cupped palms. “What’s wrong with it?” You ask. 

He lets out a frigid breath. “Don’t fuckin’ know, snowin’ too damn hard to tell.”

“Ten bucks it was one of the lights on your dash,” you say.

Joel glares at you, still huffing into his hands. His fingertips are bright red to match his ruddy cheeks. Snow is sprinkled through his hair like soot, quickly melting to beads of water on his windblown curls.

“Got some… hand warmers up in that glovebox. Grab the whole pack.”

You lean forward, kneeing it open and rifling through all of his shit. Insurance papers, more receipts, Miller Contracting business cards, a folded pocket knife, lens wipes, and –

“When’s the last time these saw daylight?” you huff out a laugh as you hold up a battered box of condoms. 

Turns out, snow isn’t the thing that makes Joel Miller redder than a tomato. It’s the fifteen year old, very expired condoms hiding in his glovebox.

He clears his throat and averts his eyes. “Jesus. Forgot those were in there.”

You shake the box around and pluck a condom out of it. Looking for the expiration date, you turn it over and over in your hand. “August 31st, 2004. Really that long since you got some, Miller?”

“Put ‘em back,” he grumbles. “Pain in my ass.”

You snicker, replacing the condom box with the box of hand warmers. They’re unopened, still sealed. You snatch Joel’s keys out of the ignition and swipe them across the tape. “Happy?” you toss them over your shoulder.

“No.” He tears open the pack and rubs his hands together around the warmer, sighing when it begins to heat.

“Dick,” you grumble.

More tearing. “Brat.” Another warmer lands in your lap.

“Oughta get comfortable. We’re gonna be here a while,” Joel says.

“And whose fault is that?” You ask as you weigh the warmer in your palms. The front seat already feels cramped, and you’re quick to unbuckle your seatbelt. Your legs and arms fold like pretzels as you climb into the backseat. The curse that leaves you when you hit your head on the roof has Joel rolling his eyes.

“Pipe down. First thing in the mornin’ I’ll make the walk out to that country club a mile out and use their phone. Just gotta ride out the night. You ain’t ever roughed it before?”

You fall on all fours on the backseat, finally pulling yourself upright next to him. “Never had a reason to. Like, what if I have to piss? What if I get hungry?”

Joel shrugs. “Tough.”

The cold is starting to settle into your bones. Even your tongue feels popsicle numb, and your fingers are stiff where they wrap around the warmer. It’s like you’ve been trapped in a snowglobe and shaken up by a handsy toddler with how the wind rattles the truck and the snow swishes outside. You suppress a shiver, leaning against the door. Condensation is already building on the windows. Absent-mindedly, you begin to trace a portrait of Joel in the moisture. Your fingertip squeaks against the glass. Your masterpiece wouldn’t be complete without his signature scowl, so you’re sure to paint a frown on his face and his forehead wrinkles on thick.

“Didn’t know you were an artist,” Joel comments from the opposite side of the back. “Looks nothin’ like me, by the way.”

You smirk, “But you knew it was you.”

Because there’s nothing better to do than burn time, you spend the next ten minutes filling up the window with whatever nonsense doodles come to mind — hearts, stars, trees, and of course, the only one that Joel seems to be fond of: Sarah, smiling and curly-haired.

Reality only settles in when you’re done with the ephemeral illustrations, their outlines starting to dissolve back to regular droplets that streak down the windows. You’re stuck, for God knows how long, on this shady backroad that the Zodiac Killer would’ve loved during his heyday. With your dad’s best friend that you’ve been harboring a dangerous crush on.

And it’d be impossible to forget that it’s freezing fucking balls.

“Joel?” you say into the dark truck.

“Hm?”

Always one to speak your mind, you say, “It’s freezing fucking balls.”

A sound that might be a laugh leaves him. “Here,” Joel says, unzipping his jacket. He tosses it over to you, and you snuggle back up with it, nose burrowing into one of the creases in the fabric. His coat smells like him – like cheap body wash, chewing gum, and gasoline. 

You try putting your hands in the pockets, even going as far as to open up a new hand warmer for each one, but they’re full of loose change and, expectedly, more receipts. When you curl up against the corner between the door and the seat, the hard plastic bites into your oversensitive back. Sitting upright or cross-legged doesn’t work, and when you test drive sitting diagonally with your feet propped up on the console, Joel makes a disproving noise and swats gently at your shin. You prop your forehead up against the window, but it’s cold enough to give you a brain freeze. 

“Jesus Christ,” Joel snorts. “Get over ‘ere, you wuss.” He hauls you over, big hand splayed over your waist, and drags you across the bench to his side. You yelp in surprise, but only for a second before you’re crushed against Joel’s side. “Can’t have ya gettin’ hypothermia,” he jests.

You don’t know where to put your hands, but eventually, you settle on cupping his neck. Touching Joel, hell, even just being near him, is like being by an open furnace. Or maybe the heat is just your stomach doing somersaults at being this close to Joel after years of frivolous pining. His nape emanates warmth, the kind that flows down your arms and wraps comfortingly around your chest.

Joel exhales, the tendrils of his breath curling from the frigidity. He grabs his coat from the side and flattens it over the both of you, a piss poor replacement for a blanket, but all you’ve got.

Still, cold seeps in through the cracks in the doors, spoiling whatever lukewarm air remains. It doesn’t help that Joel had hopped in and out of the truck to play eye spy under the hood. The truck struggles to hold onto heat properly, especially when it isn’t producing more of it.

Joel sort of… flickers against your back. You think nothing of it until it happens again, this time in short bursts, and then turns into full on shivering.

“Who’s the wuss now, old man?”

Joel tenses up behind you. “Funny,” he says. With your hands cushioned against his neck, you feel the grate of his voice in his throat. “This is the best you’re gonna get unless you wanna be butt ass naked to share heat.”

It should be a joke. But the way he says it… doesn’t sound like a joke.

You go still, lifeless, not even sure if you’re shaking anymore. Because now, the only thought in your head is being pressed against Joel, his soft cock hardening against you, his palms splayed and rubbing over your stomach to keep you warm. And if his cock needed to get somewhere warmer, too…. Your clit twitches at the thought.

You smother the initial shock in your voice with your usual solution: sass. “So what, we’re gonna fuckin’ huddle for warmth?”

As much as you enjoy the idea, you're already dripping — and that’s just from your body being pressed against his, breathing the same air as him, closer now than you’ve ever been before. With no panties in the way, it’s not a stretch to say you’d be dripping down his thighs. You’d hate to have that conversation.

“Would you rather freeze to death?” Joel asks. You look up at him from where you’re curled into his side and find no gleam in his eyes. This isn’t just some knee-slapper for him. Joel Miller is being completely, irreversibly serious.

“I’d rather something less like Naked and Afraid, Joel!”

“It works,” he says, nose flaring. “They do it in those fuckin’... action movies all ‘a the time.”

“I didn’t know Hollywood was writing survival manuals for pervs–”

“God, you’re a piece ‘a work, ya know that?” His eyes flick down to you, and maybe it’s just the fact that this road is damn near pitch black, but his pupils seem larger than before. “Listen, I ain’t tryna perv on ya. I also ain’t tryna send you back to your old man with four fingers missin’ from frostbite.”

There’s no way you’re actually seriously considering this. You’ve heard of cold temperatures impairing thinking, but not like this. Your dad’ll go chasing after Joel with a pitchfork and a shovel if he finds out the man who was supposed to get you home safe and sound was cuddling naked with you. Cuddling naked with you in the backseat, no less. You’re certain Joel won’t try anything – he’s not like that. No matter how flustered you get in his lap, he’d never take advantage of you. What you aren’t certain of is your ability to stop yourself from asking him t0 take advantage of you.

This is practical. It’s only supposed to be practical. He wouldn’t be suggesting something this drastic if you both weren’t shaking like a rattlesnake’s rattler.

“Fine,” you say, already unwinding your scarf from around your neck. Determined to keep some semblance of boundaries up, you add, “No peeping, Miller.”

Joel makes an exasperated sound as you once again scoot out from his coat and across the bench, working yourself out of your shoes, your cotton zip-up, and then the stiff Keith’s uniform – a blue polo and jeans. Joel’s eyes are respectfully trained on the truck’s floor mats, which you’re only just now noticing has a sun-bleached Lisa Frank sticker tacked onto it. 

Down to your bra and panties, your heart rate picks up. Your fingers are so fucking cold that it’s hard to get your bra straps out of the way so you can unclasp the damned thing, and then it falls to the floor. Your nipples harden in the face of the cold. The only thing you keep is your scarf, which do you do your best to cover your tits with. Scooping up your discarded clothes and tossing them to the front seat, you let out a shaky breath.

Fuck it.

You shimmy out of your panties and get rid of them just as quickly. When you try telling Joel you’re decent, or rather indecent, nothing comes out. Instead, you have to clear your throat with a strained,  “All good.”

“Alright,” Joel says, rustling around. You hear his crocs scrape against the mat, and then his shirt swishing over his head.

He doesn’t tell you to look away, but since it’s implied, you look out of the window. The snowy trees tremble in the wind, and you almost wince when you see a small sliver of his tanned skin reflected in the glass. His crocs clunk on the ground when he kicks them off, and you watch his criminally tight t-shirt go flying over the passenger seat. You casually grip the Jesus handle, hoping that Joel doesn’t notice your fist tightening around it when you hear him untying the drawstrings of his sweatpants. When his sweats and boxers follow the path of his shirt, breathing gets a lot harder than you remember it being.

Just an hour ago, you’d been certain that this would be nothing more than a ten minute drive. Maybe, if you were lucky, he’d call you a casual pet name that would fuel the wriggling of your hand between your thighs that night. 

The tension in the air is thicker than molasses. Each breath you take is fragile.

“I’m ready when you are,” Joel says.

Since you’re already half-naked, and since chickening out is out of the question, you inch over to Joel’s side. The air tumbles out of your lungs in one fell swoop when your bicep meets his. With some fidgeting, you bring your legs up at an angle beneath you, wrapping around his side in a way that has you feeling a little bit like a koala. You talk yourself into keeping your eyes forward and then scrub your palms across your freezing arms.

Joel, more indifferent than you think anyone else in this situation could be, abruptly casts his coat back over the both of you.

And, fuck him, he’d been right. The engulfing canvas of his coat keeps warmth trapped where it can be passed easily between the two of you. Or maybe it’s just being confined and skin-to-skin with Joel that has you heating up.

The silence is cruel – it’s much harder to make conversation about work or dollhouses or whatever the hell else when you’re naked. Only the wind’s sibilance keeps you company.

You can get used to this, you think. Drift off into a somewhat sound sleep with your head on Joel’s shoulder and hope that you don’t drool all over him or moan his name in your sleep. More embarrassing things have happened to you.

But then, as if you’re the unluckiest person alive, the temperature drops even more, and suddenly, you’re shaking like a leaf all over again. Your teeth almost clack together as you try to stammer out to Joel, “C–cold, Jesus fucking… Christ that’s cold.”

Joel pouts down at you, but you don’t miss the way his lip quivers. “Should I call the wambulance?”

“Should I call the r–r–r–retirement home to pi…pick up a ru–runaway resident?” It sounded a lot better in your head than bouncing off of your frozen tongue, you have to admit.

“Drama queen,” Joel mutters into your ear. “Can’t do anythin’ more about it. Sorry–”

“Can I sit on your lap?” you blurt out so quickly that you don’t even have time to think about it. You grimace, partially covering your face with your hands. Shit.

Joel’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

You’re already half doomed. Why not go all the way? “Listen, it’s just fucking… fucking freezing, Joel. Holy shit.”

“That bad?” he chokes out.

“You’d be warmer than the seats,” you defend. “I’ll be careful, I promise. Best behavior.”

Joel seems to ponder it for a moment, brows stitched together while he looks down at you from where you’re furled up against his side. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek before giving you a slight nod. “Alright.” You nod in return, heart in your throat. “–But you better mean it when you say best behavior. Can’t have any ‘a this shit gettin’ back to your dad.”

Another nod. You hold your breath as you shinny your way onto Joel’s lap, mounting him from the front so his chest hits your back. In your attempt to get comfortable, you bracket your legs around his. His soft cock fits at the small of your back, and even though he’s as flaccid as can be, he’s big. Apparently your imagination isn’t too far off. Joel’s sharp intake of breath forms a pit in your stomach, and you know when you’re warming up for an entirely different reason than close proximity, you also know that you need to calm yourself down. Fast.

Think of something awful. Like that time that you had to dissect cow eyes in sophomore year biology. Think about mold. How many murderers you’ll walk by in your lifetime. Expired leftovers. Anything–

You adjust yourself in an attempt to get away from Joel’s cock. Instead, your hips move just so his cock slips between your thighs and bobs against your slit.

You whine.

Your body immediately locks up once you realize what you’ve done. Crawling out of the truck to die a hypothermia-induced death seems like a much kinder fate than facing Joel, but no matter how much you scream at yourself to reach out and unlock the door, your hands refuse to move. You hadn’t noticed how wet you’d gotten, and you have no idea how. It’s smeared across your thighs, and now pressed up against your back after Joel’s dick had dragged through it all.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit–

Chancing a look over your shoulder, you’re surprised to find the tips of Joel’s ears flushed, cheeks cherry ripe. His Adam’s apple bobs when you meet his eyes. Holy fuck.

You’ve flustered him.

For some reason, the thought makes your chest a lot lighter. You look away nonetheless, but this time, with a newfound gleam in your eye. There’s no such thing as a bad accident, right?

Maybe Liz was right about having to call 911, because when you ‘accidentally’ repeat the movement, Joel stops breathing all together. His cock, almost hard now, you’ve noticed, bumps against your clit. You almost swallow your tongue trying to keep your moan down.

“The fuck you think you’re doin’?” he asks, his gruff voice scratching at your ears.

“I didn’t mean to,” you lie straight through your teeth, a smug little grin spreading on your face. Something about his semi-hard cock between your bodies tells you he’s going to say no to your next suggestion. “Maybe you should put the coat between us, instea–”

“Are you outta your fuckin’ mind, girl?” Joel’s voice comes out raspy. He shakes his head, clears his throat. The vibrations rumble up your spine. “And take away the whole point of stayin’ warm? Now quit it. Ain’t that hard to sit still.”

You try your hand at listening – for all of two seconds.

You hike your hips up, fumbling with his coat as you slot his cock against your slit once more, pushing yourself forward. The coat slides right off of you, falling in a dark lump on the floor. Neither of you care — you’re both too heated for the lack of cover to make a damn difference. Joel hisses, a sound like water hitting an open flame. His hands fly down to your waist, anchoring you to his lap. A surprised noise squeaks out of you.

“What, you got rocks rattlin’ around in your brain?” Joel scowls. “You’re real impolite for a cocktease, sweetheart.”

Butterflies flap around in your stomach from his words. It’s enough to make your head tip against his chest so you can look up at him, lips shaped in a perfect pout. “I’m not,” you say.

“Not a cocktease, huh? Not even when you’re rubbin’ all over my lap?”

You gasp as your hands fly down to cover Joel’s, nails etching into where his fingers meet your bare skin. You tug at his wrist, trying desperately to guide him where you so desperately need him.

“Not happenin’,” Joel grunts, yanking your hands behind you and pinning them to your waist like you’re nothing more than a poseable doll. His large, work-worn hands make yours look damn near miniature as he holds you down. The sudden roughness douses your inner thighs with a new wave of wetness. “Jesus, girl. Poor thing, gettin’ all hot and bothered. Don’t blame ya for tryna get me to help out. Can feel ya dripping down my legs, gushin’ like a sprinkler.”

“S–sorry, fuck, ‘m sorry,” you whisper, words sticky with your arousal. Your clit twitches from his words, embarrassment and need doing all the work to keep you warm.

“Nahhh,” he says. “I don’t think you are, baby.” Maybe it’s the condescension he’s purring in your ear, maybe it’s the pet name; most likely, it’s a combination of both that has you convulsing in his lap. It’s like he’s found all of the right buttons to press to get you riled up, getting you back for all of your snide comments earlier. 

His fingers find the fabric of your scarf, luring it off of your neck so he can cord it around your wrists. You squirm when you realize what he’s doing, and a breathless huff of his laughter brushes your cheek. “I’ll be damned if you ain’t gonna be, though.” He draws it tight, tight enough for you to feel your pulses bumping into each other. Joel leaves a fair amount of your unreasonably long scarf loose.

“Joel, what the fuck are you up to?”

“Teachin’ you some sweet southern belle etiquette, darlin’. Such a goddamn troublemaker, grindin’ on me like I’m some kinda… frat boy.” He shakes his head, disbelieving. “Pullin’ that shit with your pops’ friend. Real fuckin’ classy.”

“Like you’re so different. Who’s the one that’s tying me up? Huh, Mil–”

You hear the hit well before you feel it, a firm whack to your cunt that makes your vision blacken and electricity scurrying up your spine. It takes you a second to come back to yourself before a ragged cry pulls its way out of your lips. You jolt in his lap, bound arms bobbing in front of you as your body instinctively lurches for control. You damn near kick your feet, accidentally ricocheting yourself into Joel’s chest. His forearms hold you there. 

“Guess I’ll make it crystal clear for ya, baby, since that dumb lil’ head ‘a yours is havin’ some trouble. My truck, my rules. You’re ridin’ in it, ain’t you?” You nod reluctantly as he turns your words from earlier in his favor. “That was a warnin’, you showoff. Think you can bat your slutty ‘fuck me’ eyes an’ get away with murder.” He fucking tsks at you.

He pulls his hand away from your pussy, and you’re both surprised and not surprised at all to see it covered in your arousal, webbed between his calloused fingers. 

“Got a whole goddamn slip ‘n slide down here…” murmurs Joel. You whine, bucking your hips against him. “Oughta just…” he starts, nudging his cock towards your hole. The noise you make is pathetic. “Stop ya from ruinin’ my seats. Cork you right up.” You tense up, fully expecting the intrusion, but his dick passes your cunt right up, instead sliding up to meet your clit. It taps against your swollen nub, and if his goal was to stop you from ruining his seats, you’re certain he’s already failed with how quickly you gush all over the upholstery.

“But that’d be real nice, wouldn’t it? Givin’ ya what ya want so early on…” Instead of pulling away like you expect, Joel griiiinds the head of his cock against your clit. You moan helplessly, head falling back across his shoulder.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And agai–

“Joooooel,” you whine, knees jerking each time his tip meets your most sensitive spot. Heat spins in your stomach.

He backs his hips up “What? Thought you loved this with how much you were gettin’ at it earlier.”

You shake your head rapidly in the negative, chest rising and falling at a breakneck pace while he teases you.

“So you can deal, but you can’t play?”

“I think you’re just taking your sweet old time getting it up, old man,” you grit out, knowing damn well he’s stiffer than titanium behind you.

Joel hums. “Ah, she’s got jokes.” His cock slips back, quickly replaced by his hand engulfing your mound. Your clit twitches ever so slightly against his palm lines, and you’re almost convinced you could get off from that alone. His palm cracks against your cunt again, somehow even harder than the first time. You cry out, eyes burning from arousal and the slightest edge of pain.

With his thumbpad, he taps your clit like he’s just scrolling through the cable guide with a remote. Fleeting movements that have you wanting more more more. It heals the sting of his slap even if the echo of the hit still simmers in your stomach. Your cunt throbs so hard that it hurts, jumping up to meet Joel’s scarce ministrations.

When he retracts his hand, your hips chase the movement. “See this?” he taunts, fluttering his wet fingers in front of your face. You make a choked noise when his drenched middle finger breaches your lips. He doesn’t even need to tell you; you latch on and suck yourself off of his calloused skin. You’re mostly salty, but a little sweet, and tasting yourself on your own tongue by his insistence manages to make you even wetter.

Joel takes his spare fingers, just as soaked, and smears them all around your chin and lower cheeks. He presses down on your tongue as he does. You gag from the pressure, and you can’t hear his laugh over the roaring of your blood in your ears, but you feel it rattle his chest where it meets your spine. Your slick cools quickly against your burning skin, syrupy as it clings to your face. “Need a bib, baby?”

He pulls his finger from your mouth with a pop and your scarf-wrapped hands spring to wipe yourself from your lips, hoping to save yourself from the humiliation of having your own pussy juice anointing your face. You only scoop up a little before Joel lowers his forearm over yours, but for once, you’re faster than him. You swipe your wet hand over his mouth, smudging as much as you can along the scruff surrounding his mouth.

He wraps a burly hand in the scarf and yanks your hands back into place. All you can do in response is giggle, but the breath is swiftly knocked out of you when he drives his cock right into your clit. “Think you’re funny, don’t ya?” He asks, and finally grunts as he rolls his hip into you. A break in his resolve, a sign that he wants this, or at least the discipline of this, as badly as you do.

You almost weep from the pressure, that rope of pleasure in your stomach that he keeps knotting tighter and tighter and tighter with each stroke of his cock, his fingers. “Joel!” you cry out as he follows it up with another firm swat to your clit. His cock spreads your folds as he softens the bashing, nuzzling his tip against your spasming cunt.

“Really, oughta give standup a go one ‘a these days. Be a real hotshot.”

“Oh yeah?” you pant, light headed and woozy.

“Mhm. If the whole crowd’s drunk.” His cock nudges your nub with a new vigor.

“Assh–”

Right as you’re about to press down and follow the sensation, Joel senses it. His cock gives way through your cheeks, just in time for him to land a ruthless slap across your pussy. It’s harder than the others – makes your ears ring for a second, gives you a sort of visual snow that has you doubling over and gripping at the closest object for purchase, which just so happens to be the metal rods coming out of the headrest. 

“Ain’t what you should be sayin’ if you’re plannin’ on gettin’ what you want, sugar,” Joel tuts. He shakes his head at you. “Don’t wanna hear no lip from ya, girl.”

You open your mouth, argument on the tip of your drool-loaded tongue, but your halfhearted attempt at defiance doesn’t last long. Joel’s hand clamps around your chin, denting your skin into your teeth. He jerks your head to face him, knocking you down a peg with scathing eye contact. “You’re pushin’ it.” He loosens his grip.

“As if, Miller. If those pre-Cold War condoms are anything to go by, you’ve been dying for a chance to get your dick wet. Doesn’t matter how much lip I give you, you aren’t gonna blue ball yourself for much longer.” Satisfied, you raise your brows at him.

Turns out, he is going to blue ball himself for much longer, because he lands six slaps in rapid succession across your sopping cunt. The skin smarts, and you cry out. Your grip tightens around the headrest rod to the point of strangling it. Your eyes water, and you can’t tell if you’re crying. Too consumed by Joel, everything has melted into him – the smell of sawdust perpetually sewn into his skin, his cock sealed against your body.

“How many times are ya gonna poke the bear before you learn your lesson, you cheeky little shit?” Joel’s palm cups the inside of your right thigh, just above the knee. He traces circles with his thumb, and heat trails after him with everywhere he touches. “See, the thing about havin’ ‘pre-Cold War condoms’ is that I’ve had a helluva lot more time to learn self control than you. Can wait as loooooong as it takes for you to get your head on right. Don’t matter if you’re waterfallin’ down my seats or not, pretty girl. I’m giving you exactly what ya deserve.”

You whimper, trying (and failing) to get your magma hot core closer to Joel’s unfairly large hand, still splayed out on your inner thigh. You can’t stop how you squirm in his lap, smearing your arousal everywhere with each movement you make.

At a snail’s pace, his hand begins to inch up your leg. Joel pauses to grope at you as his hand travels upward. Handfuls of your skin, rubbing at your scalding hot thighs. Your patience is wearing thin by the time he gets midway there. You need him to touch you. And that’s just the tip of this impossibly destructive iceberg.

You shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t have let him go down this shitty backroad, shouldn’t have agreed to your dad’s ridiculous idea of Joel picking you up, shouldn’t have asked to be naked on his lap, shouldn’t have gotten naked on his lap, shouldn’t be leaking like a twenty-year-old pipe in a building he’d been hired to renovate. If your dad ever finds out–

“Joel, please, please – plea…” you trail off, dissolving into incoherent whimpers as his hand hovers over your cunt. You’re running hotter than a radiator now, and if you both wanted to be warm, then you’ve got your wish. Although mostly gibberish, Joel has to understand what you want from him. It’s just that the bastard is unwilling to provide.

Joel reaches down to pinch your clit, and your body can’t even discern from pleasure and pain anymore. You react the same to it all, back arching as you try desperately to plant yourself on his cock. “Shhh, shhh, quit runnin’ your filthy mouth. Only gonna get yourself into more trouble.”

You swear you hear angels singing, swear you see the pearly gates when he gives your clit a merciful rub. Melting into him, you exhale shakily.

“See? All nice ‘n quiet when she’s gettin’ what she wants.” You wouldn’t even dream of mouthing off to him now.

“I want – I need…” you gasp out, putty in his hands. Moldable to his liking. Everything you’d pretended not to want.

“Go on,” he coos. “Tell daddy what you need.”

You don’t even hear him say that word. You’re too hooked on begging, begging, begging. “Please – Joel, oh god, please – I need… I need… please please please, fuck, it hurts–”

Joel clicks his tongue. “Nuh uh. Start over. Always such a chatterbox ‘cept for when I need ya to be.”

“Wha…?” you ask, admittedly dazed from the harsh treatment that you’ve come to crave more of.

“Tell daddy what you need,” he repeats, words molasses slow.

You clench, gushing even more all over him. Shit, your next paycheck might have to go to replacing the goddamn seats if you keep up like this.

“D–D… D-” you start stammering out, but you’ve lost autonomy over your body long ago, and apparently that goes for your tongue, too. “Da– Da… pl–”

“Any day now,” he scoffs.

“Daddy!” you spit out all at once. “Please, please, daddy, fuck – fuck me, daddy, please, I want your cock, daddy. Feels so fucking big. Need it daddy, it hurts… please, ngh– daddy!” Tears are burning the corners of your eyes, fueled almost entirely by arousal and partially by frustration. You squirm, cunt crying all over the place. 

“M’kay, baby,” he says. Running a hand down your chest and squeezing your nipple on the way down. He slides his hand down your stomach to cup your mound, giving your clit slow, gentle circles. Your hips jump forward, and this time, he doesn’t stop you. “Daddy’s got ya.”

At the first intrusion of his middle finger in your cunt, you jump. It’s a lot compared to what he’s been giving you, but nowhere near enough. A second finger slips inside. He doesn’t have to do much work to stretch you out — you’ve been seeping out of you since you first got on his lap. He’s all too quick thrusting them in and out of you – the messy squelch of your pussy filling the backseat has you burying your chin against your chest, averting your eyes. The heel of his palm bumps persistently at your clit with each shift of his fingers inside of you.

“I know you ain’t a virgin, but you’re soakin’ like one. Too damn cocksure to ain’t have had a cock in ya before. Prancin’ around like a glorified dick trap.” You inhale sharply when his fingers scrape that spongy spot inside of you that you can never reach yourself. A moan rips out of you. The combination of him talking down to you and rubbing your g-spot has you dangerously close to cumming. Your moan is quickly swallowed up by more of Joel’s condescension. 

He starts mumbling to himself then, obscenities that make you clench even tighter around his fingers. “Gonna get you all sore baby, make you regret beggin’ for this dick like a horny ‘lil bitch that ain’t ever been laid in her life. Fuck you so hard you’ll be cryin’ for daddy’s cock up your ass instead, turn you into an anal slut, too.” He’s too busy listening to himself talk, too absorbed in his own world to feel you balancing on that razor-thin edge.

The noise you make is inhuman. You pulse around him, doing your best to stave off your impending release. “Daddy–” you warn, but he cuts you off then, too. Joel grinds his cock between your ass cheeks, his precum dripping down your slit to meet your trembling cunt. 

“Ever been fucked here before baby?” He swipes his tip along your asshole, and the way you shudder is answer enough for him. “Don’t get all jumpy, sweetheart. Ain’t gonna fuck ya there right now. Be cruisin’ for a bruisin’.” Still, he replaces his tip with his free hand’s thumb, simply rubbing at the ring of muscle. You fidget in his lap without an end-goal. You just want to be close to him, want to take everything he’s willing to give you. His fingers hook just right inside of you. “Would love to be the first to unlock this pretty backdoor. If this tight ‘lil pussy’s anything to go by… Christ. You’d look so pretty squirmin with my cock in your ass, baby–”

“Daddy!” You scream as your orgasm guts you. His fingers and his voice rip your climax right out of you and your cum streams down your inner thighs and Joel’s hand, still smacking against your clit with each thrust. Your cunt spasms around his flexing fingers. He has to fold an arm over your chest to keep you from sliding off his slippery lap entirely.

All the way through the aftershocks that make your limbs quake, Joel holds you upright against his body, still bumping his palm and fingertips against your clit and g-spot. You swear you can feel him smiling against your shoulder.

“Didn’t tell ya you could cum, darlin’,” Joel murmurs, flicking his cum covered finger across your clit. You wince in overstimulation, a whine catching in your throat.

“‘M sorry, daddy,” you pant. His hands go up to 

“‘S okay, babygirl. Pretty pussy couldn’t help it when I was talkin’ ‘bout fuckin’ your ass, huh?” His hands rove up your stomach to play with your tits, palming and stroking, getting his hands all over every carnal part of you.

You hum into his bicep, “Mmmm.”

“That’s alright. Don’t mean you’re gettin’ away with a slap on the wrist though. C’mon, up,” he guides with a small slap to your thigh. You adjust, bringing yourself onto your knees so he can enter you from behind. You look down at his sturdy thighs, flexing as he adjusts himself between your legs. He gives you one more teasing thrust through your thighs, poking your oversensitive clit one more time before reaching down to spread your folds.

You moan as he presses against your entrance, and it’s not the best time to have a come to Jesus moment, but – Joel’s size was in no way over exaggerated between your legs. You stiffen in realization, and Joel, attentive as always, notices. He guides your chin to face him and nuzzles his nose up against yours, mouth tracing down to your lips. Your breath mingles, stagnant in the long-forgotten chill. A cushion of softness against all of his spiky edges that showed up tonight. “You’re on top, baby. Take it as slow or as fast as ya want.”

Nodding at the reminder, you find yourself that you don’t want to take it slow. You want to be as sore as he’d promised, want to feel him for days and be reminded of this every time you look at the winter morning’s frost on the shingles outside.

Sinking down over his throbbing length yanks the air out of your lungs as you seat yourself with him bottoming out and going balls deep in your cunt simultaneously. He grunts against you in surprise, softening the blow of your heady moan. “Attagirl,” he huffs into the crease between your neck and shoulder. It’s a stretch, searing up your thighs and to your lower back. You’re brought back to yourself when Joel rolls his hips into you, making the pain liquefy into mind-numbing pleasure. You spend thirty seconds waiting for him to fuck up into you in a way that changes your philosophy around the world, but instead, he’s still and solid inside of you.

“Go on,” Joel coaxes, placing a steady hand just shy of your mound. “Gotta prove you deserve to cum again.” He taps your thigh as if he’s telling you to giddy up, and the shame warms the back of your neck better than any heater ever could.

You whimper. His hands coast up your thighs, squeezing your hips tight before falling to grip the seats below. You’re still weak from your last orgasm, shaky legs struggling to hold yourself up as it is. “Daddy… I can’t…” 

“Ain’t no different than fuckin’ y’self on that vibrator or dildo or whatever the fuck’s in your nightstand. Girl like you, gotta have a wimpy ‘lil fucktoy somewhere.” His words make you clench around him, and he groans into your neck. Joel looks up at the front window, now covered in snowflakes. He smirks when he spots the rearview mirror. “Oughta make you watch yourself. Show a pathetic, cockstarved slut what happens when she bites off more than she can chew.” At that, you mewl, grinding yourself down. The chuckle he lets out is lined with cruelty.

Joel pins you to his chest with one burly arm and leans forward with a hash of grunts from effort. He reaches out towards the rearview mirror, lowering it to face the middle seat that you’re both braced on. He sinks back quickly, and it almost gives you whiplash before you make eye contact with yourself. You can see everything. Tremors travel up your legs and into your arms. Your body is getting freezer burn from how cold and hot you are at the same time. Pleasured tears threaten to spill over your waterline. Joel’s smug fucking face as he murmurs endlessly at you. 

Your mouth is parted as you take yourself in, truly a pathetic, pretty little picture as you pant. “C’mon,” Joel coaxes, squeezing your ass. “You can do it. Make daddy proud. I’ll even give you a boost.” Joel reaches to your tied hands and quickly undoes the scarf, letting it drop to the floor. You flex your fingers and then reach out for the chairs ahead to get a good grip.

You prop yourself up on your knees, anchoring yourself to the two chairs in front of you. Using a combination of your upper and lower body strength, you rise halfway off of Joel’s cock before your body gives out. His balls slap wetly against your clit. He laughs, still not touching you at all. Your head flops forward as you look down to where the two of you meet, and then at the mirror where his cock is buried deep inside of you. You whine in dismay.

He wasn’t lying when he said he was going to get you sore. You can only moan. It’s pleasure like you’ve never had it before – too much, not enough, painful, so good. “Please, Joel – I can’t… can’t handle it.”

“I’ll decide what you can handle,” he says.

“You’re– you’re so fucking mean,” you rasp.

“Gets you this soaked, baby. Don’t see your pussy complainin’. You love bein’ treated like a piece ‘a meat. Like a little fleshlight for men to fuck.”

You clench, tight. “Ah!” Joel fucking sniggers behind you, but a rush of confidence spills through you at the underlying moan in his throat.

Determined to get what you want, you tighten your grip on the front seats. Haul yourself up, almost so that the tip slips right out, and then collapse back onto Joel’s cock. And, shit, it’s a lot. You doubt you could handle his cock in missionary, but being made to ride him in such a compromising position, sprawled out across his shitty backseat? That’s an entirely different animal, one that you hadn’t expected to have to handle.

You focus on doing just enough to please him and just enough to keep yourself intact. You repeat your movements two or three times, rising and falling. Little moans and whimpers, some pained, some good when he nudges your g-spot just right, slip in and out of you.

“Mmmm, yeah, that’s it. Daddy’s ‘lil wannabe pocket pussy. Doin’ a ‘lil better baby. Keep doin’ that. Jus’ keep doin’ that.”

You’re shaking like a leaf on his cock as you somehow manage to lift yourself another time before fucking back on him. “Daaaddy.” Your lips quiver as you form the word. A single tear runs down your face from overexertion, and he’s quick to wipe it up with his thumb as if it was never there. You look truly whorish and pathetic, just like he’d wanted, bouncing on his cock with the last of the energy you have left in you.

His tip jabs against that goddamn spot again, and you double over on the center console. You take heaving breaths, making eye contact with yourself in the mirror, desperate to please as you attempt to keep humping him with the change in angle. You’re letting out strings of disoriented words, but barely can tell that you’re talking.

“I fuck you dumb already? Slutty little girl. Told ya you were in for it. Ain’t ever had much of a knack for listenin’. Gonna dick you down now, sweet girl.” He drags your legs into the crook of his elbows, holding you upright for him as he shifts to his knees between your legs. Braced on the center console with your pussy settled on his cock, the new angle makes you cry out. You hold yourself up on your elbows, giving shallow rolls of your hips in return as Joel gets settled inside of you.

The first thrust makes your eyes roll back so far that you see black. “Feel good?”

“So… so fu–fucking goo… good daddy,” you whimper into the console, gripping the sides of it just so you have something to hold onto.

“Swallowin’ daddy’s dick whole in this greedy cunt. Goddamn, drippin’ down my fuckin’ balls. Such a masochistic slut, all after a poundin’ from an old man. All up in a tizzy for this cock.”

You moan your agreement, completely submissive to Joel’s wills. You move like a ragdoll for him, letting him yank you back on his cock while he meets you there, thrust for thrust. He pulls out, a small mercy, but when he sheathes himself back inside of you in full, it’s the beginning of a punishing pace.

You don’t even notice yourself drooling all over the console until Joel says something about it. “Droolin’ from two places. Yeah, baby, you needed this. Daddy’s pretty cockslut.” You whine especially loudly when Joel drags you back across the console, damn near fast enough to give your stomach rugburn. 

Hands framing your spread legs, Joel hooks them both around his torso, using the leverage to plow into you. You’re boneless beneath him, mouth frozen in silent moans. His hips meet your ass with each shove of his cock in your sloppy cunt, the obscene sound of slap after slap pealing out within the truck. “Damn lucky we’re in the middle of nowhere,” Joel growls on another thrust. “Someone woulda been knockin’ on the window long time ago with how loud you’re bein’.”

“Mmph,” you gasp when Joel tosses one of your legs up and over the passenger seat. You hold yourself there as he digs his fingers into your other thigh, shifting his spare hand to your mound.

“Daddy please please please plea–” you start panting like a broken record, desperate to feel his hand on your clit, which throbs with inattention on the console. You grind frantically on the edge just in case he denies you again. 

Joel laughs above you, fully smudging two fingers across your clit in a blur of indescribable pleasure. “Ain’t gonna make ya beg this time. Can’t wait to feel ya creamin’ ‘round me… maybe I’ll make ya lick that up too. Nasty bitch.”

“Joooel, oh fuck, please…” you whine as he continues railing you, this time fiercely tweaking your clit in-time with his movements.

The new position has his thrusts meeting your cervix, and you scream, pleasure corkscrewing through your body. There’s nowhere for all of it to go with how viciously it burns in your stomach – all you can do is take it and whine for him. “Takin’ it real good. See what happens when ya behave? You get this fat cock splittin’ your whore cunt in two, jus’ like you were askin’ for.”

He grips your hip tight, clearly expecting an answer. You slur, “Mhm, daddy!”

Joel rubs faster circles around your clit, spouting filth while he drills your pussy. You can tell he’s chasing his own release, too, hips frantically fucking in and out of you, his cock twitching every single time you clench. You’re burning up as he jackhammers your pussy. Your second orgasm of the night brims low in your stomach, “Come on, baby, know you’re close. Feel this slutty pussy squeezin’ me. You gonna ask permission like a good girl this time, or are ya gonna go back to your defiant little slut self?”

“No, daddy,” you whimper, suspended in thin air over orgasmic bliss. He’s rubbing your clit erratically, doing everything he can to hold you in place. “P-please daddy, can I come?” You practically scream it out.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Come for daddy’s, come allll over daddy’s cock.”

The band snaps. Your back arches, and you feel time stop in the second before you fall slack on the console, spasming from the best orgasm of your fucking life. Your clit feels like there’s fucking pop rocks on it, something that not even your vibrator has ever achieved. “Thank you daddy!” you cry out, repeating it as you lose all feeling in your bones. You hardly have any control over your body anymore – it’s just Joel Joel Joel Joel. Sated and weary, you just lay there, letting Joel fuck into you.

And fuck into you he does – roughly, helping you ride out your orgasm as he pursues his. “That’s my girl,” he says, and you swear that alone could make you cum all over again. “Lettin’ your daddy use this juicy, well-fucked cunt to get his own.” He can’t hold back his moans, that’s how you know he’s close, grunting and gasping as he rocks his hips into yours. His hand lands on your ass in a sharp smack, and your pussy clenches in exactly the way that he expected. He lets out a particularly ragged noise, folding himself over you to nip at your neck and rest his forehead against your shoulder blade. “Daddy’s close, where do ya want me, baby?”

“Tits,” you whine. It’s a miracle you can even get that one word out, but somehow, you manage a few more. “Come on my tits, daddy.”

“Fuck!” Joel shouts, yanking himself over you. You help him roll yourself over and sit up on your elbows, and he jerks himself once, twice, before spraying his load all over your tits with the loudest groan yet. His brows fold together as he cums, eyes drooping and his mouth parted as he takes deep breaths.

You sit there for a handful of heavy minutes, listening to each other’s jagged breathing and the sawtoothed wind outside. You’re both so fucked. Literally, and figuratively. Stuck in the buttfuck middle of nowhere, you with your dad’s proclaimed bestie’s cum drying on your tits, and said bestie staring at you with post-coital puppy dog eyes and your cum all over his balls.

You’re the first to speak up, still winded. “That was… that was good.”

Joel nods mindlessly, tongue swiping out to lick his lips. He beckons you closer, and on trembling legs, you bring yourself to the backseat. You return to your previous position, huddled up and curled next to the door. Joel fumbles around under the back bench for a little until he comes up with a small, sunbleached pack of princess-themed pocket tissues that have to be as old as Sarah is. He dabs at your chest before stuffing them into the closest empty cupholder, and then brings you closer to his chest.

You don’t notice yourself falling asleep when all you can feel is Joel.

There’s better ways to wake up than a furious rapping on the window, but that isn’t the first thing you notice. You blink your eyes open groggily, only to face an egg yolk sun cracking wide open over the treeline and snowmelt bleeding out from every given surface. Joel’s behind you, nose in your neck, snoring softly with his arms wrapped around your middle. You take a moment to admire him – his sun kissed skin and his peaceful expression. It takes you a moment to remember you slept with him. You slept with Joel, and it was the best fuck of your life.

You’re stretching, on the verge of a yawn, when you see the familiar head of black hair over the window. “Shit!” you shout. Joel jerks to life behind you, mumbling something that sounds a lot like ‘what?’. 

You scramble to pull the coat over the both of you from where it fell off of you in the middle of the night, covering your naked bodies. “Get dressed!” you hiss to Joel, searching for wherever the fuck your panties ended up last night.

“What the hell’s gotten into ya–” he starts, and you feel the exact moment that he realizes Tommy Miller is outside of the truck. “Motherfucker,” he curses, swaying towards the front seat to snag his clothes. You see him almost put his head through his T-shirt armhole three times before he gets it right. His sweatpants are next, which he tugs up his bare legs without even searching for his boxers.

“Joel?” Tommy shouts outside. “Wake up, sleepin’ beauty!” He knocks on the door again, the windows blurry from melting snow. You have that to thank, at least. It buys you enough time to tug your polo over your head, but not enough time to button it all the way up.

“Fuckin’... dumbass,” Joel huffs as he clips the lock on the door and kicks it open, looking at least somewhat composed. You take deep breaths, looking between the two of them. “How’d you find us?”

Tommy looks Joel up and down, scrutinizing him. “What happened to southern gentleman manners? I came out here to save ya from Mt. Everest, brother! Least you could say is ‘thank you’.”

“Thank you,” you fill in for Joel, even if the last thing you’re feeling is grateful.

“Her daddy threw a hissy fit, y’know? Told him you were fine and we’d go lookin’ for ya in the mornin’. We saw all that backup on the highway, I went this way, he went that way, turns out my gut was right. ‘Course my dumbass brother would take this route… hey, you’re truck’s a fuckin’ mess.” Tommy sinks his hand into the closest cupholder, pulling out a wad of tissues that have been soaked in his cum. You hiss as if you’ve been scalded with boiling hot water.

Joel starts, “Tommy–”

“What the fuck is this shit?” The realization seems to dawn on poor Tommy when he’s peeling apart the tissues, and he drops them like they’re a thousand pounds. You can’t even bring yourself to scold him for littering as the wind carries them away. “Joel. You dirty dog!” He says, eyes flitting between the two of you like it’s the most impossible thing in the world.

Your heart picks up to a speed that can rival most NASCAR drivers and your face burns like hot asphalt. You look pointedly down at the ground.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Joel seethes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Get outta here, you little shit.”

Tommy’s hands go up. “Hey now, I ain’t doin’ anything. That is not a conversation I wanna have with her daddy.” He clears his throat, effectively clearing the air along with it. “So, uh, truck break down?” Joel grunts in affirmation.

“Been tellin’ ya you need to make a stop at the auto shop… C’mon, I’ll get y'all home,” Tommy says, jingling the keys to his own truck. “Call a tow on the way.”

Joel drags his feet all the way to Tommy’s passenger side. You get your wallet and jacket together, winding the latter around your waist. The sun almost blinds you on your way out, and Tommy stops you.

“I hope you didn’t let ‘im stick it to ya with them prehistoric condoms. You’re smarter ‘n that.”

“God, no,” you huff out.

“I dunno what’s stupider, lettin’ my asshole brother hit it raw or gettin’ a UTI–”

“Okay!” you announce, hands going up as you round the back of Tommy’s truck. “Conversation over.” You’re still smiling playfully at Tommy as you clamber into the back of the truck, sighing when the air conditioner hits.

Just like that, back to the same old same old sunny, shithole state of Texas. Joel looks at you in the rearview mirror and winks at you. You guess not everything has to stay the same these days.

[starlingflight]

Ginniversary drabble 5

Prompt: G58 -give me one good reason why I should wear a dress.

AO3 or read below:

“I can't do it.” 

Ginny's words came out in a hushed whisper, one that Harry suspected he wouldn't have been able to hear if not for the heavy silence that had fallen over the Burrow in the days since the battle, making every word and movement, no matter how quiet, seem obnoxiously loud

He looked away from the Harpies poster he'd been idly staring at on her bedroom wall, eyes finding hers in the mirror she'd been standing in front of for the past twenty minutes. 

She was still in her pyjamas. She'd ran a brush through her hair, but he doubted Mrs Weasley would say that was sufficient for the occasion; then again, he very much doubted Mrs Weasley would say anything at all today. 

“You can,” he said softly. 

A single tear slid down Ginny's cheek. A great deal more shone threateningly in her amber eyes. “I don't want to.” 

“I know.” Harry swallowed thickly, blinking against the stinging in his own eyes. “Just start with getting dressed.” 

It was how they'd managed everything so far. Get up, get dressed, don't think about where you're apparating to. Breathe in.  Breathe out. Don't think about how even that was a privilege so many no longer had. 

“No.” Ginny shook her head. Her cheeks glinted where her now steady stream of tears passed through the sunlight beaming mockingly through the window. “I'm not doing it.” 

If there was anything within arms reach Harry thought she might have thrown it at the wall. Fortunately, her desk, and the majority of her most treasured possessions, were at the far side of the room. 

“I'm not going,” she declared, arms folded stubbornly over her chest. 

Harry leaned forward on her bed, where he was sitting, trying very hard not to wrinkle the dress robes he was sick of wearing. 

“You have to,” he said, a hint of apology in his voice. He wished she didn't have to. 

“Why?” Ginny demanded, voice quivering, tears falling faster. She didn't give him a moment to answer. “Give me one good reason why I should wear a dress, and do my hair, and apparate to some desolate graveyard that Fred never set foot in once in his whole life and–” 

Harry couldn't say if her words ended because of the embrace he'd crossed the room and enveloped her in, or because her sobs had simply become too thick to allow for speech. Either way, she sank into his arms, and all concern about the state of his dress robes was quickly forgotten. Ginny's tears seemed an appropriate adornment on the day of Fred's funeral anyway. 

He didn't try to give her a good reason; there weren't any. 

Instead, Harry's arms tightened around her, holding her to him for his sake as much as hers. He'd once, in this room, under very different circumstances, thought of her as the only real thing in the world; now she was the final thing left to him at the end of it. The one bright miracle he could cling to in the darkness, that she was still there. Her fingers gripped the front of his dress robes, holding on just as tightly. 

Eventually, Ginny's sobs subsided, replaced by deep, shaking breaths that slowly became steady. When she looked up at him, her cheeks were still streaked with tears but her eyes were clear. 

Footsteps sounding from the floor above forced Harry to break the silence that had once again settled between them. “You have to get dressed.” 

Ginny nodded without argument, relinquishing her grip on his robes to wipe the moisture from her face.“I know… just stay with me, please.” 

Harry released a shaking breath of his own, keeping his eyes fixed on hers. “I'm not going anywhere.” 

[just-here-with-my-thoughts]

R.O.U.S.'s

@summer-of-bad-batch week 12 prompt 'Nightmares' (yeah my second fic for the same prompt I know ;)

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Omega, Hunter, Tech, Echo, Wrecker, Stardust the Space Hamster Set after Season 2 episode 'Metamorphosis' Word Count: ~540 Read Here on AO3

Featuring Stardust the Space Hamster, as created by the fabulous @kybercrystals94 - I promised you I'd write Stardust fic for the event, didn't I? :P

Synopsis: After the encounter with the Zillo Beast, Omega has a nightmare...

A shrill scream rent the air, reverberating off the metal walls of the Marauder. It had all four clones falling out of their seats and fighting each other in their haste to reach the gunner's mount.

"Omega? What is it?"

Hunter's voice was tight with alarm as he all but vaulted up the ladder. Tech crowded behind him until he too was perched on the edge of the platform, and Echo and Wrecker pressed close at the bottom.

Omega was crying now, great hiccoughing sobs accompanied by huge tears pealing down her cheeks.

“Hunter!” she gasped with relief, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. “You’re okay!”

“We are all well, Omega,” said Tech with clipped concern, as Hunter returned Omega’s embrace and shot his brother an alarmed look over the top of her shaking shoulder. “What is the matter?”

“Tech!” Now it was his turn for Omega to burrow into his chest, as he tensed and awkwardly encircled her with one arm, patting her shoulder.

“There, there,” he said, tilting his head down to try and peer into Omega’s tear-streaked face. “Can you tell us what woke you?”

“It’s Stardust,” said Omega unexpectedly, her voice breaking on a sob.

“Stardust is fine too,” Echo reassured her from his position at the bottom of the gunner’s mount.

“I had a bad dream,” Omega snuffled, pulling back from Tech and rubbing at her tear-streaked cheeks. “Stardust grew enormous. Her cage broke, and she kept growing and growing. She was too big for the Marauder! And then…” Another burbling sob escaped her as her face crumpled into fresh tears. “And then she ate you!”

Wrecker thumped Tech in the thigh, so hard that Tech yelped.

“Who told her that the Zillo ate the crew?” said Wrecker with an accusatory eye roll. Tech merely returned the look with a petulant frown, whilst Hunter wrapped his arms around Omega again.

“We’re all okay,” he said gruffly, jostling her shoulders a little to try and cheer her up. “Stardust is fine… and she’ll still fit in the palm of your hand!”

“She ate you until you were bones!” said Omega with a fresh wail.

The four brothers glanced at each other helplessly, with a shared round of shrugs.

“I’m going to get the chocolate powder,” declared Echo, turning towards the galley. “Wrecker, get the mugs.”

Omega sniffed and her sobs died away to hiccups at the promise of hot chocolate, resting her cheek on Hunter’s shoulder as his hand moved in soothing circles on her back.

Tech adjusted his goggles.

“I would like to reassure you, Omega, that it was the Zillo’s unique species characteristics that let it grow large enough to consume human prey. It is quite impossible for the same thing to happen with a criceto.”

Hunter kicked out with one leg, booted foot finding Tech’s other thigh and sending him dropping over the edge of the ladder, where he landed lightly on his feet. Then he grabbed Lula, thrusting her into Omega’s hands.

“C’mon, kid,” he said with a smile, lifting her close to her chest and cradling her like she was a much smaller child than she was. “Hot chocolate after a nightmare? Who could say no to that.”

This fic most definitely inspired by real life events... I cannot tell you how unprepared I was to round the corner whilst in town on my lunch break the other day to find this...

6ft tall hamster roaming the streets of the city was not on my bingo card. And I knew straight away what to write for my long-awaited Summer of Bad Batch Stardust fic 😂

Also inspired by the real nightmare my kid had when they were about 7, where a T-rex ate us until we were bones, and then ate us again. All I could hear in my head whilst I was writing this fic was Omega's little voice saying "It ate the crew?!" 😂

[itsgodepi]

If I lose my mind | Ch. 3

Series summary: When you're buried under a mountain of problems and can’t seem to catch a break, it might feel like you need a complete reset. But did it really have to come with a one-way ticket to a new dimension? Surely, a little problem-solving would’ve done the trick. Or, one day you go to sleep as a normal person and the next you wake up as a Formula One driver. You've never been a fan but isn't it like, one of the most exclusive sports? Pairing: CL16, LH44, CS55, DR3 x fem!reader Chapter: Previous | Next Word Count: 2.7k Also on AO3

The fact that you are playing some kind of reaction game with tennis balls right next to a Formula One car, does nothing but further consolidate the theory that this is not real. You must be dreaming. Why would you find yourself in this situation otherwise? It does not make sense. 

Not only had he made you change clothes yet again, dressing you up in a strange white jumpsuit filled with even more logos —your surname and country’s flag somehow branded on its hip—, he had also paraded you around the place for what felt like an hour. Cameras had followed you through it all, this time with no intention of recording from the sidelines but instead walking right in front of you as you tried to navigate the crowded place. 

“Feeling alright?” Nick queries when you fail to pick the third ball in a row, his eyes scanning your figure as if you were about to drop dead right that second “We can sit down if you need to” 

“No, no, it’s okay” you reassure him, willing your mind to concentrate on the game despite the way your mind is running “Let’s try again” 

Nick shakes his head in disbelief, stealing one last glance at you before he looks at something behind your back. “Don’t worry, it’s time anyway. I’ll go pick up everything so you can prepare” and with that, he is gone. 

Leaving you alone, like he already knows you won’t dare to run away.

He returns with his hands full not much later, one of the objects catching your attention straight away, a light blue helmet that you remember well. The helmet from yesterday, the one that man dressed in the bright orange jumpsuit had freed you from.  

Nick silently helps you with everything he brought: from a pair of earphones to a strange white piece of fabric that resembles a ski mask, and finally the helmet. When you hold it in your hands, the weight and smooth texture makes a familiar feeling arise from inside of you, a sudden streak of excitement that travels like thunders through your body. 

“Do I have to?” you whisper, head lowered and eyes fixed on the helmet as you try to shake that feeling., flashbacks from yesterday coming instead to play on your mind. 

Nick can only laugh at that, his eyebrows furrowing “What do you mean? Of course you have to!”   

And although that mocking response irks you, you don’t fight it. Your brain is so overworked with theories that you are not even fully conscious of what you do or why exactly you keep listening to him. You cannot fathom what could they possibly have prepared for you. 

The helmet is easy to slide on, the new barrier drowning the noises coming from the garage even more than the headphones had. It does feel a little claustrophobic though, with the way it presses your cheeks up and restricts your field of vision. Nick places something on your shoulders while you try to get used to it, some clicks sounding at your sides before he gives your helmet a pat and guides you over to the white Formula One car. There, he exchanges a few words with the people surrounding the machine, the one closest to you turning his head to send a thumbs up your way. Nick steps aside then, letting you free access to the car.  

Confused, you look up at him, a hand coming up to slide the visor of the helmet up so he can see your eyes. Are you missing something? What does he want you to do to the car? See it? You have already been ogling it from the side for half an hour.  

When you take a second too long thinking, he stretches a hand out towards the car, as if inviting you to get inside. But you are quick to decline this offer “Oh, no thank you”, raising your voice a little and taking a step back to further prove your point.  

Is this-? Are they expecting you to drive it or something? These people are crazy.  

Nick’s grin is playful “Sure, whatever you say”, his eyes rolling at your refusal, reaching a hand out for you to hold onto as he invites you once again to step into the car. 

“What for? I don’t want to” you dismiss him again, harsher this time, as cross your arms over your chest to strengthen your stance.  

You have been trailing after him like a lost puppy all day, no questions asked. It is about time you stand your ground. Are they not satisfied with having you dressed like an idiot in the middle of a place you do not know? All while cameras film your every move like this is the Hunger Games.  

“C’mon, we are late, stop playing games…” Nick tries again, his voice way firmer than before.  

The argument attracts a lot more attention than you would have liked, the eyes of all the men previously working on the car, now set on you. Everyone seems to be as confused as Nick, low murmurs being shared around the garage as they give you strange looks. That is the case for Nick as well, like he hadn’t thought you rebelling against him was ever an option, like this is just routinary. And when you finally take the time to mull it over, you understand why this change on your attitude may be sudden. The reunion, the clothes, the helmet… It was all preparation.  

How have you been so stupid? 

The stare contest is only broken by the yell of a man that echoes through the garage. “Why are you still here?! Get in the car already!” he almost orders, a deep frown set on his face. You remember him, he was in the first meeting, seated right at the head of the table. 

That angry tone sets everyone around you into motion, Nick’s hand finding the back of your shoulder and pushing you to get in the car. And you want to step your foot down, get his hands off you and run away from this madness. But it all goes so fast.  

As soon as you get seated on the car, hands start flying all around you. They screw in the steering wheel, connect some things and help you tightening down the straps of a belt that straps you down to the seat. No way out. You look up at Nick, silently asking for help —as if he was not one of them—, eyes slowly filling up with tears.  

What are you supposed to do now? There are so many people around, there is no way you are getting away from this.  

While you try to make sense of this situation, even more things start happening around you. The rest of the men —they must mechanics or something— start stepping away from the car, uncovering the wheels and giving space to a man in front of you. He walks backwards outside the garage, his face turning from side to side while holding a hand up for you to wait until he deems it safe. 

Still, nothing prepares you for the switch you feel inside of you when the man signals for you to come forward.  

From the force with which you grip the steering wheel to the way your foot falls on the pedal, everything feels instinctive. Even the low rumbling of the car coming to life under your body feels strangely familiar and comforting. A second nature. The machine manages to roll out of the garage without trouble, as if you had been doing this your whole life and you were not terrified about what is to come. There is only one possible outcome, and it does not look good for you. 

Thankfully —or maybe not so much—, your brain seems to shut down once the car passes through the garage door, the fear consuming your thoughts to such a point that you seem to go over the path in the blink of an eye. One minute you are giving one last look at Nick and the next you are being helped out of the car. The men in white had come to surround the car, one of them giving you a thumbs up and a pat to the helmet that had instantly filled you with relief. It is done, finished. You have not run into a wall, nothing bad has happened. 

And, although the fact that you seem to know exactly how to control a Formula One car should by itself have sent you into panic mode, that will instead be a problem for future you to resolve. 

Yet, as it seems to be a recurrent theme by now, that happiness is short and sweet. When you are helped out of that awful deathtrap of a car, your eyes are finally able to get an image of the place you have so stupidly driven to. Even though the road had been limited by tall, wired fences the whole way, it is only now that you are able to see the thousands of people seated behind them. You can only look at them in utter shock, vision still restricted by this awful helmet that doesn’t let your breath properly, as you try to wrap your head around what could be happening here and why have you been thrusted in the middle of it. 

Some look back at you, their smiles widening as they hold up different flags and banners for you to see, but their attention is promptly stolen by something —or someone— behind you, cheers getting impossibly louder. You follow their gaze instinctively, brows furrowed because what more could possibly be happening. 

Well, what is happening is that another Formula One car has arrived. What the hell. Your gaze uselessly follows the car, its navy blue paint a complete contrast to the white of your car —why you would even call it yours is beside the point. Not only that, but as the people on the road move aside to let the machine pass, you feel the fear that has been bubbling inside you for hours on end now, reach a new peak. The image of at least 10 other Formula One cars lined up is finally discovered before your eyes. 

The dots connect way too slowly as your eyes fly from one car to another, heart pumping blood on your ears like it is about to burst out of your chest. Had that lap been a simple warm up, a stupid way to get the cars in place for an actual race? 

It is a miracle that you manage to stand upright and follow one of the men dressed in white despite the way your legs are locking up. Breath heavy as if you had run a marathon. In hopes of calming yourself down, you reach up to take off the helmet and that stupid mask, both objects being held close to your chest as if someone was going to come and steal them.  

With this newfound freedom you try to gather your bearings for the nth time today. But, how can you, when your field of vision is filled with freaking Formula One cars of every color imaginable? Your chest can only tighten in fear of what is to come.  

The man guides you through the mass of people gathered around the cars, a couple of them sending smiles and words of encouragement your way as if you wanted to do anything other than scream your way out of this place. Everyone is just bubbling with an energy that your body cannot match, the mix of screams and cheers sending you further down into an anxiety attack instead. You feel like a puppet, the strings pulling you around this unknown place while people record your every move with one of the hundred cameras flashing all around.  

This has to be a nightmare, there is no other explanation. It cannot be the real word. How and why would you be here if it was?  

Someone does steal both your helmet and mask before you are brought to a separated part of the road, the asphalt covered with a red carpet to kind of mark a VIP area. For some reason, he flies the scene after that, leaving you completely alone in the middle of a road surrounded by a million cameras and strangers dressed from head to toe in one single color like this is a fucking film.  

The loneliness does not last long though, as you are yet again approached by another stranger and that recurrent phrase. “Congrats on P10!” a man dressed in a black jumpsuit comes to stand next to you, a smile being drawn on his lips as soon as your eyes meet “It’s your highest position yet, right?”  

Seriously, do you seem that approachable when you are freaking out or do these people just lack emotional intelligence?   

His question catches you off guard as much as the fact that he also talks to you in English, your brain scrambling to find a response that you do not have —because, well, it is your fist position ever, if that counts. You decide to mimic his grin instead, a curt nod as your answer since it looks more like an affirmation than a question.  

“Feeling nervous?” he queries right after, scrunching his nose as if he could feel the nerves running like thunders under your skin.  

For that you do have an answer: “A lot…”, but the reasoning behind it greatly differs from what he must be thinking about.  

Strangely enough, the sweet chuckle that he lets out brings a real smile to your lips, and even more so the calming words and praises that follow. That he knows you will do well, everything will turn out alright, while he confidently assures you that you will be taking some points home today. He is sure of it. The men from the meeting had said something similar, their ‘don’t be greedy’ has stayed at the back of your mind ever since. 

“You already know this but, be careful, the start is pure chaos when you are on the middle of the grid” he advices you as well, looking back at the line of Formula One cars like he can see it unfolding before his eyes.  

But why is he being so nice? Who is he? Talking to you with such care while you cannot get a single word out, too freaked out to react to any of this information. Your eyes slip down on their own to the hip of his jumpsuit, the letters showing despite the fact that he is not wearing it zipped up completely like you do, but rather with the top part wrapped around his waist. There you find what probably is the United Kingdom flag —yeah, he does sound English— and what must be his name: Lewis. 

“Anyway, better not to talk about it. Let’s go!” the man proposes at last, pointing with a tilt of his head to the men gathered a few meters away.  

Even though any sane person in your situation would have turned down the offer and run away from all these strangers, you cannot help but follow him. The fear of being left alone in an unknown place is somehow overpowering your desire of escaping. Where would you run to anyway? With which money? And if you call the police, what would you tell them? Would you even be able to understand what they say? It is not like you had been able to read a single town sign on the way here.  

Still, when you finally focus your gaze on the group of men ahead, you wonder if all this is just an extremely well-prepared hidden camera show. Because not more than a few meters away, in that group you are walking towards is the man that has been flashing through your mind all day long.  

The man from yesterday, the person who held you in his arms as everything faded around you, in that exact same bright orange outfit. 

Next chapter

___

Author's note: From now on the updates will take a bit longer since this is what I had already written, so you'll have to be patient with me hahaha. Thanks for all the nice comments and interactions!

Taglist: @purplephantomwolf @raye2000 @yuiiimd @drezzerk33 @leclercdream

[stevieharringtonwifeguy]

hey, yall like t4t lesbian steddie? how about transfem eddie beefing coming out to her girlfriend Real Hard?

also on ao3 here

--------------------------------------------------------------

Eddie has never been able to control her mouth. Honestly sometimes she wonders if she has some kind of medical condition that makes her incapable of saying normal things at the appropriate time. 

And this is a real problem when trying to figure out how to tell her girlfriend that she might kinda wanna be a girl too maybe. Because instead of sitting the love of her life down and calmly explaining that she’s been doing some thinking and might want to experiment with her gender more, Eddie just holds it all in until she projectile vomits the information at the worst possible time.

They’re snuggled in bed, hazy in post-coital bliss, Stevie burying her face in Eddie’s neck and nuzzling in with her nose like a kitten looking for milk. It’s adorable. Eddie half expects her to start making biscuits on her stomach.

And so when Stevie sighs contentedly, hums a little, “My boy,” with so much love in her voice Eddie kind of wants to cry, she’s not ready for the wave of wrongness that crashes over her, smashing the cozy, contented vibe in the room like it’s an actual tidal wave ripping the trailer to shreds.

So she does what she always does. Fucks it up.

“No I’m not,” she says, voice choked with panic.

Stevie stiffens against her. “What?” she asks.

“I’m not your boy,” Eddie says. “It’s not- I-”

Stevie draws away from her, and Eddie already misses the warmth. She keeps her eyes screwed shut, doesn’t want to see Stevie’s reaction to the information that her boyfriend is actually her girlfriend. And yeah, the logical part of her brain knows that it absolutely is not an issue. Stevie’s a lot of things (beautiful, wonderful, perfect, a teensy bit of a bitch but just enough to keep things interesting-), but she’s not a hypocrite, so the trans thing is obviously fine. And Stevie was well known for making her way through most of the female population of Hawkins High before she came out, so the girl thing is also obviously a non-issue.

But. That mean little voice in the back of Eddie’s head. The one that listened carefully to every bad thing anyone ever said about her- freak, monster, trash- and quietly stored them away just to take them out again when she’s alone at night. That voice is real loud right now. 

It tells her she’s imagining things, that she’s just looking for another way to be different. That Stevie will just think she’s trying to copy her, and worse than that, she’s copying her badly. It whispers that sure, Stevie liked her as a guy, thought she was attractive then, but she’s probably going to be so ugly as a girl that any attraction Stevie’s managed to muster for her weird lanky man-body is gonna just shrivel up and die. And she doesn’t even really like girly things, which she knows because she dressed up as Frank N Furter that one time they all went to see Rocky Horror, and the makeup had felt gross on her skin and the corset had been too tight and the heels had hurt- and if she’s not gonna commit to femininity what’s even the point of trying to tell people she’s a girl?

Eddie is so lost in her own head that it takes her a second to realise that Stevie has gotten out of bed. Eddie sits up, watching in confusion as her girlfriend flits around the room in search of her clothes. 

“Stevie?” Eddie asks, her voice small. “Wh- what are you doing?”

Stevie sighs, shakes her head a little. “What does it look like I’m doing, Eddie?” Her voice sounds watery, and she won’t look Eddie in the eyes, using her voluminous hair as a shield as she pulls up her jeans with shaking hands.

Eddie’s heart breaks. She doesn’t think she ever expected this, that Stevie would just leave, even on her darkest nights alone. “But- why?”

Stevie finally looks at her then, her face incredulous even as it’s streaked with tears. “Why? Why would I stay, Eddie, if this- what, was it just- just bullshit?” she says, getting more heated as she speaks, hands flying in that way Eddie usually loves because it means her girl is really getting riled up. Now it feels terrible to see, like the final nail in Eddie’s coffin. 

“I can’t believe- fuck- this is the second time I thought- I mean it’s gotta be me at this point, right? Like, fool me once-” Stevie cuts herself off with a sob, before scrubbing her face furiously and looking around the room. “Where the fuck is my jacket???”

“I don’t- what do you mean, second time-”

Stevie scoffs. “I mean, sure, you didn’t actually say the word ‘bullshit’ but that’s- you see how it’s the same right? Like, even if you didn’t- if you didn’t want me anymore, how could you-? You knew about Nancy, Eddie, and you still just-” She scrubs her face again and heads to the door. “You know what, fuck my jacket.”

And Eddie is not the smartest. Her three senior years can attest to this. But she can tell she’s missing something here, because what the hell does Nancy have to do with anything? So Eddie goes over the last couple of minutes, everything Stevie said, everything she said, and- oh. Fuck.

“I forgot the second part of that sentence.” 

She literally cannot believe how stupid she is. Stevie’s already out the bedroom door, and Eddie prays to every god who’s never believed in her that she hasn’t left the trailer entirely, because fuck knows if she has Eddie will probably never see her again. At least not for several months, and even then, only with Robin standing off to the side trying to kill her with her mind.

“Stevie!” She calls, running through the trailer at a speed she frankly didn’t think herself capable of. “Stevie, please wait! I didn’t mean to- I forgot the rest of the sentence!”

Stevie stops at the door of the trailer, turns around with an eyebrow raised in the kind of ‘I’m waiting, make it good’ expression she uses whenever the kids try to explain why they were acting like little shits this time. It’s ruined a bit, by the tears still streaming down her face and the tremble in her disapproving frown, but she’s trying. 

“Baby, I’m so sorry, that’s not what I was trying to say- I didn’t even realise how it sounded- I love you so much and I’m sorry I made you doubt that for even a second,” Eddie pleads, her own tears running down her face.

Something in Stevie’s posture seems to soften a little, but her hand stays on the doorknob. “What- what else would you be trying to say there, Eddie?”

“I-” Eddie can’t look at her, so she looks at her own feet. “I’m not your boy, I’m your- I don’t really know. Girl? Something? Uh. If you still want me to be.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Eddie doesn’t look away from her feet.

But then, strong, warm arms wrap around her. A hand gently pushes her head into a neck. A pair of lips press into the top of her head.

“Oh E- baby,” Stevie says, softly. “I love you so much, no matter what. Of course you can be my girl, if you want.”

Eddie nods into Stevie’s neck, holding her so tight she’d be a little worried about hurting her if she wasn’t well aware Stevie was way stronger than she’d ever be. “Yes please,” she says, voice small.

Stevie presses another kiss to the top of Eddie’s head, pulls back to hold her face gently in her hands. “Love you so much, baby. And it’s with love that I have to ask- what the hell is wrong with you.” Eddie snorts, and Stevie smiles like that’s what she was aiming for. “That was the worst coming-out I’ve ever seen. And I’m including the way I came out to Dustin.”

Eddie fully laughs then, and Stevie smiles too. That really had been awful. Dustin had found Stevie’s collection of feminine clothes and underwear and had taken it upon himself to lecture her on how weird it was to keep ‘souvenirs’, until eventually Stevie had been so mortified by the picture he was painting that she had to come out just to get him to shut up. He’d since made up for it by being her staunchest defender (Eddie and Robin notwithstanding), but the whole thing was still painful enough that whenever he was being annoying Stevie could now get him to shut up with just a particularly pointed look.

“I know, it was- I got all up in my head,” Eddie says. She places her hand over Stevie’s, gently turns her head to place an apologetic kiss on her wrist, right against her pulse point. “I really am sorry. I love you.”

“I know. Now, at least. Although I hope you realise I’m gonna be using this against you for like, the rest of our lives. Good luck trying to get me to turn off the ABBA, considering you very briefly broke my heart.”

Eddie groans, just like Stevie wanted her too, but honestly ‘the rest of our lives’ sounds pretty good to her.

[wannab-urs]

Carry Me

This is a request fill for @atinylittlepain <3

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x student therapist!reader

Summary: You’re overwhelmed. Being a student at a very rigorous university and interning as a therapist for the local DV clinic is all getting to be too much. You’re on the verge of a nervous breakdown for real, but Dieter is there to lighten some of the burden.

Warnings/Content: hurt/comfort, a rare non smut fic, general anxiety and frustration about being a student therapist, Dieter being kind of an idiot, brief mention of SA and DV (literally just the acronyms, no description whatsoever), Dieter is able to pick you up, Dieter calls you Shrink and baby, you and Dieter are roughly the same age, brief mention of oral f!receiving, no use of Y/N, WC: ~1200

Notes: Thank you so much to @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin and @theywhowriteandknowthings for the beta read <3 Love y'all bunches. I was so excited to write this fic AHHH

Dieter Bravo Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

But you can carry me / I’m not heavy / I’ll grow extra arms / To hold onto your body Dig my fingernails / Into your shoulder / And you’re so steady /And you don’t tip over - Carry Me by Crooks and Nannies

You get home and look up at the stairs which have quite possibly never felt so daunting as they do right now. You had class from 8 this morning until noon, a 30 minute break in which you scarfed down some trail mix you found in your car and drove to the clinic, and then an extremely emotionally draining 4 hours of leading group SA and DV survivor therapy sessions followed by another 2 hours of paperwork. 

So now, roughly 12 hours after you left your apartment, you’re standing at the bottom of your stairs, feeling weighed down by your bag and by your life in general and dreading what you might find at the top. 

When you finally do make it upstairs, slip the key into the lock, push the door open, you’re desperately (delusionally) hoping to find a clean apartment. Maybe he cooked you dinner? Maybe he cleaned the living room and lit a candle? Maybe the bed is made and the laundry is put away? 

Of fucking course not. 

Dieter is sitting upside down on the couch, feet in the air and his head dangling off the cushion. He’s got a paintbrush in his teeth and a canvas propped against the coffee table. There’s a pile of laundry in the corner by the bed, dishes stacked precariously in the sink… 

“Dieter. What the fuck are you doing?” He drops the paintbrush from his teeth and you watch it clatter across the hardwood. Add paint on the floor to the pile of bullshit being heaped onto you today. 

“Painting!” He looks positively gleeful for a moment, but then he takes in your sagging shoulders, your wobbling lip, the way your eyes glint with tears. “Shrink? Baby, you okay?” Dieter does a surprisingly agile maneuver, rolling off the couch and onto his feet just as your chest starts heaving and the tears start to spill over. 

He crosses the room quickly, takes your bag and sets it on the floor of the entryway, wraps his big arms around you and pulls you into his chest. You crumple into him, letting him finally take your weight. He buries his nose in your hair, cradles your head to his chest and supports you with an arm wrapped tightly around your waist. Broken sobs and gasps for air are all you can manage, but he doesn’t ask you questions. He just whispers that everything is going to be okay, that he loves you, that you’re so strong. 

After a few minutes, you’re more sniffling than sobbing, and he grabs your face in his big hands. He swipes away a few tears, presses a kiss to your lips. You squirm away “Dieter I’m all snotty!”

“I don’t care, Shrink,” he kisses your tear streaked cheeks, your now fluttering eyelids, your forehead, then he sweeps you off your feet, picking you up bridal style. You shriek and stifle a giggle. 

“Oh my god, Dee, put me down,” you yell, trying to contain your giggles. 

“Sure thing, baby!” He dumps you on the couch, grabs his fluffy brown coat off the table and wraps it around your shoulders, sinks to his knees and pulls your sneakers off for you. He goes to the bed and pulls your favorite blanket from the tangled pile and tosses that over you too. “Here’s what’s gonna happen.”

“Di-”

“Nope, you’re listening to me, for once.” You roll your eyes and throw your head back into the soft velvet cushion of the couch. “I’m gonna make you a cup of tea, okay? You’re gonna drink the tea and you’re gonna make a list.” 

“A list?” You arch your eyebrow at him, a skeptical look in your eye.

“A list. You’re gonna write down everything you need to do for school AND everything you want to do this week. When you finish that, you’re gonna make a list of ways you can cut your workload. Can you do that for me, shrink?” You start to nod, but then you catch a glimpse of the laundry. 

“Dee the house–”

“Nope! That’s my problem, okay? Focus on your list. Tell me when you’re done.” He drops another kiss on top of your head and gets your bag for you, laying it on the table before running off to the kitchen. 

You pull out your journal and start making his stupid list and a few minutes in, he brings you tea, just the way you like it and in your favorite mug. He puts on a record at low volume and you can hear the water running in the sink. Dieter Bravo is doing the dishes. You never thought you’d see the day. 

You finish the first list of all the things you need to do for school and add Write and Watch a movie to the bottom for the things you would do if you ever had the fucking time. Dieter appears in front of you, reading your list upside down. 

“Knew you could do it, shrinky dink.” 

“Please stop calling me that.” 

“No. Now what can you do to reduce your workload?” He heads over to the bed and starts making it while you talk. 

“I could take this class as pass/fail instead of for a grade…” Your face pulls into a grimace at the thought.

“And why do you sound like that makes you want to die a little?” He says as he wrangles the sheet back onto the bed. 

“Because it feels like failing. Or cheating? I don’t know, D! Gina will hate me for it.” You toss your journal onto the coffee table and burrow into Dieter’s coat a little more. 

“Ok first of all, that woman adores you, but also,” he trails off as he focuses on stuffing a pillow back into its case. He sleeps like a tornado. “Also! There has to be something else you can do. Is your internship mandatory?” 

“I need to do it!” you drag your hands down your face and bang your head repeatedly into the soft cushion behind you. 

“Can you reduce your hours?” He’s next to you now, plopping down on the couch and pulling you over to sit across his lap. 

“Technically?” You bury your face in the crook of his neck, drape yourself over him and soak in his warmth, his steadiness. 

“Then that’s what you’re gonna do. And tonight, we’re gonna watch a movie. And then I’m gonna toss you onto our freshly made bed and I’m gonna eat you out til you’re so delirious you couldn’t think about your ‘workload’ if you tried.”

“What about the laundry?” 

“It can wait.” He kisses you softly again. You make an exasperated noise, but you let him grab the remote, pull up Netflix, put on a movie. You let him cradle you and kiss you.

Dieter isn’t perfect. He’s messy and forgetful and can’t hold down a job to save his fucking life. But he’s steady, soft, comforting. He’s understanding and kind and silly and a little bit brilliant.

You know that when everything gets too much for you to carry, he can carry you. 

[hunterssm00n]

Ready or Not

"Are you... one of my friends playing a prank on me?" It had to be. She didn't know where any of her friends would have gotten the Ghostface voice-changer, or why they would have even wanted to do such a thing.

The voice on the other end of the phone huffed out a laugh, and those same tingles went down her spine once again.

"No, but I'd like to be your friend." | Ghostface/OC |

part 1 of 2

also on ao3: here

*cw includes explicit sexual content, unspecified male Ghostface, dirty talk, dub-con, stalking, breaking and entering, criminal behavior, explicit language, praise kink, serial killer behavior, and voice kink*

♡˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ♡

hunterssm00n © All rights reserved by me. I do not allow this work to be used or adapted in any way without my permission.

Ready or not / here I come / you can't hide / I'm gonna find you...

It always begins the same, doesn't it? Young, cute woman, home alone, watching a scary movie and making a snack...

When suddenly, out of nowhere, the phone rings.

It's after eight - who could be calling at such an hour?

The number doesn't come up on caller ID; the name reads unknown. Could it be any more ominous?

It rings, and rings, and ri-

"You could just, like, not answer," Kailey said out loud to herself, shaking her head of long, dark hair at the TV screen for what seemed like the fiftieth time. The young woman on the screen paid her no mind - the dumb bitch never did - as she tearfully answered the phone once again to plead with the killer to leave her alone; to please stop calling. Kailey sighed, taking a sip of her vanilla Coke as she leaned back on the couch. She'd seen this movie about a hundred times, and she still was amazed at how dumb some of the characters were. The outcome was always the same, no matter how much she tried to warn them to Don't answer it! Look behind you! For fuck's sake, don't hide under the bed! And no matter how many times she knew she was just talking aloud to an empty room and her TV screen, she still continued to do it.

Regardless of her annoyance about the unwise decisions some people make during horror movies, she genuinely loved watching them. Her friends and family thought it was weird that she enjoyed horror movies so much, but she didn't really care what other people thought of her. Movies were her escape, and she always felt at peace when watching her favorites. 

The young woman on the screen was now running away from her patio window after a chair had been thrown through it, her tear streaked face pulled into a grimace as she ran wildly down the hallway away from the killer. Kailey found herself wondering, not for the first time, what she would do in that situation. Would she hang up and call the police? Hide? Escape the house? Honestly, she liked to think that she'd grab the biggest fucking knife she could find in the cupboard and stand her ground. Though she was slim and athletic, and barely reached five foot six, she knew she could put up a fight if she needed to. But maybe escaping the house and running to her car would be the safest, smartest option. Who knew, though. Thinking about it didn't harm anyone, though; one couldn't be too prepared. But one definitely could be unprepared. 

She was taking another sip of her Coke when her phone rang suddenly, scaring the daylights out of her and nearly making her drop the can and spill the addictive, sugary liquid all over the place. Wiping her mouth, heart pounding in her chest from the suddenness of it, she laughed to herself at the irony of the situation: here she was, watching a scary movie, alone in her home at night, and then, dun dun dunnn, her own phone rings in real life. Rolling her eyes, Kailey said out loud, "Ooh, spooky," and made a mental note to not answer the phone. But the more it rang, the more she wondered if maybe she should. If someone was calling her landline at eight fourteen at night, it could be important. Her cell was charging in the other room- maybe whoever it was had tried to reach her on there first, and when she didn't pick up, they called her home phone. Ugh, it better not be work. She decided to just let it go to voicemail- if it was something emergent, she would pick up... unless it was work. Then she would pretend she had fallen asleep early. 

Her plan failed, however, when she heard the telltale beeping of the answering machine that signaled the mailbox was full. "Shit." she muttered, leaning over the arm of the couch to look at the grey and black box, as though willing for it to share its secrets with her. It didn't help that her landline didn't have caller ID like most people's did- it was older, but since it still worked, she couldn't justify buying a new one. This was why she'd been counting on the answering machine picking up and being able to tell that way, instead.

Stop being a little bitch - man up and just answer the phone. If it's not anything important you can just hang up. Besides, who the hell else would be calling at this time of night anyways besides work or family? 

Before she got the chance to pick up, the answering machine hung up on the caller. For a moment she dumbly stared at the phone and the answering machine, and then she shrugged and turned back towards the slasher film that was still playing. The girl on the screen was now being chased by the killer, his long, black cloak flying out behind him as he ran after her, gleaming knife raised high in the air.

It was at this moment that the phone rang again, and this time Kailey leaned over towards the end table and picked the cordless, white handheld up off of the stand. If they were calling back so soon, it had to be something important. Maybe it was her mother. And since she hadn't answered the first time her mom, if it was in fact her, was probably wondering if she had fallen and cracked her head in the clawfoot bathtub; or if she had finally decided that going to bed at eight o clock in the evening was not, in fact, too early. As if. 

Without thinking any more about it, she reached over and answered the phone. "Hello?" 

"Hello, Kail." 

The voice startled her, and it wasn't any she'd been expecting; not the voice of her mother, or of her boss wanting her to come into work. It was a man's voice; low and pleasant, almost a purr, with a hint of a rasp to it. Come to think of it, it sounded a hell of a lot like- "Um, hi. Who is this?" she asked, equally pleasant but also wary. A bill collector wouldn't have greeted her like that - definitely not. It had to be someone who knew her; knew her voice. And only people that were close to her called her Kail - most called her Kailey. And she didn't have many close friends, and definitely none that were guys. Guys wanted to get in her pants, not be her friend. With her long, dark hair, large dark doe eyes, and her womanly athletic figure, she knew how men looked at her. And, hey, she wasn't above being a little bit of a tease.

"Just an... admirer." The voice was nice- really nice. It was an exact replica of the voice from the Stab movies, and also the Ghostface killings that tended to happen throughout the years in Woodsboro. Living there had its nightmares.

Kailey leaned back on the couch, really wishing the house phone had caller ID right about now. "An admirer, huh?" 

"Yeahh," the voice purred, and she found herself pressing the phone closer to her ear to take it in even more. It sent a chill down her spine - a good kind.

"Okay, well," She tried wracking her brain for someone, anyone, that had been super interested in her lately. Maybe someone at work - someone she talked to every day. She worked in the inventory department at the local hospital in Woodsboro, and she wasn't super friendly with any of her coworkers; they all got along, but she tended to keep to herself. Kailey was pretty observant, and no incidents stood out to her. No strange guys, no creeps following her or watching her from afar (that she'd noticed, at least). "Do I know you, Mr. Admirer?" 

"Maybe." was his reply. His voice sounded so damn amused, even only saying one word.

'Maybe'... Okay? Well, that certainly doesn't help me.

"Are you... one of my friends playing a prank on me?" It had to be. She didn't know where any of her friends would have gotten the Ghostface voice-changer, or why they would have even wanted to do such a thing. None of her friends really watched scary movies, and most of them did not know the number for her house phone. 

The voice on the other end of the phone huffed out a laugh, and those same tingles went down her spine once again. Whoever this is, their voice is sexy as fuck.

"No, but I'd like to be your friend." came the bemused reply to her question.

...Hmm, now she was really wondering who it was.

"Well," she began, smiling to herself and letting it seep into her voice, "it's kind of a weird time to ask to be my friend, on a Friday night at eight pm."

Now the voice on the other end chuckled, the sound deep and low, and cascading over her like a warm waterfall. The feeling ended with a zap straight down between her legs, and she squirmed on the couch, eyes flicking briefly to the movie she still had playing, but at this point had nearly forgotten about.

"Is there ever really a bad time to make a new friend?" he asked, and she rolled her eyes playfully, even knowing he couldn't see it.

"I guess not. So, tell me, friend, how'd you get my number?" She reached for her drink, wracking her brain on trying to figure out who this possibly could be.

"It was in the phonebook," he answered, lightly. Why did everything he said sound like he was flirting with her? And why was it so hot? 

She guessed phonebooks were still a thing (maybe for old people), but she could tell his answer was teasing, and probably not truthful. But maybe it was? It would certainly explain a lot. And it would mean that whomever this was on the other line had to at least know her name, in order to find her in the phonebook. She didn't know how many Kailey Miller's lived in Woodsboro, but it couldn't be that many. 

This speculation still wasn't getting her any closer to an actual answer, but... maybe that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Maybe some mystery was good, and also added to the attraction she was currently feeling. 

At this particular moment, the female character in the movie she still had playing gave a particularly piercing scream, and she reached for the remote in order to turn it down. 

"Are you watching a scary movie?" he asked, and she nearly laughed once again at the irony. Here was a caller with a (sexy) voice that sounded just like Ghostface, and they randomly called her while she was watching Stab. And now they were asking her about a scary movie. What the actual hell.

"Y-Yeah," She didn't know if she should answer him, or hang up the phone, lock all the doors and windows and call the police. "I am."

"Or do you normally have hysterical, screaming victims chained up in your house?" he added playfully. 

This got a laugh out of her. "Oh, yes - you've figured out my secret. Promise you won't tell the police?" She hoped she wasn't laying the flirting on too thick - it kind of made her want to gag. Her normal idea of flirting was making sarcastic comments and inappropriate jokes. But understandably to some people, that could be pretty off-putting. So unfortunately more often than not, she found herself trying to dum things down for the sake of others around her. 

There was a pause, in which Kailey could hear him breathing on the other end of the phone, and she really wondered if she had scared him off or if he was about to hang up. But then he spoke: "I won't tell if you won't." 

The words sent a chill down her spine, and the way he managed to make something like that sound so creepy and so hot at the same time was beyond her. And maybe she was crazy, but goddamn was it sexy. She'd never felt so attracted to another human being. Ever. 

And then the power flickered in her house. 

She wondered if she’d imagined it, at first. Her house was on the outskirts of Woodboro, surrounded by trees and green, but her house hardly ever lost power since she was still technically in town. Her mother had been very adamant about making sure they remained in the town, for the sole purpose of being close to everything that necessitated being close to. Be that the school, jobs, the hospital, the drugstore, etc. and they never lost power. Her mother had long since moved out of the area to a different town, but Kailey had inherited the house, and was very proud to call it her own. Right now, however, she was questioning the choice of location.

Kailey found herself looking up at the light above, wondering if it had actually flickered, or if she was finally officially losing her mind. 

“Whatcha looking at?” 

The question didn’t quite register at first, but when it did, it felt like everything paused. She slowly reached for the remote next to her on the couch cushion and paused the movie, wondering if he’d really said what she thought he’d said - what she was certain he’d said. “What… What did you say?” 

“I said: Whatcha doin?” 

She shook her head, feeling her stomach twist uncomfortably for the first time since she’d answered the phone. “No, you didn’t.” 

Suddenly a feeling crept over her like she’d never experienced: she had never been so certain that she was being watched. And she’d also never been more aware that she was sitting in front of a clear window with her back to it. 

Cold chills washed over her like never before, and she felt like she’d been plunged into a frozen lake. Survival instincts took over, and she slowly sank down on the couch so that she was no longer visible from the window behind her - however, she could still be seen from the front door, and the side window to the left of the couch. Especially with the lights on. So naturally, maybe not the smartest thing, but her first order of business was to kill the lights. She quickly got up and ran the short distance to the front door, and flicked off the light switch, at the same time flipping the locks on the front door, as it hadn’t been locked before - but it sure as hell was now! 

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like this - or if she’d ever felt like this. 

“Who turned out the lights?” came the playfully sinister voice from the other side of the window. She’d nearly forgotten she was still on the phone, as silly as that sounded, for that was the whole reason for all of this current madness and fear. 

The fact that he was watching her was now quite apparent. Outside of her home was surrounded by plenty of trees and brush to hide in; lots of shadows in the dark. And aside from her porch light, there was only one street lamp outside, directly across the drive from the house. And it was inconsistent when it came to whether or not it would be working, at any given moment. Either way, as she peered out through the window that looked out across the porch, she knew that she probably wouldn't be able to tell where he was hiding. And the fact that he knew where she was, but she didn't know where he was, scared her inexplicably beyond words. 

Swallowing hard, Kailey tried to hide the tremor in her voice as she spoke into the phone, "Listen, if this is a prank, congratulations - you've had your fun. Now, now get the fuck out of here before I call the police." 

A warm, breathy chuckle followed closely after her words, and she crept back away from the window towards the couch, "This isn't a prank, Kails. You should know that." 

She shook her head in confusion, "What do you mean? I don't understand - I should know what?" She tried to wrack her brain for anything that had happened recently that would indicate that she was deserving of a 'prank' like this. Sure, she had enemies - but so did everyone. But none that she knew of that would go this far to prove a point, or any of which that knew where she lived (that she knew of, at least). And again, she really didn't think any of her friends would want to pull a Ghostface prank on her - they were all freaked out by the murders, rightfully so, and they were all pretty straight laced for the most part. The more she tried to come up with answers, the more questions she had. 

There was a pause from the other end of the phone, a brief one, while her hand felt around on the couch cushion for the TV remote, wanting to turn the movie off to eliminate that source of light as well. She was crouched on the floor, eyes nervously darting around at all the windows and the door to make sure no one was trying to break in. And then, he said: “You want this.” 

Her hand froze on the couch cushion, as did her whole body; as did her very breath. “W-What?” 

“Yeah, that’s right,” His voice was so husky and warm, and despite her fear she felt a pleasant tingling in her lower back, her heart beginning to race for a different reason. “You’ve been thinking about this for quite some time - wanting it, dreaming about it. You think nobody would ever understand. You think it’s wrong to want something so dirty. But it’s not wrong. And I understand.” 

Kailey still hadn’t managed to grab onto the remote - she was forced to listen to what he was saying with her cheeks heating, red in shame, and… something else. What was even going on? What the hell was happening to her? 

“I don’t know what you think you know,” she began, a tremor in her voice, though she tried to make it as serious and steely as possible, “but if you’re trying to scare me, good luck. It’s you who’s gonna be fucking scared if I have to come out there with my gun.” 

He chuckled again, and the hair on the back of her neck rose once again at the sound. “Oh, sweetheart, you don’t have a gun.” 

While she internally bristled at the confidence of his statement (and at the fact that he was absolutely correct), she also preened at the pet name as well as the tone of his voice. And, not that he needed to know this, but she absolutely did not have a gun. But damn, would one be helpful right about now. “As long as you leave now you won’t have to find out.” 

“Feisty girl,” he purred, and she heard some rustling in the background of his call for the first time. “I can’t wait to see how feisty you truly are.” 

“I can’t wait to see your fucking face when the cops show up and arrest your dumbass for trespassing and harassment.” She finally was able to turn off the TV when her hand found the remote. If this was a prank, it was long past the point of being funny. Now she was just plain pissed off - and scared. “I’m not kidding, asshole, you’d better leave, or else.” That fine tremor was still in her voice, and as much as she tried to project it to make her voice sound more aggressive, she could barely get it out at an audible octave. Right now all of her energy was being expended on thoughts of survival and on what to do next. 

This was probably a prank, though. It had to be… right? If she went into work on Monday and someone was going around talking about how they pranked her and ‘she was so scared, dude!’, she was gonna lose her effing mind, and heads were gonna roll. As soon as she found out which jackass from the hospital came here to terrorize her on a Friday night, she would make them regret it. But until then, she would feel safer with a weapon of some kind, and with the police alerted. They took these Ghostface pranks very seriously. 

“Why would I leave now?” the voice questioned, and she heard a noise that sent her pulse skyrocketing even higher than it already had been: footsteps on her front porch. “We’re just getting started.” 

She barely registered the telltale scrape of the mailbox cover being pulled down from against the outside wall of the house next to the front door - where the spare key to the house was kept - before she bolted out of the room with terror hot on her heels. Who was this person, and how did they know where she kept the spare key to her house? The exact spot? Granted, it wasn’t a very hard spot to find, but still. He had found it with no hesitation whatsoever - he’d had a preconceived idea of where it had been before he even came up onto the porch. That meant only one thing: whoever he was, he’d been watching her. For a while. 

And now he was coming into her house. 

♡˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ♡

AN: I do not own the Scream franchise or any of it's characters, but Kailey is my own OC. I also do not own the song 'Ready or Not' by Razakel. The above photos are from Pinterest, and attached are the links to the original images.

part two coming soon

[honeybee2807]

Forgotten Memories: The Hidden Oracle

Chapters 5 and 6

Note: This was meant to be one chapter but while writing, I got interrupted so I posted it in ao3 midway. So take it like one chapter.

Camp Half-Blood was enormous. Lester's eyes went wide when they landed on a big and majestic place which Percy called the big house. He was fascinated and slightly overwhelmed when he noticed a few kids taking care of a strawberry field!(Why would Camp Half Blood have a strawberry field?!) He whizzed around excitedly when he saw the arts and crafts center. His jaw dropped when he saw the dining pavilion which had a huge crack at the floor.

"This is big enough for skeletons to enter through," Lester had exclaimed.

Percy nervously laughed, "About that..."

As he stared at Percy incredulously, Lester decided to not pursue further into the conversation lest he got a headache bigger than the crack.

Despite the ginormous camp, there only seemed to be very few campers("It's winter. Many of the campers left for school," Percy had explained when he had asked about it.)

As they headed for the cabins(There were twenty of them!), Lester felt awe as the cabins appeared more enormous and imposing. The biggest was made of white marble and had pillars which surrounded a bronze door with lightning bolts streaked out. Lester shuddered, remembering his embarrassing panic attack he had earlier.

"The Zeus Cabin," Percy announced as he waved his arms uselessly in what was supposed to be a grand gesture.

"He's the thunder guy, isn't he?" Lester quietly asked. A deafening boom made Lester cringe. "That answers it"

Afterwards, Percy showed the rest of the cabins.

("This is my dad's cabin! God of the seas and the earth shaker" Percy exclaimed when they reached a very blue cabin. "The best cabin of them all.")

("This is the Hermes cabin. God of traveller's and thieves and a whole lot of other stuff. Including cattle. He takes all the unclaimed campers so you'll be here for a while until you get claimed.")

("This is Mr. D's cabin. He's the camp director and the god of wine. He's been sent here as a punishment.")

Then they reached a beautiful and gold cabin.

"This seems nice," Lester murmured as he unconsciously stepped closer. The only decor seemed to be breathtakingly pretty flowers. Lester had the urge to pluck some of them but it probably was illegal to do so.

"This one is Apollo's cabin," Percy said as he curiously stared at Lester. "God of poetry, music, medicine, archery and gods know what else"

Lester went quiet for a while after that.

Later, Percy decided that it was a good idea to abandon him("Gotta go home! I need my cookies!") in the middle of the tour so Lester decided to explore the rest of the camp by himself.

Walking up to what he assumed to be some sort of amphitheater, Lester went though the entrance to find various instruments of different sizes and shapes lying about and a cacophony of noises. A few campers were seated in the room enthusiastically attempting to play what seemed to be the minor scale and miserably failing. A girl seemed to be choking the clarinet which produced sounds similar to a dying person. The way a boy was gripping the guitar, he must've wanted to break something. The only camper who had perfected the music was a dark skinned boy who was practicing on his violin flawlessly. A man with goat legs(a satyr Lester recalled from what Percy had explaned), stood up quickly to invite Lester in.

Suddenly a loud snap could be heard. The boy with the guitar(who Lester later learned was Damian) had broken the D string and one of the girls looked furious. 

“You killed it!” the girl scowled. “I needed to use that guitar!”

“Shut up, Lucky,” Damien muttered. “In the real world, accidents happen. Strings snap sometimes.”

Lucky(Was that her actual name?) started cursing in Italian. 

Lester suddenly felt a surge of impulse as he whipped his hand out and asked, "May I?" 

Damian hesitated before slowing handing the guitar to him. 

'What was I thinking? How would I know how to restring this? I don't even know where extra strings are' Lester internally panicked. 

Looking around, Lester spotted a guitar case. I wonder... Sure enough, there were extra strings inside.

Lester felt a sense of deja vu when replacing the string. He felt like he had done the same thing hundreds of times with how familiar and oddly comforting the action was. He adjusted the pitch, but stopped when he realized that the girl who played the clarinet was sobbing. 

“That was so beautiful!” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “What was that song?”

Lester blinked. “Erm.. It's tuning.”

“Yeah, Valentina, control yourself,” Damien chided, though his eyes were red. “It wasn’t that beautiful.”

“No.” Lucky sniffled. “It wasn’t.”

Only the violin boy seemed unaffected. He grinned widely though Lester couldn't figure out why. As he started to strum the scale, Lester started to feel a sense of power and energy. It seemed as if he had practised the guitar for four thousand years. Lester was invincible, he was at his turf and no one could defeat him. 

He looked up to find Lucky and Damian sobbing into each other's shoulders. Valentina was shaking and even the violin boy went teary eyed. 

Lester felt awkward. "Erm.." Suddenly his hand seized up and the guitar fell to the floor with a clang. All the power Lester felt disappeared, leaving him vulnerable. His fingers, which were now marred in red lines, were throbbing and he felt a bit lightheaded. 

Flushing in embarrassment as others looked at him in alarm and concern, he mumbled, "I just got tired." 

“Well, yeah.” Valentina nodded. “The way you were playing was unreal!”

Lester started to blush. "It's just some scales! You got emotional over scales!"

"But those are some good scales," the violin boy said as he held out his hand. "My name's Austin Lake. My dad's Apollo." 

Lester shook the hand. "My name's Lester. I don't know who my godly parent is."

Austin grinned. "Well, I have some suspicions on who your parent is."

He clapped Lester on his back. "Mind coming over to Apollo cabin so we record YouTube videos"

Lester felt a smile blooming on his face when he realized he made a friend. "It's a deal!"

Lester was in the middle of exploring the rest of the camp(Seriously why were there lava walls?) when he was stopped by the centaur, who stated that he needed to go to archery lessons. Archery seemed cool.

It wasn't as successful as the music lesson. But as a first timer, he seemed to do alright. He even scored a bullseye! After a few embarassing misses which he will not mention at all.

As he practised more and more, he was more and more successful at not missing the target board and actualling hitting the blue ring. Until his hand decided to cramp up again.

"Ow!" Lester whined as he cradled his hands. Damn, where was the weird golden healing flash when he needed it?

"Hey" The archery instructor, Kayla Knowles, came over to him. "Your shots are very good for a person who shoots first time. You just need to improve your form. Here's how it..." Kayla looks over Lester's shoulder. "Wait what is he doing?"

Lester followed her gaze.

A boy was walking slowly, trancelike, into the woods.

"Huh?" Lester asked. 

"Sherman Yang. Why is he going to the woods? It's dangerous there," Kayla gasped. 

They both decided to follow him. As soon as they reached the tree line, the forest darkened. The temperature dropped. A woman whispered in Lester's ear. It was a hauntingly familiar voice that he couldn't pinpoint. You did this to me. Come. Chase me again.

Lester felt disorienting confusion and another massive wave of deja vu. 

Both started running towards Sherman. Lester's lungs were about to collapse and his legs would burn if he ran any further. Luckily they were close enough to grab his arm. 

“Sherman.” Kayla tugged at him. Sherman attempted to shake her which failed since he seemed sluggish and dazed. He eyes started fluttering. 

“No. Ellis. Got to find him. Miranda. My girl.” Sherman moaned. 

Lester glanced at Kayla for explanation.

“Ellis is from the Ares cabin,” she said. “A few campers started going missing in the woods. Ellis is one of them”

Lester felt a chill run through him. "And... What about Miranda?" 

“Sherman and she started dating about a week ago.”

Sherman struggled to free himself. “Find her.”

“Miranda is right over here,” Lester improvised. “We’ll take you there.”

Sherman stopped fighting. His eyes rolled until only the whites were visible.

“Over…here?”

“Yes.”

“Ellis?”

“Yes, it’s me,” Lester lied, looking uncomfortably at Kayla. “I’m... I'm Ellis.”

“I love you, man,” Sherman sobbed.

Still, it took all their strength to take him from the woods and lead him to the archery range. 

At some point, Sherman snapped out of his daze and shook them off. 

“What is this?” he demanded.

“You were walking into the woods,” Lester said.

He gave a glare that would incinerate Lester if looks killed. “No, I wasn't, newbie.”

Kayla reached for him,“Sherman, you were in some kind of trance. You were muttering about Ellis and Miranda.”

Sherman went red “I don't remember that. Why should I believe you?”

“You were hypnotized. It was scary! " Lester pleaded. "Something or someone must've  controlled you!" 

“Enough!” Sherman snapped. “If either of you mention this, I’ll make you eat your quivers. I don’t need people questioning my self-control."

Then Sherman stomped away. Lester stared at the ground before looking at Kayla. "You mentioned missing campers earlier. Do you think... Do you think these two are related?"

"I don't know," Kayla mumbled.

"Something spoke to me. You know? Back in the woods. It felt like the woods were talking to me," Lester confessed. "I think... something is off with the woods" 

Entire work:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48825898?view_full_work=true

[brilliantfantasticgeronimo]

wild blue yonder

the tardis can regenerate itself...... !!! I mean, wait we knew that already kjhkjh but I just connected the dots now that... that means The Time Lords mined and mauled the child just to make their cars better, as well. Damn...

in classic who u used to have to use ur imagination to pretend everything wasn’t a wobbly set... now u have to use ur imagination to pretend everything isn’t a greenscreen :/

"is that who i am now?" the shocking thing isn’t that he is gay (that’s what donna interprets) the shock to himself is voicing how horny he is lol

Someone is gonna say gravity and that's gonna be fucking weird

"it would take trillion years to get that far” chills!

"no one is ever been this far. till us. and this ship" colonialism fiction dna shining thru

“you little streak” <3

"she'll move on" "not shaun, he'll go to that alleyway every year..." \ten at the alleyway to see rose parallel....

Ghost aroma!!!

blue and orange motif....…………… 13 aesthetic moments.... [13 and Swarm coded? / aka entropy/life coded?/donna and the doc...]

“maybe there's a tribe and they worship it… (…) time passes and the city falls... and there's the tardis" beautiful!! I'm could do somth w/ re: w/ the doctor and their companions. (eyes emoji)

"it got complicated" UNDERSTATEMENT OF A CENTURY #2

"The notion of shape is strange." "it limits" literally current architecture theory

This is so nofna solar system-core

love a classic “anti matter hates matter” story

[the no-bodies…?....cousins to the the could have been king ... with his army of never wheres…?]

This feels very [doctor trying to figure out their body in each regeneration] [intentionally?] this is so end of evangelion poster-core

"it’s strange enough my face coming back, but not this big" / [metaphor for reboots?]

This episode is like the clamoring for us to get a castrovalva 2 escher-like world again next season

"that's not gonna work either" i love these idiots

"why does it have to be one last trip?" rtd ringing moffat / gatiss / gardner / etc and being like like -

ok but follow this reasoning: if the doctor is the same person bc they keep their memories (as the show makes a point of.... constantly) ... and if the memories make the person ... then indeed an entity that copies the memories is the same person, is it not? Where do we draw the line between who’s “real” and who isn’t, in this scenario?

A CREATION I DEVASTATED / literally watched WoM two seconds before this w/ ten all "everything i do just makes it happen" sdjsdkf this is what i mean when i say the doctor has never Processed anythingggg since that Bottom Pit moment

"it wasn't your fault" "i know! (but it stil sucks!!!)" me at therapy like

"WHY DOES HE NEED YOU?" me, Pavlovian tone: because he is lonely...

“when something is gone, it keeps existing” → highlight this!!!! this is gonna be the new thesis statement about Grief!!! this is gonna be The Point for the next 4 years lol

It's very fun to watch this after marath6ning all of ten's era bc it's like... that boy never processed any of that shit. did 11 process shit? did 12? 12 maybe a little but really i think they just got even more trauma (bill ): ) dkdksks and don't get me started on 13. basically what im saying is the doctor Never did get a break on between waters of mars up until now... [and i guess to go further never did get a break after since like....... freaking ghost light skskskskkjkj seven is still There. we don't think about that enough.]

Donna being a clone fucker is not a headcanon ever thought i had but im glad its been confirmed now "donma doesn't think she"s stupid" im sure rtd has launched this exact same rant on so some unwilling family members while browsing ao3 "stop copying and make up your own minds" social commentary / commentary on reboots again / core "individualism > society" dr. who 101 messaging

The not things are kinda.... cute? skdksk if they weren't murderous they look like ppl to hang out w/ and play videogames......

"what do you want?" "you tell us" fundamental doctor-companion dialogue....

"love letters don't travel very far" put a pin on that...

ok.... ARGHGHGHH LET ME THINK THINK THINK skskks me failing at CBT be like

What if the doctor is from our universe. what then the doctor being like we have to mill ourselves immediately feels very 13

this is like "what if turn left and midnight but they go through it together this time <3" fic "where the walls are thin and anything is possible" eyes emoji

"that copy was 99% donna" so maybe re:earlier... what the show is saying between copy vs real is that it's all about the x factor, the 1%....

CONCLUSIONS! lived up to the hype! i think it's a bit 13-era vibe in that it's clearly influenced by all the prestige space-base-isolation scifi we see in the ~cinema now every year. the aesthetic is hitting that vibe (and going to the root, there's also a very clear Alien influence). kinda wish we had more one offs just like this one :( bc i feel the other 2 specials have too much Work to do, so there's not enough time to do.Fun like lore and character stuff. Execution wise is very successful. the switcheroos work. the callbacks work. there's a lot of character stuff happening ("I just realized I'm still working through that!") but it doesn't interfere w/ the adventure itself. My one grip is there's a couple shots that do feel too green-screen-y, but overall the ep is visually amazing. def only a story you could do now. also I love that the NMDs were like "rtd is gonna retcon the timeless child!!! everyone hated it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and he was like "cool. now watch this" lollll king moments. rare moments where it feels like we live in the best timeline.

[dropthedemiurge]

We were talking on AO3 about how we wish Nick would take care of Sand being hurt after episode 10 as well (there's lovely fic, pls check it out!) but my thoughts ended up trying to combine the canonical fact that Nick went to see Boston at that time, amd I ended up writing down notes of unusual BostonNickSand friendship

Here's the snippet:

Nick hugs him, and Sand sniffs and melts into his arms, but doesn't seem to cry. Nick wonders if Sand knows how to stop being composed and contained, if he even knows how to let go. He probably hates himself just for letting those two stray tears escape and mark his face with wet streaks. So Nick buries him deeper into his embrace, whispering comforting words, until he feels like Sand slowly gets more solid – finding the strength to stand on his own, exhaling his long-held misery with the puff of hot air against Nick's shoulder.

He hears the click and raises up eyes to see Boston – thankfully, being silent. His eyebrows furrowed – but not in anger, in concentration as he searches for something shown through the lens, tweaking the camera. Nick silently praises himself for taking a successful guess: switch Boston to his professional mode, to his ultimate interest, and that's when his real self comes out, rid of most of defenses, sharp thorns and words that he always directs at others. Boston with the camera is a more gentle person, and this time it shows too, in the way of him fading to the background, as Nick closes his eyes and holds tighter Sand, who takes few minutes to forget himself and break down.

And then I have 2k words of incomprehensible - for now - ideas xD

[hairstevington]

flowers and ink (part 8)

Eddie Munson x Steve Harrington

Summary: Chrissy stops by the shop to have a necessary conversation. Speaking of necessary conversations, Eddie pays a visit to Steve afterwards.

part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, link to Ao3

Word Count: 2.6K

Warnings: TattooArtist/Florist modern day AU, this one gets kind of emotional actually??? Deep conversations about their pasts, pretty on-par with canon stuff, and then a very sweet ending :)

A/N: Okay, you guys - we're headed to the finish line! After this I most likely will just post one more chapter as an epilogue of sorts. Thank you to all who have followed along!! I never expected this one to get this much love!!

Steve and Eddie saw each other for three days in a row over their first three dates. After that, neither of them wanted to break their streak. 

Yeah. They were both totally obsessed with each other.

They didn’t go on dates every night, but they’d at least visit each other during breaks on days when they both worked. And they texted constantly. Eddie even joined in on Robin and Steve’s movie night, which apparently was a big deal. They’d only ever let one other person crash their movie night, a surrogate little brother figure of Steve’s who was friends with Will. 

Steve still never pressed Eddie for more information about his past, which was great, but the weird thing was that Eddie actually wanted to tell Steve about his life. 

That was a first.

It probably didn’t help that it was all on his mind from seeing Gareth and Chrissy over the weekend. Just a lot of reminders of what happened and what he left behind. He tried to remind himself of how he was happier now, and the new life he’d built for himself, but he still felt guilty. 

So, when Chrissy showed up to Ink About It, Eddie wasn’t the least bit surprised, and he knew exactly what she wanted to know.

“Hey,” she said with a warm smile. “Do you have some time to squeeze me in?”

“Always,” Eddie replied, gesturing for her to join him in the office. “So, are we getting a tattoo today or just addressing the elephant in the room? Or, maybe you want a tattoo of a giant elephant in a room? Let me know and I’m at your service. I owe it to you, after all.”

He was rambling. He knew he was. But he was nervous and embarrassed and a ton of other things. The truth was, he’d loved Chrissy in high school. Like real, deep, meaningful love, and then he cut her off. He cut everyone off, but that was no excuse.

“I’m not mad at you, you know,” Chrissy said. The sentence made Eddie stop dead in his tracks and spin around to face her. “Not anymore, anyway.”

“That’s, uh, good,” Eddie stuttered. He was eased by the fact that Chrissy seemed a bit nervous, too. 

“Well,” she said on an exhale. “You heard my side of things at the show. Your turn.”

Thank God the tattoo shop was dead. He didn’t have an appointment for another hour, and it was during their slowest time of day so he doubted anyone would walk in. 

“Thanks for saying all that, by the way,” Eddie replied. “You could have made me sound like a real dick.” 

The way that Chrissy had painted their whole relationship in a positive light was the only reason he’d been able to hold it together during and after the show. If she’d talked shit about him on that stage, he probably would have skipped town a second time due to humiliation. 

But she didn’t do that. 

“Yeah, well, lucky for you, I didn’t write the show when I was eighteen,” she teased. “Although there are some very angsty poems in a journal somewhere that I should probably burn.” Eddie laughed, then nodded in understanding.

“I have some….really angsty songs that have never seen the light of day,” he noted. 

“Oh, I bet. The ones I did hear were already pretty scary,” she joked, laughing lightly. 

Eddie used to play all of his original songs for her. Well, almost all of them. There was one he wrote about how he was pretty sure he liked men that he never got the chance to show her. In any case, the way she was still joking and being her familiar sweet self (as opposed to her badass, confident stage persona) made Eddie feel a bit more relaxed. He took a deep breath, noticing the way she was waiting for him to speak. 

Here goes nothing. 

“I didn’t graduate, Chris,” he began. Her eyes went wide.

“What?! No, you - you did. We graduated together. You just didn’t go because you were sick.”

“I didn’t go because I got busted for selling and then was expelled,” Eddie admitted. “I was barely passing my classes anyway. Most of the teachers took pity on me just so I didn’t have to retake the year. But then uh - well, yeah. I got kicked out.”

“But I didn’t -” Chrissy was completely stunned. “I had no idea.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he replied. 

He hadn’t. The only person that knew was his uncle. Wayne was the only family member that gave a shit about Eddie, so naturally he was Eddie’s phone call the day of the arrest. Wayne bailed him out and, next thing Eddie knew, he was in Hawkins. 

“Anyway,” Eddie continued. “I was so embarrassed I just…left and didn’t look back. At the time I thought you were better off without me, honestly. You said it yourself - before you met me, you hadn’t even smoked before.”

“Before I met you I was -” Chrissy scoffed and shook her head, baffled. “I start the show talking about the day I met you for a reason. It’s because my life began that day, Eddie. You weren’t some bad influence that corrupted me, you were an escape from - from my shitty friends and my even shittier mom. And you were what sparked me to figure out who I was, and that’s special to me. You were my best friend. And you could have told me.”

Her final sentence stung, but it was a good kind of sting. His secret was finally on the table, and she was still there. She was still supporting him. 

“I know that now,” he replied. “I’ve wanted to reach out for ages, but it felt like the more time that went by-”

“I understand,” she said, nodding. “I get it. It’s okay, I just - I missed you.”

Chrissy closed the gap between them and hugged him tightly, an embrace that Eddie quickly accepted. 

“I missed you too,” he responded. They held each other for a few extended moments, then broke away, a tension off their shoulders. “Do you live here now?”

“For the time being,” she answered. “Argyle and I move around a lot. We just kind of point somewhere on a map and go.”

“Shit, and you ended up here?” Eddie asked, surprised. “That’s, like, a crazy coincidence.”

“Yeah, well Argyle always tells me that we end up exactly where we’re meant to go,” Chrissy responded, smiling. 

“I like that guy,” Eddie said, nodding. 

“Of course you do,” she teased. “You’re both weird stoners with awesome hair.” Eddie laughed, flattered at the compliment. He took a moment to look at her - the way she looked just as she did, but so different at the same time. More laugh lines in her face, for one. Her hair was shinier and fuller. There was more color to her skin. Eddie wondered if that was what happiness looked like. 

“Just so we’re clear,” Eddie said, needing to say one last thing before they moved on. “What you said about me on stage the other day -” He didn’t need to specify. Chrissy spoke about their relationship fondly and candidly. “It was the same for me.”

“I know,” she replied, smiling more brightly now. “Okay! So, we finally got that out of the way.”

“Finally,” Eddie echoed. “Now what?”

“Now,” she started, “we talk about your boyfriend and his ridiculously hot friend.”

Eddie chuckled, then nodded. 

“Okay, well first of all, he’s not my boyfriend.” Chrissy eyed him, knowingly, which he chose to ignore. 

“Whatever,” Chrissy dismissed. “Figures we’re both queer, by the way. I love that for us.”

“They say we travel in packs,” Eddie joked. Chrissy nodded in agreement. “Anyway, Robin’s awesome. Have you gone out with her yet?”

“Tonight!” Chrissy responded. “And I’m very excited. That’s another reason I came here. I wanted to clear the air in case you come up in conversation, because it seems like anything I tell her will just go straight to your boyfriend -”

“Not my boyfriend,” Eddie reminded her, smirking. 

“Why not?  I saw the way you look at each other,” Chrissy noted. 

“Because it’s only been a few weeks,” Eddie pointed out. 

“And?” she prodded.

“It’s too soon,” Eddie insisted, pretending to scratch at a spot on his cheek to hide the blush creeping up his face. “Moving on.”

“Moving on,” Chrissy replied with a smug grin. 

She stuck around the tattoo shop to catch up until his next appointment, and it felt a lot like old times. Eddie thought for the longest time he’d burned every bridge from his hometown, but recently he’d learned that he’d left the water underneath unscathed. 

Who needed a bridge when Chrissy and Gareth could swim?

-

Steve worked at a literal flower shop, and yet he was just starting to truly understand the expression, ‘stop and smell the roses.’

He was in total bliss. Things with Eddie were great. It had been a long time since Steve had felt such an easy connection with someone. They clicked on pretty much every level. And, best of all, Eddie got along with Robin too. If she approved of him, that basically meant - well, it was a big deal.

So, he felt lighter at work now. He was better at handling customers. He started to memorize the things Robin used to constantly have to remind him of. Being around plants all day almost made him feel high - like the air was better or something. Actually, Steve wasn’t the most academic guy, but he was pretty sure being around plants and flowers all day did give him a better oxygen supply. He kept telling himself to ask Robin or Google it, but then he’d get distracted thinking about Eddie. 

The joys of the honeymoon phase. 

It was the night that Robin was going to go out with Chrissy for the first time. She was, naturally, a ball of nerves, but in a good way. Steve had high hopes for their date. 

“You are way too happy lately,” Robin told him. “It’s spooky.”

“Yeah, well -” Steve began, stumbling on a response. “Get used to it.” 

He sent her off, and then checked his phone. 

Eddie: Can I stop by?

Okay, normally that kind of text would send Steve into blind panic, but he tried to remain optimistic. This could be a nice surprise visit, not a devastating one. He sat in the silent apartment for approximately 30 seconds before the overthinking began.

The last time he’d seen Eddie, everything was fine. Nothing out of the ordinary. Although, Steve had never been the most observant. He wracked his brain going over their last interactions to see if he’d maybe missed something. 

Oh, shit. Never mind, he was for sure panicking. 

Steve: Of course! Robin left so it’s just us 🙂 ETA?

Eddie: On my way now, see you soon!

Well, at least he was using punctuation. Although, that didn’t mean anything necessarily. Steve had been dumped a few times, and -

No, come on. He was not about to get dumped. They weren’t even officially together, so an in-person visit to end things wouldn’t make sense. 

This was fine. Everything was fine. 

The door opened ten minutes later. Thank god. 

“Hey,” Eddie greeted as he walked in. He seemed a little nervous, but not upset. “How was your day?”

If he was going to break up with Steve, he wouldn’t have bothered with the pleasantries, right? 

“It was good, how was yours?” Steve asked, doing his best impression of a Chill Person™.

“Chrissy stopped by the shop today,” Eddie began. “And we just - I hadn’t talked to her in so long, and it was really nice.”

Steve let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in.

“That does sound nice,” he replied. 

“Listen, Steve, I -” Eddie shifted his weight back and forth on his feet. “There’s a lot about my life I don’t talk about. Like, from before I moved here. I hadn’t told anybody about it until today, actually.”

“Dude, were you in the mob or something?” Steve asked, completely lost. “Just tell me what’s going on before I burst.”

“Wait, why are you nervous?” Eddie wondered.

“Uhh, because you sent me an ominous text message asking if you could ‘stop by’ and you’re taking for-goddamn-ever in telling me why,” Steve joked. Eddie literally facepalmed. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ. You’re right, my bad.” Steve chuckled in relief. “No, it’s not - that’s not why I came over, trust me.”

“Okay, cool.” Steve waited for Eddie to continue. “So?”

“I just - I feel like I have to tell you something.”

“Okay, now you’re doing the ominous thing again,” Steve said, rolling his eyes playfully. “Come on, talk to me.”

“I was arrested when I was eighteen for selling drugs to minors,” Eddie blurted out. His eyes went wide, as if he hadn’t expected the words to actually come out. “I mean, to high school students. And it was just weed, by the way.” Steve crossed his arms, waiting for more. 

“Okay,” he said, relatively unfazed. 

“You’re not - wait, why aren’t you judging me?”

“Because I bought weed all the time in high school. That’s not much different.”

“I mean, it’s a little different,” Eddie argued. “But okay. Well I - I never graduated high school, either. I don’t have a diploma.”

“Okay,” Steve repeated. “Do you need one?”

“I - well, no, but - what are you - how do - but - I -”

“Okay, woah,” Steve said, chuckling. He walked to Eddie and put a hand on each side of him. “You know I was a mess when I was a teenager too, right? I already told you about some of the shit I got into. I also started a lot of fights - and I lost all of them, by the way. I’m pretty sure if I get one more concussion I’ll die. And I have a diploma, but I didn’t get into any colleges -”

“You mean you don’t care about anything I just told you?” Eddie asked, confused. “You don’t think of me any differently?”

“What? No, why would I?” Steve answered casually. “I used to be a total asshole, and I should have gotten a lot worse than I did. I was just lucky and rich, that’s all.”

“You were rich?” Steve chuckled. 

“Yeah, past tense,” he clarified. “I was such an asshole that my parents disowned me the second I turned eighteen.” 

“Shit,” Eddie said, exhaling. Steve’s hands slid down Eddie’s arms to his hands, fingers interlocking. 

“I don’t care about that stuff,” Steve assured him. “You don’t still sell drugs, right?”

“No,” Eddie replied, shaking his head. 

“Just like I’m not an asshole anymore,” Steve continued. “Right?”

“You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met, I think,” Eddie responded quickly. Once again, he seemed alarmed at what he was saying. 

“That sounds…impossible,” Steve teased, leaning in to kiss Eddie gently on the cheek. “But I’ll take it.”

Eddie could literally feel his heart warming in his chest. He’d spent years holding all of this inside, and carrying so much shame within him. But he’d gotten forgiveness from Chrissy, and Steve was entirely unbothered. 

Steve - the Flower Boy who took Eddie completely by surprise in the best way. He’d never imagined falling so hard for a guy like him, yet here he was. It was like what Argyle apparently said - we all end up where we’re meant to go. 

Eddie fully intended on befriending Argyle next, by the way.

“Hey, Steve?” Eddie whispered, their foreheads pressed together. 

“Yeah?”

“You wanna be my boyfriend?”

He didn’t plan on asking this particular night. As he’d told Chrissy, they hadn’t been dating very long, and it was still early. But Eddie was on a roll, and the moment felt right.

Steve smiled, confirming that he felt it, too.

“Yeah, I’d love to be your boyfriend.”

(final part)

-------------------

@paintballkid711 @abraca-fxckyou @allbimyself26 @jellybabiesforall @allbymyselfexceptformycactus @justaloadofgarbage-blog @alliemunsonsstuff @undreamingnscatworld @hobbitnarwhal @calivanus @wreckmyplans-thatsmyman @antheia @goodolefashionedloverboi @lillemilly @missmagillicuddy @gamerdano @menamesniall @eyeslikewildflowers111 @callmesirkay @stringischeese @eds-trashmouth @mnl-enuh @redfreckledwolf @itsanarrum @soulsofstarsliveinyourveins @stevesbipanic @momotonescreaming @aryakanojiaa @wrenisflying @comicmadlover @lilacrobin @itch-my-b0nez @anonymousbandgirl @disastardly @dangdirtydemons @daisyellsong @val-from-lawrence @starryeyedpoet17 @taikawaiteatea @clumsiluni @hollysimone @swimmingbirdrunningrock @witchofhawkins @steddiegarbage @suddenlyinlove @ricekristytreaty @eddielives1986 @bunnyweasley23 @thefailcollection @ppunkpuppyy @bestwifehaver @httpsphynx @irregular-child @skjachukson @deadfromtheneckdown

[jilyarchive]

OCTOBER AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT: MISSGRYFFIN

Q: Where can we find you and your stories?

A: @missgryffin​, AO3

Q: How would you describe your writing style?

A: Intense, sexy, snappy, and fast-paced. I have a rampant imagination and love a good sexual tension build-up, so my fics usually include a lot of plot, drama, and (of course) smut.

Q: How do you come up with ideas for your writing?

A: It’s such a grab-bag. A pretty substantial number of my fics have originated from prompts, actually! I also draw a lot on TV shows/movies I’ve seen, novels I’ve read, tropes I see that I’m inspired to try, etc. Also, I find that a lot of my ideas actually form while I’m writing. I’ll go in with a sense of direction, but it’s not until I’m writing and really in the thick of it that the details take shape, and then new ideas begin to spout off from there, based on what I learn about what the characters and story need.

Q: When and why did you begin writing fanfiction?

A: Technically, during the two-year wait between the releases of books 5 and 6, because I was utterly HP obsessed, my imagination was in overdrive thinking about what could happen in the final two books, and I had discovered MuggleNet fanfiction / FFN by that point, so I’d been devouring all of that early era of HP fanfic. I actually have a giant binder of my own fanfic writing from that period; I would type up stories in Word, format them with fun fonts and fan art covers I found online, and print them out for myself. (Which, I still do this!) Fun fact: there’s even a Marauders story in there that I had completely forgotten about that has a striking resemblance to the bones of Eternal Summer. It genuinely freaked me out a little when I found it, ha! 

 But even though I wrote creatively through most of my childhood/school phases of life, I had taken a pretty substantial break in early adulthood and didn’t “return” to writing until the pandemic in 2020. Life was bizarre, Netflix had gotten boring, and I was craving a creative outlet or hobby that could make lockdown bearable. I randomly stumbled my way back to fanfic / fandom, and here we are!

Q: What’s one thing you’d tell someone who is considering reading one of your fics?

A: Buckle up! 🎢 Also, I hope you are either i) at home, or ii) have a really great NSFW poker face 😅 But to give a more serious answer, I’d say that I write a wide range of tones, and I really lean in to what that tone is. If a fic is tagged for fluff and crack, it will be so adorably sweet and cringe-funny that your face will hurt from smiling. If a fic is tagged for angst and darker themes, it will feel like a knife to the gut. (If it’s tagged for all of the above—cough Eternal Summer cough—you’re at the front of a line for a wild rollercoaster, my friend!) Since I write both extremes, I’m never offended when readers skip fics or prefer one “genre” to another. But please know that Jily is always endgame in all of my stories—that’s the whole reason why we’re here 💗

Q: What are some of your favorite Jily tropes?

A: Enemies to lovers is my #1, even if it’s more of that “enemies-ish” rivalry at the beginning. There’s just nothing more quintessentially Jily to me than the process of them discovering more layers to the other person and slowly realizing that the other person is so much more than the antagonist they’d built up in their head. (And that they -gasp- actually…like them! Worse, they like them like them! A lot!) Gets me every time. 

Other favorites include There Was Only One Bed, Hurt/Comfort, and Forced Proximity/Stuck/Trapped. 

Q: What do you like most about the Jily fandom?

A: That we celebrate how much of a power couple Jily is. I’m going to quote @jilyss’ answer for this because it’s so true: we understand James has an arrogant streak but grew up, we celebrate Lily for the intelligent, strong, cool, bamf woman she is, and we appreciate how they’re true, complementary equals finding real, raw love with one another. (And also all the wonderful reader and fellow-writer friends I’ve made! 😘)

Q: Pick a favourite Marauders era character.

A: My man JP. From only the few hints we get about him in the books, we know he’s such a dynamic person, and I really love bringing him to life. Also, his growth/redemption story deserved more air-time, so I’m glad fanfic is here to fill that gap.

Q: Self-promo time! List the fics that you are most proud of writing.

A:

Eternal Summer – My first born! Even though it’s far from being finished and needs a lot of work, I’m really proud of the world-building I’ve done thus far. 

Vindicated – This was thrilling for me to write because it’s a total departure from what I’d previously written: second chances, canon-divergent AU, American settings, original characters, more adult relationship, etc. I have more planned for this universe and I’m really excited for it. 

for the hope of it all – My latest completed fic. I challenged myself to write a softer, friends-to-lovers, mutually pining kind of summer fic, and this came together in a flood. But what makes me proud is that with this fic, I could really see how much my writing has evolved and improved from those early ES days. 

Q: Fic rec time! Could you recommend a few of your favourite Jily fics?

A:

Of Chrysalism by @maraudersftw​ – It’s only a short one-shot, but the way this fic haunts me!! Exquisite. 

The Wedding Ring by @mppmaraudergirl​ – Lauren is the Nancy Meyers of Jily, and this fic is the epitome of that. A total comfort fic for me; I want it to be a movie that I can play in my living room over and over again until I know it by heart. 

Eighteen Again by @scriibble-fics​ – If I didn’t know scriibble was getting her PhD in History, I’d think she was a screenwriter. The world-building in this fic is like no other—I’m in a constant state of chills when I read it. The emotional depth, the heartbreak, the romance, the political intrigue…it’s one of those fics that never leaves you.

Thank you @missgryffin​ for letting us ‘interview’ you and for sharing your fics with us! ❤️

[sparrowmoth]

Siúil a Rún • [AO3]

Teen | 3.1K | Malvie | Em. Hurt/Comfort, Angst (Happy Ending)

A/N: Much love and thanks @villainsnest and @finitevoid! <3 Detailed story notes can be found on AO3, if you want them.

CW: Heavy themes (trauma, mental illness, death of a parent, implied suicidal ideation)

Maleficent’s name had been erased from the history books—with a sharpie. It isn’t enough, though. It isn’t enough. Not when Mal still sees the name so clearly in her mind’s eye. The name that… should have been hers—one day—when she impressed her mother, maybe took her throne. Could she have done that? Would she have been permitted? If she had stolen the wand, given it to her mother—

Given her such power, she could live forever. To not need an heir…

Mal tightens her grip on the sharpie, as ever struggling to remember her own strength—and the strength of her feelings, at that. There’s an audible “snap” as the sharpie breaks and a splash of ink splats across Mal’s face and falls in blotches on her textbook—

She doesn’t even react; or, at least, it’s delayed.

Evie’s there before the curses form on Mal’s lips. Evie’s there, with one hand on her arm and the other tugging at the textbook. She says nothing except with her body, her actions—the way she looks down at the ink sprayed over the history of the Moors, once Maleficent’s kingdom and what should be Mal’s home, but isn’t—never will be, probably; the way she looks at Mal, brushes her hair back gently behind her ear, then cups her chin until their eyes meet—

Evie doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t not.

She sets the book on the nightstand next to where Mal’s been laying stomach-down on the bed, her usual position. Evie doesn’t close the book, or try to clean the pages, and especially does not comment on the many streaks of sharpie that will make the book unsellable at the end of their semester.

Evie slips out of her heels and onto the bed, not needing to ask Mal to make space for her. They maneuver up toward the pillows against the headboard, where they settle with Mal half in Evie’s lap, a sigh escaping to tickle Evie’s skin above the cut of her blouse.

Still saying nothing, Evie reaches up and runs her fingers through Mal’s hair, attentive to her body. She’s stiff as a bow string ready to snap, so Evie looks to the lights with a silent command—

The lamps fade quickly from yellow to black. The numbers on their clocks fall away, one by one, like a short line of dominos. The exit sign above the door gives a stubborn flicker, but extinguishes, as well, and finally even the TV, the router, and a night light set to glow in the bathroom are decisively darkened by Evie’s will.

Mal doesn’t thank her. She doesn’t have to. Evie knows.

Things like that are still difficult for them both—not just to say it, but to hear it: thank you, I love you, I don’t know what I’d do without…

Evie takes a slow, deep breath and continues stroking Mal’s hair, eyes wide open in the darkness, ears attentive to Mal’s breathing.

Minutes pass, then an hour, but neither speak—

Until Mal does.

“I used to dream about it,” she whispers, and Evie knows she means the Moors. “I didn’t think it was really… anything. I mean, it didn’t look real. It was—” She shifts against Evie, tilting her head up. Evie knows this from the soft glow stirring up around Mal’s pupils—the only light in the room now. “Beautiful,” says Mal, echoing Evie’s own thoughts as she looks into Mal’s eyes. “I wanted to hate it.”

“You were supposed to,” Evie answers, hand stilling on Mal’s neck.

Mal makes a noise of agreement, looking away. “My mother loved the Moors,” she said quietly, laying her head back against Evie’s chest, “but the place she told me about was so, so different. It was burnt and ugly and good-forsaken. I could see myself there. I…”

Evie waits, listening, knowing there’s more.

“I felt like… one day, I’d belong there.” Mal pauses again on a shaky inhale. “But that place isn’t real, E. It’s not… without my mother. If she’s gone—” And she is. She is gone and has been gone and Mal is struggling not to accept it, but to believe that this time—THIS TIME—she will rot. She will rot and not return. They won’t fucking resurrect her, won’t let her live to make a daughter—

“I shouldn’t even exist. I don’t belong anywhere. I never have. I—”

“Hey,” says Evie, gently, stroking Mal’s arm as she starts to tremble.

“Sorry,” Mal chokes out, that word so big in her throat, it almost never makes it past her lips, but when it does… always for Evie.

Evie shushes her and pulls her closer, entangling their limbs. She rocks them back and forth on the bed so that the mattress faintly creaks from the movement; then, when Mal has calmed enough, Evie tells her in a low voice, “She couldn’t take it all with her.”

“What d’you mean?” Mal mumbles, sounding exhausted.

“The Moors,” says Evie. “Who you are, Máel Breith na Móinteán.”

Mal shivers at the sound of her true name on Evie’s lips. Now, with her mother gone, she’s the only soul in the world it’s been entrusted to. And the only one who’s ever spoken it without asking anything.

Without demanding anything.

Though she could ask and Mal would give it—give her everything. She wonders if she knows that. She wants her to know that—

“We are not our parents,” Evie tells her, taking Mal’s hand in hers and tightly lacing their fingers. “You told us that, remember? I think now you need to hear it, so listen to me… you are not your mother.”

“I know,” Mal replies in a small, shaky voice. “I know, but…”

Evie wants to quiet her, but she doesn’t. She needs to hear this as much as Mal needs to say it, so Evie squeezes her hand and waits.

“Sometimes, I think I… still want to be,” Mal admits in a breathless whisper. “Sometimes, I hate myself more than I ever hated her.” She fists at Evie’s dress with her free hand, starting to speak even faster now, but still in a whisper: “My mother knew who she was—where she belonged. She didn’t need anyone. She didn’t need me. But I—I don’t know who I am without her, E. I don’t know… how to belong somewhere beautiful when I—I can’t trust that I won’t become…”

My mother goes unspoken, but Evie hears it all the same.

She thinks her heart might spill right out from her mouth if she tries to speak, so instead, she pulls Mal impossibly closer, constricting like a snake and refusing to let go. She holds her and holds her.

There is no sound in the room but the both of them breathing.

“Sorry,” says Mal, after a long while, just above a whisper. “I’m such a mess. I’m such a fucking mess. I didn’t mean to drag you into—”

Evie does quiet her this time, finding Mal’s lips in the dark.

They’re startled out of the kiss by a light rap on the door. Jane’s little voice, with quavering authority, calls to them, “Lights out!” before she’s scurrying away, her sensible shoes tap-tapping into nothing.

“She only says that to us,” grumbles Mal, not for the first time.

“I know,” says Evie with a small sigh, leaning in to kiss Mal’s cheek. She lets her head fall back on the pillow, then, and squeezes their hands still held between them. Mal squeezes back and Evie smiles into the darkness, slowly letting her eyes shut and waiting for sleep.

An hour passes. It doesn’t come.

She can feel Mal is restless, lost in her thoughts; as still as she lays there, trying not to let it show, trying not to bother Evie, her body is rigid and her fingers keep twitching and her heart beats so loud—

Evie opens her eyes and places a hand there on the centre of Mal’s chest, drawing Mal’s own eyes to her, aglow like verdant embers.

“Talk to me,” says Evie, too gently to be demanding it.

Mal is quiet for a moment, but then she relents, asking in a tired voice, “Did you ever… dream of Weiss, before we left the Isle?”

Weiss—Snow White’s village; the former seat of the Evil Queen’s throne. Evie’s mother spoke about it often, but in spite of that—

“Not really,” Evie tells her honestly, “but I dreamt about Auradon, about castles and… princes.” Her mother’s dreams, yet her own—for a while, at least. Now, she dreams of dragons and a little stone cottage, the life she hopes to build with the girl here beside her…

Again, Mal is quiet.

“I used to dream of this place burning,” she whispers, at last, and she sounds distant from herself. She blinks and the distance is gone from her voice when she speaks again, asking, “E, would you ever go to Weiss, if you had the chance? Like, if there was a field trip…”

“You’re going to the Moors,” Evie realizes with a soft gasp.

“No,” Mal says immediately, almost defensive. “I don’t know,” she adds a moment later, letting go of Evie’s hand so she can roll onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow. “There’s a stupid field school,” she explains, voice muffled by a mouthful of cotton. “It’s this summer. I don’t know. It’s stupid. I don’t even want to go.”

Evie sighs and moves her hand up, rubbing circles at the small of Mal’s back. “You’re afraid they won’t let you go,” she murmurs.

Mal flinches, but doesn’t try to deny it.

“Have you applied yet?”

“No,” Mal mumbles, still not lifting her head from the pillow.

Evie hums in answer, moving her hand to trace up and down Mal’s spine, feeling the inhuman points of her vertebrae, near to piercing through her soft flesh. “You said you used to dream about it…”

“Yeah, the Moors, not field school.” Mal huffs out a sigh.

Evie says nothing, but continues her ministrations—up and down, up and down—feeling the tension lessen, feeling the walls start to crumble, feeling Mal’s breaths deepen and her heartbeat slow…

She isn’t asleep, though.

“What if the right thing to do is stay away?” Mal asks in a small voice, head flopping to one side so her cheek rests on the pillow.

“Right for who?” asks Evie, stilling her hand.

“I don’t know. Everyone.”

“You’re someone.”

“I’m her daughter—I don’t get to be her victim,” Mal spits out, eyes flashing. “She could have smothered me in the cradle and they still—” She takes a stuttering breath. “They still wouldn’t have put my name on one of their stupid memorials for all the people she’s…”

“I know, I know,” says Evie, gathering Mal to her chest as the light in her eyes fades. “Hey, it’s okay, just breathe… you’re with me, you’re somewhere safe. Just breathe. Just breathe. Just…”

Evie’s voice fades out into a soothing ambient melody.

Mal inhales deeply—the scent of Evie, the spice of her magic, and something more: deep green woodland, rain-soaked roots, animal musk, and thick, sweet pollen—like a dream of summer—

She pulls back slightly from Evie’s embrace, just enough to tilt her head up toward the speckles of light appearing above them, where the dark ceiling was.

“E,” she says, a little breathless. “Look.”

Evie looks up with her, smiling, and Mal is not even looking at her to know it, but she knows. She knows that Evie sees it, too—not a ceiling, but a sky—a sky full of stars, blinking faintly blue and purple, just around their rough-hewn edges—

An owl hoots and swoops above them, close enough that the breeze washes over their faces. Mal sits up in surprise, steadying herself with her hands, but—the blanket feels different, more like…

“Moss,” she murmurs, fingers closing around a chunk and tearing it up from the earth. She has the strangest, dizzying feeling that the ground has just sunk like a deflating balloon and, all of a sudden—

She reaches behind her, but there aren’t any pillows.

What she finds is Evie’s hand, searching hers out in the dark.

“Look,” says Evie, pointing out where the window should be, and where it is, except that it’s changing—like the curtains are moving, billowing out, unthreading themselves and sprouting green leaves; they’re willow branches now and instead of street lights shining in to the dorm room, there is violet white moonlight and and and—

They are somehow, suddenly, in the middle of a forest.

They are somehow, suddenly, somewhere… else.

And the trees are parting like a crowd of nobles; and where the door used to be, there is a path lit by fireflies, or… a creature quite similar. They aren’t bugs, Mal realizes, but very, very small people—ghostly in their shine—blue and purple, pink and white—

Mal moves to stand, pulling Evie up with her, because she can’t—she won’t let go. She needs to feel Evie’s thin, smooth hand and the coolness of her skin and that squeeze of assurance. I’m here, I’m here.

I see it, too.

Slow and a little shaky, like a newborn deer just finding its footing, Mal takes a step across the mossy clearing. Her feet are bare, but there is nothing sharp here. The moss gives to her weight, softly squelching. She holds her breath, holds Evie’s hand—

At the start of the path, she turns to look at Evie.

Mal had been about to speak, but the words have all withered. She can only stare, taking in the sight of—flowers, white as moonlight, braided into a crown on Evie’s head, her long blue hair cascading in elegantly undone curls—embroidered vines and bluebells running down from her shoulders onto her chest, dripping down past her waist to layers of fine blue fabric in every shade of sky, sea, and sadness—every blue bird, berry, eggshell, gemstone, and iris—

“How are you real?” Mal lets slip from her mind.

Evie just smiles, lips red as ripe strawberry.

“Come,” whisper the fireflies, speaking over each other in a hundred thousand echoes of, “Come, come, come,” like tinkling wind chimes.

Mal looks ahead, down the path, then at Evie, who nods—

It’s a simple gesture, but it gives Mal permission.

Take the lead. I’ll follow.

So, she does—stepping lightly onto packed earth, edged by flowers that bloom in the moonlight, giving way to luminescent mushrooms; they go deep into the shadows of the strange wood, where branches are heavy with draped moss, ferns grow thick, and night birds cry—

A stream runs beside them and, on its other side, a deer-like thing…

Mal almost thinks she knows it.

She isn’t sure until the end of the path, when the woods start to thin and the world opens up onto wide swaths of… moorland. Hills and swamps—stirring grasses—tracts of mud—and the mist aglow…

And oh, she knows it. She knows it. She’s dreamt it.

But she just shakes her head, turning to Evie. “How are we here?”

Evie looks a little sheepish, chewing at her lip. It’s good, Mal thinks. It makes her more… human, less something ethereal. “It’s… where you wanted to go,” Evie tells her softly. “I just opened the door…”

“To—where I wanted to go?” Mal’s voice is faint, almost inaudible. She stares out at the Moors, unsure what she’s feeling. It feels like home, but is it just familiar? How could it even be that, just from a dream—even many dreams over? This isn’t her home. She doesn’t, she’ll never, she can’t, she can’t, she can’t, she can’t, she can’t—

No.

She’s something invasive. She’s something hated.

But there’s a hare just ahead, stepping out from the shrubs, and it’s fixed her with its black eye and it doesn’t look afraid. It… wants her to follow. She hears that whispered from the grasses. Go—go on now.

Evie squeezes her hand. I’m with you.

Mal’s heartbeat thumps in time with the hare’s feet as it leads across the Moors, up a hill, to a rocky place. There were walls here once—now just crumbling stone—and in the centre of it all…

Maleficent’s throne.

Not even thinking, Mal starts to bow—or her knees are just buckling—she isn’t really sure. But she knows that Evie catches her, stops her from kneeling, pulls her back to her feet and steadies her there—

Mal doesn’t pull away, even when she’s sure it’s safe to.

“Do you want to leave?” asks Evie, her voice as gentle as ever.

Slowly, at first, and then with more conviction, Mal shakes her head, staring the throne down. “My mother was supposed to protect this place.” Her voice is quiet, but so are the Moors now—like they’re straining to listen. “Instead, it needed to be protected from her.”

Mal pauses, thoughtful, and looks at Evie. “I don’t want to be her.” She’s said it before, but never like this: “I don’t have to be her.” It’s the first time she believes it, saying it like that, and she’s surprised that she does; she’s surprised that she can say—what she wants is—

Mal stops again, glancing back over her shoulder.

There’s eyes on her. She can feel them. So many eyes, but she can’t see a soul. Not even the hare who led them here to the throne…

Evie takes both her hands, causing Mal to meet her gaze.

“What do you want, M?”

Mal stands a little straighter. “I want to be what she wasn’t.”

All the sounds of the Moors fade back in with a rush, and the wind, like a cat, winds in circles between them, whispering affections that have both of them smiling. They hear it from the grass, too, and the birds and the insects, and the thump-thump of hare’s feet, and the chatter of vole teeth—the queen is dead, long live her daughter—

There’s an audible crack, drawing Mal’s attention.

Evie looks toward it, too, and sees it with her—a jagged line through the throne back, splitting down through the seat, and—the two sides come apart and fall away from each other, crumbling to nothing—

Stones left to inherit, and Mal’s never felt lighter.

She wakes in the morning, entangled with Evie and her memories of the Moors. She can feel the bed beneath her, hear the voices in the hall. They are back in the dorm room, like they never left, but…

Mal opens her eyes and looks at Evie, still with flowers in her hair, but completely dishevelled. She’s beautiful always, even like this—no, especially like this—exhausted from her magic, drained of all her defences, trusting everything to Mal as she’s resting close beside her.

This, thinks Mal—this love, alone, is enough, and she sees it now.

She will never be her mother.

She loves too much.

Thank you for reading! Reblogs are always appreciated. If you’d like to leave a kudos or comment on AO3, I’d really love that, as well! ♥

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 17: Encouraging Someone to Achieve a Goal [1,142 words]

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

I do have a main fic for these two in the very early stages, but it's currently on a break while I finish up some other things - but I'll definitely return to it eventually.

Anyway, throwing all of my insecure artist angst into this one, lads.

Fiona threw down her pencil and sighed heavily, burying her face in her hands and not caring if it ended up streaked with grey thanks to the action.

“Hurdle?” Eddie’s voice sounded somewhere from the bed behind her.

They’d long since taken to spending a lot of their time here, in her studio apartment – where they couldn’t be interrupted, nor often found at all. He’d been lounging on her bed for some time, and after a certain length of quiet she’d quietly assumed he’d dozed off and thought little more of it. Apparently she’d been wrong.

“More of a roadblock,” she replied sourly, voice muffled by her palms. “Surrounded by lots of yellow tape reading danger do not cross, land mines, all of that sort of thing. Maybe an armed guard or two. Orcs, I think. Uruks. Great big ones. Covered in blood. Occasionally, they laugh and call me a dumb bitch. It’s a whole thing.”

Had he laughed, despite the fact that she’d purposely riddled her words with a touch of the ridiculous, she wouldn’t felt worse. And maybe he knew that, because he didn’t. The bed creaked as he got out of it, feet padded against the floor, and then there was warmth at her right side as he leaned over her to peer at the sketch that was sending her around the bend.

“Why don’t you like it?” he asked quietly.

Once again, knowing the right thing to say. The bastard. Because any exclamation of it’s fine, or there’s nothing wrong with it, or you’re being dramatic would make her feel even more ridiculous than she already did.

Although she was doing a pretty decent job at making herself feel ridiculous, grumbling in response – although finally lowering her hands as she did so, just so she could scowl at the paper before her.

“It’s like every other crap, mediocre thing I’ve ever drawn.”

“Ah. One of those nights?” he asked knowingly, leaning down so he could rest his chin atop her shoulder.

“I mean it, Eddie,” she insisted. “What am I thinking? What was I thinking? Art school? Like that’s not a direct path to living hand to mouth for the rest of your life. I have no…no back-up plan. No other bloody skills. Nowhere to go when this shit inevitably doesn’t work out.”

“You’re good. Real fucking good. Best artist I know.”

“That’s not enough,” she shook her head.

“You’ve got the dedication. God knows you’ve got the work ethic.”

He remained close, a ring-clad hand settling down atop her waist.

“That might not be enough either.”

“What would be, then?”

“Luck. Fate. That…that it thing, that all the people who make it have. The shit people know when they see, but can’t really explain. You have it.”

As she shrugged, his chin remained firmly planted at her shoulder despite how her action jostled it. When she was done, though, he pulled back only enough to wheel her chair back with him, spinning it around so she faced him and ignoring how it creaked in protest.

“So do you! You have all of that, babe. Luck? Luck is shit. Luck is what the naysayers who gave up on their own shit call it when the people who didn’t succeed, so they can feel better about the path they chose.”

“But what if nobody else sees it, Eddie?” she gestured wildly, too lost in the spiralling panic to care if she sounded ridiculous. “I can do everything I can to make this work, I can ignore that gross, pitying look people who don’t matter give when you tell them you’re an artist – the one that’s all ‘oh, sweetheart, you’re too old to still cling to a dream like that’ because fuck them, but if the people who do matter see my shit and decide it’s not for them, I’m- I’m fucked. And what then?”

“Then you give them the finger and you keep going for it,” he said like it was obvious, eyeing her with no less fiery fondness than he usually did for how damn hysterical she knew she was being.

“And if it doesn’t work out?”

“It will.”

“If it doesn’t, Eddie?” she leaned forward. “If I end up…if I end up some- some unemployable sixty-year-old woman who can’t afford her phone bill because she poured everything into delusion and ended up with no other skill to offer?”

“Better than being a sixty-year-old in a job she hates wondering if she could’ve had it all doing what she loved if only she’d tried,” he said without hesitation. “I know you, Fi. You’d be ten times happier scraping to get by doing what you love than you’d be living like a queen with a job that has you dreading the alarm going off in the morning. You’re doing it now, neither of us exactly lives like royalty – is it so bad?”

His hand rested on her shoulders then, impressing the full weight of his words on her.

 “It’s not bad at all,” she said, honestly and without hesitation.

“So…worst case scenario…more of this. Could be a hell of a lot worse. You can’t view the other path as a surefire win, either, because who’s to say it’d work out? You can get fired from a shitty job you hate just as much as you can fail doing something you love. If anything, it’s probably more likely. So what’s the point?”

The tension left her – a slow sort of unfurling working its way across her body, her chin lifting, her shoulders loosening up, and her jaw unclenching one after the other. Eddie grinned.

 “It’s…” he paused and leaned in close so he could reach and turn the little alarm clock on her desk towards his gaze, “two in the morning. Which means it’s around four hours after the cut-off point where you can start trusting your opinions on the trajectory of your whole life.”  

“I know,” she sighed.

“But,” he cut in with a little grin, “what I’m about to say is a fact, not an opinion, so it’s fine – right?”

He paused then, dark eyes fixed on hers as he made sure she was about to hear, really hear, every single word he was about to say. Whatever he saw looking back at him was good enough for his liking, and he continued.

“Me n’ you are gonna take this world by storm. You hear me? Real power couple shit. They won’t know what hit ‘em. And we’re gonna do it together. Yeah?”

“Do you never doubt?” she asked fondly.

Eddie grinned – that wide, brilliant grin that lit up his face, the room, and the world they were about to take by storm – and then he answered, leaning in so they were almost nose-to-nose.

“Us? Never.”

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

[cornfields-td-nonsense]

Geoff and Duncan :P

Geoff and Duncan for the character ask game!

Sexuality Headcanon:

Geoff is as bi as the day is long. I haven't fully watched ridonculous race but I've seen how he is with Brody. cmon. "I love you, man"/"I'd marry you all over again" the subtext is just text

Duncan....... eh idk. he's straight most of the time when I think of him. though I could see him being closet gay.

Gender Headcanon:

Geoff can be a trans guy purely bc his colour palette is the trans flag. im a simple man with simple tastes.

Duncan gives nb vibes but also he's like canonically transphobic so 🤷 (im joking, mostly)

A ship I have with said character:

Brigeody. Geoff has two hands.

I don't really ship Duncan with anyone but if I had to pick someone it'd be DJ. Duncan would probably make him worse but I think there's a world where DJ can make him better

A BROTP I have with said character:

Gweoff. Their friendship was SO GOOD in that one episode and I'm genuinely sad they dropped it.

I'm the only person in the world who thinks this but I wrote an entire oneshot where Sierra and Duncan are friends and it unironically made me love their hypothetical friendship. (The Ex-Fangirl and the Ex-Con on ao3 if you're curious) I also really loved him and Gwen as friends but I'll save that for another slot

A NOTP I have with said character:

I don't really have a NOTP with Geoff. all his ships range from "Yeah!" to "ehhh whatever" in my opinion. so. yay

Gwuncan. Yeah you knew it was coming. Like. I don't understand, they were so good as friends and there was a whole thing in Action about people assuming they were a thing and Gwen especially hating it, and then suddenly come World Tour they're into each other??? what??? they were so much better as friends Why Couldn't They Have Stayed Friends. and they didn't even get time to act like a couple and then in AS all they do is argue, obsess over Courtney, and then break up so what was even the point. uuuuuuuurhggrgh I know there's people who love this ship. that's totally fine obvs. it's just a ship at the end of the day. but it really grinds my gears.

ANYWAY RANT OVER

Random headcanon:

Geoff owns loads of sunglasses. like so many sunglasses. every time he goes on holiday somewhere, or anywhere with a gift shop, he ALWAYS buys sunglasses. it's an actual problem lol

Duncan makes most/all of his own clothes and accessories. All-Stars floated the idea of him and Zoey sort of being friends, so let's go with that. they can bond over doing DIY together.

General Opinion:

Geoff's pretty cool. Not my favourite, but pretty cool. I liked how they made him more than just the chill party dude, and showed this mean streak of his during TDA. I love a good corruption arc. and Her Real Name Isn't Blaineley was top tier. overall he's pretty good

Duncan is... ehhh. My opinion on him fluctuates. Every time I think I hate him I remember the DJ's bunny incident, or him and Beth in the finals, and every time I start to like him I remember all of TDWT. I guess it boils down to: he definitely has his moments, but most often I'm indifferent to him or he annoys me, and sometimes stuff he does and says really gets under my skin. I do really like how he is in fanon most of the time, because normally I'm a sucker for the "tough guy with a soft side" trope, and TDA was easily the season I liked him most.