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#next chapter gets spicy
oldfashionedmorphine · 4 months
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oh what’s this?
a lil peek of ch 21 for iawwyh??? 👀
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tagging:
@across-thestars @boahey @magentamee @daydreams-in-the-moonlight @greenfiend @rebellius @booksandpaperss @castelobyers @total-serene560 @karenchildress @sparks-olivarpente @hazmatazz @suzieburself @krakoansam @mandycantdecide @robin-therobber @foodiewithdahoodie @soyboystan @trvbblemaker (if you want to be added or removed, let me know!)
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cambria-writes · 1 year
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good day! been a little while since i updated this one too. honestly it's just because i forgot; the chapter was written and everything lol. the one after this is still in the work though, so that... might take a little bit. it starts to get spicy so i'm trying by best to not be a cowardly little ace and just get in there.
word count: 2,722 rating: M warning: people are shirtless and pantless/trouserless, mention of a panic attack, age gap but left up to interpretation, getting cockblocked by a phone call, swearing, so scarcely proofread it might as well be whiteclaw, let me know if there's anything else!
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𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕾𝖎𝖝𝖙𝖊𝖊𝖓: 𝔏𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫 𝔚𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯
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Waking up is a slow process.
The first thing you notice is that the pillow is softer than what you normally have at home. Your face is half engulfed in it in the best of ways. Like your head is cradled by a temperature controlled cloud.
The second thing that you notice is that, though the air should still be cool from early morning, half of you is warm. Almost too hot to bear; you can feel sweat beading on your collarbone.
The third thing that registers is that you’re very much not wearing your own clothes. It feels different, and definitely isn’t a dress, or whatever oversized shirt you’d otherwise be wearing to bed. And everything smells different. In a pleasant way your brain is still trying to make sense of.
You crack open an eye to look at what you think is the nearest window and take a second. Patrick Jane’s face is mockingly close. And you’re well on your way to being half on top of him; one arm holding onto his left shoulder and your right leg thrown over his left thigh. It wouldn’t even have been that bad, really, if his hand wasn’t also on your thigh.
Not entirely the development you expected after getting entirely too-violent flashes of someone else’s traumatic experiences. But also, unfortunately, not the strangest thing that’s happened to you in recent history.
You’re halfway back to sleep–there’s no way you’re going to stay awake to chance a conversation about all of this when you still have a raging headache–when you feel the hand on your thigh give the slightest of squeezes. Well fuck.
“There’s Tylenol and water on the chair,” Jane says quietly. His eyes stay closed. For all anyone could tell he still looks like he’s asleep.
You make a sound between a grunt and scoff. Pull your arm and leg away and turn around in bed like it’s no big deal. There is, in fact, a metal water bottle and two Tylenol on the chair Jane had pulled up the night before. You pop the pills in your mouth, unscrew the bottle and–
“Oh my fucking god,” you say, approximately, around a mouthful of lemon water and pain killers. Swallowing is almost painful and you can’t help but gag as the pills go down entirely wrong. Immediately try to flush them down further with more water and sputter and cough once you swallow. “Lemon? God, do you hate me?”
“You mixed your drinks last night. You’re dehydrated.” Jane takes a deep breath, almost a yawn, and runs a hand through his hair. His eyes are still closed. “You’re dehydrated,” he repeats patiently. “You might hate it but it’ll help. Drink.”
Throw your legs over the side of the bed and eye the bottle in your hands with utmost contempt. There’s no sugar in there, it’s just straight lemon juice in water. Maybe some salt. You’re pretty sure you felt pulp in there too. You swallow your pride and personal preference with another gulp of citrus water.
“Good gi–”
“No, nuh uh,” you cough and turn around, point a very tired finger at the man next to you. “You don’t get to call me that. Stop that.”
Jane finally opens his eyes, one arm thrown casually over his head and the other resting across his chest. The look on his face could only be described as a shit eating grin.
“Funny, I got the impression you liked that.” You scoff and take another drag from the bottle. “Do you remember what happened last night?”
It takes a second for you to bring the bottle back down from your lips. Yes, actually, despite how apparently very drunk you were, you remember everything very clearly. A little bit too clearly.
“You’re going to have to be a lot more specific than that,” you reply slowly, bringing your legs back up to sit cross-legged on the bed. You stare at the wall in front of you; get the feeling that looking Jane in the face is going to make you lose whatever little nerve you still have left.
“The panic attack,” Jane says simply. “Can you tell me what caused it?”
“You wouldn’t believe me,” you mutter, fidgeting with the near-empty bottle before screwing the cap back on. “It’s not the kind of thing you’d take seriously.”
This is when Jane slides himself up the bed to rest against the headboard. Reaches out to brush hair behind your ear to see your face.
“You wouldn’t lie to me. And with what you’ve been seeing and doing lately...”
It’s rare that he trails off like that, but you still resist the urge to turn and look at him. Take a deep, measured breath, and lean over the side of the bed to put the water bottle down on the floor.
“When I touched your hand when I was on the couch, I... It’s like I saw what you did. Back then. When you came home to...” It’s your turn to trail off. Wring your hands in your lap and screw your eyes shut. “I remember what the note said–the one on the door. I remember the lamp, how they were–how he displayed them. I panicked cause I thought, I mean, it’s crazy, right? Like, I have to have heard about this in the news, right? Or something? I’ve never experienced that before. So I just kind of...”
“Panicked,” Jane finishes, and you don’t like his tone. You can’t pinpoint what, exactly, it carries, but none of the options available sound good. Pain? Anger? Disbelief? Offense? Christ, this is so messed up.
“Yeah. I panicked. And then I tried to see if I could, like. See more? And I saw you driving up here. Jane, I saw the fucking mail in your hands. I could tell you which bills had come in.” When your breathing starts to speed up again, you feel a warm hand at the back of your neck. Makes you flinch, at first, but you lean your head back into it.
“Okay,” Jane says after a while, digging his fingers into the muscles around your spine to try and loosen them up. “Alright. What was in the mail?”
You scoff and open your eyes to blink away tears.
“One of them was the license renewal for your car. There was a phone bill in there too, and a notice from one of the private schools you’d looked into. And something from a relative, I think,” you list, trying to remember the return addresses you saw. “And a letter from Europe. I remember there were like, twenty stamps on it.”
Jane releases a rushed exhale. Like he genuinely can’t believe what you’ve said. Neither can you, honestly; it feels like it’s all just a big, surreal joke. Like someone’s going to bust through the guest bedroom door–which was left blessedly open–and say that you were actually hypnotized and that everything you think you saw was just a production of suggestion.
No one runs into the room. Jane scoot closer to you. The hand at the back of the neck moves to your shoulder.
“Skye. Look at me, please.” You keep your head tilted towards the ceiling and refuse to look down. “I’m not mad, I promise. Please just look at me.”
Though you don’t bring your head back down, you do tilt it to the side just enough to see his face. The calm smile on Jane’s face makes you want to scream. Turn the other way and wrap your arms around yourself.
“This is so fucked, I’m so sorry. Can we forget any of this happened? God, this is so fucked, this is so fucked.” You bite your lip and rock back and forth. This is absolutely another panic attack, god dammit. Try your best to keep your breathing steady.
When Jane tries to pry the arm closest to him away from your body, you put up a very cursory fight against it. Eventually, he just firmly takes a hold of your arm, puts a hand to the back of your neck again, and pulls you into him. It takes a few laboured breaths before you completely lose it. Grossly sobbing was not how you planned on spending your morning.
None of this is, actually, how you planned on spending any morning. But here you are.
Jane pets the back of your head and whispers things in your ear; you can’t hear much beyond the sound of your own sobbing and the blood flow roaring in your head. You vaguely, distantly realize that he’s not wearing a shirt when you ball your fists against his chest.
“That’s it, just keep breathing,” he says, eventually, a little bit louder, once you’ve been able to stop crying and at least try to breathe right. Feels like there are starbursts in your eyes. “You’ve been through a lot. This doesn’t help.” Puts his hands on your shoulders to pull you away just enough to look at you. “Have you talked to anyone at all?”
Shake your head and clear your throat. “N-no I–who would I have–no one would’ve understood. Who the fuck would I have talked to about any of it?” You try your best at a derisive laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. Before you can, Jane brings his hands up to your face to swipe at your tears with his thumbs.
“I’m sorry, I should’ve asked you how you were doing,” he apologizes, frowning and pulling you back into his chest. “I should have checked in.”
Shake your head against him and sigh. “Not like anyone knew what was going to happen to me.”
“No, you’re right, which is exactly why someone should’ve stuck around to make sure you were alright.”
You don’t have anything to say to that. He’s not wrong. But, christ, how were you supposed to afford therapy in the first place? And even if you could, how were you supposed to explain to anyone what happened to you without having them wholesale minimize everything at best, and dismiss your experiences at worst? Even Jane probably only sideways believes you just because he was there for like, most of it. You honestly don’t think you could get some PhD having suit-and-tie asshole believe your wild fucking tales.
“You’re thinking too much,” Jane says, and the low tone he uses makes his chest rumble. You swallow thickly and try very desperately not to think about the states of undress you’re both in. Now is a very bad time to– “You’re still doing it.”
“Sorry.” It comes out almost as a whine. Your hands flatten against Jane’s chest. The feeling of his heart beating under his ribs is oddly... soothing.
He pets the back of your head one more time before disentangling himself and standing up. You feel too cold and a bit too untethered without someone next to you. Jane nudges his head at you and asks you to turn around. You sniffle and give your face one last pass–wipe your eyes on your forearm and your nose on your hand.
Once you’ve turned around, still cross-legged with your hands in front of you, Jane takes his place behind you. And it’s all you can do not to moan when you feel his fingers wrap around your shoulders and his thumbs gently dig into the tension in your neck.
“Holy fuck, how did you know?” You sigh, wincing as your muscles are forced to let go of each other and relax. Jane huffs in laughter and slowly moves up your neck.
“I don’t think anyone would’ve missed the way you carry everything in your shoulders,” he explains, slowing once he gets back down to the collar of your–his–shirt. “Do you mind if I...”
He pulls his hands away when you move, reaching over your head to pull at the shirt. Your heart is thrumming in your chest like a whole swarm of hummingbirds, but it’s whatever. It’s fine. This is fine. Honestly the only thing even remotely making you feel like you’re preserving your modesty is the fact that your bra is still blessedly on.
Jane whispers a quiet “thank you” before his hands return to your back. This time, his fingers maneuver around your shoulder blades and the feeling makes the breath stutter in your throat. It’s absolutely, definitely extremely nice to have someone work on your back after the weeks you’ve had.
“You’re tensing your shoulders. Relax,” Jane asks over your shoulder. The sly bastard has to know that it’s not at all funny to be speaking directly next to your ear like that. And there’s no way he can miss the gooseflesh that covers your entire torso when he does.
But, obediently, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. Your shoulders come down when you exhale, and you try to keep them as loose as possible.
It takes a second, but eventually you hear his say, “Good girl.”
You let out something akin to a frustrated growl and spin around, mouth open to say something. The words die on your tongue when you see the grin on Jane’s face, his hands still raised in front of him. Anyone else would’ve thought he was backing off.
“You kissed me last night,” is what you end up saying instead. “Wait, no, shit, that’s not what I–”
“I did.” Lowers his hands. Back to the calm and impassive face and voice again, god that’s frustrating. This time, though, you can see him clench his jaw.
Okay, that’s new.
“Why?” You can feel your ribs shaking and it’s taking everything you can muster to try and keep your voice steady.
“Because I wanted to.”
“Why?” you ask again, slowly sliding off the bed to stand next to Jane. He’s got one leg on the ground; you bump your knee into it.
For once, Jane is the one who has to look up at you, even if it’s not by much. Bite your lip nervously, and you can’t not notice the way his eyes follow the movement, just for a fraction of a second.
“Because you’re fascinating,” he replies, and the way he looks straight into your eyes makes it feel like you’re suffocating. You can see in your peripheral that he reaches a hand out. You expect to feel his hand in yours, but instead you feel the suggestion of a touch on your left thigh. Right over the graze.
“You’re at least a decade and a half older than me.”
This gives Jane pause. It’s not like it wasn’t obvious there wasn’t a sizeable age gap between you. He’d probably seen your date of birth back at the CBI when you were first there, and you’d definitely done your research on him weeks ago. The hand at your thigh retreats and Jane puts his other leg down, sits a bit straighter.
“If you feel like there’s a power imbalance and like I’m taking advantage of you, we don’t have to–”
“Ohmygod, no! No,” you rush to say, taking a step forward. “God, no, I don’t feel like that at all, Jesus. I’d be in a cab halfway home by now if I did.” Reach across yourself to grab your arm. “I just...”
Jane slowly grabs your arm and pulls it back down. You don’t miss the way his fingers stay at your wrist, over your pulse.
“Do you want me to take you home?” He’s speaking so quietly it’s he’s worried he’ll scare you if he speaks any louder.
“No.”
He waits for a second and hums.
“Tell me what you want, then.” The hand at your wrists pulls you forward. You’re standing between Jane’s legs. Can’t take another step forward.
“I–what I...”
Somewhere, a shrill ringtone goes off. Neither of you move until it rings for the third time, when it’s obvious it isn’t your phone ringing. Jane sighs and it looks almost painful. You step back to let him get up and grab his phone. It stops ringing when he flips it open, but as he’s going through his missed calls, the phone rings again.
“I’ll be right back. Sit,” he instructs, and his tone makes you sit down on the bed immediately.
You can’t hear what Jane says as he walks out of the room.
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𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽
@fucklife-or-me @newavenger @yearningforsappho @mamacakeishereforfun @nastukee
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twentydaysofdrabbles · 8 months
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The Concierge Receives An Elevator Pitch (Part 21)
Don’t say anything. Don’t say it. You manage to restrain yourself from being unpleasant by just a hair, your patience running as thin as your energy. Into the elevator, close the door, press the button. Ignore the skeleton leering at you. Or maybe at your back where you keep your gun. 
...He’s not staring at your butt, is he?
“Mister Sans, I appreciate the show of chivalry but I will be fine getting to my own room,” you say as evenly as you can manage, looking at him out of the corner of your eye.
Sans shrugs, shuffling closer to you. Close enough that when he dips his head, when he inhales, you can feel the drag of air. “nothin’ to do with chivalry, sweetheart,” he purrs, licking his teeth. “just wanna spend some time with ya. ain’t a crime.”
And there he goes with that lower case-proper case speak again. It makes you feel a certain way to know that he would only speak like that in certain company. That he had somehow included you in that short list. 
No, wait. You need to be professional. Separate. 
Sans seems to pick up on your thoughts, or perhaps the way that your expression clams up, because he leans in close with a hand on the wall behind you, murmuring in his baritone voice, “you’re off duty, sweetheart. manager said you could go rest, didn’t she?” 
She did. But Sans--
“i’m mooching off o’ Frisk tonight, so technically i haven’t got a room,” he purrs, his face coming closer still. His soft breaths feather over your face, the sliver of exposed skin on your neck. He smells like cherry smoke, ripe cherries, and just the slightest hint of mustard. You don’t want to admit that he smells good, but he smells good. “y’know what that means, sweetheart?”
You look at him in the reflective metal of the elevator door. Oh, you have the urge to say something rude. No, no, better stop yourself. But the neutral expression on your face does slip slightly.
A snigger escapes Sans. “means i ain’t a guest. and that y’ain’t gotta be nice ta me~” His voice dips. “yer a vision when yer mean, y’know that?” 
“I’m not entirely certain you want me to be mean to you.” Your reflection is tinged in gold, but you can see the blazing red pilot lights for his eyes, how they are just ever so fuzzy around the edges. His crimson red tongue slips out to lick his teeth again, but this time flicking so close that you swear you can feel its static on your skin. 
Suddenly, his words filter through the fog in your brain. 
A vision when you’re mean. 
“You saw?” At last, you turn your head to regard him, eyes to eyelights. This close, you can smell the cherry and mustard on his breath. Feel the warmth of his body. Sense the desirous intent wafting off of him. Against your will, your eyes spark with warmth.
His eternal grin widens. The scent of cherries grows thicker. “eye guess ya can say it was a sight to behold. can’t believe you’d stab a guy and blow his head off fer me.” His voice deepens even more, the sensuous purr rumbling loud enough that you can feel it rattling against the arm closest to him. “got me real hot under the collar, sweetheart~ don’t suppose you’d wanna help me with that?”
Mere centimetres separate you now, barely an inch, and you have to fight to keep still. The urge to sway into him is great. And you...
Well, you are off duty, aren’t you?
Hands fist in the lapels of an expensive, well crafted suit jacket and haul Sans up to you in a show of strength. You over-estimate the strength needed and end up yanking him to you, crashing his body into yours. The sheer momentum of it makes you stumble back, though you reflexively turn and pin him up against the wall with a thump. 
Sans gasps, his hands flying to your wrists. Though he uses some strength to hang onto you, you barely feel it through the sturdy gauntlets housing your hidden knives. “s-shit--sweetheart--” he chokes out, his eye lights blooming wide. Red magic gathers at his cheekbones in a bright blush. 
Yes, you think, staring at him with eyes that flicker with the fire licking down your spine. You like seeing him like this. Blushing, looking at you like...like...like this. For all that he’s a broad monster, bigger and wider than you, you’re the one pinning him up against the wall.
You want more of it. 
Heat grows in your belly and chases away the fatigue fogging your mind. Your eyes sharpen, darken, and you take a moment to compose yourself. But then you catch sight of the straps of suspenders, now exposed by the way that you’re pinning him by the lapels. Black stripes disappearing up towards his shoulders and under his suit. Contrasting against the crimson of his buttoned-up shirt, matching the black of his tie. 
Shit.
“It would be my pleasure to assist you with this, Mister Sans,” you say back evenly, if with a rougher voice. Leaning in, you come close enough to brush your nose against the tip of his nasal bone, close enough to feel the hot blush of magic across his face. 
“yeah?” Sans looks as if you had clubbed him over the head, his teeth parted, his tongue visible behind those pearly whites. His hands are similarly fisted in your coat at your waist. Pulling you tight. Keeping you close. As if you weren’t already pinning him against the wall. 
Your lashes flutter downwards in a slow blink, your eyes now smouldering with warmth. “Indeed...” 
The elevator dings then, thunderous and startling. 
Sans growls at the interruption, his sharp phalanges tightening against you. You, on the other hand, only press him into the wall as you push yourself away. Luckily, there is no one awaiting the elevator outside.
“I accept your elevator pitch, Mister Sans,” you say formally, a small smile twitching your lips upwards. “Perhaps we can continue this discussion in a more private setting.”
“lead the fucking way.”
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frick6101719 · 1 year
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The Last Songbird ch 4
Guaranteed to Blow Your Mind
Summary:
A few months into their secret arrangement Kaz deviates from his usual pattern. Things are changing between the two of them, Inej knows, but perhaps that's not such a bad thing?
Preview:
“What happened to you?” The second she lowered her arm, one of his wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. “You were right,” he said quietly. With a flick of his wrist a flask appeared in his free hand—pulled from where she could only guess. “Lynx, you were right —they had a second warehouse just outside the city. A secret second location.” She hummed, dropping the rag into the dirty laundry basket, allowing herself to be pulled fully into his lap as he took a swig from the flask. She didn’t need him to explain what he was talking about, and of course she was right—hers was the only explanation that made sense of the Razorgulls’ movements and the mysterious disappearance of the Dime Lions’ jurda shipments.  Kaz had agreed with her from the outset about her secret warehouse theory, but the location had remained a mystery, and every attempt to find it had been a dead end. Last she’d seen him, a week and a half ago, he’d been almost at his wit’s end about it.  She had a feeling she wasn’t going to like how all that was connected to his current, bloodied state.  She rested her hands on his shoulders. “So how did you find it?”  He smiled. His fingers drifted lazily up and down her spine, where her bare skin was exposed by the cut of her costume. “They took me right to it,” he said. “All I had to do was convince them to jump me, and they took me right there.” She stiffened. “You were jumped?”  “On purpose, don’t forget,” he said, tipping the flask to his lips again. He winced as the alcohol stung the cuts in his mouth. “It was perfect, Lynx—we baited the hook and they just couldn’t help themselves. They had to take me somewhere secret, so of course, they took me to the warehouse.”  He offered her the flask, and she took a sip. Kaelish whisky, of course. It went down like hot silk, warming her to the pit of her belly.   His fingertips brushed her throat as she swallowed, then moved to the silks draped over one of her shoulders. “May I?”
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draconic-ichor · 2 years
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Spinning Gold
Elden Ring Fic: Part 1
Morgott/unnamed female tarnished
GAME SPOILERS AHEAD
Warnings: sexual themes, mentions of violence/past trauma, body horror
Summary: After attaining Godhood the tarnished chooses a consort for the benefit of the people. After life starts to fall into place the more intimate details of their arrangement start to set in
Feedback appreciated, 18+. Very sorry if I butcher the lore or the old English speak. I want some sweetness and pining and first love for poor Morgott
Part 2
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When the tarnished restored the elden ring, taking on the mantle of godhood, stepping back into the waiting world of the Lands Between it was expected of her to choose a consort.
With no knowledge of running a kingdom, or the ways of diplomacy, she chose the one who had been running the capital long before she came to the lands.
She chose Morgott, the omen in a twist of fate's dagger not losing his title of King. It was a choice of the people’s benefit, him long accustomed to the position and all the particulars that came with it. His competition for the role had been strongly thinned as of late, as well.
The choice shocked him still. Morgott dedicated his life to the capital and its people so he accepted her choice, even if he thought himself wholly undeserving of such a status.
So they were wed, beneath the smoldering remains of the Erdtree, as God and Lord Consort.
They had left the more carnal duties of their new arrangement for a later time. In truth they were very busy rebuilding the world. The capital was in a state of ruin, the lands surrounding divided and wild in the wake of long neglect.
Not to mention the people suddenly realizing their long-standing ruler and new Lord consort was a curse born omen. It was a fact that was only marginally softened by his ruling having been just and in their best interests.
Now with new laws and the order falling back into place, the omen were low on the people's lists of worry.
As things started to settle into something akin to normalcy the more intimate details of their marriage started to set in. Morgott was whole and truly a stranger to intimacy even in its most simplest forms; and this tiny little tarnished, that would smile so sweetly up to him, would set his heart hammering around in his chest.
The mere implications that marriage set in his mind shot a bolt of apprehensiveness through him whenever they crossed his mind. Even though the union was one of duty there were still things to be expected of them.
It was at dinner that the tarnished finally voiced the silence. Even with their conflicting schedules they tried to make time to dine together.
The tarnished had questioned him about their consummation, causing Morgott to drop his utensil.
He shifted, his end of the table much bigger to accommodate his size, looking over to her. She sat quietly, waiting for his reply.
“Couldst thou repeat thyself, my Lady?” He looked down at his plate as he spoke, voice low. He heard the sound of the chair being pushed out across the polished floor, followed by her steps.
The tarnished closed the distance between them, standing by his chair. Even sitting he towered over her. Morgott turned a bit to look fully at her.
“Things are falling into place now. The Lands Between are healing under the restoration of the Golden Order.” She started, “I was just curious…when his Lordship thought to actualize his consort-ship?”
Yes, he had heard her right. Part of him thought of their business as an excuse for her not to share a bed, and he couldn’t blame her for any reservations. He was an omen, a creature tainted. Why would even a tarnished want to sully herself with one of his kind.
Especially now that his Lady was akin to a god, bright eyes and golden hair that shined like the Erdtree after his Mother Marika’s passing.
“I am…unpracticed in the ways thou speaketh.” He admitted, voice tight.
The tarnished nodded, understanding pooling in her bright eyes as they were cast downwards. “As am I.” She murmured, continuing when he gave her a look that was a mixture of surprise and doubt, “Our lives before gave little time for idle pleasures.”
Morgott gave a soft nod.
“But…” she went on, softly taking his large hand in her own. He stiffened but did not move to pull away. “Time isn’t our most abundant resource as of late, but might we share a bed at least?” Her question was asked quietly, more hidden behind the few simple words.
Morgott regarded her with a long gaze, hiding behind long trained calmness, “What wouldst thou ask of me?”
The tarnished lifted his hand, pressing her cheek softly to the back of it. She looked up at him through her lashes, flashing a sweet smile, “I’m not requesting anything particular, my Lord. Just to share a bed.” Her voice dipped as she pressed a light kiss against his gnarled skin, “And to see where nature takes us.”
Morgott took a breath to steady himself, eyes never leaving her movements as she released her hold of him. He withdrew his hand, still feeling the shadow of her lips.
“Nature harnesses the ability to perform feats of unimaginable horrors, it is not wise to toy with.” His words were guarded.
She smirked, “I've seen the horrors of the Lands Between, I do not fear any of the sorts in our bed.” Adding almost cheekily, “Though I wouldn’t shrink from a challenge.”
He huffed, turning back to his plate, seeing she wasn’t to be spurred away any longer. There was a long silence; the tarnished, ever steadfast, waited patiently for him to speak.
“If thou wisheth.” He finally conceded. The smile that graced the tarnish was not lost on him, though her unwavering infatuation was bewildering. He was an omen, a creature of defilement, but the tarnished never shrank from him. Not to mention he towered over her, the logistics of that alone giving him reservations.
They parted ways, Morgott content to lose himself in work long into darkness that fell over the capital.
Part of him expected her to not be in his chambers, to have come to her senses at some point during the day. But as he pushed the heavy oaken door open, he discovered her waiting for him.
She was almost lost in his oversized bed, a book in her lap to pass the time. The tarnished wore nothing but a thin nightdress, leaving little to imagination.
Morgott swallowed, steading himself before walking forward.
The tarnished closed her book, smiling up to him ever sweet. “Good evening my Lord.” She greeted him, golden hair shining in the amber candlelight.
“Good evening my lady tarnished.” He sat beside her, bed groaning out as he did so.
“Was your work well?” She asked, shifting to her knees to look up at him.
“Agreeable.” He nodded, shifting to lay back against the pillows. The position made him feel extremely vulnerable but brought him down to a much more palatable level to her.
There was a heavy blanket of apprehension falling over the room, a tightness that was gathering in his muscles.
“Thou hath no need to force thineself to share mine bed.” He gave her an easy escape, if she wished for it.
She shifted closer, shaking her head gently, “There is no level of force, I want to.”
But before he could question her, her attention was pulled away by his tail, curling more comfortably onto the bed. He saw her eyes light up at its discovery.
“Can I touch it?” She asked, gesturing to his tail. There was such a level of innocent curiosity to her question that made a chuckle bubble up his throat. Of all the things that lay out before them on the night, his tail was the least of his concerns.
“If it would please ye.” He rumbled, laying back to watch as the tarnished excitedly shuffled closer, eager to fulfill a longstanding desire.
Her fingers brushed over the thick fur, it was surprisingly soft. As her courage grew she dug her fingers gently in, feeling over the horns that grew from it and softly scratching the skin beneath.
Her antics caused the corners of Morgott’s lips to twitch into a smile, the act shedding away some of the building anxieties between them. And it felt good, simply being touched.
“Come here, Lady mine.” Morgott beckoned with a clawed hand.
The tarnished left his tail, the sudden admission of his claim of her causing heat to pool in her core. She crawled closer, leaving him room enough for her next request, “Can his Lordship get more comfortable?”
He paused, processing the question before sitting up. He reached up, pulling the heavy cloak over his horned head, shrugging it off fully to drop over the bedside.
He turned back towards her, laid bare. Her face flushed, not expecting him to wordlessly comply. His body was large, expected of a demigod, lithe muscle and silvery grey fur covering him. The telltale mark of his curse manifested most strongly in the horns that grew haphazardly around his body. It seemed the most problematic ones he had filed down or simply cut off sometime in the past however.
The curse gave him many beastial traits, the fangs, claws and tail easy to spot in passing. But he also sported a furred sheath akin to a wolves, pointed cockhead already peeking out.
The tarnished realized she’d been staring unabashed when Morgott shifted uncomfortably beneath her gaze.
“I don’t want to force his Lordship anymore than you wish to force me.” She looked down, speaking softly. She was unsure if his reservations were born from simple shyness or more serious unwant.
“Thou Lady’s wishes are most surprising, but not wholly unwanted.” He confessed, “Do not misconstrued my apprehension for a lack of want.”
She nodded, his answer quelling doubts from her mind. She moved towards him now, hands finding his skin and making his heartbeat quicken. His heart damn near stopped when she swung her leg over him, sitting down gently in his lap. Her dress pooled around her thighs, gathering on his lower stomach and concealing her entrance from his sight.
He could feel her heat however, just above where it truly wanted to find purchase, his cock sliding to full freedom at the revelation.
“My Lady knew precisely what thy wished when thy behested me so sweetly at thine table.” His voice was almost chiding, large hands finding her thighs as they spread around his hips.
“Perhaps I did.” She teased, teeth flashing.
Amusement shadowed the huskiness of Morgott’s voice, “Then pray tell why thou so coy?”
“His Lordship is a shy short.” She rolled her hips causing a soft moan to slip from his lips. His grip tightened around her, claws threatening to prick skin until he found his restraint. She fell forward slightly, hands bracing over his chest for support.
“Thou,” Morgott swallowed thickly, words becoming hard to formulate, “too adamant for my affections.”
The tarnished raised a hand, cupping his face, “Is it wrong to lust after one’s consort?”
One of his hands slid up from her thigh to her waist, thin material of her night dress bunching up under his claws. He looked at her, eyes searching. His hand traveled ever higher, pulling back to catch her golden hair. His clawed fingers knotted into it, watching as it softly ran through them like starlight.
“If her consort is a wretched creature such as lies beneath thy now…perhaps?” There was an honest sadness tinging his voice, a self loathing oozing from the words.
“I chose you as my consort.” The tarnished pressed, “As my Lord and husband, for as much the people as myself.”
“I've called thee a fool before.” He gave a weak smile.
“An honest fool.”
“A fool all the same.” His voice a whisper as he pulled her down closer. Her lips met his own in a hungry kiss.
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writerlyhabits · 1 year
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Yes. I’d love to see Bucky on the bike. But there are OTHER things that need to be ridden FIRST
ANON
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Bucky ✍️ on ✍️ motorcycle ✍️ … riding ✍️ Bucky’s ✍️ di-
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tododeku-or-bust · 5 months
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Wondering if I want to use tomorrow to write or draw. I drew all day today, so I'm a little worn out of it and don't want to burn out. But I've also been demotivated to write in general, and so I'm in no rush.
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forged-by-truth · 1 year
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Could I get like, a description of how Tommy looks in your fic? Like things that are different from canon?
Of course! Let's see how well even I remember it all lol
Like halfway through, I had him start wearing a black shirt because it stains less than white. During a recent trip to Snowchester, I believe he wore a long sleeve black shirt, but I like to think he switches it up depending on what he's doing. Pants? idk; dark.
There's ofc the infamous red hoodie that has been around for most of the story.
Then the black boots with red laces. I see them as combat boots that go up a bit past the ankle.
At current, he's been carrying around a black cloak. Long, with a hood- not much to it.
The mask that has the crack running through one of the eyes. (I imagine it goes through the left eye, clipping a bit into the edge of the smile as well) Though it's usually kept in his inventory these days.
While I haven't addressed it much, I like his hair being long enough to tie back a bit, and have described it as 'sun bleached', due to the extended exile. Take that however you will.
There's also a scar on the side of his neck from a spar gone wrong.
Grey eyes.
Annnd I think that's it. Though if I were to remove common headcanons as well, he doesn't have the green bandana or the white hair streaks, for he has not died/revived. Love that for him ;D
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nightofnyx8 · 2 years
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Chapter 2: Rose
“Do you know how to start a war, Agent Twilight?” Sylvia had asked him on his very first day of training. He had refused to meet her gaze then, still trying to figure out why the hell she was instituting philosophy in him when all he wanted to do was tear apart every last Ostanian solider he laid eyes on.
Maybe she had already known that from the beginning, as she grabbed the collar of his shirt and forced him to look at her straight in the eyes.
“You find someone to blame.”
-
Pairing: Twilight/Yor Forger
Rating: T
Tags: Undercover Missions, Mutual Pining, First Kiss
read on ao3
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capriciouswriter207 · 11 months
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Chapter 6: Spark to flame
Martyn has a conversation with Ren. The next morning, the forest burns. 
The story summary
They say the land was cursed.
Maybe it was true. Maybe it was just a story some bard made up that some people believed and started to spread. Be careful where you tread, or who you trust, for the curse could manifest at any time.
Only few remained of those who had stayed behind - those with truly nothing left to lose, or anything to gain. They were too intrinsically tied to the lands to leave, or too stubborn to accept defeat or to believe it could affect them. These people thus lived under the ever-looming threat of the curse, never knowing when it would strike, cultivating a culture of dread and distrust.
And the curse chooses its next victim without discrimination.
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sukidude · 2 years
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Zukka Week Day 5: Soulmates @zukkaweek
Here is the latest installment of my zukka soulmate AU! I decided to post this chapter for zukka week since it fit the theme! Hope you guys enjoy <3
Zuko sighs, turning his gaze downward once more in utter disappointment.
Sokka was the waves, the sea, and the entire sky to these people. Zuko was just a misplaced match away from setting the world on fire.
“Isn’t it messed up how I’m just dying to be him?” he thinks.
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Text
Trying to decide if I reveal something next chapter or if I keep it on the DL
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shujistars · 8 months
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when people leave detailed, long comments on your fic chapters especially the ones you think were Very Bad and it turns out they actually loved it...that's the shit that keeps me going
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seth-shitposts · 8 months
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us, switching between 6 different WIPs to keep the writing flowing
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archiverstappen · 5 months
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Hi I hope you’re well!! I just read the new chapter of the cat sitter and ugh I love that series so fucking much!! I was listening to a song and just knew you could create this.
So it a Max x reader smau where the reader is a mega pop star. Like Taylor Swift big and all eyes are on her. She gets invited to an F1 race by Redbull and joins their after party and gets to meet Max. Unfortunately Max is still dating K*lly. Reader is completely enamored by Max and writes break up with your girlfriend, I’m bored literally released it the next week. Everyone is losing their fucking mind trying to figure out who it is. Max knows it’s about him and he’s playing it cool and breaks it off with K*lly and starts secretly dating reader. Reader drops an album full of love/spicy songs like Gorgeous, Lover, Dress, 34+35, Positions etc etc and fucking hard launches them. Thanks!! If this is way too long and convoluted feel free to ignore.
Can’t wait to read more of your work because you absolutely body smau, it’s so good and the meme reaction pictures you use *chefs kiss*
break up with your girlfriend, i’m bored ✧ max verstappen
max verstappen x fem! singer! reader
masterlist
I LOVE THIS IDEA!! thank you @todaynotseen for your request🤍
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ynupdates guess who is spotted at the paddock! y/n is at the austin gp as red bull’s special guest 🥰
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username SLAY 🧎‍♀️
username can’t wait to see her interactions with the drivers!
username i’m surprised that she even had the time to go to a race? i thought she was super busy with the tour😭
↳ username i hope she’s taking care of herself🥲
username THAT OUTFIT?!??! 😍😍
username im not saying that y/n is the most beautiful girl that has ever walked the earth but that is exactly what im saying 🤷🏻‍♂️
username Hey @/redbullracing, how about inviting someone who actually gets F1 for a change? I’m so sick of seeing a random celebrity who probably don’t know a thing about racing
↳ username uHM excuse me?!?? y/n’s brother has always been a big fan of f1 and she often goes with him to watch the races😭
username ma’am please get back to the studio, i need more music😩
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yourusername my muse <3
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maxverstappen1 Lover💙
taylorswift 😍
landonorris Max can’t stop singing your songs 😒
↳ danielricciardo Yeah, it’s getting annoying
↳ maxverstappen1 Ok, no signed CD for you guys
↳ landonorris WHAT NO IM SORRY PLEASE DONT MY SISTER WILL KILL ME 😭
brotherusername 😩😩😩
↳ yourusername couldn’t do this without you big bro😘
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pictures (c) to pinterest and instagram
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fuckyeahdindjarin · 1 year
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II ║ Threads
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Joel Miller x F!Reader
{ Part I: Seams | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }
Rating: M
Summary: When Joel revisits Main Street Outfitters two weeks later, he finds you on your knees. Again.
Warnings: Very spicy thoughts but not explicit, sexual tension, sexual innuendos, some language, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!Joel, no use of Y/N
Word count: 4.3k
Notes: This crept up on me and happened just as I was finishing up edits. I am so grateful, and I hope Threads is a fitting thank you gift to you all 😘 I’m thinking about doing a sleepover celebration, we shall see!
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Joel and Pin are back ❤️ They're back because you guys have been so generous with your love, sending me so many ideas and hyping me up - I can't thank you all enough! This chapter is all thanks to Singer machine anon who bravely (affectionate 😉) shared their story of getting stuck under a sewing machine table. I hope you enjoy this one!
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A treadle sewing machine is powered mechanically by a foot pedal that is pushed back and forth by the operator's foot. 
If you're not familiar, here is a classic Singer treadle cabinet, which is no way big enough for the purposes of this story, so please exercise your imagination 😉
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Joel hovers outside the Jackson Grocer’s, arms crossed, trying to make himself look as inconspicuous as possible in front of the leafy display of butter lettuce heads.
It’s been a few months since he’s settled in, but sometimes he can’t get over how fucking nuts this place is. Looking at the shelves brimming with fresh fruits and vegetables outside, canned food and home goods inside, he could easily be standing outside the 24/7 mart in his old neighbourhood. There are even shopping baskets, for crying out loud - stacked neatly one on top of the other by the door.
A voice pipes up from his left. ‘Didn’t know you ate greens.’
Joel scowls. ‘I don’t.’
‘Why are you loiterin’, then?’ asks Tommy, picking up a couple of apples and examining them with exaggerated care.
‘I’m not loiterin’,’ he spits out the last word as if he’s above it, turning his gaze to the high street. 
Tommy tosses him a cocky grin, head tilted at a knowing angle. ‘Yeah, you are. And now you’re makin’ eyes at Bob. It’s disturbin’.’
Glancing across the main thoroughfare at the welder’s shop, where the said proprietor is cutting up wooden planks on the porch, Joel grumbles sarcastically, ‘That’s right. Bob is just my type.’
At that very moment, right next to Bob's, the door of Main Street Outfitters creaks open, and Joel recognises Lucy instantly as she sneaks out on tiptoes. She skips down the stairs and wanders up the street in what appears to be another impromptu work break.
Joel’s already taken two steps towards the shop before he remembers that he’s not alone. Braking abruptly and bringing up one hand to scratch the back of his neck, he feels Tommy’s eyes on him.
He half-turns, and snaps, ‘What?’
The younger Miller brother shrugs, pursing his lips thoughtfully. ‘Why are you going to the Outfitters again? Didn’t you just get those new jeans a couple of weeks ago?’
‘Thought I’d get a new shirt for your stupid baby shower.’
‘Joel -’
‘Sorry, sorry.’ He throws his hands up in capitulation. ‘Baby showers are not stupid. Especially in the middle of an apocalypse.’
Taking another two steps forward, a thought stops him dead in his tracks again. He can practically feel Tommy smiling smugly at his back.
For fuck’s sake.
He doesn’t turn around this time, jamming his hands into his pockets and asks, ‘Can I bring someone? To the party?’
‘We know Ellie’s comin’.’
Whipping around, he growls, ‘Tommy -’
He laughs. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Joel Miller makin’ friends in town? Maria’s right - you’re fittin’ right in, big brother.’
Rolling his eyes, Joel flips him off and stomps his way across the street.
Tommy calls out at his retreating back. ‘Say hello to Pin and tell her we’d love to have her come over on Sunday!’
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When he steps inside, the shop is as empty as it was a fortnight ago. Joel shuts the door firmly, making sure the bell jingles, so his entry doesn’t go unnoticed.
Your voice, though muffled, comes promptly. ‘Lucy! Is that you?’
He heads towards the doorway that leads to the workshop. ‘It’s Joel, actually.’
‘Oh, shit!’
His eyebrows reach for his hairline - you don’t seem to be the type to curse. Concerned, he asks, ‘You alright back there?’
There’s a touch of panic in your reply, ‘Don’t come back here. Did Lucy sneak out again?’
On your instruction, Joel hesitates in the middle of the room, talking to air. ‘Yeah, saw her leave a couple of minutes ago.’
‘Goddamnit, Lucy!’
He shuffles his feet awkwardly. ‘Uh, you sure you’re ok? Should I come back later?’
There’s a resigned sigh, then a pause. ‘Promise you won’t laugh.’
One end of his lips tugs upwards in a smile. ‘Why would I?’
‘Promise.’
At your insistence, he humours you, ‘Alright, I promise, sweetheart.’
‘Come on back.’
When he steps into the workshop, he doesn’t spot you immediately. The space is seemingly empty, everything standing still and in order. He sweeps his eyes across the room, starting with the shelving unit and the desk along the near wall, then trailing over the large timber work table in the middle, where a stack of folded shirts stands neatly.
His throat isn’t the only thing that tightens when he glances at the rug under the skylight -
‘Joel?’
Your voice draws his attention to the far corner of the room, where a sewing station is tucked into a little alcove.
Joel doesn’t know much about sewing machines, but he can recognise a vintage Singer anywhere even without the name blazoned across its elegant body. His grandmother had one in her drawing room by a sunny bay window, and he used to watch her work on it when he visited every other weekend. For a disorienting second, he can almost smell homemade cinnamon rolls and black tea.
Little did he know that things were about to get a lot more disorienting than a pleasant childhood memory.
As he steps around the work table, the rest of the sewing station comes into view, fronted by a big window, the light streaming through the glass glancing off the black sewing machine on top of a classic treadle cabinet. What looks like a half-finished dress lies on the wooden work surface, which stands on quintessential wrought metal legs, and between them - his throat constricts with a slow swallow when he realises what - or rather, who - he’s looking at.
The words barely come out, as if his tongue is suddenly too big for his mouth, as he makes his presence known. ‘I’m here, sweetheart.’
To be fair, you’re not making things easy by any means. All he can see is your backside hovering in mid-air, the rest of you out of sight under the desk. It has built-in cabinets on each end, the right side of it backed up against the far wall, and a chair is pushed to the side.
Joel stops two measured paces away, staring down at the curve of your ass and the way your top rides up, baring the small of your back. His eyes linger on the soft skin between the shirt’s hem and the waistband of your very tight jeans.
Jesus Christ. Do you always have to be on your fucking knees in this workshop?
Your small voice jolts him from his daze. ‘Well, at least you’re not laughing.’
He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from scoffing. If only you knew how laughing is the furthest thing on his mind right now. ‘What happened?’
‘A spool rolled off and I went down to get it, but I fell on the treadle accidentally - I think my shirt is snagged in the band wheel. I can’t move at all, and this Singer is an antique - I can't risk breaking it.’
Unfamiliar with what you’re talking about, he probes, ‘And where’s the band wheel?’
‘Under the table, on my right.’
You wriggle your hips, perhaps to help him locate where you’re stuck, unaware that you’re not helping. At all. 
He swallows thickly and implores you, ‘Stay still, sweetheart. I’ll take a look.’
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It’s been two whole weeks since Joel Miller came into the shop. You’ve caught glimpses of him in between - Jackson is tiny, after all. He catches your eye as he ambles down the high street with Ellie, his gruff Southern accent carrying even in the mid-afternoon bustle, too preoccupied arguing with the teenager to notice you on the other side of the road. He’s in the cafeteria a couple of times when you arrive for a late dinner, nodding at you from a few tables over, while you work up the nerve to smile back.
Every time, he’s wearing the jeans you handpicked for him, which makes your chest swell and constrict at the same time with something like - pride.
You picked out the pair for him. You assured him that he looks good. And by the way he’s wearing his confidence on his sleeve, he’s certainly taken your words to heart. 
Whenever you see other women eyeing him as he struts about town - which is entirely too often - it awakens an ugly possessiveness in you, one that twists your insides into grotesque balloon animals.
Fourteen damn days. Even in the privacy of your workshop, you can’t escape that man. The simple touch of denim provokes a visceral reaction from you, heat chases beneath your skin every time you pick up the tailor’s scissors. It doesn’t help that most of your daily tasks are not exactly cerebral, which gives this man all the more leeway to lay claim to your subconscious.
If you believed in magic, you would've thought you summoned him with the sheer energy you’ve spent thinking about him. But what kind of witchcraft conjured him up at the precise moment you get trapped like the bumbling idiot that you are?
One minute you’re reaching for the stupid thread, the next thing you know, you’re stuck, unable to move without the mechanisms of the antique Singer groaning ominously at your attempts to free yourself.
But maybe, it’s still better than Lucy finding you. She’d take a hammer to the sewing machine to get you out, no question - patience is not her strong suit - and she’d be laughing at you for days.
You hear the floorboards give behind you as Joel moves into the space, which isn’t much - when you’re sat down at the treadle cabinet, the wall is barely two steps behind.
The wooden table creaks above you as he braces one hand on the surface, and you startle at what sounds like the vicious crack of a vertebra.
‘Um - you okay?’
Joel grunts. ‘I’ll live.’
So you wait, thinking absent-mindedly how your elbows are starting to get numb. There’s a scruff of boots and what sounds like a brief struggle, before Joel sighs. ‘Back’s too stiff ‘mfraid. Gotta get on the floor to see underneath.’
Before you can squeak out a reply, there’s a boney click of what you presume is his knees as he crouches down, and an unexpected brush of denim on your left ankle surprises you. Forgetting where you are, you jump in reflex, hitting the underside of the table so hard that you screech in pain.
‘Shit!’ Joel cusses behind you, one warm hand landing on the side of your hip to steady you. ‘You ok?’
Up until this point, you’ve been too consumed with embarrassment by your predicament to even think about the position Joel found you in. But once the warm imprint of his palm registers through the denim, it hits you like one of those interstate trucks that you used to see out of your window.
You’re leaning on your forearms, ass in the air, and now - he’s behind you, getting onto his knees. You can’t decide if the back of your head or your pussy is throbbing harder as you stutter, ‘I’m fine, just - get me out, please.’
‘Alright, hang on, sweetheart.’
You swallow the childish urge to stamp your foot. He has no right going around dropping sweethearts all over the place.
There’s a throaty exhale as Joel lowers himself onto the floor, his knees bracketing yours to shift closer to you. You know he feels the shudder that chases down your spine when soft flannel grazes your bare back, heat spilling from his solid frame as he looms over you.
‘You say you’re stuck in the band wheel?’
Somehow, you manage to answer, ‘Yeah, to my right.’
He clears his throat. ‘I - uh - I’ll have to lean down pretty close to you to take a look, is that ok?’
You feel all the air leave your body, which is probably why your reply comes out far breathier than you intend it to. ‘Yes, Joel.’
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And with those two words, Joel has a problem with his jeans. Again.
They’re too tight. Again.
There’s nothing he can do as his mouth goes dry and his cock hardens with a vengeance, his self-control slipping like sand between his fingers.
He was doing so good - well, he was more or less holding it together, as much as he could be expected to while kneeling behind you. And of course, his damn knees hurt, but so does his bottom lip which is caught in his teeth, trying to regulate his breathing when his heart threatens to beat right out of his chest. 
He already has one hand on you, and goddamnit, it’s taking him all he’s got to hold back from gripping you with his other, to grasp the swell of your ass between his palms, to trace your curves up to the dip of your exposed waist, to bow his head and run his tongue along the arc of your spine -
And the jeans you’re wearing - fuck, they’re tight. He wonders idly if you wore them for him. His eyes follow the seam that runs down the cleft of your ass, the way the pockets stretch over your backside has his fingers twitching, thinking about how well you will fill his hands, and how the slow rub of denim will burn his skin.
He wants to hook his thumbs into the belt loops and pull you flush against the zipper of his jeans, where his cock is straining against - rub himself on you, grind on you, his thighs plastered to the back of yours -
‘Joel?’
Fuck.
He sways as he snaps out of his stupor, dangerously close to knocking into you, light-headed from the lack of blood to his brain. He chokes out, ‘Yeah, I got you, sweetheart.’
Get it together, you dirty bastard.
He’s careful to leave a couple of inches between his front and your ass when he bends his elbows and ducks so he can peer beneath the desk. His chest pressed flat against your lower back, he can see the bunched fabric of your shirt where it’s caught.
‘Yup, you’re right, your shirt is snagged tight in there.’
‘Can you untangle it?’
‘Think so, but I’ll need both hands.’ He pauses. ‘I’d better get on my back under you.’
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You swear you’re going to black out.
‘Pin?’ he prompts when you’ve been quiet a beat too long.
‘I - um, what do you mean by going under me?’
‘If I’m on my back, I can use both my hands, like a mechanic under a car,’ he explains. ‘If you’re uncomfortable, I can find another way -’
‘No!’ you blurt out, wincing at the desperation in your tone. ‘I mean - whatever is easiest for you. You’re the one doing me a favour here.’
‘Alright,’ he says, placated by your reassurance. ‘On your hands and knees then, sweetheart.’
Your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head. Oh, come on. Can he hear himself?
Scraping together your last vestiges of control, you push up on your palms to make space underneath you. You have to consciously lock your elbows - your joints suddenly feel like barely set pudding. 
‘Move as far to your right as possible so I can slide in.’
Shuffling on your hands and knees until you’re pressed up against the band wheel, you hear the brush of fabric on wood - must be his back against the floorboards as he slides in. To say it’s a squeeze is an understatement. His broad shoulders brush the front of your thighs as he inches in, and then, his face appears under yours, head between your hands.
His lips quirk. ‘Hi, sweetheart.’
Your breath hitches at his proximity, your wrists brushing the soft red flannel he’s wearing today. ‘Hi.’
‘You ok?’ he asks.
You’re this close to pouting. What does he think? There’s a telltale stickiness between your legs that you’re frantically trying to push to the back of your mind while you mmhmm noncommittally, hoping that he doesn’t smell your want in the tiny, claustrophobic space you’re now both caught in.
You can only assume that he’s none the wiser, since the next thing that comes of his mouth is - 
‘Climb on top of me so I can slide in closer to the band wheel.’
Someone might as well say your last rites. This is the end.
You’re taken aback when your limbs start to move on autopilot, because your faculties have well and truly abandoned ship. One trembling leg attempts to swing itself over the solid breadth of his body, but it wobbles like jelly, and your knee ends up connecting firmly with his stomach instead of landing clear on his other side.
At his grunted oomph, you panic and bang your head on the underside of the table again, which sends your whole weight sprawling onto his front with a yelp.
Joel cradles the back of your scalp with one hand. ‘Shit, you ok, sweetheart?’
The seams of your lashes sting, your head smarting with the impact, and you blink drily as your gaze focuses on Joel under you. He’s so close that you can see flecks of gold in his brown eyes, his breath hitting your face in warm puffs. Your glance at his lips, and with that one little motion, all goes quiet.
He watches you back, neither of you breathing, and in the stillness you realise that you’re fully straddling him, your palms pressing into the hard floor on either side of his ears. Your tits are crushed up against his ribs, his soft tummy warmly cushioned under you. Lower still, where your hips are nestled into the spread of his thick thighs, something stiff and long and insistent presses into you -
Your jaw goes slack when it dawns on you. 
Oh god.
He’s hard.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Joel breaks the silence, a pained frown on his brow as he shakes his head. ‘This is embarrassin’. Couldn’t fuckin’ help it, seein’ you in those jeans -’
Tongue-tied, you can only stare at him, wishing you were brave enough to say something. Tell him that you pulled extra shifts to buy this particular pair of jeans, knowing that they flatter your figure. That you’ve worn them almost every day these two weeks, hoping that he’d swing by again. 
But you can’t. 
So you pray that he can see what you can’t say by the way you’re looking at him, by the way your heart races wildly in your ribcage against his chest.
His voice cracks. ‘I understand if you want me to go -’
You unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth and cut in, ‘Don’t.’
His warm eyes widen, something like hopefulness in the way he looks up at you. ‘You don’t want me to go?’
You press your body closer into his, filling in the gaps. ‘No. Please don’t, Joel.’
He leans forward, so close that you can feel the phantom burn of his silvered beard, his palms finding the meat of your legs, blunt nails biting into the denim.
He really should be ashamed of himself, at the way his cock pulses unabashedly, nudged right between your thighs as you stare down at him, lips parted. He’s hard enough that he worries if there’s a wet spot of precum on the front of his jeans - he can feel himself leaking through his boxers. 
The wicked tip of your tongue traces a wet trail on your bottom lip, and he almost chokes on a half-buried groan deep in his chest. He knows that you don’t even know you’re doing it - and in turn, what that does to him.
It would be easy to close the two-inch gap between you. To kiss you, taste you, lick into your sweet mouth. All he needs to do is to cup the back of your head and pull you down, or crane his neck and press his lips to yours -
And Joel is someone who always follows the path of least resistance. 
But - he wants to do right by you. He knows you deserve more than a quick fumble under a table.
Sucking in a shaky breath, Joel steels himself and brushes a chaste thumb over your cheekbone. ‘Let’s get you out of here, and then we can talk, ok?’
It’s almost perverse the way his chest warms at the flicker of disappointment in your eyes as you give a reluctant nod, ‘Ok. Please be careful, the Singer’s really delicate.’
It’s hard to focus - his attention keeps drifting to how snugly you fit into his chest, between his arms, and it’s not a stretch to imagine a soft mattress underneath his back. It's funny how quickly his body has adjusted to creature comforts after months of sleeping on the cold winter ground.
Joel’s mindful that an antique sewing machine will be a pain in the ass to repair without the requisite parts, so he moves carefully, gently coaxing the band wheel back and forth to see how he can extract you. It doesn’t take long to loosen the grip of the metal teeth on your shirt, but he has to reach up and untangle the threads snagged into the mechanisms one by one.
He muses idly that this is not his method. These hands of his, with crooked knuckles that never healed right, where many a dagger, knife, gun, rifle have found a home - they break things, people.
When was the last time someone asked gentleness of him? 
He wants to scoff. That’s not what he’s good for.
Despite himself, his throat rumbles with a hum of satisfaction when the band wheel finally lets go of your shirt, the Singer whirring to life as it spins freely. He gives you a lopsided smile. ‘There you go, sweetheart.’
You smile, but don’t seem to be in a hurry to move, which pleases him. He likes looking at you from this angle, relishing in your weight on him. He takes his time running his eyes over your face, his palms coming to rest on your knees.
You duck your head prettily. ‘Thank you, Joel.'
He gives you a playful shrug. ‘Well, I owed you one for these jeans.’
You roll your eyes in good humour. ‘Actually, I told you specifically that you didn’t.’
Joel basks in the lighthearted turn in the conversation, egging you on, ‘Well, in that case, you owe me one for this instead.’
‘That’s hardly fair -’ you chide him, punching him in the shoulder in a half-hearted rebuke.
Taking the opportunity, he grabs you by the wrist, the contact prompting a bodily shudder from you that he doesn’t miss. He smirks, ‘M’fraid I don’t play fair, sweetheart.’
You glare at him in mock sternness, bold enough to demand, ‘Fine - what do you want then, Joel Miller?’
For a split second, he hesitates, woefully out of practice at whatever it is that he’s about to do. Swallowing his self-doubt, he asks, ‘Tommy and Maria are throwing a baby shower on Sunday at their house - do you want to come?’
Your shoulders stiffen. Now, that you were not expecting. Your social anxiety bubbles between your ribs and looms over you like a spector. You sputter, ‘Um, I -’
You start when his fingers draw soothing circles on the top of your knees, as if seeing straight through the source of your apprehension. He reassures you, ‘Lucy is welcome to join too. The more the merrier.’
Your eyes soften. ‘Ok. I’d love to.’
The endearing way the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles has you swaying towards him, his nose just brushing the side of yours - when the doorbell rings, cutting through the loaded silence. 
In your haste to sit up, you knock your head against the table for a third time. 
‘Ow!’ you cry. Even Joel flinches at the hard hit.
Lucy calls out, sounding dangerously close. ‘Pin? You ok, hon?’
‘Shit!’ You start scrambling backwards, bent over awkwardly, convinced that you’re one more blow away from a concussion. You’ve barely scrambled onto your feet when Lucy steps into the workshop, the world tilting on its axis for a moment as blood rushes to your brain. 
She watches in amusement as Joel drags himself from under the sewing station, head cocked to one side. ‘Hi again, stranger. You really like our shop, don’t you?’
His shirt is rumpled from where you sat on him, bits of his curls sticking up. He rubs the back of his neck, as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar. ‘I just swung by to, uh, invite you and Pin to the baby shower. Tommy and Maria’s. This Sunday.’
Lucy crosses her arms, arching an eyebrow. ‘And it’s a tradition where you’re from to talk about weekend plans under a table?’
You narrow your eyes at her. ‘Luce -’
She winks. ‘You know what? I don’t need to know the gory details - but I’m in. See you Sunday, Miller!’
Joel huffs a chuckle as Lucy disappears into the front of the shop, leaving you two alone. You smile, suddenly shy for no reason, twining your fingers to stop from fidgeting. ‘Thanks again, Joel.’
He shrugs it off, a touch of boldness in the way he stands, hands in pockets, hips cocked. ‘Pleasure was all mine, sweetheart.’
Instead of heading in the direction of the door, he takes two long strides towards you, leaning down to murmur in your ear, ‘Wear those jeans for me again on Sunday?’
Stunned, you gape at him as he turns with a crooked grin and walks off, dispatching a two-fingered salute at Lucy as he goes. Pausing by the threshold, Joel gives you one last wink that has your breath stuttering - but you only allow yourself to sag against the wall when the door closes behind him, your knees giving.
Lucy wastes no time skipping back into the workshop, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. ‘Alright, time to raid the party clothes rack, girl!’
You laugh - Sunday can’t come fast enough.
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Notes: I had the best time writing this chapter - it was fun to flip the tables on Pin, not that Joel comes out completely unscathed!
I definitely have ✨ideas✨ for these two, but I'm enjoying keeping things loose, so I have no plans to turn this into a full-blown series just yet. I hope you enjoyed this instalment, comments/reblogs/asks are so so appreciated as always ❤️
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