#fucked up nearly forty year old man

[skitter-kitter]

Damos: 5, 12, 21

Ask Game

What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

I think Damos is a character I have never found a song that truly fits. There’s a level of tragedy to him and complete devotion that I feel I should be able to tie a LOT of songs to him but I can’t… I’ll settle for Little Soldiers by The Crane Wives however.

Now the aftermath will ring with songs you've sung

All of our words sent home in boxes

I fought with tooth and nail before the flag had flown

But you were already gone

I'll swear that I loved you

What's a headcanon you have for this character?

I think his devotion to Arceus comes from a place of being Fucking Crazy and not just from it having saved his life the one time. And that only got worse whenever Arceus gave him the Jewel of Life. Damos wants so so badly to be worthy of that gift but after losing EVERYTHING of his home he doesn’t think himself to deserve it. I know the movie doesn’t touch on it at all but I’m very interested in why Damos was alone with only pokémon by his side when the meteor came. It’s why I headcanon that his family died to a minor sinkhole while he was away a few years before the meteor.

If you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? What's something you don't like?

My favorite thing is allowing him to be a person Outside of arceus because I think their relationship is INTERESTING already but Damos is so entrenched in who he is through who Arceus is, it’s fascinating to strip that part of himself away and see what remains. Something I don’t enjoy is sticking to the status quo, it makes it very hard for me to ENJOY writing Damos

[loveindefinitely]

task force 141 with a controversially young civilian girlfriend.

-> mentions of large age-gaps, referenced sexual content, alcohol use. afab!fem!reader. minor dubcon (everyone's drunk.)

thinking that you're studying in uni. working on the side to try and afford rent and, if you're lucky, some noodles every other night. you don't really get seen compared to your friends, who go out clubbing and spend their spare time on dating apps.

one time, your friend drags you to a bar. not usually your scene, considering its clientele is more for tradies, and military-type men. not like the stuck-up blue collar boys at your uni.

cue you getting drunk off your ass, barely even standing, when you bump into one johhny mactavish.

he holds your elbows, your chest crashing into his. gentle with it, too -- kind and sweet and grounding.

"y'alright, lass?" he asks, a small smirk on his face, eyes darting across your frame greedily. he, in all fairness, looks nearly as drunk as you. he stumbles a little with your weight.

you giggle, tilting your head to look at him. say something stupid like, "you don't look like a student."

his brows raise, his dimples deepen. "aye, very smart, hen."

you preen with the compliment, a cheesy grin stuck to your face. you make no move to stand up and leave. you think your friend just left with a guy anyways.

johnny moves you, muscled arm around your waist as he takes you to a booth.

three other men sit in it, only one looking somewhere in a ten-year age bracket to you. they're all impossibly large, filling out the space with ease. your stomach swoops, but you easily blame the alcohol.

manoeuvring you so you sit in his lap, johnny's hand is a comforting weight on your waist. he huffs a laugh.

"didn't realise we were goin' for jailbait, soap," the youngest one chimes, dark features shining in the pub's dim light. his eyes trail your frame silkily.

you can't stop the roll of your eyes -- your inhibitions have made you senseless. "'m not, 'm completely," you drag out the syllables, "legal."

a hand on your thigh makes you jolt, and when you look over, a blonde man with a black medical mask raises an unimpressed brow. "got a problem, kid?"

you shoot him a weak glare. "not a kid. weirdo."

the arm around your waist tightens, as does the weirdo's hand encompassing your thigh.

"not scared of anythin', are you darl'?" the final man in the booth asks, hands folded together where they rest at the table. he looks at least double your age, and that simple fact along with his drawling words has your core tightening.

"what's there to be scared of?" you ask, stupidly. your head tilts to the side, unknowingly moving to rest on johnny's shoulder. he doesn't comment.

"miss bein' young and drunk," gaz sighs, hand softly gripping the gin sat on the table in front of him.

"you look young," your brows furrow, not understanding. how old could he really be, to act so nostalgic of your current predicament? "how old are you guys?"

it's an embarrassing question -- makes you feel like a child all over again. but your interest is quickly peaking, and your need for answers overpowers your need for decorum.

johnny's the one to answer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers.

"gaz, the pretty one over there, he's twenty-eight," he murmurs, heat stirring low in your gut as you nod mindlessly, meeting gaz's eyes.

johnny stokes his thumb over the skin of your hip, and you curl into him further -- stranger be damned.

"i'm thirty," he hums, and god, he sounds so fucking sensual you're about to melt into his arms. if you aren't already.

"the guy in the mask?" said man's hand tightens impossibly against your skin, fingers just shy of grazing your aching pussy, "he's thirty-seven. got a lot of experience, aye?"

you shudder.

"what about you?" you end up voicing, shyly meeting the last man's gaze. he takes a slow sip of his whiskey.

he leans back into the cushion, eyeing you carefully.

"forty-three."

your thighs squeeze together, and fuck, if that's not a turn-on. no matter how unsafe you should feel, surrounded by four military-grade, older men, it only manages to have you wet beyond belief.

all you can manage is one question.

"take me home?"

[pearlessance]

Feelin' Empty? - Idle Threats [iv]

Series Summary — Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for.

Chapter Summary — Joel reminds you to heed his warnings.

Pairing — Joel Miller/Reader

Warnings — Explicit sexual content MDNI, brat taming, age gap (32yrs), mean!Joel, religious imagery and symbolism, catholic guilt, jealousy, light angst, spanking, edging

SERIES MASTERLIST

[cross posted to AO3]

Joel waits several minutes before leaving the bathroom. He cleans himself up, tries to collect his thoughts, tries to swallow down the bitter taste you left behind.

And when he emerges back into the front of the bar, it isn’t Kelly’s smiling face that grabs his attention. It’s you, of course it’s fucking you, because you’ve picked up your things from the bar and moved instead to a booth. 

You’re not alone, either. Abel sits at your side, grinning down at you with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Joel doesn’t know Abel well. He knows he works in the armory, that he keeps stock of all the weapons and ammunition that pass through Jackson. He doesn’t know about the knife wedged in Joel’s boot right now, though.

He pushes the thought from his mind. His jaw clenches, and he takes in a slow breath, and then he’s forcing himself to return to the bar. Tara’s refilled his glass, and Joel has never been more thankful.

“I was starting to worry,” Kelly says as Joel sits on the barstool at her side. “You feeling okay?”

Other than the fact that he just had a religious experience with a girl half his age only to find her nearly sitting in the lap of another man moments later? Yeah. Fine. “Peachy,” he answers, taking a long sip of his whiskey.

Abel’s older than you by several years. Younger than Joel, but far from age-appropriate. He’s gotta be in his mid forties, but Joel can’t deny that he’s handsome. Tall and built and rugged, with a thick black beard he keeps trimmed up like some sort of pretty boy. Beneath the cream colored cowboy hat he wears, Joel can see matching dark curls poking out of the sides. And he’s got those bright blue eyes, too, which are currently swallowing you up with no remorse. 

Joel grinds his teeth. Takes another sip of whiskey. He hears Kelly say something. A question, maybe, but he doesn’t hear it. “What was that?”

“I was just asking if you two have history.”

It takes him a little off guard. Is he so obvious? He must be, though. Because Kelly’s sunshiny smile falls as she looks over at you, and Joel begins to feel a little bad for her. Because this date is going nowhere, and he thinks she knows it, but she’s still trying. “Not really,” he answers. “We were on patrol together a couple of times.”

She nods slowly, mulling his answer over like there’s a secret hidden between his words. Joel supposes there is. “Did something happen?”

Christ. Was she this nosy with everyone in Jackson, or just with Joel? He doesn’t want to answer. So he doesn’t. Finishes off his whiskey and nods to Tara for another.

This is too much. And Joel suddenly realizes the solution to all of his problems right now; Kelly, Abel, you—is just to simply get the fuck out of here.

But he can’t leave you alone like this. It’s not safe. He knows exactly what sort of thoughts are running through Abel’s mind right now, knows exactly what he’s thinking when he licks his lips and smirks down at you. Joel can hear him faintly, saying, “You’ve got such a pretty smile, darlin’.” 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Kelly suddenly says. She laughs but there’s no joy in it, no amusement at all. She rises to her feet with a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna go, Joel.”

It’s only with her words he remembers why he came here, remembers that he was supposed to try on this date with Kelly to distract himself from you and has, catastrophically, failed. He thinks about asking her to sit back down, but then realizes he can pay closer attention to you without her chattering in his ear, so Joel apologizes instead. “Kelly, look, I’m…I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m…cut out for this kinda thing.”

She nods slowly, looks over to you one last time. “I get it,” she says, reminding him of your conversation in the bathroom. 

I get it, but I don’t understand. It hurts just as bad in his memory. Cuts just as deep.

When he looks up at her, a storm cloud has replaced all that carefree sunshine on her face and rainwater lines her lashes. His eyes soften, and Joel wishes he would’ve ended this the moment he stepped through the door to save everyone a little bit of pain. “Kelly…”

She shakes her head, clearing any remaining sadness away. “Really, Joel, it’s fine. I’m not blind, alright? You can’t hide something like that.”

His brows furrow. “Like what?”

Kelly gathers her jacket with one hand and waves the other between you and him. “That,” she says as if it’s obvious, like the magnetic energy pulling him to you is some physical, tangible thing. “Whatever it is, it’s not exactly subtle. And, Joel, that girl’s trouble but she doesn’t deserve any more hurt. Neither of you do. So, whatever it is, just make sure it’s real.” She turns to leave, but at the door she turns her head back to him, watery eyes making their grand return. And then she says, “Nothing’s promised anymore. Take the good where you can get it.”

Joel tosses his whiskey back in one gulp. He presses his fingers into his temple, trying to alleviate the ache, grateful for the soft hum the alcohol has created in his bones. He hears the ring of your sweet laughter and his eyes follow the sound. 

He watches through hooded eyes as Abel pulls you to the other end of the bar where there’s a small, open space near the jukebox. He takes your hand in his, the very hand that you licked clean moments ago, and raises it above your head. Abel’s spinning you in a circle, and there’s a carefree smile on your face, and it makes Joel feel hollow. Like the part inside of him that you’ve carved out for yourself has been vacated, demolished. It makes him feel empty.

You look happy. And that’s the part that kills him.

Joel wants that for you. Wants you to be happy and safe and satisfied and loved. And it can’t be him that gives those things to you, can it? It would put a target on your back for cruelty, and Joel has to protect you from that. You say you don’t care what the people of Jackson have to say about you, but he does. Joel knows himself. Knows that if he ever overheard someone talking bad about you and it was his fault? There would be more than just an argument with his little brother as punishment. 

There would be blood, and loss, and death. And Joel doesn’t want that. He only wants you—sweet and soft and innocent and bratty and perfect. He doesn’t want to taint you with bloodstained hands, doesn’t want to tarnish you any further than he already has.

But then you glance over at him from around Abel’s shoulder as he sways you to the soft blues song that plays. He’s got one hand wrapped in yours and the other on your back, a respectful distance above your ass. Far more respectful than Joel has ever been to you.

And there’s that look in your eyes again, the one that makes him feel warm, comforted, safe. It grows and grows the longer you stare at him until it’s engulfed every cell in his body, thawing him from the inside out. And when you look away as Abel whispers something in your ear, that warmth in his chest remains. Muted, but ever-present.

Joel is a selfish man. He’s come to terms with it. He knows from experience that if it ever came between choosing the few and choosing the many, he’d let the world burn if it meant keeping his people safe. The ones he loves, the ones he’s chosen. He’s not ignorant to the fact that you have, inescapably, found your way into that category of people he’d sacrifice the world for.

But he doesn’t want to be selfish with you. He doesn’t want to, even though he already has been. Because the selfish thing he’s doing now will hurt you later on, just as Tommy said. No matter what, even if things go perfectly to plan, someone will suffer for what the two of you have done. And Joel really, really doesn’t want it to be you.

If there was a way to guarantee that he would be the only one left bleeding at the end of this calamity, Joel would be snatching you out of Abel’s hands and taking you home before the song was over. He’d damn himself without a second thought, without a single regret because Kelly is right; nothing is promised anymore. And Joel wants to hold onto that warmth for as long as he can, wants to hold onto you for as long as he can. 

Even if it’s selfish. Even if it’s sinful. Even if it hurts.

But he doesn’t want to make a scene, doesn’t want to embarrass you. Which leaves him stuck, sitting at the bar, sipping whiskey to fill the void you left behind, watching Abel play all his tricks to attempt to woo you. Joel even watches some of them work. 

Abel’s funny. Or at least, you find him so. Joel knows because every couple of minutes you’re giggling or snorting or grinning with a shake of your head. He queues up music on the jukebox and the two of you dance to Have You Ever Needed Someone So Bad by Def Leppard and Joel thinks about chewing on glass.

You’re glancing over to the bar every few minutes, but Abel is completely unaware of Joel’s hard stare. He understands, though, how easy it is to succumb to your witchery. How being in your presence makes everything else—people, problems, morals—fade into the background. Joel wonders if he gets that same lovesick look on his face that Abel currently wears.

It’s painful to watch. Every second of it makes Joel feel like he’s splintering apart. But he forces himself to stay put—to keep a close eye on you. To keep you safe. Because he can see the thoughts as they flit through Abel’s head, can see him appreciating the curve of your neck, the softness of your lips, the arch of your nose. Joel can relate because he’s been there—enthralled, captivated, hypnotized. And he knows Abel will do anything to take you home with him, to make you his. But that’s not going to happen because Joel will never allow it.

So he watches the two of you dance until the sun sets below the horizon. He watches Abel push your hair behind your ear, watches your cheeks turn crimson when he compliments you, watches him pluck his cowboy hat from his head and place it onto yours. And it makes him sick—makes his knuckles go white, makes him grind his teeth, makes him sweat. 

But Joel has never, ever, been as angry as he is when you lay your head against Abel’s chest and he presses a kiss into your hair. Because holding your hand and touching your spine over your jean jacket with the other is one thing—but kissing you? No. 

Fuck. No. 

It sends him into a blind rage. Joel realizes it’s been simmering since the moment he left the bathroom, that watching the two of you become real cozy in front of the jukebox only served to stoke the flames of fury beneath his skin. 

He’s going to kill him.

Joel grabs a half empty beer bottle by the neck and smashes it against the bar top.

The commotion grabs all the attention in the room, including yours, but Joel doesn’t notice. He only sees Abel and his hands on you and his lips against your head and the smiles he’s stealing from you, smiles that should belong to Joel.

His ears are ringing. Fuck the people of Jackson and the bullshit they’ll have to say. Fuck watching you when he should be holding you. Fuck your age difference and the notion that it’s wrong and fuck the wrath of God. But more than anything, fuck Abel.

He doesn’t take more than two steps before someone pushes him back. A solid force standing between Joel and his vengeance. He shoves and shoves but it doesn’t move, and he thinks about raising the glass bottle in his hand to whatever stands in his fucking way—until Tommy’s voice cuts through the red fog in his mind. 

“Joel,” he says. “ Joel. Joel, take a walk. Talk a fucking walk. Right now.” 

His brother stands in front of him, one hand wrapped around Joel’s wrist, the other shoving his chest, pushing Joel backward. 

On the other side of Tommy, Abel stands with his shoulders squared and his fists clenched at his sides. He’s pulled you behind him protectively, completely oblivious that Joel is no threat when it comes to you. 

In fact, Joel realizes that maybe you’re the true threat in the room. Making him feel these things, tempting him toward sin. The true forbidden fruit, the snake in the grass. And it’s only now Joel realizes it’s far too late for him.

Tommy pushes him out of the bar. The winter air stings Joel’s face, his hands—ice cold compared to the boiling temperatures within. “Go home, Joel,” his brother says, leaving no room for argument. “Don’t be stupid.” There’s something in his eyes. A warning, maybe. Joel listens, leaving you alone in the bar with Abel and Tommy and Tara and whoever the fuck else.

Because Joel is lucid enough to know Abel won’t hurt you. He’s also lucid enough to know that if he did, there would be nothing strong enough to keep Joel from ripping him apart. 

So, he appeases his brother. 

He walks the streets of Jackson but he doesn’t go home. He can’t go home, not now. He’d only lie in his bed and convince himself to come find you. And Joel’s tired, so fucking tired of beating himself up for this.

It’s too late. Too fucking late. He’s already sunk his teeth in deep, already cracked the bones and sucked out the marrow, already given into his lust, his gluttony, already listened to the hissing from your forked tongue and let himself believe it. The poison will set in later down the line, he knows. But later isn’t now and forbidden or not, Joel Miller is starving and you’re fucking delicious.

There’s a big willow tree on the side of the street opposite your house. Joel stands beneath the weeping branches, comparing the sway of the limbs to his grip on his sanity. He leans against the wide trunk and waits. 

And waits.

And waits.

He sees you less than twenty minutes later. You’ve got your jacket pulled tight across your chest and your steps are hurried as you skip up the stairs and try to fight off the midnight chill. The moonlight reflects in your hair, and Joel thinks you look like some sort of angel. His desire for you is incessant; a gnawing against his psyche, a want that’s both unholy and divine.

Joel watches you fumble with the key, wondering if you intentionally forgot to lock your front door that night. It wouldn’t surprise him anymore—you bratty, venomous little thing.

He waits until you disappear inside before he pushes away from the tree and crosses the street. Joel’s careful as he steps up the creaky stairs. And, much to his relief and satisfaction, the door has been, once again, left unlocked. 

It’s dark on the other side, nothing to illuminate the space but the soft glow of the lamp in your bedroom. He follows it like a moth to a flame, but Joel stops when he notices his coat hanging over the back of the couch. 

He only just now remembers he left it at the bar in his haze of fury, and can’t tell if it makes him feel tender or irritated, seeing the dark brown canvas hanging there so casually, looking far from out of place. On the one hand, he loves that you thought of him, loves that you saw it, and felt entitled to claim it as yours for the time being. Even though you danced with another man all night, even though he knows Abel likely begged to walk you home, it was a piece of Joel that you decided to take. And the realization brings him a deep satisfaction, knowing you chose him. 

But bringing it home means you assumed Joel would show up here at some point. And he can’t help but feel a little played. Like this has been your plan all along; to provoke him to anger, to incite a reaction from him. And the worst part is that it worked—Joel did just what was expected. But he doesn’t regret it for a single second, still feels the residual wrath in the palms of his hands and he wants so badly to give you a spoonful of your own medicine. 

You want to be bratty, to taunt him? Fine. But you need to understand that your actions are not without consequence.

When he pushes open your bedroom door, Joel ignores the gasp of surprise you let out. Your hand goes to your chest in an attempt to slow your racing heart, and his hand finds a home around your neck. He pushes you against the wall, and expects you to fight back or shove him or shout out curses or something— but all you do is rest your hand against his wrist. His touch is bruising but yours is affectionate and, just like that, Joel’s lost all control yet again.

His knees go weak at the sultry look in your eyes, at the smirk playing at your pretty mouth, at the deviance you exude. “Tommy told me to stay away from you,” you say.

Joel realizes his brother is now playing both sides, trying to drive from the back seat. But Joel’s already driven over the cliff, now in a complete free fall. It’s too late. Too late. And he thinks it might’ve been from the moment he first saw you. “S’that right?”

“Said I’ll be the reason you get kicked out of Jackson if I’m not careful,” you continue. “You should go, Joel. It’s not smart for you to be here. Go back to Kelly.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says. And he means it—there’s no getting rid of him now. Not anymore. 

“Maria won’t let you stay. Not if you kill someone.” He’s not talking about Jackson or Maria, and he thinks you know it, but he can see your hesitance beneath all that sinful seduction and decides the conversation can wait until tomorrow.

“You did that shit on purpose.” It’s a statement, and the wicked gleam in your eyes all but confirms his suspicions. 

“Yeah. And what’re you gonna do about it, huh?” Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and a breathy sigh escapes him at the sight. 

“I oughta spank you till your ass is red,” Joel says, noting the way your pupils dilate at the threat. And it is a threat—one he swears to make good on. “Always being so disrespectful.”

“Abel’s nice, Joel. Says he’s good at making girls come, that he’s been practicing longer than I’ve been alive. Said he’ll make me feel good, that he’ll be real gentle with me. And you and I both know just how much I like older men. ”

The image you create has Joel’s fingers tightening around your throat. “Gentle?” It’s laughable. “That what you want, little girl? Want me to be gentle with you?” He tilts your face up with his thumb beneath your chin, presses his body against yours. Your hand goes to his belt buckle as it digs into your belly, and your legs fall apart on instinct as he wedges his knee between them.

You seat yourself right over his denim-clad thigh, hips rolling already, desperate for friction, for relief.

He chuckles darkly and says, “Yeah…didn’t think so.” Joel presses into you harder, because he knows just how bad it hurts. Knows just how that longing feels, knows how bad it aches. He grabs a fistful of your dress and hikes it up over your hips. He wants to see the mess you make, and he’s rewarded with the embarrassed whimper you let out in response. “Filthy little thing,” he says. “Don’t want it gentle at all, huh?”

At the sight of you grinding against his thigh, Joel forgets what he came here to do. Forgets he’s supposed to be giving you a taste of your own medicine, supposed to be showing you just how difficult it was to watch you flirt with another man. Because he thinks you look so pretty like this, he doesn’t have the strength to stop you. Joel wants to watch you fall apart just as much as you need to, wants to touch you till you shake, wants to lick your clean afterward, wants to make you feel so good no other man will ever compare.

But you’re not quite there yet, he knows. He can feel you’re not quite relaxed, not quite as pliable as he wants you to be. But he knows how much you like hearing his disgusting words, and so he lays it on thick. “Dirty fuckin’ girl. Lettin’ me fuck you with my fingers in public and that still ain’t enough for you, hm? You want more, always wantin’ more. Beggin’ me all the time.”

He’s surprised when it doesn’t work as well as he hopes. You’re moaning in his ear—breathy, needy little sounds that make his hard cock seek you out behind his zipper—your hips move restlessly, creating more and more friction, and there’s a telling dark spot beginning to form on his jeans. But something is off. 

Joel can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s something. And he begins to spiral, heart racing behind his ribcage. Because what if you’re finally coming to your senses, finally realizing he has nothing to offer you? What if the whole thing was just some fantasy to you? Maybe you’ve gotten your fill of him, gotten your rocks off enough times to be satisfied. What if he’s here, willing to sacrifice everything just to be close to you, while you’re slowly growing tired of him?

But then he tears his eyes away from his knee and sees the downright evil look in your eye as you let out a dramatic moan and say, “Oh, Abel!”

And he’s had it. Absolutely fucking had it. 

Joel steps back, fists his hand in your hair, and pulls you towards the bed. You’re giggling and he’s seething as he sits on the edge of the mattress and takes you over his knee. “Fuckin’ brat,” he says. “Tired of your attitude. Think you know everything. Think everything’s a goddamn joke.”

You spread your arms straight out above you, fingertips disappearing beneath the pillows. And you're sitting on your knees, ass arched beautifully, and Joel’s mouth waters when he pulls your dress up to expose a pair of royal blue panties, ones he hadn’t been able to properly appreciate in the dimly lit bathroom. “What are you gonna do, Joel? You’re gonna spank me? Really?” You scoff in disbelief. “All bark and no bite. Why don’t you— Joel!”

The sound of his harsh slap reverberates through his head, sharp and delicious. He feels his muscles relax almost instantly—almost as if he needs this more than you. “I told you, baby,” he says with a slight tilt of his head. “I don’t make idle threats.”

“Joel! You can’t—you—! What the fuck?”

He smacks your ass again, harder this time. Your whole body tenses and a soft little whimper leaves you, one that sends shivers down his spine. “Watch your fuckin’ mouth,” he warns.

There’s already a hand-shaped mark blossoming across your smooth skin, and Joel rubs the tender flesh to soothe. Your hands are fisted in the sheets, shoulders shaking with each desperate inhale. “Joel,” you cry.

“Wasn’t it just five seconds ago you were moanin’ some other man’s name?” He brings his hand down against your ass again, a stinging slap that has you shoving your face into the pillow. “C’mon, now,” he says. “Where’s he at, baby? Thought he was gonna make you feel good.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, words muffled through both the sheets and your giggles. “I was just kidding!”

“Nah. I don’t think you were.” When he strikes again, it’s lighter this time, on the opposite cheek. Your skin is reddening beautifully, and Joel licks his lips as he watches the damp spot in your panties become more and more prominent as the seconds tick by. “How’s that feel? Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Yes! God, Joel—I said I was sorry!” You sprawl out further in front of him, spine bending, thighs clamped tightly together. He knows you're enjoying this, can see it in your face, but Joel doesn’t think you’re quite getting it and he needs you to understand. 

He brings his hand down again, so hard this time his palm tingles. Your legs cross at the ankles and your muscles go rigid. He holds you in his lap with one hand and uses the other to stroke your hair out of your face. “Imagine how I feel, baby. Imagine how much it hurts to see him makin’ you laugh, makin’ you go all red. How much it hurts to see him kiss you.”

“Then you should’ve taken me away from him,” you say quietly. And it forces Joel to pause—to see through his frustration for just a moment. Because you’re right. He should have. He wanted to.

“You know I can’t do that, sweet girl,” he says, thumb stroking gently over your reddened flesh. “Can’t let you get away with bein’ bratty, either. Think five is enough?”

Joel laughs when you press your face into the mattress and let out a dramatic groan.

“Gonna make you count with me, baby,” he says. “Can you do that for me?”

When you lift your head and look up at him, Joel gets that zealous feeling again, twisting up his insides—warm and intense and heavenly. It makes him want to lean over and kiss your cheek, your forehead, makes him want to hold you so close the concept of disconnect becomes foreign. You nod slowly in answer, and he wonders if you can feel it, too.

He watches your face this time as he brings his hand down sharply against your ass. The cutest crease forms between your brows, and your knuckles turn white as you clutch the sheets. He caresses the supple flesh, squeezing softly as he waits.

You let out a long breath. “One,” you choke out, and Joel feels pride swell in his chest. Already you’re following his direction. All it took was a little discipline.

“Good girl,” he praises. “Bein’ so good for me, baby. Sittin’ so pretty.” Joel’s attention leaves your flushed face as you begin to squirm. And it’s only then he realizes just how much this is affecting you—the seam of your panties is soaked. The fabric has gone from blue to almost black, wet material clinging to every dip and curve of your pussy, leaving nothing to the imagination. And Joel moans at the sight—he can’t help it. “Oh, little girl…look at that,” he whispers, voice thick with admiration. “Now you’re finally gettin’ it.”

This time when his palm connects, it’s right in the center of your ass, lower than before—and Joel can almost see your clit pulsing. “Two,” you whimper, eyes squeezed tight to try and fight your oncoming tears. When you catch your breath, you begin pleading almost immediately. “Please, please, touch me. I need you.”

He clicks his tongue. “Shh, baby, I know,” he says. “I know it’s hard, wantin’ something so bad…having it so close…” He slides his middle finger over your panties, right through your slit. It’s featherlight and teasing and torturous. You tilt your hips back to meet his soft touch, but he only pulls away, leaving you trembling in his lap. “And then it gets taken away from you,” he continues. “Leavin’ you all needy and cold and hungry. ”

Joel strikes your ass with his tingling palm, grinning to himself in satisfaction at the art he’s made of your skin. “Joel,” you cry, shoulders shaking with every deep, ragged breath. “Joel, please.”

“See? Knew you’d forget his name. Happened so quick, darlin,’” he mocks. He snakes his hand beneath your dress, tracing the curve of your spine, stroking in reverence. “S’posed to be countin’ for me.”

Your voice is breathy and broken as you say, “Three, Joel I need it, oh my god.” This time the tears do come, sliding slowly down your flushed cheek. Joel reaches over and swipes it away. He runs his knuckles softly over your jaw, ignoring the rocking of your hips.

“Shh. S’alright, little girl. I’m here, nothin’ to cry about,” he coos. And then he takes your arm in his hand, pulling you up off the mattress. “C’mere, baby. I’ve got ya.” When you lean back on your heels, knees pressing against the side of his thigh, Joel kisses the tip of your nose with his lips stretched into an amused grin.

You reach for him, hands finding the coarse hair of his beard, pulling his face to yours, crushing your mouth to his. You taste like heaven, and Joel lets you take control for a single moment. Lets you bite his bottom lip, lets you lick into his mouth, lets you run your hands through his hair and tug the curls at the nape of his neck. But the moment you reach for his cock, Joel grips the back of your neck and pulls you quickly away. “ Please,” you whimper, and you sound so fucking pretty begging for him that his resolves wavers.

But then he remembers the way it sounded when you said Abel’s name and Joel’s jaw feathers. “Arms up, sweetheart. Still got two more to go.”

A whine leaves you in protest, but you do as he asks. Joel helps you take off your dress, tosses it to the floor in the pile where he left his faith, and runs his rough fingertips down your bare chest. 

“You’re so pretty baby,” he says truthfully, thumbs ghosting across your nipples. “You know how pretty you are?”

No answer comes in the form of words, but you clue him in on just how desperate for him you are when he sees your head fall back at the light touch. Your lips part with a ragged breath that turns into a moan when he leans forward and takes one nipple into his mouth. 

He swirls his tongue, flicking it over the hardened peak. He pinches the other gently between his thumb and forefinger, massaging the delicate flesh of your breasts. And when he pulls away, pushing you back down against the mattress, Joel can’t hold back the grunt that leaves him at the pressure your body creates over his cock. He’s so hard it hurts. And he knows the cure, longs for it, but he has to finish this. He has to make sure you remember what happens when you disrespect him, when you entertain another man.

Joel hooks his fingers in your panties and slowly pulls them down. A low, throaty groan leaves him as he sees the mess you’ve made. It’s pornographic and dirty and obscene and Joel has never, ever wanted something so bad in his life. “Fuck. This all for me, little girl?”

“Yes,” you say, breathless. “It’s yours, Joel, all for you.”

He pulls your panties further down your thighs, cock throbbing as he watches strands of your slick snap as they disconnect. Your pussy is glistening, and Joel wants to feel it, wants to taste it. But he resists, knowing it’ll be worth it in the end. “I know it is, baby,” he mutters.

This time when he brings his palm down against your ass, the sound is sharper, louder than before without the fabric between you. Now it’s just his hand and your flushed skin, and it isn’t until now that Joel realizes just how badly he needs to touch you.

Your hips lift up towards his hand, looking for relief that won’t come. “Four,” you sigh.

“Good girl,” he says. “One more, yeah?”

Through panting breaths you ask, “And then you’ll touch me. Right, Joel? Right?”

The words are so innocent and hopeless that he can’t hold back his dark laughter. You’re being so good for him right now, and Joel knows you don’t deserve any more punishment than this…but the opportunity to tease you is just too sweet to resist. And Joel has already established that, when it comes to you, he’s got no restraint. “What’s wrong? Hm?” He slides his middle and index finger through your pussy, chuckling at the blissful moan you give in response, down to your clit where he circles once, twice—and then back up, gathering your wetness on the pads of his fingers. He spreads you open and traces your entrance, careful not to push inside. “Feelin’ empty, little girl? S’that it?”

You’re nodding frantically, eyes transfixed as he lifts his fingers covered in your slick to his mouth and sucks them clean with a groan. “God, Joel, I can’t take it anymore,” you say. 

But he knows better. If he can sit there and watch you dance with another man for hours, you can handle a little desperation. “Good. Now you know how I feel. One more baby,” he says. “Then I promise I’ll touch you, just like you said. Yeah?”

“Yes, yes, please. One more.” 

He makes it the worst one yet. When he slaps your ass the sound reverberates through his ears, and Joel knows it hurts because his palm stings and he starts to feel a little bit guilty. Because the relief it brings him to have finished, to have made you suffer in the same way he has, is incredible. So much so that he wants to do it again—wants you to act out, to be bratty, just so you’ll end up over his knee with his handprints on you again. And that’s wrong, isn’t it? It has to be. It’s fucked up, wanting to punish a little girl for his own satisfaction.

But then your shoulders drop, and delight shines in your eyes, and Joel knows you enjoyed it as much as he did. So, even if it is fucked up and wrong and immoral, it’s something he shares with you and, somehow, it makes it all worth it. “Five,” you whisper. And you immediately go to sit up, to crawl into his lap, but Joel stops you. 

“Stay still, baby. You just lay right there, I’m gonna take care of you, ‘kay? Just like I promised. Don’t gotta lift a finger, pretty girl.”

Joel shifts from underneath you. He stands up, admires the way you look sprawled out over the sheets with your pussy dripping and your ass marked in the exact shape of his hands. You’re so beautiful it pains him, so flawless it hurts. Joel has to remind himself to breathe as he unbuttons his flannel and tosses it aside. 

By the time he’s unbuttoning his jeans, you’re getting desperate again—needy little thing. He watches you squirm, watches you press your thighs together and arch back towards him. 

Once he’s got his jeans off, he climbs over you, takes his aching cock in his hand, and presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. “My perfect little girl,” Joel murmurs against your skin. He slides the head of his cock through your slit, coating himself in your slick, smirking as you whine for more. “This what you want? Yeah?”

“Yes, yes, God, give it to me, I need it, I’ll be so good,” you beg as he circles your clit.

And what is he supposed to do but give in to you? You’re always good when he’s got you alone like this. “I know you will be, baby. Say please.”

“Please, please, please — ohh.”

You feel like damnation as he eases inside. Your long moan sounds like a psalm, his fingertips on your ribs are like keys to the gates of heaven. It feels so fucking good to be inside of you that Joel feels like a thief. A brigand, a predator, a vulture. Because in the back of his head, he knows the truth, knows you can never really be his, knows that the age difference between the two of you means that you’re not meant for him. And he’s stealing, taking from whoever it is you should belong to…but he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to stop.

He moves slowly, pushing in deep until there’s no spot inside of you left untouched. And when he pulls out, his cock is wet with your slick, and Joel shivers at the sight. “Oh, God, Joel, it feels so good.”

“I know, baby,” he says. He leans back, straightening his spine so he can watch himself disappear inside of you. The dark hair between his hips has been made darker by your wetness, and the muscles in his thighs flex with each slow, meaningful thrust. 

There’s something different tonight. Something even more holy than any other time he’s been this close to you. His heart aches behind his sternum and pressure builds in his throat. The feeling chokes him, runs through his veins as naturally as blood. And though it’s never felt quite like this, Joel knows this feeling. Knows, too, that it terrifies him.

But he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. Doesn’t want to take himself out of the sacred time he has with you. So, he leans into the feeling, letting it take over all those thoughts of sin and doubt, all those thoughts of guilt and shame. He pushes them away and loses himself in you instead, picking up his pace, fucking you hard. “Feels real good, hm? You know he’d never make you feel like this, sweetheart. Just me, ain’t that right?”

“Yes! Yes, mmhm, just you, just you.” He can feel you clench around his cock, squeezing your walls tighter with each cruel thrust. His name sounds so pretty in your mouth, Joel thinks.

Already he’s fighting release, fighting to hold himself back. “Fuck, baby. That’s right, just me.” He snakes his hand beneath you, fingers finding your sensitive clit a moment later. He swipes his hand back and forth quickly, delighting in the way you begin to shake. “Don’t want nothin’ fuckin’ gentle. Wanna be fucked just like this, hm? Fucked like the little slut I know you are. You fuckin’ love this cock, don’t you baby? Hm? Say it, sweetheart.”

“I love it, I love it, I love it, ” you say, and Joel’s heart pounds a little faster in his chest. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, God,” you cry out. And he knows you’re right there, can feel it in your trembling limbs. Joel grabs your ass with his free hand, raised skin hot to the touch, and spreads you open for a clearer view.

The sight of his cock stretching you open nearly does him in. But he resists, because he wants to come with you, wants you to drown him. “Give it to me,” he says, thrusting in deeper, stroking your clit faster. “Give it to me, baby. C’mon. There you go, thaaat’s it. Good girl, that’s a good fuckin’ girl. Shit, pretty little pussy’s soakin’ me. Gonna come inside, hm? How’s that sound, sweetheart? Want me to fill you up?”

There’s a moment of hesitation, but then you’re nodding and you look back at him with hazy eyes and say through your moans, “Yes, I wanna feel it. Please come inside me, Joel, please.”

He doesn’t last another second. His orgasm hits him so hard his vision blackens and he sees nothing but bursts of light, hears nothing but your sweet sounds, feels nothing but admiration and devotion and worship. For you, all for you. 

Everything for you. 

He fucks you through it, doesn’t stop until he’s completely spent, even though you've finished and come down and your knuckles are white around the sheets, too sensitive to care about anything else but the steady movement inside of you. He gives you every last drop, makes fucking sure of it. And when his muscles go slack, he presses his sweaty forehead to your spine and tries to catch his breath. He breathes you in deep, holding you in his lungs, in his heart.

And he doesn't want to move, but then you let out a sated little giggle and say, “Joel, you’re squishing me.”

He laughs quietly, presses a kiss to your shoulder, and slowly pulls out of you with a groan. He crawls to the other side of the bed, pulls the comforter back, and helps you crawl underneath it. And when he nestles in beside you, he’s a little startled when it’s a natural reaction to pull you close. He wraps his arms around your waist, hooks your thigh over his hip, leans into your hands as you thread your fingers through his hair and scratch lightly at his scalp. 

It’s intimate and closer than he’s been to anyone in a very, very long time. But he doesn’t hate it. And he doesn’t hate it when you pepper kisses over his face, either. And he really doesn’t hate it when you arch your back, tits pressing against his chest, and smile like there’s nothing in the world that makes you happier than being here with him, just like this.

He knows you are, but he has to ask. “You okay? It wasn’t too much, was it?”

You shake your head. “No, not at all. I…” You stop, chewing on your bottom lip. “I, uhm…”

“What is it?”

You look away from him, suddenly very interested in the shadows you make on the ceiling by rubbing your cold feet over his legs. “In the morning, I’ll have to go talk to Robin,” you admit. “She…she makes this tea, something you can drink to prevent unwanted…uhm,”

Joel thinks it's real cute, the way you’re struggling over your words. But he decides to grant you a little ease. Thinks you deserve it. “You don’t have to do that. I had a vasectomy before the outbreak,” he says. And when a crease forms between your brows, the question written plainly on your face, he explains, “It’s a procedure that, uh…makes it so I can’t…you know. Do that. Shootin’ blanks.”

It’s only then he realizes the gravity of the situation. Realizes that you didn’t know, because the two of you have never had this conversation, and you were ready and willing and begging to risk everything, to risk being tied to him forever, all for a single moment of bliss, of sweet relief.

“Oh. How convenient,” you say. 

“That’s somethin’ you were worried about?” He begins to wonder if you’ve ever felt pressured by him to do things you didn’t want all in the name of pleasing him. Realizes that never once has he asked for your permission. He’s always just…told you what to do. Bossed you around. And there’s a power imbalance here because of his age, isn’t there? His mouth runs dry, his blood runs cold. “You can say no, baby. At any time, with anything. You know that, right?”

You nod, and he feels the panic bleed from his chest as you explain, “I know. I wanted it, too. And I wasn’t worried. I trust you, Joel.”

That fucks him up. Blows through all the defenses he’s put up, all the walls he’s built to keep you out, to keep you at arm's length.

I trust you.

God, he’s fucking done for.

You let out a long breath. He feels at ease the moment you nestle your head in the junction of his shoulder, muscles relaxing as the tension subsides. “I don’t want to see you with her,” you whisper against his throat. 

“You won’t,” he says quickly. “I never should’ve gone in the first place.” It’s the truth, and Joel means it. There’s no one for him but you and he knows by now that there never will be.

“So…I’ll only be with you, and you’ll only be with me, and we’ll keep it quiet for a while. That way everyone’s happy.”

“Yeah,” he says. But it’s not enough. Just seconds after the words leave your mouth, there’s a pull within him for more. He wants to parade you around Jackson, to hold your hand and kiss you over dinner at The Tipsy Bison and dance with you so every man in the commune knows who you belong to. 

But he can’t. He can’t.

It’s not enough, but it has to be.

Joel can tell there’s another question on the tip of your tongue. He gives you time to work through it, to form the words in whatever way makes you most comfortable. But the longer you stay silent, the deeper that crease between your brows becomes. You swallow thickly, open your mouth, close it again. And Joel feels his heart shatter in his chest because he knows. He knows because he feels it, too. And the words crack in your mouth as you say, “Joel…Joel, I—”

“I know,” he says, because he can’t hear you say it. He can’t. It’s too much. It’ll rip him apart. But he gets it, he understands. He presses his lips to yours, kissing you deeply, hoping you can sense his piety. When he pulls away, your eyes are wide and glassy and you look just as frightened as he feels. “S’okay, baby. I know. Get some sleep.”

Joel holds you a little tighter.

[part three] [part five]

[eddiesghxst]

cigarettes, coffee, and club-hopping

alrighty, she's here and i hope she lives up to the expectations! this is part one of...idk how many yet, but enjoy!

based on this idea I had 80 years ago

————

part one | part two | part three | part four

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: ex-bf!rockstar!eddie x lawyer!reader

summary: you're a divorce attorney in Los Angeles and your newest client is filing against famous rockstar, Eddie Munson, who is also your ex-boyfriend

contains: exes to lovers trope, mention of a past relationship, slutty banter, smoking, mentions of alcohol, a hint of mean!eddie, public sex (restroom), a sprinkle of degradation, eddie likes to kiss your neck, fingering, eddie licking your c*m off his fingers (bye), and eddie being hot <3

word count: 5.8k

-masterlist-

Eddie hates waking up early. 

He’s never been a morning person— in all his twenty-eight years of living, Eddie has never seen the letters ‘AM’ and smiled. This is partially why Eddie failed his first-period class in high school for two — almost three — consecutive years in a row. This is also partly why Eddie was fired from nearly every job he landed after graduating. You would imagine that Eddie has learned his lesson after all this time. Not quite.

Eddie is nearly an hour late to his first divorce settlement conference. One would think that Eddie would, for once in his life, wake up at a reasonable time to take a shower, grab his usual morning energy drink, beat LA traffic, and get to his appointment on time— as a mature grown man would do. Still, Eddie failed even to set an alarm to wake him up.

“You’re forty minutes late already— traffic is gonna make it even worse, and you don’t have another day to reschedule this for the next two months, so I suggest you get up, Munson!”

Eddie watches through sleep-fogged eyes as Kelly, his assistant, throws his window curtains aside to let the morning sun seep into his room. There’s a pounding kick drum beating behind Eddie’s eyes, a result of Eddie falling into Jeff’s sinister persuasion to go out. He should stop listening to that asshole— he’s part of why Eddie married his soon-to-be ex-wife.

Eddie’s bones click and crack as he stretches, sits up, and lazily swings his legs over the side of his bed with a sleepy groan. He can hear the rustling sound of Kelly picking up laundry from his floor— something he’s told her multiple times not to do, but she does it anyway, so he’s given up on fighting her. He runs a hand over his face, a yawn wracking through his entire body before reaching over to his nightstand, feeling around for the box of cigarettes he knows he left the night before. 

“I tossed them out,” Eddie glances up at Kelly, who is now grabbing the last of his laundry on the floor and leaving his room. “Go freshen up and get dressed; we need to leave now.”

Eddie’s doctor advised him to start weaning himself off the cancer sticks; something about it fucking with his gums, and that’s on top of the risks he’s running with the vocal strain it’s put on his voice. Eddie knows he should take it seriously, but he needs a lick of nic before spending the next three to four hours bickering with his wife about what’s his and hers.

Eddie drags himself out of bed, shuffling across the cool tile of his bedroom floor. He sleepily rubs his bare stomach, flipping the light switch and groaning, annoyed at the sudden brightness. He brushes his teeth and splashes water on his face before walking into his closet and sifting through the random pants and jackets strewn across the floor. There’s gotta be some smokes in here somewhere. 

He finds a nearly empty pack of Marlboro reds and wastes no time sticking it between his lips, lighting it up with the lighter on his nightstand before getting dressed.

By the time Eddie steps into the law firm, his headache has intensified by about 80 beats per second, and he’s gone through the old pack of smokes. It feels as if the back of Eddie’s eyes have a heartbeat of their own, throbbing with every direction they turn. Eddie can hear his attorney giving him pointers for the conference, but if Eddie’s honest, he doesn’t plan on talking much, so he doesn’t pay close attention to what the man is saying.

When they enter the conference room, Eddie is seated across the table from his wife and offered a cup of coffee, to which Eddie gladly accepts to nurse his hangover. “You could at least take the glasses off.” A sweet voice that’s grown to grate every one of Eddie’s nerves whenever he hears it. He glares at his wife from across the table, and though nobody could see his eyes behind his glasses, everyone could sense the distaste behind his words, “Fuck off, Nezza.”

A strong hand is placed on Eddie’s shoulder, his attorney’s, stiffly squeezing the thick leather jacket. “How about we get started then? Before things get… rowdy.”

“Great idea.” 

Now that voice—- that voice, Eddie could hear at any second of the day, any time of the year, and know exactly who was conducting that sweet song. 

Eddie likes to believe that the universe works in mysterious ways and that things really do happen for a reason, but sometimes he swears whatever god is up there behind the clouds just likes to fuck with him for fun. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could’ve prepared Eddie for the sight he sees when he flits his gaze from Nezza to the woman sitting next to her.

For a moment, Eddie is taken back to a time he remembers in golden dream-like clouds of smoke—- the spring of ‘83 when he fell headfirst in love with the woman sitting next to his wife. And for that moment—- for that split fraction of a second, Eddie is happy to see you. 

It’s surprising; after all this time he spent resenting you and spitting out the sour taste you'd left in his mouth, Eddie imagined he would never be able even to see a picture of you and not want to slam his head against the nearest surface he could get his hands on.

However, that feeling only lasts about .012 milliseconds before Eddie’s entire being is filled with every emotion he’d suppressed towards you over the last nine years. Eddie looks at you and sees the girl he loved and the girl that broke his heart. His last memory of you is so vivid that it almost outshines all the good from your past relationship. Almost. Like a python wrapped around his neck, Eddie chokes on adoration and hatred all in one breath.

If Eddie said it didn’t piss him off to an ungodly level that he has a sliver of excitement to see you, he would be lying. You had always known the best ways to wriggle under his skin. 

This one takes the cake for the cruelest way so far.

————

Eddie looks the same.

Not much has changed on him throughout the years apart from expensive clothing, healthier-looking hair, and a little more muscle on his arms to fill out the black leather jacket clinging to his frame. He still has a knack for jewelry, you note from the priceless rings hugging nearly every slender finger of his and the chain resting against his chest, hidden beneath his shirt. He carries himself the same way, confidently with a smear of carefree and chaos. You couldn’t get a read on him when settled down in his seat across from Nezza, and the black sunglasses shielding his eyes didn’t help you decipher him any further. 

He smells like Marlboro reds and a sharp cologne; dark scented and intense, easy to tell he’s the one wearing the scent. It’s a different scent than you remember from him. He’s swapped the cheap four-cent bottle of Brut for a more decadent scent— a mix of tonka bean, musk, and patchouli with a dash of something feminine you can’t quite put your finger on. The scent matches him better than Brut could ever amount to, but you find yourself reminiscent of the past.

Eddie doesn’t look your way until you speak, and either Eddie has mastered his poker face over the years, or he doesn’t remember you.

Not even briefly does Eddie’s expression falter from the bored look plastered on his face. The sunglasses do no justice either, and you wish the universe would strike them off his face at this very moment. You had forgotten what his eyes looked like in real-time and desperately wanted to remember— take a mental picture and shove it in the corner of your brain filled with essential memories, all things that make you smile, cry, and scream.

There’s a moment where you feel pained by Eddie’s unwavering reaction to seeing you. That feeling is quickly replaced with relief, relief that Eddie has matured just as much as you’d hoped he had. When you found out your client would be filing against Eddie, your high school boyfriend, you had initially panicked and paced the living room floor of your tiny studio apartment, thinking of ways to back out of the case. However, after a hefty glass of wine, you managed to persuade yourself that Eddie most likely isn’t still hung up on something as silly as a high school relationship. It happened nearly a decade ago; surely, you’ve both moved on, right?

With this indication, you feel the tension in your shoulders ease a little, hopeful that this process will be seamless, seeing as both parties want nothing to do with each other and Eddie holds no hard feelings against you.

Once the conference begins, you don’t look away in time to avoid Eddie’s gaze as he removes the glasses, your eyes landing on those dark pools of brown that you used to dip into each night. Vibrant and so full of life, full of untold stories and sights you’d missed out on in the last decade, a story unfolds beneath the glimmer of his eyes under the lights. They feel like home at first, but as you continue holding his gaze, your home becomes clouded by lightning and wind, dark storm clouds with a promise of a downpour.

As you gaze into Eddie’s eyes, you see nothing but the boy you left behind in the summer of ‘85.

————

Stomach growling and frustrated sighs indicate the need for a break at around 12:40 PM.

The conference had started on a good note, with seamless agreements between you, your client, and Eddie’s team. That was until your client decided to become rather difficult and demanding.

“We’ll pick up where we left off in ten minutes.”

The atmosphere in the room has become stuffy and tight over the hours, so you get up to stretch your legs on a short walk to the coffee cart in the hallway.

Your mind feels muddled, pushed to exhaustion from hours of reading documents and going back and forth with Eddie’s attorney. Nezza wants more than Eddie is willing to give, money-wise, property-wise, and everything else under the sun. You’re determined to get your client as much as possible, but it’s proving to be more of a struggle than expected; Eddie’s team is headstrong and unwilling to bend to your substantial advances. Oh, and Eddie’s been practically throwing daggers at you from across the table with each chance he can get.

As you stir in a sugar packet, you watch the dark brown liquid swirl in the foam cup. You fall into a short trance as you watch the tiny bubbles dance within your drink, but the sound of a throat clearing shatters the spell. You glance to your side where the person is standing and are surprised to be met with a leather-covered shoulder and dark brown curly hair. 

“Are you done with the sugar?” Eddie points towards your hand, and you blink, stuck as you stare at him for a moment. You know you should be professional, you’re an established attorney, and you’re in the middle of doing your job, but you’re also 100% fucking human, so— “I don’t know, are you done sending me death glares from across the table or do you wanna keep being an asshole?”

Eddie grabs the jar of sugar packets from your hand, “You wouldn’t have to put up with it if you just… quit the case.” Eddie shrugs as if his advice is a task as easy as folding towels. You take offense to his response, eyebrows pinching together as you watch him rip open a packet and sprinkle sugar into his cup, “I can’t just drop a case, Eddie.”

Eddie mockingly laughs, “Really? That’s weird; I mean, considering how you kind of just dropped everything and fled the fucking state, I’m sure you can drop a case just as easily, sweetheart.” 

His words hurt. As much as you wish he didn’t have that effect on you, it’s evident that he still does, considering how your neck heats up in anger. You don’t miss the pet name he slipped in; you hate that it makes your neck even warmer. “I didn’t flee the state; I went to fucking college— and how is that even my fault? I gave you the number to my dorm, and you never called.”

And Eddie remembers that letter you left him. He remembers it like the back of his hand. He memorized every sentence, including that stupid number you left for him. “Yes, I did. I called you after every show for months, and you never picked up!” 

You spent eight years in New York, and out of those eight years, you spent four of them staring at an ugly green phone on the wall of your dorm hallway, waiting for it to ring so you could pick it up and hear his voice again. You asked your roommate to listen for a call if she was up studying late or if you went out and she stayed in. Now, you wonder if she failed you on her part because you would’ve never, in a hundred years, missed Eddie’s call. Never.

Before you can respond to the information, you are being called back into the room to resume the conference—  you’d almost forgotten that’s what you were here for.

You and Eddie let the man know you’ll be right there and watch as he walks back into the room. When you turn to Eddie, his gaze is no longer on you as he tosses the small wooden stirring stick in the trash.

Eddie is silent for a moment before he looks at you and gives a forced, close-lipped smile, “It’s nice to know you’re still full of shit.”

And then he’s gone. Eddie leaves you there, stunned and offended by his words. Eddie Munson thinks you’re full of shit— as if you were the only one to blame for your falling out. You feel stupid for believing in a better-evolved version of the Eddie you’d known. You wish his words didn’t affect you, but the conversation has left a bitter taste on your tongue. You glance down at the cup of coffee in your hands, and your stomach churns. You no longer have an appetite for the drink.

————

Late-night club hopping has never been your preferred way of spending a Saturday night. There’s a different type of energy in LA’s club scene than there is in New York. It was easy to have a good time in New York; the clubs are all close to one another and stay open nearly all night. In Los Angeles, it’s been a slow rise to liking the nightlife— clubs are more scattered, and on top of that, you learned the hard way that it’s difficult to even get into clubs when you’re not Madonna-level status. That last problem isn’t so much an issue now that you’ve settled in and made a few connections around the city. 

Tonight you’re celebrating a friend from work's birthday. Penny was the first person you talked to at the law firm; she instantly made you feel at home and offered to buy you lunch at a cafe next door. The two of you have been joined at the hip ever since. 

You’re happy to celebrate Penny’s birthday and glad to be tagging along with her in this new chapter of her life, but what you’re bothered about is the fact that you chose to wear the most uncomfortable shoes in your closet. You were under the impression that you would be eating dinner with Penny and a few of her friends, but somehow, dinner turned into a night-long clubbing adventure. 

Logically, you have no one to blame but yourself for wearing Steve Madden pumps, but if Penny had told you the night would be long, you definitely wouldn’t have worn these god-awful shoes.

You’re sitting on a bar stool waiting for your drink and thinking about what excuse you’ll give Penny to go home when suddenly, you feel someone walk up beside you, waving over the bartender. You glance at the person and immediately look away, preparing to run for it before they notice. 

Sadly, you’re not fast enough to escape his line of sight, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re stalking me.”

You turn to the man and take in the sight of him as you tilt your head. “Wouldn’t it be the other way around since I was… you know, minding my business until you came here.” You motion to where Eddie is standing, and he smirks, silently taking his drink when the bartender passes it to him.

“How’d you get in here anyways?” He asks. It’s not a bad question; sure, you’re a damn good attorney, but you’re of no celebrity status, and this club is one of the more difficult joints to get into. However, you still take offense to Eddie’s question.

Your eyes narrow slightly, debating whether you should continue entertaining Eddie or leave and find your friends. “If you’re going to continue to be an asshole, then I’m leaving.”

“Fine by me; I want nothing to do with you.” Eddie scoffs into the rim of his drink before taking a short sip. You roll your eyes, feeling like kids in elementary getting into petty fights. “What makes you think I want something to do with you?”

Eddie snickers over the rim of his glass, “The fact that you’re still sitting here says enough.” 

You scoff, looking away from him as you shift in your seat, attempting to make it seem like you want to get away from him, but it only scoots you closer to him, your arm brushing his elbow. You panic at the touch but act as if it was nothing. “If my feet didn’t feel like they were about to fall off, I would be miles away from you by now.” You grumble as you distract yourself by tugging down the hem of your dress. 

“I don't believe that.” 

You let out an exasperated breath, looking over at Eddie with an annoyed expression as you speak, “Not everyone is head over heels dying to be around you.” 

It might be the alcohol or Eddie’s sinister pheromones you’re breathing in paired with the sound of his ridiculously annoying laugh—- you’re not sure which it is, but you find yourself enjoying this back-and-forth banter. A big part of you is frustrated by Eddie’s insistent prodding at your nerves, but your other part is intrigued. Too stuck to grab your things, bid him goodnight, and leave.

You almost think you heard him wrong when he responds, “We’ll see if you’re saying the same thing once I get you in the back.”

You blink, momentarily silent, as you glance at him to watch him calmly sip his drink. Not a single hint of regret or shock flashes across his face, and you almost think you imagined it until you see a ghost of a smirk brush the corner of his lips. “Excuse me?” And like a child, Eddie’s response is quick and irritating, “You’re excused.”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m willingly going anywhere with you that’s not a fucking law firm or courtroom.” 

Eddie laughs, glancing at you and nodding once, “Sure.” You hate how smug he is, and you hate that he’s so fucking right, but you swear you won’t fold for whatever stupid game he’s playing. “Sure?”

You watch Eddie tip back his drink and finish what’s left, placing the empty glass on the bar countertop before lazily nudging it forward. You shift back with an annoyed grimace when he turns to you and leans an elbow against the bar. He points over your shoulder, and you catch yourself before you follow his lead, gaze stuck on his face as you prepare for whatever bullshit is about to leave his mouth.

“I’m gonna head to the restroom to take a piss. You can sit here and bitch about everything under the sun, or you can quit being a pussy and meet me there.”

And without further explanation or interaction, Eddie gets up and leaves. You turn and watch in shock as he walks off, watching his back until it’s washed away by the sea of people on the dance floor. You turn back to the bar and gaze at your drink. For a moment, you think this might be some elaborate scheme Eddie has to fuck you over. Complying with this proposition, Eddie has now opened, could very well lead to you losing your job, something you’re not very keen on doing.

You glance towards the direction Eddie had walked off in and groan, briefly shutting your eyes as temptation washes over you. There’s no way this is real. There’s no way you’re actually thinking about going into that restroom with Eddie.

You take a deep breath, clenching your teeth in thought before muttering a curse. You’re fucking yourself over with this one, but you do it anyways. You toss back the rest of your drink, wincing at the bitterness, before hopping off the barstool.

Your adrenaline is so high that you don’t even feel the ache in your feet as you cross the dance floor, maneuvering through sweaty bodies and spilled drinks toward the bright neon RESTROOMS sign.

From the corner of your eye, you see Penny standing at her rented-out section as she tosses back a shot with the girls you’d arrived with. You should turn around and join them, return to celebrating Penny’s birthday, and forget all about your interaction with Eddie. That’s what you should do, but you don’t. You continue walking towards the restrooms, mentally going back and forth with yourself until you reach the door and wrap your hand around the handle.

However, the door opens before you can fully prepare to open it, and the scent of hand soap and Eddie hits you in the face. Your wide eyes meet Eddie’s glinting gaze. A smirk spreads across his lips, and he snickers, “I’d say I’m surprised, but that’d be a lie.”

Your gaze is hot and heavy as you stare up at him. The sounds of the club you're in seem muffled as you spend your last seconds considering what you’re about to do. You should really turn around.

You tilt your head up, silently sizing Eddie and daring him, a tipping point where you both know there’s no going back now—- especially not when you mesh your lips against his and stumble into the restroom. You plan to blame this on the alcohol.

Eddie makes quick work of turning to press your back against the door, fumbling to lock the door as you grumble a breathless ‘Fuck you’ against his lips.

“I intend to, sweetheart.” 

You hate how stupid and witty the response is, but it makes your stomach twist in need, nonetheless. Eddie’s hands are roaming and squeezing you wherever he can reach, hiking up your dress enough to slink a few digits into the hand of your skimpy panties, snapping them against your waist and smirking when you push up against him. Eddie manages to speak in between haste kisses, “I’m gonna be honest; I didn’t think you’d give in this easily.”

Eddie is now ushering you towards the sink, softly snickering at the gasp that escapes you when the cold marble digs into your lower back. “Are you trying to say I’m easy?” 

You can’t hold back the moan that slips from you when Eddie’s hand slithers between your thighs to press a thumb against your clit. “Maybe… also just pointing out that you clearly missed me.”

You don’t answer him, leaning forward to capture his lips in a heated kiss as your hips rock back and forth against his touch. You smooth your hand down his chest and over his belt to grasp the heavy bulge between his thighs, humming when he moans, “Looks like you missed me more, Munson.”

You giggle when he grunts in annoyance, fingers dipping into the waistband of your panties before shucking them down your legs and lifting the flimsy garment for you to see with a smirk, “Won’t be needing these anymore, will you?” 

You grimace in faux disgust as you watch him stuff the soaked material in his back pocket. “Gross,” you comment, although Eddie doesn’t answer, busying himself with pulling you off the counter, flipping you around to face the sink, and eyeing you through the neon-lighted mirror. “You’re a perv; you know that?” You add as Eddie wraps an arm around your front and hikes your dress to sink his hand between your thighs.

Your shaky fingers grasp Eddie’s wrist, hips squirming as he begins to rub your clit, dipping a finger lower to spread your sticky arousal. “If I were you, I would start being very nice to me.” His voice is low and gravely against your ear as you smile, gazing back into his darkened gaze through the glass reflection. You push back against him, and you both sigh in pleasure. “Just fuck me, Eddie.”

You gasp when he sinks a thick digit into your weeping cunt, slowly pushing it in and out of you to create a sinful twist in your tummy. You shake your head in protest, although your hips rock against his thrusts. “No, no, I don’t need it. I don’t need that. Just fuck me, please?” You repeat, voice teetering on the edge of a whine.

“God, you’re still a fucking brat. So used to getting what you want, hm?” Despite his comment, he doesn’t give you what you’d asked for. Instead, he slips in another finger, greedily squeezing at your chest with his other hand. Your thighs tremble as his fingertips delicately massage that sweet spot hidden between your wet walls, a shaky hand reaching up to grasp his hand as he fondles your breasts over your dress. “Not anymore, princess,” His voice is low and foggy with sex, purring against your ear with ease as he plays with you. “This time, you’ll earn it like a good slut. You’re going to have to ask me very nicely if you want it that bad.” “A-ah…Fuck you.”

Eddie laughs at your response, digging his face into your neck when you throw your head back, inhaling the intoxicating scent of your perfume. He presses a kiss to the base of your neck, and you hate how it makes your stomach twist, thighs clenching around his hand, causing him to pause. “Keep them open.” He warns, ignoring your pathetic attempts at rutting against his hand.

When you don’t obey his instruction, Eddie brings his foot in between your pump-clad feet, knocking the toe of his shoe against both heels, causing your legs to part, shaky limbs failing you as you stumble in his hold. Eddie chuckles, nipping your jaw as he sinks another finger into your soaking heat. Your moan is loud and pitiful as you reach forward to grasp the sink counter for stability. “Oh my god—” “Jesus, you’re fucking tight. Barely taking three fingers.” Your moans are high-pitched as you rock your hips against Eddie, nails digging into the skin of his flexing wrist as he fucks you with his fingers. 

The sloshing sounds from between your legs are just loud enough to hear over the booming music of the club barely, and if Eddie’s fingers weren’t fucking you so well, you would’ve felt ashamed. You hardly notice Eddie’s free hand traveling to the low neck of your dress, tugging the material down to expose your chest. He groans at the sight, palming one of your tits as his mouth latches to the side of your neck. His fingers pinch and roll your nipples, his tongue warm and wet as he licks up your neck, humming at the taste of you and smiling when he feels you tremble against his body. “I can feel you squeezing me, princess; you gonna cum for me?” He whispers against your ear, humming when you hastily nod. “I don’t think so.” 

He slows the draw of his fingers, softly petting at your walls to give enough sensation to have your eyes rolling but not enough to tip over the edge. You frustratedly huff, “Eddie—” “Good sluts ask to come, you know that.”

Your stomach twists at his words, hips squirming in search of more, more, more. You have a lot of pride; you’ve been told it’s your strongest and worst quality before— but here in this dingy club restroom, with Eddie’s overwhelming presence surrounding you and the incessant need to cum gnawing at every cell in your body, you find your pride quickly dwindling like a flame under water. The time when you need your pride the most, it’s nowhere to be found. 

“Please, Eddie.” You whisper so quietly Eddie almost misses it. He smiles, “Since I know how hard that was for you, I’ll take it— but I won't be so kind next time, princess.” He pulls his fingers out of you and urges you to turn around and face him. 

He nudges you back to sit on the edge of the sink, stepping between your thighs and opening them wide enough to see your glistening cunt, sticky arousal winking up at him beneath the dim neon lighting. “N-next time?” You take in a sharp breath as he hitches your leg around his waist

He chuckles, glancing at your swollen lips as you gaze up at him trying to fight through the hazy fog of arousal. Eddie runs three fingers over your clit before sinking back into you, a low hum rattling from his chest when your shaky hands grasp his shirt, fingers curling and wrinkling the material, “Next time.”

Your words get lost on you when he begins fucking you again, eyes fluttering shut as your legs subconsciously tighten around his waist. You can feel his breath against your top lip, and you fight the urge to seek out his lips with yours. You push up into him, mumbling incoherent pleas into the air. You lick your lips, pussy clenching when the tip of your tongue catches Eddie’s bottom lip. Eddie doesn’t wait for you to make a move this time, his free hand reaching up to grip your jaw, fingertips digging into your cheek as he pushes his lips against yours. You both moan into the kiss, your hips grinding into the thrusts of his fingers.

You keep kissing Eddie until you can’t, too overwhelmed by the pending promise of an orgasm. You slide away from Eddie’s lips and nuzzle into his neck, finding solace in the soft brush of his hair against your face, the distant but familiar scent of his shampoo invading your senses. “I’m gonna come.” You whisper, nails digging into his biceps as your thighs quiver.

Eddie keeps his hand working between your thighs, thanking the many hours he’s spent playing guitar for training his wrist to maintain endurance. His other hand dances up your heaving back, dipping beneath the curtain of your hair to grip the back of your neck, softly squeezing in encouragement. “Let go, baby. Let me feel it.”

You nearly sob when you finally tip over, body tensing before melting against Eddie’s body in shambles of incoherent words and shaking limbs. You can hear the sticky wet substance of your release squelching around his fingers; you can feel it smearing against your thighs and dripping onto the cool tiles of the floor, and you almost feel ashamed when Eddie points it out, “Fuckkk, you’ve been saving this for me, haven’t you?” You hardly register his words, but you nod, mewling as you nuzzle deeper against him, thighs twitching when you teeter on the edge of sensitivity.

“I… Enough, Eddie, please fuck me.” You’re practically begging, pulling away from his neck to blink up at him blearily, sex-drunk hands fumbling to reach out for him. Eddie kisses you and chuckles against your lips, fingers finally slowing down. He pulls away with a lewd hum, leaning back to watch as he removes his fingers from your cunt, dragging the drenched digits up to smear your arousal around your clit, grinning when your thighs twitch.

You try to catch your breath as you silently watch him bring his fingers up to his lips, sinking them into his mouth to sinfully lick your cum from his fingers. He glances at you with a smirk around his fingers, and you squirm in your spot. “You’re being a tease.”

He releases his fingers with a pop before stepping away, “Sorry to cut this short, sweetheart, but I’ve gotta run, and I’m sure your friends are worried about where you went.” You watch in disbelief as he glances in the mirror and fixes a few unruly hair pieces. He looks your way and drops his eye in a wink, “I’ll see you later, princess.”

You silently gape in shock, watching him turn around and stride toward the door. Eddie can feel your eyes throwing darts at him, and he doesn’t bother hiding his smile as he opens the door and steps out. 

You have to take a moment to wrap your head around it, but once you do, you wind up more annoyed with yourself for falling so quickly into Eddie’s trap. You clean yourself up and make yourself look presentable again before leaving the restroom to find your friends. 

“Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Penny exclaims once she sees you. She gasps when you get closer, and she sees your neck, leaning in to get a better look, causing you to slap a hand over the sore spot. “Oh, my god. Who?” “What?” “You were definitely screwing someone in the back! Who?”

You wince at her volume, quickly shushing her, “Nobody, Penny, this is old.” 

Penny rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to say something, but you quickly cut her off, “I have an early meeting tomorrow, Pen; I have to get going.” Penny frowns but understands either way, giving you a quick hug and bidding you goodbye for the night. You leave her with a final Happy Birthday and make your way out of the club, already yearning for the comfort of your bed.

Before getting a taxi, you find yourself walking into a nearby store and purchasing a CD of Corroded Coffin’s first album, letting the CD burn a hole through your hands on the ride home. When you get home, you fall asleep atop your sheets before you can listen to the record. 

You spend the rest of your night dreaming of hazy summers in Hawkins with a young curly-headed boy you knew once upon a time.

————

a/n: aH, i hope this was good, next part will be a bit more angsty so this part was for the sluts <3

————

teeny taglist: @eviethetheatrefreak , @sidthedollface2, @peachysink, @hereforshmut, @duncanhillscoffeecups

[livwritesstuff]

‘tis my birthday today (it’s gotta be one of the worst birthdays to have, we don’t need to talk about it) anyways that’s where this is coming from

(also i’m not trying to imply that jan 1 is eddie’s bday. i wouldn’t wish that on anybody. besides, he is def a weirdo february aquarius)

The second half of the calendar year is nothing short of pandemonium for Eddie and Steve and their three daughters.

Moe’s birthday in late July kicks it off, almost immediately followed by Steve’s birthday in early August, then Hazel’s in September. Robbie’s birthday comes mere days after Halloween, and from there they dive headfirst into the bedlam of the holiday season.

Much to Eddie's relief, they all made it to yet another New Year's Day, and while the girls are definitely feeling the end-of-winter-break blues, Eddie welcomes the reprieve in festivities, brief as it may be.

His own birthday is up next – though not for another month.

He’s really not a birthday kind of guy. Never had been.

He loves making birthdays exciting for Steve and their daughters (they have a whole slew of traditions and everything – there’s names spelled out in pancakes involved; it's a very big deal), but his own…not so much.

It managed to fly under the radar for the past few years, but since this year is the big Five-Oh, he knows Steve won’t let him get away with that again.

Eddie has a complicated relationship with his birthday. When he was younger and the weight of Birthday Importance was at its peak, he never really celebrated the way other kids got to, and now, as an adult, he doesn’t know how to feel the things you’re supposed to feel about your birthday. 

Steve does a good job, despite Eddie’s weirdness. 

His favorite, Eddie thinks, was the year Moe was born, when Steve had managed to catch him off guard by renting a tiny cottage up in Maine for a few days.

“Moe or no Moe,” Steve had asked, “I’ve got Rob and Nance on standby.”

(They’d taken Moe. She saw snow for the first time. It was amazing, and people who don't want to involve their kids in stuff are a bunch of fucking weirdos).

Steve gives him a letter every year – handwritten on notebook paper and folded into whatever cheesy card he picks out.

Eddie keeps most of the letters in a fireproof lockbox along with all their passports and social security cards and birth certificates (look – Eddie doesn’t fuck around with priceless shit), but he keeps the most recent one – the one Steve gave him for his forty-ninth birthday nearly a year ago – in the top drawer of his bedside table.

He has it pretty much memorized at this point.

It says:

Ed! (with an exclamation point and everything – god, does Eddie love him)

49.

Holy shit we’re getting old.

Writing this is making me think about all the ones from the beginning, when I’d write about our future together even though we didn’t have a damn clue what we were working towards for a while.

I think we’re in it, man. Crazy, right?

(The ink color suddenly switches from blue to purple)

Sorry for the color change. Hazy decided she needed a blue pen immediately. Hope your vision hasn’t gone totally to shit and you can still read the purple.

Anyways, since I have you hostage reading this, I’m gonna take the opportunity to discuss you, because you don’t let me in real life most of the time.

You are gorgeous. Best looking face I’ve ever seen. I wonder how much time I’ve lost off my day just staring at you (actually, not a loss. I take that back)

You suck at puzzles – I know that sounds bad, but it’s great for me. I need that to rub off on Moe because she’s getting pretty good and that’s gonna be a problem for me.

You make me laugh so fucking hard every day. I’m praying the girls get your sense of “elevated” humor or whatever you like to call it

You’re so fucking smart, Eddie. I count myself lucky for it endlessly

You are completely 100% you all the time. I’m still working on that I think but I’m getting there because of you. I’m glad all that shit we went through didn’t take that away from you.

the BEST dad. Can’t believe I didn’t say that sooner. Not to brag but our kids are turning out pretty awesome (can’t go around saying that too much though it’ll go right to their heads and then any power we have left goes out the window)

You’re probably the best person I’ve ever known. Don’t think I’ll be forgetting what a catch you are any time soon, because I won't.

Thank you for loving me even all these years later. My life is better every day that I’m with you.

We’ll keep things quiet this year. Don’t get used to it though. Next year’s gonna be a rager.

Love you always!

- Steve :) ♡ ☆

[tafferling]

Dying Light: The Beast Demo Impression

Imagine, if you will, a Taff who finds a life saving sort of affection in a game named Dying Light, followed by nearly ten years of dedication to one Kyle Crane. If you’d told that same Taff she’d get to go to Techland HQ after Crane’s return was announced in Dying Light: The Beast, she’d have called you silly. 

And yet.

I had the privilege (the WHAT ON EARTH, how) to watch about forty minutes of Dying Light: The Beast today. It was prefaced by an in-person intro from Tymon Smektała (which was about the most heartfelt thing I’ve ever heard, genuinely), and shown to us on a big-ass screen. 

During those forty-or-so-minutes I might have shuffled in and out of this here physical realm a few times. 

The demo covered an early mission in the game. Here’s what happened:

We start in a small village and tightly forested woodland, a fading day around us. Crane is off to follow a lead, given by the new voice in our ear, named Olivia. The lead will take him to an industrial area. Eventually. But FIRST I get to feast on a gorgeous sunset, lots of smooth as heck parkour, and honestly when we ducked through a small apartment on the way, I wanted to say “Babe, pls stop I GOTTA TAKE PICTURES!”.

I don’t kid. Techland was not fibbing when they mentioned handcrafted; the attention to detail I was criminally denied the chance to rub my face all over has my hopes so far up, they’re tap dancing in the clouds. And then those very same hopes were given wings when two insanely talented artists walked us through how these environments have come together.

Seriously. I can’t wait to get absolutely nothing done in the game because I Must See All And Perceive All.

Anyhoo— back to the demo.

Night falls—as it so likes to do—and we’re warned about how the Volatiles and Freaks (at least I think I remember this right, I was often distracted by, you know, I mean, yeah) are difficult to avoid out here. All that dense woodland makes for shit sight lines and all. But Crane can be subtle and that means I will finally get to hide in the bushes with him come game release. Yay me!

One sec. Spacing out.

What was I saying?

Oh yeah. Stealth. Volatiles. 

OKAY, LISTEN— the sound design in the night-time section of the game was sublime. The snuffing and clicking of the Volatiles. The snap of twigs. The rustle of leaves. Stealth is the jam I like to put on my various bread-adjacent baked goods and this was delicious.

And pretty. Crane’ll be craning (hehe) his head up a lot ‘cause those stars need gazing.

But it’s also a night full of creepy crawlers and so we head towards the nearest safe house, which, in good old Dying Light fashion, needs a bit of TLC. Secure. Remove Infected. Find a spare fuse. Mess with a Charger and his buddies (the handgun came out at that moment and while I do not approve of wasting bullets, I approve of the reload animations). And, finally, plug the newly acquired fuse in and Let There Be Light.

The layout of the safe zone and the tasks to complete brought me back to Harran. I loved the safe zones there; each had its unique look, unique vibe; and was just different enough in what you had to do to secure it to make them their own little experiences. I hope we’ll see this make a comeback.

(Yes, I have not yet mentioned much about Crane. Stick with me. I’ll get there.)

After a snooze (well deserved), we continue to the industrial area, where the demo shifts to showing off guns even more so than before. Honestly, I liked the Dying Light (1) guns. I liked Crane with a gun. He’d always struck me as the type of man who’d know about 500+ ways to kill his fellows; and firearm mastery would’ve been right at the top. So. Yeah. I do like their inclusion.

I also fucking know he’ll keep them holstered for the majority of my game time, because pssst, the bow is right here, darling. We’re using that, quit pouting.

(Hey, she’s still not talking about Crane, is she okay? you may ask. Ha. No.)

We fight our way through a bunch of the Baron’s men, which eventually leads to one of those idiots shooting out some sorta electrical box. There’s a bit of a ruckus over something escaping, a few angry roars thrown in from a distance, and as we decide to investigate we run into a— scientist type? At least I think I’m remembering this right. 

And now I’ll talk about Crane. 

Beware: loads of personal thoughts here; not based entirely on canon. 

Kyle Crane might have once been a man who thought murder is still a big deal. Kyle Crane also might have once been a man who’d roll with the punches, always coming up swinging, but, you know. First he rolls. Then he swings. 

Now? After whatever happened to him between the Following and his capture, leading to thirteen years of being experimented on in what I suspect’ll be a cage of sorts? 

First of all, is murder still going to be a big deal? (No, henchmen don’t count; ludonarrative dissonance wants a word).

Yeah, he doesn’t straight up kill our new scientist friend. Just threatens him. Effectively. But there was a bit of disconnect in how Crane behaved leading up to the solution of the interrogation (him getting what he wanted) and what he eventually did. Namely punch the guy out, rather than kill him. 

I expected our scientist friend to die. I was surprised when he didn’t.

And I expect Crane to no longer roll, but to swing first and not give the narrative the chance to get the first lick in.

All of which I’m deducting from how they’ve leaned heavily into giving him the voice of a man who’s been thoroughly wrung out by that very same narrative. His tone is dark. Clipped. Gone are the expletives; the colourful fucks; and how everyone’s an asshole because that’s just a mood and a half.

And honestly? I don’t know how I feel about it. Yet. Sure, I’m all for the pent up anger we hear whenever he swings a weapon, but—

I love Crane because he wasn’t the moody, broody post-apo dude. You know the Imma chew some nails for breakfast and then get all growly over my (insert trauma here). The Joels, basically (and I gotta hell to the no on him). 

So, no, I don’t know how I feel about this yet. I’m approaching this with trepidation over how they might have removed what made Crane Crane; all in the pursuit of being darker and ‘more mature’, as it’s been said.

BUT— this was just forty minutes. That’s not much. And even if it ends up being true, I’ve still got, like, I dunno— at least another ten good writing years in me to bring that man back to the light. 

. . .

You know what, I am beginning to warm up to this idea. Please. Carry on.

EDIT: Since I’ve originally written this, the new dev blog came out and through that (along with what I’ve heard on site) have made me a lot less anxious about Crane having gone the way of the Complete Grouch. And just as I’ve been getting ideas.

ANYWAY

Our scientist friend got punched out, though not before he’s given us intel in how there’s a Freak here—the thing that just escaped, I presume, I was too busy collecting all the marbles I kept dropping whenever Crane opened his damn mouth to be sure—and how we can lure it.

Next stop(s): get freaky science gas, hop into a truck, drive freaky science gas around the countryside, and then jam it into a freaky science apparatus! 

(I have theories.)

But wait! Ambush! By more of the Baron’s men, no less. They, much like any other good collection of henchmen, have not learned from their rag-dolling buddies’s endless corpses and continue to think attacking Crane is a Good Idea.

Ah, well.

Then, finally, boss time! A Behemoth enters the arena (which is a junk yard, by the way) and it’s bringing with it a certain 10/10 Demolisher vibe paired with more freaky science. Someone’s obviously been tinkering on this gentle-boulder, leaving it with tubes attached to its body that give it this wonderful bioengineered look I’m so endlessly fond of. 

We fight!

It’s not going so well. 

Now I’m suspecting we’re seeing a method on how to build Crane’s fury up enough to unle— 

No. I am not writing that. You can’t make me. You cannot make me say the line, I refuse. I’ll just use increasingly silly alternatives, how’s that?

We get run over one too many times and Crane finally pops the lid off his fury. This applies the same orange filter as the one we got whenever Aiden redlined his biomarker (during a scripted sequence) and allows Crane to literally pick up a concrete barrier and lob it at the Behemoth. 

(You know, I bet that feels really good; delicious payback after getting car after car after car and fridge after fridge after fridge thrown at him before.)

Then he goes toe to toe with it, only to wrap up the fight by pulling the Behemoth’s head off its shoulders. Not cleanly, I’d like to add.

Soooo— what? We’ll be building fury in a number of different ways, then get unhinged and unlock the opportunity to finish with a flair? Cool cool. I’m in. Or so I’m thinking this’ll go. I genuinely do not know the ins and outs. 

What I do know though is that I lost all my remaining marbles after the fight. The camera fucking zooms out and I get to see the whole Crane. And, look, you can’t expect me to go to this event and be perfectly reasonable about this; about seeing this man I’ve dedicated nearly a decade to and remain normal. If you do, why are you even reading this. HAVE YOU MET ME?!

I have no clue if this means we’ll get third-person cutscenes or if this is a cinematic choice done solely for the demo, but a Taff may dream. Right?

The cutscene ends with Crane extracting something from the Freak into a jet injector. 

(Again, I have theories. Fury Power Progression? Fury Power Suppression?)

But anyway. Third-Person Cutscene. Taff is on the floor (not literally, but metaphysically) and the lights come on again and I SWEAR TO GOD, I will play this game at day one come hell and high water, and I am so, so, so unbelievably grateful to every single person ever involved in creating this franchise because you’re all a bunch of heroes to me.

:exhales:

Thanks for reading.

EDIT: I forgot to mention the weather. How did I manage to forget to mention the weather. We got so sopping wet in the rain. It reminded me of the heavy rainfall out in the countryside which I missed so terribly. Cannot wait to see how they've improved the weather system in this one.

From The Following:

[mrs-stans]

Sebastian Stan’s Crash Course in Becoming Trump

After a long tour of duty in the Marvel universe, the Romanian-born actor is conquering the festival circuit, with starring roles in “The Apprentice” and “A Different Man.”

Illustration by João Fazenda

By Alex Barasch

The actor Sebastian Stan glanced approvingly at the neon signage and old-school menus at the Pearl Diner, in the financial district, the other day. He’s lived in and near New York since he was twelve—around the time Donald Trump swapped his first wife, Ivana, for Marla Maples—and has watched the city evolve. “It’s funny. It’s changed, but it’s also the same buildings,” he said. “And then you’re, like, ‘The buildings are there, but you are not the same.’ ”

Stan took off a white ball cap and ordered coffee with cream; he was jet-lagged, fresh from the Deauville American Film Festival, where he’d received the Hollywood Rising-Star Award. “Rising” is a stretch for the forty-two-year-old, who’s appeared in a dozen Marvel projects, but Stan has lately reached a different echelon. In May, he went to Cannes for “The Apprentice,” in which he plays seventies-era Trump. In Berlin, he’d won the Silver Bear, an award whose previous recipients include Denzel Washington and Paul Newman. “Everyone was, like, ‘Oh, the Silver Bear!’ ” Stan said. “Then you go back and you’re, like, ‘Do we know what the Silver Bear is in America?’ ”

The prize was for his role in “A Different Man,” Aaron Schimberg’s surreal black comedy, which nods to “Cyrano de Bergerac.” Stan stars as a man whose lifelong disfigurement is miraculously reversed; the shoot included a grisly three-and-a-half-hour session spent peeling off chunks of his face.

“The Apprentice” demanded a transformation of a different sort. At the diner, Stan pulled out his phone and swiped through an album labelled “DT physicality”—a hundred and thirty videos of Trump, which capture his tiniest gestures and his over-all mien. Marinating in Trump content was, Stan said cheerfully, “a psychotic experience.” He watched the clips so many times that when the director, Ali Abbasi, asked him to improvise in a scene about marketing Trump Tower, he could rattle off the stats: sixty-eight stories of marble in a peachy hue chosen by Ivana, because, as the real Trump put it in a promo, “people feel they look better in the pink.” (It turned out that he’d also memorized Trump’s lie: the tower is actually fifty-eight floors.)

Growing up in Communist Romania, Stan had just an hour of TV news each night; New Year’s Eve was an event because it meant twelve hours of programming. His instinct for mimicry—he had a habit of imitating family members and neighbors—was the earliest tell that he might be an actor. After he and his mother fled to Vienna, in 1989, Stan got his first credit, in a Michael Haneke film—an experience that nearly put him off show business. “I stood in line with, like, a thousand kids, for I don’t know how many hours—which I hated,” he said. “If I could fucking meet Haneke now, it would be amazing!”

When the family moved again, to America, he experienced pop-culture shock. He binged every movie he’d missed—from “Back to the Future” to “Ace Ventura”—in a pal’s basement. Another friend roped him into the school play. “My high school was really, really small, so I didn’t have a lot of competition,” Stan said. “They were, like, ‘Please be in the play!’ ” Soon he was playing Cyrano himself.

After stints on Broadway, and on “Gossip Girl,” Stan was scooped up by Marvel. “I’ve been lucky to play a character for fifteen years,” he said. The blockbuster paychecks freed him up to explore edgier material. “I, Tonya,” in which he played the ice-skater Tonya Harding’s dirtbag husband, was a turning point. “It allowed me to see that a good director will bring out more in you than you can,” Stan said. It was also his first time portraying a real person—a feat that he repeated in “Pam & Tommy,” as the Mötley Crüe drummer Tommy Lee, and now in “The Apprentice.”

“It’s like learning a piece of music,” Stan said, of nailing an impression. “You’ve got to start out slow—it requires practice. Suddenly, you’re getting it more. You’re still making mistakes—but you’re playing the music. You’re playing the music every day until you can do it in your sleep. That’s when the fun starts.” He sliced the air for emphasis, then caught himself and grinned. “And sometimes it’s months later at a diner, and you’re, like, ‘Why am I doing that with my hands?’ ”

[wreckedandpolemic]

not really domestic, but even when you weren't sure about whether or not they would end up together i always thought about them in their forties just, having a chat and a cuddle and forgiving each other for all the shit they've put the other through. it ends up teary, obviously, but i like the idea of them pondering about their past decisions in order to have a (little less chaotic) fresh start and some hope to look forward to

this actually made me feel very emotional so thanks for that!!!

the two of you hitting your 40s and kind of marvelling that you’ve known each other nearly 20 years!! that’s half your damn lives!! and maybe watching old performances and getting all that was the night you met that insufferable girl you dated for six months just to get under my skin. right obsessed with me, you were, you tease. matty just grins. i was. i am.

you tuck yourself into his arms, resting your head on his chest and gazing adoringly up into his eyes. sap. matty rolls his eyes affectionately. you still, even after nearly seven years together, sort of can’t believe this is real, that he’s yours, that you wear matching wedding bands. you tell him as much, and he lifts your left hand to kiss your wedding ring. now who’s the sap, he says, but it’s soft, affectionate. god, we really did a number on each other, huh?

you kiss his cheek. yeah. look at us, you add, flicking to a shaky video of the two of you arguing at sidestage, unnecessarily close. so fucking in love. what a pair of idiots. matty laughs, pulls you in even closer. i was an idiot. you knew the whole time, n’you still put up with all my shit. i’m sorry, my love.

his heartbeat thumps steady in his chest, a low, familiar rhythm in your ear. i gave back as good as i got, matthew, you retort, eyes fluttering closed. i’m sorry too. i was so selfish. thought if i couldn’t have you, nobody should. i wasn’t willing to let you be happy if it wasn’t with me. matty pets your hair, and you soak in the warmth of his body under yours, the bliss of falling asleep in his arms, in your home.

i wouldn’t have been happy without you. you’re a part of me, always have been, matty promises. it’s all in the past now. we’re here, together, and that’s what matters. let’s forgive each other, okay?

forgive each other, you agree, yawning. the last thought circling your head as you fall asleep is sheer happiness, pure gratitude to the universe, overwhelming love for the man whose arms cradle you as you drift into sleep.

[toastedkiwi]

Kidnapped Princess

Summary: you’re taking a flight with a king who’s obsessed with you.

Pairing: King!Steve Rogers x Pop Princess!Reader

“You’ve kidnapped me,” you said.

He hummed for a thought and then said, “no, you went willingly.”

You huffed looking at this man. His eyes are lil puffy from a good night’s rest. His beard is well kept and his hair just looks so soft. He’s got you in his lap with a blanket. It’s not the safest place but he wanted to sit by the window and so did you. He also wanted you right next to him. He settled for you sitting in his lap like a child.

“You’re a big pain in my ass,” you said straight to his face.

A small gasp escaped from one of his aids— how dare you say that to the king? Meanwhile, the king’s head guard chuckled from his seat behind the king.

“As long as I’m the only one,” Steve said cupping your cheek.

“I have many problems,” you admitted. “You’re the biggest fucking one I got.”

“You’re my biggest one and I run a country,” he said.

You snorted throwing your head back.

“I think I know how we can solve this problem between us,” the king said.

“How?” you questioned.

“Marry me,” he said.

His left hand left your waist and dug into his jacket’s hidden breast pocket. You narrowed your eyes. He pulled out this sparkly princess cut diamond ring.

“Hold out your hand,” Steve said.

Your left hand went up. He slipped the ring on and you bit your bottom lip. It fits perfectly. You looked at him and he’s looking at the ring he placed on your finger. He’s admiring it.

“You didn’t even ask,” you said softly.

“Will you marry me?” the king asked.

“Well, you already put it on,” you said.

“So, it’s a yes?” he asked.

You nodded and grumbled. He smiled and your face towards his. He kissed your lips sweetly.

“You’re stuck with me,” Steve said.

“This is a big problem,” you whispered.

“How so?” he asked.

“You’re a king. I’m a pop princess,” you said. “You’re old. I’m young.”

He frowned and said, “I’m young too.”

“You’re nearly forty, Your Majesty,” James said flipping the page of his magazine.

The king immediately glared at the man behind him. You giggled. Of course, you find this amusing much to his dismay.

“I am not. I’m 36 years young,” Steve argued.

“You’re cute, old man,” you said running your fingers through his hair.

He narrowed his eyes at you and said, “I think I’ll leave you at the next stop.”

“Nope, you can’t do that. You can’t leave your kidnapee just anywhere,” you sassed.

“I’ll lock you in a tower then,” he said.

“Just like Tangled,” James said.

“Tangled?” Steve said confused.

“It’s a Disney movie. I’ll show you it, bubs,” you said.

“And then I’ll lock you in a tower,” he informed.

“Okay. But I get to pick the tower,” you said. “And get to decorate it.”

“Fine,” he said. “You got a deal. Now, sleep.”

“You’re so demanding,” you said.

[kingthunder]

Analysis of Jaskier's songs from s1—

—and how they reflect the narrative events and Jaskier's character arc through the show. I'm trying to keep this as canon as possible and not look at it through shipping goggles, but there is textual stuff about Jaskier's relationship with and love for Geralt that's impossible to ignore.

Toss a Coin to Your Witcher: Jaskier’s first big break, the famous and famously annoying Toss a Coin. He wrote this when he was around eighteen and it definitely feels immature. He’s cracking bad jokes like “elf on a shelf” (god I hate that one, it grates me every time) and substituting “bleat” for “beat.” He’s taking enormous creative liberties with facts. And he’s being a little thoughtless; in his enthusiasm to hero-wash Geralt, he’s throwing elves under the bus, calling them devils and pests while he’s talking about Geralt as a friend to “humanity.” (more about this when we get into some of his later songs and his time as the Sandpiper)

This is an upbeat, catchy (and kind of shallow) song that I mentally classify as one of his “narrative” songs. It tells a story. It feels optimistic, much like Jaskier himself at this point in his life. After all, this is the kid who saw a big scary witcher brooding in a corner and decided that nothing could go wrong by following him around. He’s got a head full of heroics and heartbreak and nothing is going to dissuade him, not even being nearly killed. This song is a perfect time capsule of the beginning of Jaskier’s career and also the beginning of his long-running relationship with Geralt.

The Fishmonger’s Daughter: Jaskier plays this at Calanthe’s court when she orders him to play “a jig.” It seems like a pretty typical bawdy tavern song, the kind where you try to drum up audience participation. Most of the court seems to know it and sing along with it. No idea if Jaskier wrote this himself. He probably didn’t. It seems like one of those songs that everyone just knows.

Her Sweet Kiss: This song makes me feel deranged. This is definitely a Jaskier original. We see him writing and noodling with it at the beginning of The Mountain (tm) and asking other people if his lyrics are scanning well. He’s been traveling with Geralt on and off for about twenty years now, so he’s forty years old or close to it. He’s seen some shit, and part of the shit he’s seen has been Geralt and Yennefer’s relationship. He is not a fan. He is so deeply not a fan that he’s writing a whole song about it. But also? He’s putting himself in the song too, and he’s putting his heart on his sleeve, the same way that he tries to do when he talks to Geralt about going to the coast. The lyrics of this song are about three people—a man (Geralt), a woman (Yennefer), and the singer (Jaskier). It’s about how the woman is bad for the man, and how much the singer loves the man.

Whether you see Jaskier’s feelings for Geralt as romantic or not, these are the facts:

He doesn’t like Yennefer or think that she’s good for Geralt, and says so, repeatedly, both in casual conversation and in his music. In the song, he writes, “She’s always bad news, it’s always lose-lose” and that, “She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss.” 

In the song, Jaskier calls Geralt “my love” and says, “I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting.”

He asks Geralt to go to the coast with him, so they can “work out what pleases” them. He wants them to stay together and not go their separate ways like they often do.

Immediately after this plea, Geralt goes straight to Yennefer and (just in case anyone was doubting that Her Sweet Kiss was about the three of them) Geralt and Yennefer fuck while an instrumental version of Her Sweet Kiss plays over the sex. I still can’t believe the showrunners did that. That was A Damn Choice. (deranged, I am deranged about everything about this)

The kicker is that the song wasn’t even finished when Geralt flipped his lid and shouted Jaskier off The Mountain (tm) and out of his life. Which means that Jaskier, alone and heartbroken (his own words from s2), finished this song and published it afterwards, even knowing that the entire situation had gone tits up and that he might not even see Geralt or Yennefer again. Maybe it gave him some catharsis to sing it, who knows.

This isn’t a shallow catchy tune like Toss a Coin or even Fishmonger’s Daughter. It’s deeply personal and a tonal shift from his previous music.

(and it makes me deranged)

Stay tuned for my season 2 thoughts!

[xocasper]

Sins of the Flesh

Pairing: Gerard Way x Fem!Reader Summary: Kinktober Day Eight - Corruption Kink Warnings: NSFW content, adultery, angst, loaaads of religious guilt Tags: oral sex, fingering, dacryphilia, loss of virginity, corruption kink, age gap, unprotected sex Word Count: 8952 A/N: Bungalow fic is finally here. I’ve had this idea for months; I think since May. I started writing v1 in June, but I ended up scrapping it. In July, I tried to rewrite Sunset and Vine, but it was turning out much darker than intended. That’s when I realized that it would be perfect for this fic. Similar to Sharing is Caring (dumbass title, by the way. someone gets spitroasted and i gave it some g-rated fucking title? ok.), it was written over the course of several sessions without the intention of getting posted. 

For a while, I considered abandoning it or posting it anonymously. I didn’t want to get hate or anything. Now, I don’t really give a fuck. I’m really proud of the writing in this. If you guys want, I can post an alternative version with gender-neutral terms. Also, there are two other Gerard reader-insert fics with this title. It’s inconvenient, but mine has a different plot and you can always call it bungalow fic. Finally, major shoutout to @ghostie-anon​! Thank you so much for beta-reading!

Disclaimer: Gerard’s wife and child are not referred to by name in this fic. They are mentioned, but I used pronouns and vague terms instead. I did not feel comfortable using their names. Also, everything is very consensual. It’s mentioned several times, no worries. :-)

It was fucking dirty. 

Gerard was fucking dirty, filthy and neck-deep in sin. He knew it, god, did he know it, shame eating away at him every single day. He was a forty-year-old man; he had absolutely no place around you, no matter how pure his intentions were. You were half his age, and the classic girl-next-door, the kind that made people stop and turn, mumbling how they wished their kids were like you. In the eyes of the town, you were a national treasure, and Gerard hated it.

He hated the sweet smiles you gave him, offering to watch his kid on Friday nights–date nights, where he was supposed to be thinking about his wife, not that he could really stand her anyway. He hated how much his daughter loved you, always chatting away about you the next day, spontaneously interrupting Saturday morning cartoons to talk about your favorite characters. Christ, he hated how much he loved you, falling for you the same way the rest of the town had. You were so pure, valued by nearly everyone, always being asked how college was going, and what your folks were up to.

That made his skin crawl, too–you still lived with your parents, merely commuting throughout the week. He couldn’t imagine how your father would react, the same man who invited him over for cookouts, discussing politics and sports despite Gerard’s disinterest, if he knew how his neighbor thought of you. God, the cookouts. It was pure torture, nodding along to tuned-out conversations, his gaze transfixed on you and those stupid little sundresses you pranced around in. The minute August ended, Gerard was practically on his knees, thanking whatever otherworldly presence had graced him with cool weather. Tucking away your tank tops didn’t even begin to solve his problems though, as you were irresistible no matter how much skin was showing.

It wasn’t illegal. Hell, it wasn’t even all that immoral–save his marriage and friendship with your parents. He didn’t even know you until you were nineteen, back when your parents had moved to save you some money on gas. Nonetheless, he felt awful about it, the mere image of you shooting shame through his veins. It was worse when he let it linger though, quickly evolving into something beyond unholy, leaving him with unimaginable guilt. Millions of thoughts, centered around corrupting someone so sickeningly pure, every inch of skin, yet to be seen by hungry eyes would flood his head. The taste of victory as you finally broke, your goody-two-shoes reputation tarnished, tossed aside like your tiny tennis skirts and perfectly-ironed tops.

He knew it was a facade–all the string pearls in the world couldn’t hide underlying desire, nor the marks that he’d scatter across your neck. You were an adult, and he found it hard to believe that you were as innocent as you lead everyone to believe. When you were stripped down to nothing, who were you really?

It was a question that circled Gerard’s mind, the picture of your hand past your waistband, face twisted in pleasure, painting itself perfectly. Who was it that you thought of late into the evening? Whose fingers would feel so much better than your own, fucking you open until the only word left was please?

If he tried hard enough, he could see you, on full display and begging, crying, even, to be fucked by him. He wanted to hate the image. He wanted to feel sick to his stomach, tossing the idea aside without another thought, but once he had it, he couldn’t let go. Streaked mascara and unkempt clothes seemed to haunt him, nearly able to hear your choked moans and mewls, leaving him with nothing but untimely erections, unfortunately fixed by his hand rather than yours.

Lust was hard to avoid when you were the talk of the town, your name dropping nonchalantly in his own home, too. You were inescapable and blissfully unaware of the chokehold you had on him. As unbelievable as it was, his fantasies weren’t unrequited, as you were also tormented by unholy ideas, the kind that could single-handedly shred your honor.

It wasn’t any less shameful for you, hardly capable of holding a conversation around him, resorting to speaking with his wife when they needed a babysitter. You hated it–staring her in the eyes, sitting through gossip out of sheer guilt, paranoid that she knew.

Knew the way you thought about Gerard and how badly you wanted him, needing him to tear apart your innocence. You had kept away from parties and one-night stands in hopes of saving yourself for someone real–no frat boys who hardly knew their way around a woman, only looking for somewhere to stick it. You wanted someone with experience, skilled and passionate, putting your needs first. There was nothing like that in college though, residing a door down instead.

Sometimes, you wondered what his daughter would think–she was too young to understand now, as well convinced as the rest of the town that you had handpicked the stars just for her. Down the line, she would certainly figure it out, rose-colored glasses coming off when she’d reminisce, no longer a little girl and capable of remembering how you looked at her father. How you’d torn her family apart. It made you sick, your stomach churning and eyes pricking with hot tears, guilt spinning nightmares out of an improbable future.

No matter how much shame you shared, it hadn’t stopped you tonight. It should’ve built an indestructible wall, blocking out temptation, but you still wound up at his house. You could hardly remember how you had gotten there, vague memories of being spotted outside, and his daughter calling you over to play in the yard with them. He had been raking leaves, the smell of the autumn breeze still clinging to his clothes. She had been jumping in each pile, clutching your hand and pulling you with her, crumbled maple leaves sticking to your sweater, weaving themselves between fine cotton fibers. The sound of his laughter still echoed in your ears, the warm smile he gave you easily thawing the chill in your bones. It was perfect, wholesome and picturesque, though the scene was cut short as his wife’s voice sliced through the air.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Gerard looked up, alarmed and puzzled, glancing from the auburn leaves to his irate spouse. “Raking leaves?”

Fuming, the woman stormed down the porch steps, beckoning over their daughter. Mimicking Gerard, she glanced between you and her mother, infuriating her even more. With a shrill call of her name though, the girl had high-tailed it up the yard, leaving you and Gerard to stand awkwardly by the fence.

“Cut the bullshit,” she lashed, unbothered by your company. “Why did you let her outside?”

Gerard shrugged casually, leaning his rake against a picket. “Because she wanted to play.”

Even if you thought it was fair logic, his wife was seething. “I told you that we had to leave!”

Uncomfortable, you glanced toward their daughter, who wore a similar expression. She kicked the leaves beneath her shoes, scuffing the grass as she tried to drown out the arguing. It was a blast from the past, and you could taste the bitter nostalgia as you pictured your own parents bickering the same way.

Occasionally, she’d tattle on her parents, filling you in on their latest feuds during rounds of Candy Land. You were a babysitter, not a therapist, but you supported her to the best of your ability–at least until she had forgotten a moment later, hardly dwelling on marital issues before growing distracted by Lord Licorice. But Candy Land was tucked away in a toy box now, and Princess Frostine still couldn’t fix her parents’ marriage.

Gerard had a strong bias for his daughter, behaving as if she had hung the moon, so he’d be damned if he didn’t defend her. “She’s allowed to make her own decisions.”

“So if she wanted to jump off a bridge, you’d let her?” his wife snapped, already tramping towards the car.

He couldn’t help but snort, “No, I’d wonder why my six-year-old is suicidal.”

She was at her wit’s end, spitting venom as she buckled their daughter into the car. “Grow the fuck up, Gerard.”

The rest was a blur, slamming car doors and solemn goodbyes, tiny hands waving out the window while you stood in the center of his yard. Even after she had sped off, agitation continued to hang over Gerard. He was still for a moment, letting out a weary sigh as he ran his hand through his hair, sparing you a pitiful glance.

“I can help if you want,” you offered quietly, gesturing towards his abandoned rake and pulling him from his reverie.

He shook his head, “I think it’s time for a break anyway.”

Beckoning you inside, you trailed after him, having been here a million times but things still felt different.

“Never get married,” he huffed, a bittersweet smile on his face.

You looked up at him, eyebrows knitted in confusion. He chewed his lip anxiously, probably eating his words. “They’re off to a birthday party or something, and I guess I wasn’t supposed to let her outside. She got leaves in her hair, or now her clothes are dirty, I don’t know.”

“She didn’t seem too thrilled to be going anyway. I’m sure she was having much more fun being a kid,” you said, trying to soothe his stress to the best of your ability.

It wasn’t entirely fruitless, earning you a small smile as he brewed a pot of coffee. The room was silent, not awkward nor comfortable; instead, it was filled with anticipation. Gerard didn’t speak, so neither did you, studying his movements and focusing on the tune he was humming.

“Do you want some?” he asked, facing you for a brief moment,

You shook your head, unable to say much of anything, and he nodded in response. It was strange that he hadn’t sent you home yet, as you were never around just to chat, but you stayed put without complaint. Every noise seemed to be amplified, heavy footsteps echoing around the room as he walked towards you, sitting quietly at the island. He leaned against it, eyes narrowing as he inspected you. Once more, you were hit with the overwhelming fear that he could sniff out your sins like a bloodhound.

You swallowed hard, Gerard having some sort of height on you, blinking up at him in mild fear. Carefully, he took a sip of his coffee, still looking as if he wanted to speak, but he pushed it aside.

“How are your parents doing?” he asked, hating the question as it echoed back to him.

Your tongue darted out momentarily, wetting your lips before you spoke, and Gerard’s mind instantly retreated to the gutter. He couldn’t hear anything you had said, blinking mindlessly at you as his thoughts headed elsewhere. You could tell, watching the interest drain from his eyes, almost hurt until you noticed how they flicked down to your lips again.

It could’ve been a painful coincidence, but it was enough for you to try. You needed to find answers, to take a step in the right direction. Anxiety crept into your mind as you made your next move, making your stomach churn over a casual response.

“They’re fine,” you said slowly, the words heavy and tentative. “My dad misses the cookouts—I do too.”

He hummed and feigned disinterest, taking another sip of his coffee as he spaced out. “Why?”

Swallowing hard, you thought out your response. With only a few seconds to think, you couldn’t judge the morality of it. Gerard glanced down at you curiously, making your heart pound. 

“Because I liked the way you looked at me.”

The next few seconds passed like molasses, and you yearned for an escape. The answer was methodical—it spelled out every secret while remaining conservative, leaving the outcome up to Gerard. If he hadn’t been eyeing you up all summer, he would look puzzled, brushing it off with an awkward laugh. And even if it were true, he could have the same reaction, burying the exchange forever.

You were at an advantage, and he was hit with a mix of embarrassment and pride. He had been caught—but you liked it. Neither of you were in a good position, yet he still responded with unjust confidence.

“Yeah?” he asked, setting his mug down. “How so?”

Gerard leaned over the counter, pressing his palms to the marble as he gave a grin of faux arrogance. He had an air of intimidation, hovering a scant foot away from you, leaving you nowhere else to look. You were embarrassed this time, giving him a quick once-over.

“You just,” you started, the words dying as you burned with insecurity. “You looked at me like I was worth it.”

Again, your answer was up to interpretation, but you both knew the truth. Last summer had built tension, and even as the weather began to cool, the heat never faded. His smile had slipped away, turning tight as he clung to his resolve. Lost for words, his gaze drifted back to your lips, searching for a signal.

Softly, you prompted him to speak. “Am I worth it, Gerard?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, sweet and simple, but he remained frozen in place.

Truly transfixed, Gerard missed the look you had given him, hopeful and desperate. He hardly noticed the way you leaned up, gently pressing your palm to his cheek, smoothing over soft skin and stubble. In fact, he didn’t snap back to reality until twelve inches had turned to two, his nose brushing yours as you watched and waited for some sort of sign—one to leave, or an even bigger one to stay.

Gerard picked the latter, breath catching and lips parting as you stared at him, throwing caution to the wind as he closed the gap. To his surprise, he wasn’t met with outrage and obscenities, hallucinating slamming doors and divorce papers as your lips moved against his. He could taste the sin, shame, and regret, drowning in a cruel combination of pride and remorse. You were the forbidden fruit, and he had never tasted anything sweeter. Your kisses were laced with naivety, seemingly immune to the weight of an affair. He should’ve pulled away, sent you home, and told you to chase boys your own age, but his self-control was long gone by then.

Eventually, you did the job for him, needing a moment to breathe, not to mention think. You were intelligent, raised with strong morals, and yet they had all slipped out of reach. Gerard resorted to watching you, eyes glazed over as he dealt with his own inner turmoil, unsure of the next step.

Apologies spilled out before he could reevaluate, blanching as his breath stalled. “I’m sorry,” he began, eyes widened in sudden horror. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have–”

“Don’t say that,” you blurted out, still cupping his cheek. “Don’t do that to me.”

You could already hear his answer, how he would pull away and say it meant nothing, and you couldn’t afford that. The least you could do was fight for his honesty, knowing what he really wanted and winding up ashamed as you pleaded with him. His kitchen was fucking Eden, and you played the serpent, vying for his infidelity.

“What?” he mumbled, almost vulnerable.

Gerard wanted confession. He wanted to hear how bad you wanted him, already proud and flattered by your brazen interruption. You sighed, torn between guilt and temptation, a central theme between the two of you.

“Don’t make me leave,” you whispered, stroking his cheek tenderly.

He leaned into your touch, relishing in the foreign domesticity despite its terms. “Do you want to?”

“No,” you said, your voice weak and hushed, and he replied with a soft smile.

“Good,” he told you, slipping away and rounding the counter. “I didn’t want you to anyway.”

You slid off the stool, staring at him expectantly as he slowly made his way over. Nervous, he outstretched his arm, almost scared as he drew closer.

“Can I…” he mumbled, reluctantly stepping towards you.

It was quiet, a question he shouldn’t have asked, and one you shouldn’t have answered; so you didn’t. Nodding your head was sufficient, and he closed the distance in calculated strides, his hands landing on your hips almost magnetically. His hold was firm with a contrasting fragility, fingertips teasing the hem of your sweater while he kissed you. This one was different, fervorous and messy, and his grip held you upright. His hands lingered on bare skin, soft and untouched by perverted college boys–but rather perverted neighbors, which he supposed wasn’t any better.

Gerard kissed the way you expected him to, smooth and relaxed without substituting passion, his tongue sweeping across your bottom lip in fluent strokes, and parting them with remarkable ease. You had kissed people before, but never like this–not with clear intent to escalate, searching for more than a messy makeout session. It didn’t seem to bother him, having held the reins since the start.

He was hooked on it all, the taste of adultery that burnt his tongue, only to be soothed by purity and satisfaction. Passion was scarce in his marriage, merely coexisting with his wife at this point, certain that he hadn’t felt like this since his daughter was born. It was addicting–you were addicting, shiny and new, and so fucking compliant, easily the most foreign trait to him. You went along with every motion, mimicking the way his tongue worked against yours, dark roast never tasting so sweet.

There was still time to stop, both of you well aware of the fact as he pulled away. For a moment, he was submerged in nostalgia, the way your hands hooked around his neck painfully reminiscent of her–of passion and love that this house was built on, the air now tainted with an unforgivable act. Once again, Gerard could’ve backed out, but the dazed look in your eyes was like a teaser, promising so much more.

Instead, he led you to the guest bedroom, soft laughter and stumbling hardly loud enough to silence the alarms in his head, almost purifying something so disgustingly sinful. He didn’t have the guts to fuck you in his bed. He tried to convince himself that it was unfair to you, watching as you kicked off your sneakers and laid back on the mattress, not appearing haunted by this situation. You didn’t deserve to be surrounded by her, to have to breathe the lingering perfume as you were stripped of your innocence.

While he really did believe that, he brought you here for a far more selfish reason–he couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping next to her tonight, knowing what he had done in their bed. Besides, he wouldn’t have time to wash the sheets, and cracking the windows would only do so much, leaving the unmistakable smell of sex to hang heavy in the room. He could take the heat from her, but that sprung from years of experience–you had only caught a glimpse of her wrath, and he hoped it would stay that way.

Kicking off his shoes, he slid next to you, wrinkling his nose at the duvet. Gerard was no expert when it came to interior design, but wasn’t paisley a little tacky? Noticing his distaste, you grew slightly insecure, almost scared to ask the issue. “What’s wrong?”

It came out mousier than you would’ve liked, crossing your arms over yourself despite being fully clothed. Had he finally given in to guilt?

“Nothing, really,” he said earnestly, almost embarrassed that he had worried you over something so trivial. “This duvet is just really awful.”

He got a genuine smile in response, content with your reaction as he pulled your hands away, kissing you once more. The meaning was ever-changing, once impulsive, twice impassioned, and now the calm before the storm. It was almost juvenile, Gerard propped up on his arm, and the awkward shuffle as you tried to get comfortable. It was a direct parallel to your first partner, one from high school, giggling and kissing with the door shut, hoping your parents wouldn’t barge in. Except for this time, you were grown up. And you no longer feared your parents, but his wife. He was cheating. But he wanted you.

It should’ve made you sick, had you crying, something, but all you felt was pride, hardly registering his hands slipping higher up your sweater as your mind cleared. Gradually, his fingers trailed up your chest, smooth skin cut off by the fabric of your bra.

Quietly, he spoke for the third time since kissing you. “Has anyone ever touched you here before?”

Over clothes, sure, but you generally stayed pretty guarded. In the end, you simply nodded–if anything, it might stop him from quitting, knowing that this wasn’t entirely new.

Soon, his touch trailed lower, dragging to the waistband of your jeans, and lower still. In fact, he didn’t stop until the pads of his fingers were pressed between your legs, denim the only thing hiding the arousal pooling in your panties.

“What about here?”

This time, you shook your head.

“Why?” he asked, genuinely curious as you had been pretty eager so far.

The truth seemed to be far less embarrassing to him than it was for you, tumbling out before you could stop it.

“Because I was waiting for you.”

Fuck.

This was wrong, and he knew it like the back of his hand, but he could’ve gotten off on your admission alone. He wondered how many advances you had rejected, only thinking of him, and how he was the only one worthy of fucking you. Again, he wondered if you spent lonely nights thinking of him, thinking of this.

“Do you think about this?” he asked out loud, hardly registering his own question.

Slow kisses down your neck wrecked your focus, but they also numbed your anxiety. You gave a brief nod though, tilting your head back for him.

“I do,” he continued, every word mumbled against your neck and etched into your skin. “I think about making you cry and beg for me. How’s that sound?”

He was speaking in a foreign tongue, surprising himself just the same, though you found yourself aching for more. Gently, he left a love bite, hardly noticeable below your ear, but enough to prompt a response. Nothing more than a good, but Gerard was certain that you’d be vocal sooner or later. It wasn’t normally like this for him–she had always wanted it quick and dirty, never letting him take his time. He wanted to savor you, trace every inch of unseen skin, taste and feel the metamorphosis as you grew into a sinner. Ideally, he’d take it slow, but if you pleaded enough, he’d certainly give in.

Shifting, he pulled you flush against the pillows, wiggling himself around until he was hovering above you. You could see him better from here, studying his features–his soft hazel eyes pooled with guilt, juxtaposed against his blow pupils, forming a contradictory combination. He was beautiful, blessed with long lashes and an upturned nose, pairing perfectly with faint freckles that painted him in irresistibility. Gazing at him didn’t last long though, soon cut off by a brief kiss before he sunk lower.

Gerard’s hands trailed up your sides, back under your sweater as he traced illegible shapes into your skin. Slowly, he tugged it further up, hardly focusing on his hands as he nipped at your collarbones, reluctantly pulling away to hike the thick fabric up over your head. You were nothing short of perfection, untouched skin all smooth and flawless, revealed only for him. You didn’t complain or cover up, whining about silly insecurities that Gerard couldn’t spot, unlike his wife. At first, he was sympathetic, showering her with affection, but it was fruitless, only ending in arguments and narcissism. Eventually, he learned that fixing things was useless, finding other solutions to his problems, such as you.

You were so much different, and he knew it for a fact as he pressed his lips to your sternum, gaining a satisfied hum rather than restless squirming. His lips traced the edge of your bra, and his chin brushed against the nylon, but he preferred to be flush against you. Locking eyes with you, he snaked his hands around your back, fingers brushing against the clasp and sliding the straps down your shoulders. Lust seemed to overpower his guilt, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he pulled off your bra, tossing it towards the edge of the bed.

Gerard had been loyal for several years, and seeing something new, someone that wanted him like you, gave him a rush, his adrenaline high from delirium and paranoia. Mesmerized, he watched the rise and fall of your chest before kicking back into gear.

“You’re beautiful,” he told you, cupping your breasts with strong hands. “God, you’re so fucking perfect.”

The room was chilly, but Gerard was warm, heating you up as he caressed your skin, rolling your hardened nipples beneath his thumbs. His focus didn’t linger there for long though, leaving kisses and bites but not much more, only there to make a mark. Trailing further down your chest, he reached your hips, slithering down the mattress as he ran his hands along your curves. Watching you once more, he reached for the button of your jeans, anxiety crossing your expression for a moment.

“Are you sure?”

The question made you pause, nodding mindlessly anyway, arching into his touch.

“What do you want to do to me?” you asked curiously, though it came across as more sexual than you intended.

A sly grin crossed his face, slowly pulling down the denim, gazing longingly at the bare skin, now only covered by thin panties.

“I want to ruin you.”

There was a shaky inhale on your end, eyes fluttering shut as you processed his sentence, subconsciously sliding closer to him. He was quick to stop you though, gripping your thighs firmly as he held you down. It was unfamiliar, the predatory glint in his eyes, and the sensation of wet kisses scattered between your legs. The gentle scrape of his teeth broke your silence, a soft, breathy moan as he nipped your skin. The feeling came again, hickeys soothed by his tongue, reaching higher until he hit cotton.

Part of you was embarrassed, always imagining this scene in something nicer–silk or lace that you’d spent too much money on, not something so bland. It was an outlandish idea, but you still burned up as his nose brushed against it, greedily mouthing at you despite your subtle shame. He was taking his time as intended, making you shiver with every clothed kiss, growing uncomfortably wet with his procrastination. Watching as you opened your mouth to whine, his tongue lolled out, and his intense stare never wavered as he gave a bold lick, the pressure intoxicating. Another moan slipped out, louder this time, one that Gerard wanted on loop for the rest of his life. Embarrassed, you turned away from him, staring at the wall to save face.

“Look at me,” he requested, his voice soft and stern.

Reluctantly, you turned back, watching as his fingers slipped under your waistband, slowly dragging your panties past your thighs. His gaze felt like mid-July, his eyes painting a nostalgic fantasy—the same one you had pointed out earlier. He still looked at you like you were worth something, worth the risk, but you could tell by the hesitance flashing in his eyes that it wasn’t without a side of remorse.

For a moment, he considered leaving, chickening out and apologizing, returning to a simple life with his wife and kid. Gerard was never one for making good decisions though, churning his guilt into arousal, praying that he could distract himself with the taste of purity.

It worked, to a point, libido winning the twisted battle, Gerard growing hot as he watched you squirm with every foreign touch. The room was quiet again, ear-piercing silence only disrupted by your sudden gasp, surprised by the warmth of Gerard’s tongue. He moved meticulously, lips ghosting over your skin while his tongue skated across the top of your thigh. Gerard wanted you to crack–he wanted you to want him, to impatiently force yourself against him when he took too long. But you remained quiet as you laid beneath him, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as the tip of his tongue dragged closer, skimming across your folds in faint strokes.

God, you wanted it. It was obvious, Gerard biting back an arrogant grin while he licked teasingly, urged to continue as you whined at his negligence. Hopeless, you shifted closer, only to be met with a disapproving hum.

“Honey, if you want something,” he started, no longer fighting his smile. “All you have to do is ask.”

Humiliated, you took a breath, hardly in the right frame of mind to analyze the situation. You were in his house with his face between your legs, fighting to stay quiet while he waited for a pretty plea to spill from your lips. It was so fucking contradictory, and you were growing impatient, Gerard watching your chest fall as you waved your white flag.

“Please,” you mumbled, the shame nearly boiling you alive.

Unsatisfied, he didn’t give more than another kitten lick, studying your twisted features as you swallowed your pride. You had never been more embarrassed in your life, but with a single glance at him, you concluded that it was worth it.

“Gerard, please, fucking–” you said, louder this time. “Just… touch me? Please?”

Your innocence made him dizzy, every word sounding unsure as you uttered them, urging him to fill in the blanks. “I can touch you,” he assured, pausing to suck softly on his fingers, delicately spreading you open. “I wanna taste you. I wanna eat your sweet pussy–do you want that?”

Set on fire, you nodded hastily, choking out a moan as his tongue ran flat, a single wide stroke making your hips jump. It was some sort of reward for answering–you had always been good in school, so you knew how this worked.

“Yes, please, I want your mouth so fucking bad.”

Gerard groaned against you, the words that sounded so unnatural to you sparking a rush of arousal for him. Restraining himself was difficult enough on its own, fighting the urge to spring into action, eating you out until you were mindless and used, pretty tears staining your cheeks with the loss of innocence. That wasn’t in the cards for today though, Gerard cursing himself as he realized that meant more. More secrets, more lies, more guilty pleasure and desecration. Ignorantly, he stepped over the rabbit hole and focused on you again.

Wet lips and heavy tongue were the only sensations you could register, having gone blind to emotion with Gerard’s mouth on you. Even if his head was in the clouds, you had never been more grounded, moaning softly as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to your cunt, his lips shining with an erotic mix of slick and spit. Wrapping your thighs tighter around him, you tried to push closer, desperation lacing both the jerk of your hips and your pathetic cries.

Tauntingly, he slowed again, pulling back until he was merely flicking his tongue against you. It was torturous–faint, slow, and not nearly enough. Whining as he continued to tease, you broke yet again, and begging became less of a chore.

“Please, I’ll stay still,” you swore, Gerard quickly giving in to the vulnerability in your voice.

Good behavior deserved a reward, his pace picking up as you continued to babble pleas, your fingers scrunching the awful duvet. Again, he felt appreciated, flooded with a foreign warmth; she never appreciated his effort and eagerness to please. He could hardly remember a time that she had pleaded with him the way you had, or resisted the urge to grind against his tongue until the taste of your arousal lingered in his mouth for days.

“Feels good?” he asked rhetorically, shaking his head slightly as you hummed, the same smile still ghosting his cheeks.

The sounds you made drowned out all of his insecurities, putting an end to his overthinking as you cursed and moaned, your back arching off the mattress as he sucked on your clit. It was overwhelming, Gerard’s tongue pressing against you as he pulled you closer, swirling and sucking as he figured out what made you tick.

“More,” you breathed, hands digging into the duvet. “Fuck, please, more.”

Latching the magic word onto every sentence left him with an edge of remorse, partly guilty from the way that you clung to being innocent and well-mannered, but mostly because of the effect it had on him. For you, it was subconscious, unaware of the sweet naivety that filled your tone, as words strictly spoken in PG settings were now caught between sinful cries. In fact, Gerard wasn’t sure he’d ever heard you swear until he was between your legs, lapping at your untouched cunt like a lifeline. Everything about you was irresistible, golden and pure, and so fucking different from his wife. Briefly, he wondered if he really wanted you, or if he simply didn’t want her.

Unaware of his troubles, you continued to plead with him, on the verge of finishing the job yourself at his indolence. After a moment though, he snapped back, planting a kiss on your clit before pulling away, another winning smile plastered across his face. With slick lips, he pressed a handful of kisses to your thighs, seemingly stopping short. Quietly, you whined in objection, and Gerard was quick to clear the air.

“Oh no, we’re not done yet.”

That should’ve been a surefire sign that you were positively fucked, but you only stared curiously at him as he settled comfortably between your legs again. Then, you watched as his fingers landed flat against his tongue, lips closing and tongue swirling in the same patterns he had etched into your skin. The pads of his fingers gravitated towards your thighs, skating higher until he was met with your aching cunt, embarrassingly wet and begging for contact.

You watched with anticipation as his middle finger dragged across your folds, nothing more than feather-light touches before it slipped inside of you. Your small gasp was a knee-jerk reaction, lips parted and brows furrowed as you watched Gerard, easing his finger deeper. His fingers were larger than yours, thicker and longer, already filling you in unfamiliar ways. It was different, but not bad to be touched by someone else, and you gradually settled into the pillows again.

“How’s that?” Gerard asked, slowly pushing in and out, watching you carefully for discomfort.

You nodded, “Good.”

After receiving your approval, it didn’t take long for him to step further, building a rhythm that was quicker and deeper, his finger curling just right. Gerard’s touch felt so much better than yours, the image as sweet as the action itself, leaving you moaning as he tentatively added another one.

“God, Gerard, please,” you murmured, reaching for his hand as he buried his fingers inside of you, somehow longing for more.

You wanted him. You wanted the muscles in your abdomen wound so tight to snap, every bone in your body turning to jelly as he fucked you, raw and real. Patience wasn’t your strong suit, leaving you to rock against his fingers as he tried his best to stretch you out.

“Do you touch yourself like this?” Gerard asked, out of the blue.

As your mouth opened, aiming to answer, he pressed his tongue against your clit, sucking softly again. It caught you off guard, hardly giving an affirming hum before you were shifting towards him.

“Mhm… Oh my god,” you breathed, finally grasping his free hand as he continued to work you open.

You let out a small whine as he pulled away to speak, feeling yourself grow closer every second. “Who do you think of?” he asked in a stern tone, though there was an unmistakable, arrogant edge to it. “Whose fingers are really fucking you?”

Kissing your dignity goodbye, you cried out a desperate, “Yours.”

“Whose fucking pussy is this?”

It was obscene, the way he sucked on your clit with his fingers buried inside you, and the pauses where he’d stare up at you with shining lips, licking away your wetness before asking his formerly humiliating questions. Questions he knew the answers to, wanting nothing more than power and reassurance, straining against his jeans with each predicted answer. You weren’t even embarrassed anymore, so fucking desperate for him that you had grown eager to answer his questions, begging to come undone on his tongue and surrender yourself to him.

“It’s yours, Gerard,” you said, as confident as your wavering voice could manage.

The words did sound confident, natural, even. It was as if you were meant to be submitting yourself, moaning and begging as he stretched your virgin cunt. You could only imagine how it would feel when he fucked you, aching for the delicious pain that would wash over you as his hips snapped against yours. For now, you had to be grateful for his hands, and the way his fingers sank inside of you with a swift rhythm.

“Good girl.”

It was mumbled and hardly heard, but no matter how loud you had grown, his voice stuck out like a sore thumb. The nickname reached your ears, bold and ringing as you teetered on the edge, and Gerard was smugly observant of it. His lips brushed against you while his breath fanned across your skin, locking eyes with you as his tongue dragged flat across your slit, trailing higher until his lips wrapped once more around your swollen clit, sucking lightly with the steady curl of his fingers.

Finally, your body gave in, tense muscles going lax as the anticipation and pressure faded away. Softly, you panted, rocking absentmindedly against Gerard, trying to ride it out for as long as you could. Sure, you’d had an orgasm before, but never like this. Not with Gerard’s tongue lapping and swirling long after you had come, or the hint of pride in his eyes as he listened to your whines. Everything was different with Gerard, and all the sensations you were sure you’d experienced before became pure ecstasy, blurring your vision as you reached fruitlessly for him.

Even as you whined from the oversensitivity, his actions never stopped, all of your cries cut with moans, egging him on. He was careful, toeing the line between pain and pleasure as he persisted. No matter how bad he wanted to wreck you, this was new territory, taking on a role of responsibility as he reigned himself in. Despite how he slowed, it all felt the same to you, spilling moans every time you tried to speak.

Your head was empty as you gave a small cry. “Please fuck me.”

It was desperate, broken, igniting a similar need in Gerard as he pulled away. You weren’t sure why you were begging for more, but your only voice of reason was beaten down by lust, seeing nothing but the passion in his eyes as he stared back at you. He had barely moved, his lips hardly having left your skin as twisted fantasies whirled in his head.

“You really want it?”

You nodded impatiently, “Fuck, yes.”

Gerard grinned, planting kisses on the top of your thighs, clearly in no rush to relieve the discomfort in his jeans. “Then tell me you want it,” he commanded, momentarily sinking his teeth into your flesh. “Tell me you want my cock.”

God, he was fucking sadistic, ordering you around as he marked up your thighs, leaving undeniable evidence that he had been there, pulling every plea and moan from your kiss-bitten lips. Still, you compiled, tripping over your words as he sucked on your skin.

“Please,” you choked out, squirming under him. “I want your cock so fucking bad.”

The words were wrong on your tongue, waiting to have your mouth washed out with soap, but he did nothing more than moan as he finally climbed up the bed again.

“You really are a good girl, aren’t you?”

With his hand against your cheek, he admired your vulnerability, thinking back to all those pretty sundresses and sweet smiles, now substituted with impurity. He let your hands wander as he kissed you, under his shirt and across his waistband, following his lead from earlier. You didn’t get far before Gerard was pulling away, shifting away to undress. As each layer hit the ground, your gut twisted more, growing hot at the sight of him. At first, he kept his boxers on, tentatively taking your hand in his.

“We can stop any time,” he promised, softening at your nervous expression. “Think of a traffic light–call out red, and we’ll be done, okay?”

It was a drastic difference from his previous attitude but appreciated nonetheless. “Okay.”

Relieved, he asked quietly, “Color?”

“Green.”

He shot you a small smile before leaning back in, catching your lips in a heated kiss while he guided your hand past his hips. You felt painfully uneducated, but Gerard had no problem helping, his hand over yours as you cupped his tented boxers. He wanted you, or at least his dick did, and you were filled with pride as his erection pressed against your palm.

To his surprise, you pulled off his boxers without a pep talk, anxiety creating a wicked combo with the arousal in your stomach. Again, he left your lips, glancing down at your hand, resting mere inches from his cock. He was already leaking precum and uncomfortably hard, and your unbridled lust did him no favors.

It wasn’t until he had begun to reach blindly for the nightstand did he realize that it would not have protection, unlike his bedroom down the hall. Defeated, he sighed, preparing to awkwardly leave you in the guest room while you waited for a condom, but you didn’t let him get that far.

“Just do it already,” you frowned, watching as he started to explain. “Fuck me raw, Gerard.”

You were a fucking rarity, weren’t you? Unable to stop the low moan that slipped out, Gerard hovered above you once more, holding his cock in his hand as he lined himself up.

“You’re so fucking filthy, baby, you know that? Such a good girl with such a dirty mouth.”

Even if you had been soaked minutes before, wet with slick and saliva, fitting himself inside proved to be a struggle. You were partly convinced that you’d tear in two, nails digging into his back as he gradually eased in, moaning as you clenched around him. God, you were so fucking tight, brand new and all for him, your pretty cunt squeezing his cock so well, already greedily taking the first few inches.

It started out uncomfortable, and the feeling of being so full felt unnatural, trying your best to adjust to his size. He was quieter than you had been, breathing crude curses as he rocked against you, hiding his impatience as he waited for permission to move. He was completely still, but you clung to him with bated breath, exhaling with another, “Please.”

As the word rolled off your tongue, he pushed in fully, groaning as a moan rippled through you. Your face had contorted, eyes screwed shut and brows drawn together, fighting the pain and discomfort as pleasure began to overpower it. Gerard stayed like that for a minute, holding you flush against him before mumbling, “Color?”

“Green.”

You were gradually getting used to the foreign fullness, writhing slightly as you waited for him to move. It was almost more uncomfortable, staying stuffed and still while he peered down at you. With your confirmation though, he gave a quick thrust, gaining motivation as you gave a choked cry. That’s when he began to focus, on anything and everything, his hips rolling as you let out broken sobs.

Gerard could hear every sound you made, hypervigilant as you mewled, listening to the edge of pain that came with each one, and how they started to blur into bliss. He could see your features close up, twisted in pleasure as he thrust into you, sending him into a haze. And fuck, he could feel you–the way you clenched around him, cunt so sweet and tight, wet warmth squeezing his cock with every snap of his hips. Each one came with a loud moan, thick and carnal as they spilled out, his control finally starting to fade. He was a man of his word, and he was going to ruin you.

His thrusts became ruthless, Gerard rocking his hips without restraint, growing closer as you blasphemed. How unholy of you to murmur God’s name in such a setting–had you gone blind to your own sin?

It didn’t make a difference to Gerard, his mind whirling as he fell down a similar spiral. He was taking it from you, innocence and honor, stigmatizing you with each thrust. This was wrong, you were wrong, spreading your legs for a married man and eagerly moaning his name. Gerard was no better, never having fucked his wife with such passion, driven by the image of you, broken, used, and begging for him. Begging for more, for him to stop, for redemption. Begging for an excuse for your actions, an escape–karma would be nasty to the two of you, and he knew it with every stroke. None of that mattered though, not when you were babbling intelligibly, so drunk on his cock that you could barely form words.

“Fuck,” you choked, voice already wrecked. “I’m gonna come, Gerard, please.”

He didn’t change pace, still going at a steady rhythm, albeit rougher. You were so easy to read, from the way your breathing grew erratic, to how you held him tighter, your nails creating dark crescents on his back. The pain was complementary for him, moaning obscenities as your hands raked up his skin. He was in major trouble if his wife saw, but did he really care anymore?

The question was stowed away for later as his hand slid down your stomach, pressing on your abdomen, where you could feel an unbearable tension threatening to crack. Again, his hand shifted, thumb toying with your clit, watching for a tell-tale sign that you were coming.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he murmured, catching your lips in a sloppy kiss. “Make a mess for me.”

The world seemed to stall when you felt yourself shatter, descending into euphoria as your body went limp. You could barely register the whines that bubbled up in your throat, filling the room with a lewd chorus. Even after you had come, Gerard hadn’t slowed down, staying true to his intentions as thrust with the same fervor.

The oversensitivity hadn’t hit at first, though you struggled to take a full breath as you panted, each attempt ruined by another moan. He knew he should stop–this was out of your expertise, and it was selfish of him to push your limits for his own fantasies. Still, he couldn’t help but continue pounding into you, finally finding the strength to talk.

“Color?” he breathed as his thrusts grew sloppier.

He must’ve fucked you dumb, as you answered on impulse. “Green.”

The moan that slipped past his lips was nothing short of wanton, Gerard unable to catch himself as it tumbled out. You were so fucking hot, still wanting more despite your obvious sensitivity. Who would’ve known that his sweet little neighbor could be such a whore, degrading herself to nothing more than a hole for Gerard’s sick desires?

You wondered the same thing, peering up at him blearily as you looked for answers. It must’ve been something psychological, leaving your mind to fight your body, spent and used, as you thrived on imaginary praise. It hurt, but you were being such a good girl, so sweet and compliant for giving him your body. Tears stung your eyes, streaming down your cheeks one by one, tainted with mascara as you sobbed in his bedsheets. Yet you still needed it, sacrificing yourself for the knowledge that he wanted you.

You swelled with sick pride when his eyes fluttered open, moaning at how wrecked you looked. Stained skin and swollen lips had become a reality, his once distant dreams playing out in real time, and it felt like fucking heaven. He could tell as the tears poured and you bit your lip raw that it was overwhelming, shamefully getting off on your submission. It was the feeling of being buried inside you, thrusting into your tight cunt as you gave him something irreplaceable that made him lose it, feeling his cock twitch as he pulled out.

Gerard reeled at the sight of you, ruined and disheveled as he spilled onto your stomach. This was real, all the guilt and realities catching up as he studied your figure, splayed out and spent. There would be proof of it too–only temporarily, but the hoarseness of your voice and the predictable wobble when you'd walk would be a shameful reminder for days to come. The room seemed to go cold as you laid against the pillows, finally catching your breath while he stared down at you, his lips suddenly meeting yours. Once more, you were both filled with remorse, Gerard’s wedding band scalding your skin with bitter truths as he cupped your cheek.

Underneath a copious amount of guilt, there was still a burning desire–a need for more, for each other, one that he had chosen to ignore. Following in his footsteps, you pushed it down as well, watching as he silently laid down next to you, pulling you into his chest. It wasn’t out of love–it was comfort, the kind that he needed too. You couldn’t change the past, but you could lay in his arms and contemplate the future, beginning to spot the imperfections of your affair. Oh, how quickly the liaison had lost its color, blind to reality only minutes before. Part of you wished he would talk, kick you out or beg you to stay. Only a few moments later, he granted it, his voice quiet as he spoke.

“I’ll be right back,” was all he said, carefully getting up as if the world would shatter otherwise.

The silence was deafening without him, and you had nothing to do other than lay uncomfortably in his guest room, glancing around at the decor that lined the wall. Decor that they had picked out, back when they were happy and faithful, not needing an affair to feel wanted. It takes two to tango, but you were clearly out of place, still fighting nausea when Gerard came back with a washcloth.

Without a sound, he cleaned you up, first your stomach, and then your legs, pressing an occasional kiss to your skin. It was tender, laced with sweet sympathy, each one acting as an odd sort of apology for dragging you into this. You wanted to object, telling him that it was your fault too, but you kept your mouth shut, hands folded and eyes on the ceiling as he finished cleaning up.

You had done a better job after getting home that evening, scrubbing the sins from your skin in the hot shower, but it was impossible to shake the past. Gerard hadn’t spoken much before you left, giving you a final somber kiss in the doorway as he wished that the world would disappear for a moment longer.

But the world still stood tall, and the night had fallen. And his wife had returned home, and their daughter was undoubtedly rambling about her afternoon. And now you were laying in bed, kept awake by your mistakes, wondering if Gerard ever really wanted you. And in the next house over, he stared at the shadows in his bedroom, sharing your struggles.

This wasn’t feasible, but you made him happy. Did he even deserve to be happy anymore? Did he deserve you? The questions were suffocating, impossible and infuriating as he screwed his eyes shut in frustration. Even after hours of thinking, he still couldn’t find the answers, only drawing a single bittersweet conclusion, one that sent another wave of guilt crashing down on him.

At the end of the day, when the remorse caught up and gave him vertigo, you were the only thing that seemed worth it. Time stilled for a moment, leaving him to lay out his desires, weighing them with harsh realities. His decision wasn’t clear at first–not for a while either, vehemently denying the truth until the clock ticked towards the witching hour. By then, he had turned to watch the stars, standing in his window as his eyes traced the skyline, searching for answers on rooftops and antennas. Only as the moon poured through his window and painted him in epiphany, did he accept his fate.

So he pulled himself from the pane and tucked himself into bed with a woman he didn’t love. And he pressed an apologetic kiss to her forehead, sorry for both his betrayal and the way things could have been. And he rolled over, putting up the act of a faithful husband once more, letting go of the one who really wanted him. And as his eyes fluttered shut, there was only one thing he knew for certain.

Gerard could never have you.

kinktober taglist: @clichedlovers  @halloweenbitch2764  @lubbockshusband @cigarettesandalcohols  @couldbegayer1234  @doc-martens-enthusiast @yachiiko @becausethedrugsneverwork @house-of-wh0res @dangerouslittlefairy @chronicallythicc @zggystrdst @partypoisonzz​ @blueouid

[pollenallergie]

18+ only!!

do not interact if you’re under 18 years old!

I personally disagree with the headcanon that Eddie can’t cook. In fact, I think that man passed Home Ec. with flying colors in high school. Most of the Hellfire guys took shop class because they thought it was more manly or badass or whatever the fuck, but not Eddie. Eddie needed to learn to sew because Wayne sucked at it and the old lady two lots over was getting real sick of him asking her to use her frail, arthritic fingers to sew yet another goddamn patch on his vest or his backpack or whatever else he wanted to decorate with the logos of his favorite metal bands. Glenda was a sweet lady, of course, and she loved Eddie like he was her own grandson, but even her kindness had its limits. So, he took Home Ec. Plus, he kind of underestimated it and thought it would be like way easier than shop class.

Turns out it was actually insanely more difficult because while Jeff and Gareth got to spend forty-five minutes a day working on bird houses and toolboxes, Eddie had to learn how to operate a sewing machine, create a household budget, change a dirty diaper, and, oh yeah, make like three different kinds of sauce from fucking scratch. Labor intensity aside, Eddie oddly thrived in that class. I mean, he took to the sewing machine like a champ and he made a mean roux for mac and cheese. Not to mention, Miss Bowman absolutely adored him.

That was her first year teaching at Hawkins High, having just graduated college, so she was already plenty nervous. However, it got much, much worse when the, at the time, 16-year-old metalhead, who smelled like a well-used ashtray, sauntered into her class fifteen minutes late and very clearly stoned out of his mind. Imagine her surprise when that same kid expressed a genuine interest in learning how to keep track of household purchases and sharpen a kitchen knife. Unbeknownst to her, his fascination stemmed from the fact that 1) being able to keep track of financial transactions would be super beneficial for him as a rookie pot dealer and 2) the kid liked sharp, shiny things. So, in her blissful ignorance, Miss Bowman actually kind of developed a soft spot for the misfit, much like a little kid might for a scrappy alleycat.

Not to mention, due to him genuinely wanting to learn how to do some of this shit, Eddie rarely showed up to class late or less-than-sober after that first day. He even began to enjoy that class a little bit; the teacher was nice, she didn’t hate him (which was rare), and most of the kids in the class were pretty accepting of him once they realized that he was pulling a stable A-. In fact, the future head-cheerleader, Chrissy Cunningham, even directly asked him for help with her sourdough starter once; which he thought was pretty cool (and also terrifying).

A couple years down the line, his impeccable home-making skills would come in handy when he finally managed to snag the person of his dreams, you. In fact, your first date with Eddie involved him making an elaborate feast of spaghetti in doused in a delightful, homemade bolognese sauce with a side of homemade garlic bread (Eddie made the bread from scratch and everything) and some wine (that he definitely did not steal from a liquor store two towns over because Eddie would never do that), lighting some candles, turning on some soft music (one of Wayne’s old country records; the only one that Eddie figured wasn’t too twangy), and setting tiny kitchen table like it was a fancy table-for-two at some pricey restaurant in the city. It was perfect and, honestly more than you’d ever expected. When he asked you out, you expected a simple movie date or maybe going to watch some band who was not nearly as good as Corroded Coffin play at local bar together, not an amazing home-cooked meal and a night alone with a shaggy-haired, doe eyed aidoneus. It’s safe to say that the pasta wasn’t the only thing that got saucy that night, if you catch my drift. Eddie gave you a taste of his other homemade sauce, if you know what I mean.

So yeah, Eddie Munson can cook. The man is a fucking wiz in the kitchen.

[thehobbem]

Jane Eyre - Part II

DKZJFBDGHSJAKSJD THIS IS THE WORST MARRIAGE PROPOSAL IN LITERARY HISTORY

*clears throat*

A few days ago I wrote this post about my first thoughts on Jane Eyre. Since people wanted to see my reactions to further events, here I am.

I gotta say: you were all holding out on me, because not only does Jane Eyre have a man more ridiculous than Darcy (by a CLEAR mile), but it also has a clergyman more insufferable than Edmund Bertram, which??? should not be possible???

Okay, so:

I was hoping Rochester would give up on the wedding and confess to Jane about his wife in the attic, but nope! And he would've gotten away with it, too, if it weren't for those meddling solicitor & brother-in-law. Like. This man is so idiotic, and felt so unbelievably sorry for himself, that he said with his full chest "yeah, bigamy is the solution! :D".

...Very uncomfortable how the narrative attributed the lowest possible vices to Bertha Rochester, while calling her "the creole". The vices weren't outright attributed to her being of mixed ancestry, but it felt like that was what was meant. All very uncomfortable. As uncomfortable as when the landed gentry wanted to visit a Romani encampment to see the Romani people (while, ofc, using the g-slur) as if they were animals in a circus? Hmmm, yeah, tough call!

(Look. I'm not gonna go around publicly denouncing books from past centuries for not being politically correct, bc that is an idiotic way to relate to literature from the past. Society was what it was, and not even the authors we admire so much were above that most of the time. But I can, and will!, look at certain things and go "wow, this aged like fucking milk". I think that's fair.)

AND THEN

Rochester, who can't possibly be thinking straight, proposes that Jane become his mistress!!!! Edward Fairfax Rochester, have you ever even MET Jane Eyre?? Do you know her but at all????

And he's like "me, me, me, what's to become of me, am I to be denied love, doesn't the world feel sorry for ME" and I nearly spit on my kindle, I was so mad XD How is this man, pushing fucking FORTY, putting on this preposterous show and leaving this 18-year-old girl to comfort him?????

(To bring up the sad sack that is Edmund Bertram again: it reminded me when Edmund wrote to Fanny: Maria has brought ruin to their name, Tom has nearly died, everyone is in distress, and he's like "But Fanny. Think of ME!!!" ugh)

But yes, honestly, Rochester's not evil, but he's so. goddamn. stupid. And draMATIC. I love him, he's a riot.

...I do not love how he kept blaming others for him marrying Bertha. Like. Sir. You were an adult and you married her of your own volition. "My father" this, and "her family didn't tell me" that, but YOU looked at her, thought she was gorgeous, and agreed to marry her. So fuck you. Hold yourself accountable, for a change. You man child.

So yeah, Jane runs away, which is totally the right decision, and without any money, which is totally the wrong decision, and ends up eating burned porridge again, and I'm like. If I had a nickel for every time Jane Eyre had to eat burned porridge while starving, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.

Jane is then saved by the Rivers siblings: Mary and Diana Rivers, who are absolutely precious, and St. John Rivers, who is absolutely

UNBEARABLE OH MY GOD WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME

Me, every time St. John appeared on the page:

Hey. Charlotte? Charlotte. Was this a ploy? Did you bring St. John into the story to have us like Rochester more? Is St. John your way of going "Yeah, I know, Rochester is deranged, and what he wanted to do was morally and legally and spiritually wrong, but look at how boring righteous people can be!"? Was it? If so, it FUCKING WORKED, BRING EDWARD ROCHESTER BACK RIGHT NOW.

*rubs temples*

Also??? aekjsdzcbvsdjfsk I can't: St. John: "I found you employment." Jane: "Really? Which is it?" St. John: rambles on about the will of God or something, for entire paragraphs. Jane, who patiently waited for him to finish: "So? The job?" St. John: "Right! I don't know if you're gonna like it, but" rambles on again about the will of God or perseverance or something, for entire paragraphs. Jane: "Right. And the job?"

SIR FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PLEASE TELL US WHAT THE FUCKING JOB IS

THIS IS LIKE MR. BROCKLEHURST ALL OVER AGAIN

...Oh. Oh.

That's the point.

St. John really is Brocklehurst again, I love it: both love to talk about how Christian they are, and how it's important to lead a life of humility, etc -- the difference being, ofc, that St. John is not a hypocrite, fat capitalist pig, he's actually leading by (insufferable) example. And they both make Jane feel bad about her true self, just in opposite ways.

And St. John wants to be a missionary, because of course this insufferable man wants to be a missionary and impose his views on nice people who are just living their fucking lives. And he goes on and on about... idk, bringing light to the unenlightened and saving pagans or whatever, and it's SO pedantic, and it's SO patronizing, and it's SO... UGH.

I cannot believe Jane gave this man a quarter of her entire fortune.

AND THEN

HE MAKES THE WORST MARRIAGE PROPOSAL IN THE ENTIRE ENGLISH LITERATURE

No, I have not read the entirety of English literature, but oh boy am I fully confident in my statement. This is the WORST. Like. Mr. Collins' proposal is a shining beacon of unbridled love and romance next to THIS.

Me, reading his proposal:

"Jane, you weren't made for love, you were made for labour. You were made to be a missionary's wife" QEIARKSHV\CZNB;SAEKFJSDVC I'M GONNA GOUGE MY EYES OUT WITH A SPOON

At least Jane, too, was full aware of the insult XD Love that when she told Diana of the proposal, she repeated those exact words, and Diana was like "Girl, what??? Nu-uh!!!".

But it's all great. She refuses him, and he gets all prickly and assholish about it in the most holier-than-thou way possible, I hate him, but then she hears Rochester's voice in the wind crying out for her, and she hurries back to Thornfield. Sure, we've all been there.

Then we find out karma does exist and is the proverbial bitch: Rochester lost an eye, all of his eyesight, a hand, and his manor. Wow.

And then???? They have the CUTEST reunion ever???? And I was so happy for him???? For them??? Charlotte 😭😭😭👌👌👌

Rochester being all jealous of St. John, and I'm like "no, you're safe, he's the worst, he told Jane she wasn't made for love".

He also holds himself accountable at long last (hard not to, after all that), and he thought Jane was deeeeeeaaaad, and he was inconsolable and I'm a MESS

So all is good in the end: they marry -- LEGALLY! :D -- and have a child, and he recovers his eyesight on the eye he still has, and the Rivers siblings marry and are happy, and the book ends... with a letter from St. John saying he's dying??? WHAT

I love all of it. Specially St. John dying. A few stray observations:

The foreshadowing of future events is very well-planted, nicely done, Charlotte. That horse chestnut tree being split in half by lightning after Rochester proposes marriage to Jane? 👌👌👌👌👌 If I ever saw an omen!

And Jane. So smart, so good, so compassionate, so horny on main, so witty, so brave. May God keep St. John Rivers far away from her forever and ever.

LOVE how Jane begins with an aunt (who knows her and hates her) and 3 cousins (a John who torments her trying to diminish her, and two sisters who don't care if she's alive or not) and ends up having an uncle (who doesn't know her but loves her) and 3 cousins (a John who torments her trying to "elevate" her and two sisters who love her and save her life). The story is obviously very cyclical, and I enjoyed that a lot.

Don't know if I love or hate the fact that Charlotte slapped a "St." in front of the name of the John who wants to be a missionary and is the opposite of the first John XD (Yes, I know St. John is a real name, I've seen it many times before, but it's a bit on the nose here!)

...I wonder if Miss Ingram ever found out that Rochester wanted to marry the governess. I would've paid Charlotte Brontë good money to write THAT scene.

And last but not least: Pilot is the goodest boy in the whole wide world.

[navree]

this is dc twitter discourse at the moment so i thought i'd ask your thoughts on it do you think red hood jason hurting children is ooc/a bad writing choice???

And this ladies and gents is why I avoid DC Twitter because I don't think I've seen any good takes there ever, no matter where you are. Sometimes people post panel compilations that hurt my heart, that's the like the only good thing to come out of it, I don't even click on the MAWS hashtag if it trends while the show is airing because last time I did it was people bitching that 25 year old Slade did not look or act the same way that current in his forties Slade does (not to mention, how can you complain about MAWS Slade? he's the best part about the show how did anyone not just fall over laughing with delight the second he showed up and proclaimed himself to be literal Slade Wilson?).

With that said, yeah I would consider that to be a bad writing choice. Talking about characterization for comics is hard because, as I've mentioned, comics is an incredibly decentralized creative medium in a way none others are. Movies, TV shows, novels, they all tend to have a main core group of people or even just one solitary person in charge of the creative direction, and for a lot of them, a very finite "this is where we start and this is where we end" mentality that comics do not. These characters have had constantly changing creative heads, with new directions and ideas for characterization attached, since their inception, and they've all been around for a very long time. This is why comics are kind of the only medium where you can, in fact, really pick and choose your canon, because the canon has changed so much depending on who is in charge at a giant company. Like, canonical eighties Batman characterization would be considered super OOC for someone writing canonical modern Batman, and vice versa. So talking about characterization is hard, especially with Jason when nobody has had any idea what to fucking do with him for decades at this point. But, when it comes to Red Hood Jason, there is something I consider gospel canon, which is the Under the Red Hood arc, since that is what nearly all subsequent canon imaginings of Jason take from. That is our gold standard here. And based on UTRH, yeah, Jason harming children is out of character and it is bad writing.

When Jason comes back, he has two very clear goals. Goal one: the Joker's gotta die, preferably Batman kills him so Jason gets concrete proof that he was loved and mourned (Jason is not mentally healthy so his thought process doesn't make sense just roll with it), but Jason is fine killing the man himself, so long as he dies. Goal two: essentially fulfill Batman's mission in a way where it actually accomplishes his goals. Jason outlines this pretty specifically in Batman #641, he tells Bruce "You. I'll be you. The you you're supposed to be." Jason's goal as the Red Hood is to make Gotham better (in his head), safer, and cleaner, but unlike Batman he is willing to take that goal as far as he can and will kill if necessary. What he wants is to just take Batman's mission to its logical extreme. Eradicate the various elements that have caused suffering in Gotham throughout the years, just with more permanence than Batman does, and less of a focus on rehabilitation, because you can't rehabilitate a dead person. And as part of this, Jason does not act unnecessarily. When he kills, it is people who (arguably) deserve it, and it is never innocents. It is always the criminal element, and people he believes are past the point of no return, as well as those who might be trying to stop him in that. His mission statement is literally "Death will come to those who deserve death, and death may come to those who stand in my way of doing what's right." and he means that. This is not a character you've created to then go out and harm children, because kids have not done anything to deserve it, and they are not the cause of the issues that he is trying to eliminate.

There's also the fact that Jason, even in his early Red Hood days where editorial just decided that he's a straight villain now, was never someone who went after kids, but in fact actively tried to help them. He makes it a point to tell his people that they do not sell drugs to kids and that if they do, he'll kill them (along with telling them not to get previously clean people hooked and only sell to repeats, which also paints him as someone who isn't just hurting others willy-nilly). The first person Jason ever kills, as seen in Red Hood: Lost Days, is a man who was involved in child trafficking, and he does it specifically because he wants to save those kids and future victims from him, and considers him scum of the Earth as a result (I think his name was Egan? Egon? idfk I don't reread Lost Days because I find their whole "look at fully adult Talia fucking the mentally ill sixteen year old under her care who is reliant on her for everything, how sexy" shtick abhorrent, and using Talia as their child rapist doubly so). So Jason, even at his most villainous, at his most "this is a bad dude" characterized, is someone who deliberately avoids harming innocents because it's not compatible with his mission or his personal code, and includes children very specifically in that.

It is also out of character and a bad writing choice because of Jason's own childhood. You might think a rebuttal to this is "Jason wants to kill/hurt criminals, what if kids are criminals" well guess what Jason was a kid criminal! It is actually illegal to steal parts off of people's cars, even if that person can afford it because he's Batman (to say nothing of the multiple very heavy handed hints dropped that Jason solicited as a prostitute during his time being homeless, which is also a crime, it is illegal and he would have been picked up by the cops for it if found out). Unless you want to argue that Jason thinks he himself should have been taken out with a Glock at the big of age of eleven for doing illegal things in the name of survival, you can't say that Jason's philosophy would allow him to harm children and remain in character or decently written, you just can't. Like, your other gospel for Jason's characterization should be his original Robin run from the 80s, since that's literally what introduced him to this world in the first fucking place, so duh. And there's nothing in that characterization to suggest that he would harm anyone unnecessarily, especially kids. Like, Robin Jason spares Two-Face's life, after having found out days ago that Two-Face murdered Willis Todd in cold blood; he tries to save Sheila Haywood's life after she straight up helps murder him; this isn't someone whose characterization allows for him to hurt children later in life. Especially once you factor in his struggles as a child, and how that most likely just breeds empathy for other children, especially children who are having a hard time.

Now, I can guess that some of this comes up in discussions of one of my most loathed subjects, the stupid bad stupid dumb stupid attack on fucking Titan's Tower. Now, even beyond the fact that the stupid attack on stupid Titan's Tower is less about Jason wanting to beat up children and more his specific issues with Bruce and the concept of Robin that can't be transplanted to other people, the attack itself is bad writing. It is out of character for Jason. It does not jive at all with his stated characterization and motivations that he himself outlined (also the only other closest thing to that is his fight with Mia Dearden, where he's pretty tame in just warning her to leave vigilantism and straight up beats her twice before letting her go relatively unscathed of his own free will, just saying) and it makes no sense. His issues are that the Joker is alive and Batman didn't do anything about it. Why the fuck would he care about Tim? Tim means nothing to him, he never even met the little dude, he doesn't have an issue with him. He doesn't even have an issue with the idea of Robin being passed down because Jason literally said he was perfectly content to not be Robin and just be Jason, and his problems don't arise from Robin! The issues at the heart of Jason's conflict with Bruce hinge on the Bruce and Jason relationship of father and son, not Batman and Robin! And not fucking Tim! Tim means nothing, he is a nonentity. The only reason this fuckass plot exists is because DC didn't know what to do with Jason and threw shit at the wall to see what would stick, similar to what we saw with that dumb plot with Nightwing from this time that also has similar issues, in that why would Jason care enough to cause problems for Dick, he doesn't have an issue with Dick, he legit interacts with Dick in UTRH and he's fine! (a better writing decision would have been post-UTRH Jason immediately writing the entire Batfam off and treating them as hostiles whenever they wander into Crime Alley and them having to regain his trust back/him agreeing to let down more and more barriers as time goes on and they all reconnect, but I was like seven when all this was being written so DC didn't seek my input) The fucking dumb Titan's Tower thing that people are gonna use to prove that Jason hurting kids isn't bad writing isn't even about Jason, the only reason this shit gets trotted out again and again is because Tim Drake has a lot of fans who are absolutely convinced their poor uwu baby has suffered more than Jesus when the only person in the Batfam who's suffered less than him is, like, Alfred (although I can make the argument that Alfred has still suffered more by having had to put up with Bruce Wayne almost singlehandedly for most of his adult life). It exists in people's minds even tho it is objectively bad writing and out of character for one of the main players because fanon Tim has to be the most special boy ever (and also because these people wanna use it to make Tim interesting which is impossible because nothing can make Tim interesting).

Jason hurting children deliberately is, indeed, bad writing. It is, in fact, incredibly out of character. It does not compute to his explicit motivations and how he was characterized in the stories that have since been used as a jumping off point for his characterization ever since. And ultimately, the thing is this: if Red Hood Jason is just trying to do Batman's job better than Batman, who is he doing it for if not children? Who is he trying to clean up Gotham for, make Gotham a better place for, if not her children? And if that's the case, as it obviously is, why on Earth would him then harming her children be any kind of good character writing or coherent characterization?

TL;DR, yes it is.

[regression-1863]

Okay inspired by this post: https://www.tumblr.com/hozier-toosweet/747667109810765824/turns-on-computer-ill-be-back-in-approximately?source=share

Anyways here's the first chapter of what I'm calling "LOREYMCLORE FIC" because I added so much unnecessary lore that doesn't exist in cannon.

Small summary: radioapple, alastor pretends to be buddy buddy with Lucifer to annoy Lilith and chaos ensues. Will likely end up as multiple chapters long because I'm a lil silly like that <3 also Lilith isn't a villain and she has more reason for being gone for 7 years than "cuz she can" because I felt like it <333 okay bye

Next->

Alastor remembers his first day in hell like an old friend. 

Most demons, as alastor came to learn, often woke up in the middle of the streets of hell their first day, some lucky enough to be in an area far away from chaos. They’d wake up, confused, and berated by other demons, demons who want one thing; 

Their soul. 

Most give in, as they’re promised protection in this strange new world. 

That's a typical day though. Alastor didn't get a ‘typical first day of hell’, for he didn't wake up in hell. Not at first. 

He remembers it like it was yesterday, the mist on his skin, his vision clouded by the fog, how cold it was…a strange, red glowing outline of something tall in the distance. 

He walked towards it, wondering if he was having a nightmare, or a dream. 

It was neither. 

Something fast and thin ran across the ground, glowing green, before latching onto him, his breathing being stifled, pressure against his neck, closing his eyes, trying to fight whatever it was off, trying to escape— 

A beat. A blink, a moment so small he missed it. It was hotter, there was chaos rather than the eerie silence from before, people were yelling. 

Now he was in hell. Beautiful, beautiful hell…

 -----

Alastor felt like he was going to, and excuse his manners,  lose his fucking mind. 

He was supposed to be celebrating with the others, who were in the hotel. It had been a few weeks since extermination day, and the darling princess decided to host a lovely banquet, hoping to get people to at least visit the hotel. 

And here he was, hiding away in his radio tower. He didn't even bother to reread the letter, he knew the contents of it, so why care? He burned it, the fire glowing that familiar green, leaving nothing save for a few ashes. 

He faded into the shadows, reappearing behind Rosie's emporium, seeing as she was the only one even vaguely aware of his… situation. She, nor would her residents, say a word if they saw anything. 

Still, he felt himself growing annoyed, his skin prickling, like something deep inside him was trying to escape. That wasn't far off, as ‘his’ shadow was pulling him, trying to get him to move. Eventually it literally pulled him two feet away from where it was. 

“Oh would you behave—” the shadow pulled on him again, and pointed up. Finally, he saw what it saw. Something, falling down, down down. “Ah. would have figured they’d give her the decency to use a portal at least.” he murmured.

Before she managed to crash land into hell at nearly a million miles per hour, he used his shadows to reach up nearly forty feet in the air to swiftly grab her. 

He’d have to find a way to explain that to the sinners later…. 

Of course, she didn't stop mid air, still falling, but he was able to slow it considerably before dropping her down on the ground. 

“So, Adam didn't work out that well for you did he?” Alastor brushed the dust off of his arm, not offering to help her up. 

“Says the one who got a nasty scratch from the man himself," Lilith snapped, pulling her hood over her face, trying to stay unnoticed by any sinners. “Take me to the hotel.” she whisper-yelled, her stance wobbly. 

“‘fraid you came at a bad time dear. They’re holding a banquet right now,” his smile grew more cruel.

“Though I'm sure you could make a deal with another angel for a comfy place in paradise, couldn't you?” 

“And you’re still biting off more than you can chew aren't you?” 

“Touche.” Alastor’s voice held a venom that he tried to hide. “Very well, I'll bring you to the hotel.” 

 ----

“Ookaayy,” lucifer started, “sooo…. Tell me what was so important that you proceeded to throw everyone from my daughters' banquet out. Literally.” he laughed nervously. 

Alastor had cornered Lucifer and Charlie on the fourth floor of the hotel, where only Alastor and Lucifer resided. Lucifer then continued; “Because if it's some bull I swear to god—” “leave him out of this,” “I swear to your mother that I will beat you to a pulp.” 

Alastor huffed in fake hurt, “why, your majesty, I’m offended you would think such things of me! I am nothing but an angel.” 

“The day you get redeemed is the day heaven crashlands into hell.” 

“You’d know all about that, wouldn't you?” 

Charlie, who had been cautiously watching the two of them to this point, cleared her throat. “Uh… so, alastor… what was so important that it had to put a stop to… uh… everything?” 

Alastor clasped his hands together, his smile tightening. “So glad you asked dear Charlotte!” he started, “well, you see i was going on a walk to get away from the stench of alcohol and bad decor,” lucifer then interupted, “oh fuck you,”  “in your dreams, now let me finish.— I was on my stroll when I stumbled upon this pesky little thing that I believe belongs to you?” 

Alastor opened the door to Lucifer's room— because god forbid he let anything track mud into his own— and watched the two's reactions. 

Charlie's face was completely unreadable for a solid few seconds, before breaking down completely, tears falling and snot starting to drip as she hurled herself at her mother, easily slipping into a hug. 

Lucifer, however, stayed behind for a moment, hesitating. His own eyes were welling up with tears, and it was obvious he was restraining himself with every last bit of control he had. 

Lilith looked over at him, still practically cradling Charlie in her arms. A small hint of guilt found its way onto her face. 

“You still wear your ring?” she asked. They had divorced long ago, and yet this pulled at her heartstrings. She had missed him admittedly, even if she no longer loved him. 

Those five little words from her had been enough to get Lucifer to also start sobbing, hugging her as tight as he could. 

‘Like father like daughter. How sickeningly sweet.’ Alastor watched, unable to stop how irritated he was at the sight. ‘She's going to cause problems…’ 

He started to silently slip away into the shadows, away from them, ignoring the frantic footsteps of Vaggie running up the stairs at the sound of Charlie crying her eyes out. 

[dantakeyoman]

𝐉𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐘 | 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐨𝐧𝐞

♡ 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

♡ * 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈, 𝒔𝒆𝒙𝒚, 𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆, 𝒛𝒐𝒎𝒃𝒊𝒆-𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑱𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏. 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒔. *

♡ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐳𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐦 (𝐳𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐬), 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝, 𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝐨𝐟 𝐳𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐬), 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐬, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐞𝐭𝐜.

♡ * 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒚: 𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏 𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒍 *

𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄

You knocked on the door of Tallahassee's temporary bedroom, waiting patiently for him to answer.

A groan came from the other side, and after some shuffling and a string of curses, the man opened the door.

He looked exhausted, ready to chew out whoever was knocking on his door so late, but the second he laid eyes on you, his face softened.

"Now a good time?" You asked, not wanting to disturb him.

"Yeah, yeah," he quickly nodded, stepping back to open the door, using his hand to rub the sleep off his face, "I was just catchin' up on some sleep."

"Well," you smirked, walking in and turning around so he couldn't see behind you, "I figured after such a shitty end to the day, you'd wanna share a drink."

He shut the door and turned around, cocking a brow.

A drink?

You pulled out an old-looking bottle of Jack Daniels from behind your back, looking at it proudly.

"Aged sixteen years. Forty-five percent," you stated as you red the label, walking over to his bed and sitting down, "Bill musta been savin' it for a special occasion."

You looked up at him with a mischievous expression, and he smirked, slowly walking over.

"You woke me up...at one in the morning...to get hammered?" He sat down.

"And talk," you added with a knowing smile.

He raised a brow, "And talk?"

...

You caved.

"Fine," you sighed, dropping your shoulders, "Numb Nuts and Wichita are goin' at it somewhere, and Little Rock is off doin' who knows what. .....And it's sad for a woman to get drunk by herself."

He chuckled, quite amused by your predicament.

You rolled your eyes, standing up.

"Fine, then," you shrugged with a sly smile, "Guess I'll take me and my fancy whiskey elsewhere..."

"Don't even think about it, missy," he grabbed your arm, yanking you towards him.

Losing your balance, you sat down on his lap with an oof, slightly taken aback.

You turned to him with an air of surprise, and he smirked, using the distraction to his advantage and taking the bottle from your hand, popping open the cork.

"S'like wavin' a carrot in front of a horse. Can't threaten me with a good time an' then pick up an' leave," he stated, matter-of-factly.

You raised a brow with a smile, "I'm havin' a hard time tellin' whether you're talkin' about the booze or me."

He shrugged, taking a swig, "Take a wild guess."

You scoffed, taking the bottle back and swishing it around, "I think I'm a little too sober for that one."

"Fair 'nuff," he chuckled, looking up at you.

You were so fuckin' pretty.

It was quite literally driving him insane.

He'd gotten so lost in you, that he hadn't even noticed his hands had, instinctively, slid up your thighs, finding purchase on your hips.

Your face suddenly felt hot, and the touch of his hands burned even hotter.

'Fuck.'

"Gettin' a little frisky, are we?" You quickly played off, handing him back the bottle.

"I'd do no such thing," he smirked, shaking his head, "I'm a perfect gentleman. Just keepin' you secure, is all."

You let out a suspicious hum, but left it be for now, letting him punctuate his sentence with a gulp of whiskey.

Accepting you'd be there for the long run, you shifted in his lap, trying to find a comfortable position.

And Tal had nearly bit through the bottle trying to prevent a groan from escaping his lips.

You had rubbed right up against his dick, which was already growing painfully hard and straining against his jeans.

It was embarrassing.

You'd think being a grown ass man, he'd be able to control himself.

But no.

The second he came anywhere near you, it was like he was a teenager again.

And after all his big talk, he couldn't just ask you to give him a minute.

You were smart. You'd know exactly what he'd be leaving to do.

The only thing he could do was ride it out and pray you wouldn't notice.

"Y'know, I felt bad for Murray when he.....y'know," you started, snapping him out of his frantic thoughts.

"How come?" He cocked a brow, thankful for the distraction, "'Cause Columbus shot 'im?"

"No, no," you shook your head, "I mean...for the entire time before we came, he was all alone. ...I dunno...I guess I just felt sorry he didn't have someone he really cared about to spend his last days, y'know?"

He nodded, now understanding, "I get whatchu mean."

The conversation between Tal and the late actor suddenly flashed in his head, and a burning question suddenly came bubbling up his throat.

Maybe it could prove Bill's theory.

Tal took another swig, allowing the liquid courage to speak for him.

"Y'know, he told me somethin' real crazy while you had gone after the camera," he started, passing off the bottle to you.

"Really?" You cocked a brow, taking it from him and drinking a big gulp, "What did he say?"

The man paused a moment, "He asked me if you were my wife."

You were slightly taken aback, but surprisingly calm.

'A fair guess. I was fussin' over him all day...like an idiot.'

"Why's it so crazy?" You asked with a smile, taking a swig, "I not your type?"

A sentence you definitely would not have said about 20 minutes ago.

It was Tal's turn to be taken aback, not expecting such a bold reply.

But he, too, quickly recovered

"Girl a' my dreams," he patronized with a beaming smile, glad his tone covered the fact that it was one-hundred percent true.

You rolled your eyes, giving his brim a flick and handing over the bottle, "All right, funny guy. What is your type, then?"

"Well," he took a drink, swallowing thickly as he looked up at your expecting face.

Shit.

Even drunk, you were fucking intimidating.

"I'd want a gal that could keep up wit' me," he started, deciding to just go off a list of your traits, "One that could kick ass and take names. The mouthier, the better."

You chuckled, "You just like to fight."

He smirked, "I love to fight."

You rolled your eyes, not surprised at all by his response.

"You're lucky she doesn't blow 'er brains out within the first ten seconds of you," you scoffed.

He gasped, clutching his heart like you'd stabbed him.

"You wound me, darlin', you wound me," he shook his head, turning away from you.

He made his expression one of pain, and clutched the fabric of his shirt like his life depended on it.

You laughed, giving his chest a light shove, "I'm about to wound you in a second."

"All right, all right," he nodded with a chuckle, "Your turn, sunshine. What's your type?"

You paused to think for moment, the train between your brain and your mouth already starting to slow tremendously.

And you were far from a light-weight.

'This shit's the real deal.'

"For me...I'd like a guy real rough 'n tumble. I like 'em rugged," you started, still thinking, "He'd need to be strong.....and handsome....and preferably packin' in a certain department, if you know what I mean."

Yet another thing you wouldn't have dared to say had you not been fuckin' plastered.

Tal was internally giddy, proud and relieved he checked all the boxes, only letting small smile show a fraction of how he truly felt.

There was hope.

Real-life, tangible hope.

Maybe Bill was onto something.

"Speakin' of that just reminded me," he realized with a mischievous smirk, "You never answered my question from couple months ago."

You tilted your head in confusion, already starting to rack your brain, "What question?"

"Right before we came across that zombie-lady eatin' her manwich, I asked you somethin'..." he continued to lead on.

It hit you.

"Ohhh," you nodded.

The wording suddenly came back as well, and you turned into a cherry.

"Oh..." you mumbled.

It was adorable.

It made him just wanna squeeze you.

"Tell me, Princess," he smirked, "When was the last time you were fucked?"

You sighed, looking down at him nervously with those beautiful (e/c) eyes.

"You gotta swear you won't laugh," you asked, trying to get yourself to sound as serious as possible.

"I swear," he nodded, raising his right hand.

You raised your brow suspiciously, and he nodded again, drawing an X on his chest..

"Cross my heart."

You took a deep breath, doing your best to shake off the nerves.

'Here goes nothin'.'

"A couple months before the outbreak. ...That was the last time," you stated, bracing yourself for the teasing.

But it never came.

In fact, Tallahassee was the farthest thing from humored or disappointed at the moment.

He was in disbelief.

There was no way.

A woman like you? Left to satisfy yourself? Not hounded by a single man?

It had to be false.

"You ain't gotta lie..." he started, scanning your face for some sort of joke, "I won't judge, honest."

"It's the truth," you nodded, slightly embarrassed, "And it was some random hookup, too. Didn't even get to come."

Now he was floored.

No boyfriend?! A shitty fling?!

Didn't get to come?!

"That can't be right," he dismissed, unable to believe this, "You had to have had guys linin' up around the block. ...Or at least fightin' over you."

You fought back the blush threatening to creep up on your cheeks, your inner self squealing at the man's compliments.

What was he getting at?

You needed more information.

"Why you say that?" you asked.

He was flabbergasted.

You really didn't know?

"'Cause you're fuckin' gorgeous, darlin'," he exasperatedly sighed, the liquor loosening his lips quite a bit, "You've gotta be the prettiest woman I've ever seen. And the fact that you ain't had men droppin' at your feet just by lookin' attchu is somethin' I can't understand."

You smiled, moved by his words.

Sure, on he outside looking in, it sounded vulgar and crass and not romantic at all.

But knowing Tallahassee, and how he usually was, you knew this was as heartfelt and sincere as he could get.

"You think I'm gorgeous, Tex?" You smiled, leaning in and resting your arms on his shoulders.

He sighed, tightening his grip on your waist as you got closer, deciding there was no point in trying to hide it anymore.

"....Yes," he admitted, taking a deep inhale.

Fuck, how did you smell so good?

You chuckled, wrapping your arms around his neck, looking deeply into his eyes.

"I hope you know I'm countin' this as a confession," you stated.

He nodded, letting out a small sigh, "Figured."

You smirked, deciding to quote him from a couple months ago, "You say more than one word at a time?"

He flipped you off, and you laughed, leaning in so close your noses were practically touching.

You paused, taking a moment to bask.

Here you were, sitting in the lap of the man who had starred in a countless amount of your dreams, about to kiss him like he was the last man on Earth.

And here he was, the woman of his every fantasy sitting pretty in his lap, him holding you so tight that he thought you'd disappear if he loosened.

...

Oh, if this was a dream, he was gonna kick someone's ass in the morning.

You pulled him in by the back of his neck, slowly closing the gap between your lips.

Until finally...

"Hey, is the second Ghostbusters as good as the first because I-OH MY GOD," Little Rock walked into the room, quickly shielding her eyes at the sight of you on top of him.

You two quickly threw yourselves off each other, clearing your throats as you now sat on opposite sides of the bed.

"I just...wow. ...That's just...wow."

She shook her head, turning around and walking right back out, muttering something about pouring bleach into her eyes as she shut the door.

You sighed, rubbing your face as you desperately tried to recover from the new awkwardness introduced into the room.

Turning to Tal, you could tell just by his face that he wanted to storm out there and wring the little girl by her neck.

It was actually pretty funny.

"Maybe this was for the best," you smiled, reaching over and taking his hat off his head, placing it on yours.

He snapped over to you, flickers of confusion and worry flashing in his eyes.

But you were quick to clarify.

"As handsome as you are, I'd prefer to kiss you when I'm not completely shit-faced."

Leaning over, you carefully grabbed his chin and placed a nice, long peck on his cheek, smiling into it.

It felt nice.

It felt warm and domestic and soft, even with the stubble.

It brought back that feeling the world had before everything went to hell.

Pulling away, you gave him one more smile before turning around and heading towards the door.

"See you in the morning, Tex," you wished, stealing his leather jacket off a hook and exiting the room.

The second you shut the door, he let out a groan, allowing himself to lay back on the bed.

Even though it was just a little peck on the cheek, it still made him feel like he was on cloud nine, in a way no amount of weed or booze ever could.

He felt stupid being so giddy, as if he was a teenage boy and this was his first kiss.

It was gross and soft and not in character for him at all.

And if all this came from just a fucking peck, then imagine how the actual kiss would've felt.

...

He was gonna kill Little Rock in the morning.

𝒛 𝒐 𝒎 𝒃 𝒊 𝒆 𝒍 𝒂 𝒏 𝒅