#bone apple teeth everyone

[black-and-yellow]

Oops! All Micnight

#this one goes out to the person on PT who walked down from offscreen #to say 'ewww' to my face when I mentioned micnight #you think you can stop me? every 'eww' just makes me more powerful #bnha #nemuri kayama #mha #hizashi yamada #present mic #midnight bnha #midmic #some people hav never read the light novels and it shows #Mic is a Kayama simp I just know it #i feel it in the way he says 'the fujiko to my lupin' #also her One's Justice 2 outfit is better than her canonical outfit and i will die on that hill #user ifyougoillfollow i am serving this post to you under a cloche #bone apple teeth everyone

[apophisistired]

I finally caved into the hyperfixation and made my trollsona. She's so cute I had to share

#trolls #trollsona #its 3D printed then painted #college #I got tired of doing self portraits #but like #its still a self portrait...kinda #just not like how everyone else did one #they scanned themselves and i just didn't want to start hating my face while editing #bone apple teeth i guess #troll oc #dreamworks trolls #self insert #trolls band together #trolls 3 #fanart #my art

[erisenyo]

"why does it feel like this is goodbye?" prompt- characters or ships are writer's choice. make me sad?🥺

For this prompt game! (And also this one!)

(Can be read as a follow up to this bakery first date one)

“—and I know you had certain plains and expectations,” Zuko continues carefully, feeling his fingers tangling more and more along with Sokka’s growing frown, “And I respect that you communicated those, this isn’t about your communication,” Zuko assures him, forcing his fingers flat against the bench and trying to breathe through the anxious tightness in his chest, “It’s me, not—”

“Zuko,” Sokka interrupts, sounding something between confused and upset, which does not help that anxious tightness thing, “Why does it feel like this is goodbye? Are you—” A flash of something small and worried over Sokka’s face. “—are you working up the nerve to break up with me?”

“What?” Zuko startles upright. “No, no. Why would…” he trails off, playing his carefully rehearsed speech back to himself, and…

 “Oh,” Zuko realizes, blinking. “Fuck.”

Sokka hums, nodding. “The whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ thing.” Zuko winces. “And that we ‘needed to talk.’” Zuko winces again. “Asking to meet in a neutral location.”

“I like the park!” Zuko protests. “There’s turtles! And ducks!”  

“Saying you wanted me to listen before responding.”

Okay, sure, Zuko can give him that one too.

“That you’d decided there was something you needed to tell me.”

Alright, well that one is a bit less—

“The fact that you didn’t greet me with any tongue in that ki—"

“Okay, okay, yes, alright,” Zuko breaks in, glowering when Sokka just smirks and not giving him that one. “We all get it, I wasn’t very clear, thank you for enumerating every example.”

“You’re welcome,” Sokka grins, hesitating a moment before adding, almost diffident, “And just to clarify. You’re not breaking up with me?”

“No,” Zuko huffs, exasperated. “I’m not.”

Sokka blinks. “…Why did you just say it like that.”

“Um.” Maybe he can play it off. “Like what?”

“Like you think I’m about to break up with you.”

Maybe not. “Did I say it like that?” Zuko asks, gripping nervously onto the edge of the bench. There was a reason he practiced so much what he was going to say…

“Yeah,” Sokka says slowly, staring at him. “You did.”

Zuko purses his lips. He…can’t really deny that.

“Zuko,” Sokka presses again, “Why’d you say it like that?”

And it’s not that Zuko thinks Sokka would break up with him over it, not really. He knows all the jokes about Sokka’s favorite thing about him being that he can keep Sokka supplied in fresh-baked free pastries for the rest of his life are just that, jokes. Kind of. Mostly. But Zuko still doesn’t know the right way to break the news that, “There are no pastries tonight,” he finally blurts out, wincing. That…was not how he practiced.

And Sokka just staring at him blankly and going “Huh?” was also not what he planned for.

“The Jasmine Dragon is closed for two weeks so everyone can take vacation,” Zuko explains. As mandated by Ty Lee, their on-the-spot-designated HR person. “So there’s nothing in the kitchens.”

Sokka blinks, scratching at his undercut and once again deviating from Zuko’s carefully game planned script. “You’re going on vacation?”

“Not really?” Zuko says, confusion twisting in alongside the nerves in his chest. “I have some stuff to do.”

“Staycation?”

That sounds better than watching all of Ty Lee’s plants, so, “Sure. Why not.”

“Cool,” Sokka nods, “Maybe we can—wait,” he suddenly cuts off, staring. “Wait, were you—were you nervous to tell me this?”

“…Uh.” Kind of?

“Zuko,” Sokka says, mystified, “What.”

Zuko can feel himself flushing, embarrassment squirming through him. “I mean.”

“I just.” Sokka shifts, looking like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or get upset. “Zu, if it’s that important to you I can bake you box brownies naked or something, like really, there are options beyond the Jasmine Dragon.”

…Now it’s Zuko’s turn to stare. “…What?” he finally manages, feeling like Sokka just made about twelve leaps across the conversation that Zuko didn’t even know were happening, let alone managed to keep up with.

“I don’t know,” Sokka huffs, shoving a hand through his hair. “I’m just, like, trying to communicate that this relationship is more to me than just suggestively eating pastries for you.”

Wait. ”For me?”

“And like, I know that’s how the past few dates have gone,” Sokka continues, upset definitely starting to win out, “But I don’t—” he stops himself, blows out a hard breath. “I don’t know what I did to make you think I’d only care about your ability to get me pet trios.”

“Petit fours,” Zuko corrects, automatic.

“Yeah, those,” Sokka nods. “I mean, they’re good, don’t get me wrong, like really, they’re amazing, but—”

Which Sokka said at length and volume at the time, so Zuko doesn’t feel bad about interrupting: “Every date.”

“—I don’t see—what?”

“Sokka,” Zuko says slowly, eyes careful on Sokka’s face, “It’s not just the past few dates. It’s been every date.” A fact that Mai was absolutely as merciless about when she found out as Zuk expected her to be, though not anywhere near merciless enough for him to stop.  

“What do you mean every date?” Sokka says, startled. “We didn’t do that after the BBQ.”

Zuko gapes. “Helping to toast buns inside while you man the grill outside because you underestimated the RSVPs and everyone else who could help was invited is not a date.”

“Yes, it is,” Sokka protests. “We did a shared activity!”

“No it’s not, we didn’t spend any time together!”

“A good relationship doesn’t require constant togetherness at all times,” Sokka frowns, sounding like he’s repeating some quote. “And neither does a good date.”

“It requires being together for more than ten nonconsecutive minutes,” Zuko says, incredulous, and Sokka huffs, waving that away.

“Well what about the movie?” he says, switching tact. “We didn’t do pastries then either.”

“You mean the movie,” Zuko says slowly, disbelieving, “That we didn’t plan to be at together? And happened to see each other at while we were out with our other friends?”

Sokka nods like Zuko somehow expressed agreement. “And that furniture thing, don’t forget that.”

“That ‘furniture thing,’” Zuko repeats, amazed. “When my sister hired you off Task Rabbit to build her new bookshelves?” Which was a thin and blatant excuse, even if Zuko theoretically appreciates her care.

“You were there, too,” Sokka points out, like Zuko could possibly forget.

“And we were both surprised by it.” Azula wasn’t, though. “And generally, one is not surprised to find themselves on a date.”

“…Hm,” Sokka says after a moment, pursing his lips. “Let’s circle back to this one later,” he finally suggests, “After we talk about your whole pastry panic food thing.”

“Fine.” If Sokka needs to be shown what a date is then Zuko will show him a date. “But why do you keep saying my food thing?” he frowns. “It’s your food thing, you’re the one eating.”

Sokka opens his mouth, nothing coming out. “Wait,” he finally says. “You don’t have a kink for it?”

“Me?” Zuko blinks, surprised. “You,” he corrects. “It’s your kink.” And Zuko doesn’t mind, its completely harmless as kinks go, and easy enough to indulge, but Zuko wasn’t worried about the sudden lack of free pastries for himself.

“No,�� Sokka says slowly, confused, “it’s not.”

“....What?”

“Zuko,” Sokka says, incredulous, “You brought it up as a kink in our first date!”

“So we could practice informed consent!” Zuko protests, ignoring the startled look it gets them from the couple across the pond. “I didn’t care, I just wanted to know.”

“And you said your ex was always doing food stuff!”

“For her job?” Zuko says, gaping. “Her job as a chef?”

“…Huh,” Sokka finally says, looking rather…stunned.

“Wait, wait,” Zuko says, trying to catch up to this entire fucking conversation, fuck, no one can never know about any of this. “So you don’t have a thing for it either?” he asks a little desperately. “You said you were so good at it because you and your ex did shit like that all the time. All the time, Sokka!”

“I mean.” Sokka rubs at his undercut. “I did say that,” he allows, “But he definitely had some kind of oral fixation thing going on.”

“And you don’t?”

“I mean, it’s fun, sure, but I don’t, like, need it.”

They stare at each other a long moment, the quiet sounds of the pond and the city filling the space between them, until finally Sokka says, “…So should we maybe do a few dates that don’t involve food in any capacity whatsoever?”

“Yes,” Zuko says almost before he finishes speaking, “Yeah, yes, let’s—do that. Good idea,” he says, fumbling for his phone, Sokka doing the same as they both start looking up alternate ideas.

#asks and answers #ask game #Anon I am not sure that this is bringing 'sad' in quite the way you envisioned lol #This is wholly and completely unedited bone apple teeth everyone #Sokka #Zuko #Zukka #fic writing #my writing

[minimoefoe]

pre-8b ftwd ramblings

I have thoughts about 8b so I thought I’d make a post just going through them to get them out of my brain ready for tomorrow and bc it’ll be cool to look back on later. I tried to keep this post semi-organised but it’s defo a bit messy

I haven’t read through every single spoiler/leak that’s out there but I have seen/heard a few bits here and there so maybe don’t read if you wanna avoid them. feel free to add on to this or send me asks about it or whatever, I’m down to hear what ppl think

under the cut bc it's long

character that aren’t Troy thoughts

Charlie - last time we saw her she was literally dying of radiation poisoning and it was implied (/maybe even straight up stated idr) that she was going to die fairly soon but now she’s in promo pics looking completely recovered and I just don’t know how I feel about it. I think if they do something interesting with her instead of just having her back for the sake of it then it’s kinda whatever like okay she’s alive, fine. tho it does take a lot of the weight out of what happened with her in the previous season. I’ve seen in a leak that Madison finds out about Charlie being the one to kill Nick and sends Charlie to Troy (which we’ve seen in promo pics) as a way to basically prove herself/gain forgiveness and I am pretty interested in seeing that play out so

Strand - I was excited to see him reunite with Madison but that has already been shown (idk if it was official or a leak) which is kinda annoying like I wish we coulda had that be surprise bc them seeing each other again is a big deal but whatever I guess. I hope we see them be a duo a bit throughout 8b bc they were great in prev seasons. I found Strand annoying as hell in s7 and his whole pretending to be a different person thing in that clip we’ve seen doesn’t spark much joy like he just irritates me so other than him seeing Madison again I can’t say I have that much interest in whatever it is he has going on. there are some seasons where I don’t mind him as much tho so idk maybe he’ll turn it around somewhere in these eps and I’ll like him again

Daniel - over the last season or three Daniel has grown on me quite a lot so I’m looking forward to seeing more of him. I worry about him potentially wanting to kill Troy which, idk, is it fair enough to want to kill the guy responsible for your daughter’s death? Yes. Do I think he should be over it after 12yrs? Kinda.. I mean, Daniel has got up to a lot through the last few seasons and I think his relationship with Charlie helped a lot with his sadness, anger, etc surrounding Ophelia so while I think it’s obviously fair enough for him to dislike Troy still, I don’t want there to be some ‘Daniel desperately wants to murder Troy in his sleep’ subplot like, hate him, say mean shit to him but I do not care about his sadness about Ophelia anymore sorry move on

Luciana - I don’t really have any huge wants or fears for Luciana in these final eps I just hope she gets some fun stuff to do. I think there’s some small clips in the trailer where it looks like she’s stood with Troy with a bunch of other ppl around which is cool and I’m interested to see how they intersect with each other. I liked her and Daniel a lot in the last season so seeing more of them as a duo would be nice too and I obviously want to see her and Madison reunite

June - I like June but I have zero hopes wants or fears for her. Kill her, don’t kill her, I don’t think I really care. She is not what I’m in these six eps for literally at all

Dwight and Sherry - I beg they get a happy ending like please omfg. I’d kinda kill for them to go back to Alexandria (/the Commonwealth) and be a part of whatever it is they have planned in terms of bringing all the current spin-offs together into one thing. seeing them reunite with a few people and see Negan again would be very cool. I know they go back to the Sanctuary for whatever reason in 8b so they’re gonna be in the area, why not stay there… tbh I don’t know what it would take for them to do that bc I don’t think that’s something either of them would actually want to do but I would like to see it lmao

plot stuff and Troy thoughts

I really don’t want Troy to die. I’ve seen some ppl say they worry it’ll happen and bc of Stuff They Know it’s not looking great for him but I am choosing to not hold onto that too much and have some amount of faith in the writers (which may make me an idiot but whatever). if he doesn’t survive, I hope he dies for a good reason (like to save Madison and/or his daughter) and that he dies in one of the final two episodes and not early on bc bringing a character like Troy back and retconning a death that imo was actually good only to use him for a few eps and kill him again for stupid reasons would just be insane

Troy having a daughter (especially one that he seems to have had via actually getting with a woman lmao) has still not computed in my mind and I’ve had this info for months now. I’ve kinda accepted that it’s a thing that’s happening and I am actually looking forward to seeing it play out but it still doesn’t connect fully lmao. there are aspects of Troy being a dad that I’m excited for like seeing him be protective over someone and presumably caring about someone more than he cares for himself. like sorry to my boy but I wanna see him be angry and sad and lose his mind over things related to getting his kid back bc I think seeing Troy in that state bc he cares about someone so much would just be so interesting

why the fuck is Troy’s daughter (according to leaks so take it with a grain of salt I guess) called Tracy like… I’m hopeful for these six episodes but I fear there is no universe where the writers have put actual thought into that name and what it would mean for Troy to call his kid that. there’s just so much to unpack?? first of all it’s sad as hell like, genuinely, the idea that Troy would name his kid after a mother who he knows didn’t love him is the saddest shit I’ve ever heard and is something that should absolutely be dived into through these eps bc what state of mind does he have to been in all these years later to do that. like is it a thing of he’s accepted that his mother didn’t love him but she was important to him and this is his way of kind of taking back something from that time in his life? idek how to word it. or is it a thing of he’s kinda delusional and has reinvented his mother in his mind into the kind of person who deserves to have a kid named after her? or is it something else? or is it that thing show/movies do where they just name kids after ppl for no fuckin reason bc they just can’t think of new names? I know what I’m betting on

Troy being the villain is very unsurprising like duh but I hope there’s more to it than just him being the bad guy and nothing else. from trailers and misc stuff I’ve seen I’m wondering if maybe his villainy is basically just to do with him wanting his daughter back and at a certain point there will be a switch where him and Madison and co will end up begrudgingly working together on the same goal.

I think Troy’s ‘you took everything from me’ line is referencing his daughter and not the dam bc like.. it’s been 12yrs. I think him still be pissed about the dam is reasonable (much like Daniel still being pissed about Ophelia is reasonable) but Troy finding Madison after all these years all bc of that would be silly. I think the thing Madison took from Troy is his daughter and he basically just caught her (like we’ve seen in that leaked scene) bc he knows she knows about padre and where to find it etc (which I swear we’ve seen him say in a trailer somewhere, like he’s asked what padre is/where to find it) and then somewhere in there obviously everyone is gonna disagree on shit which is why we’ve seen things like the leaked bts thing of Troy and Madison going for each other out in the dark, or him facing of with Luciana. like it seems like maybe chances are they have similar goals (save the kids) but maybe just conflicting ideas about how to go about doing that and knowing Troy he’ll probs get carried away quicker and have more extreme ideas

okay I just rewatched a trailer after typing up that last bullet point and now I’m actually thinking that Troy’s goal is to destroy padre whereas Madison and co’s goal is to keep it safe and that’s what the big fight is about. which also does make sense now that I’m thinking about it. I do still agree my initial thought of Troy wants to get to Madison probably partly bc he just wants to see her again but mainly bc he wants info on padre and he obviously know she has that info bc of the radio message she sent out. and then it somehow turns into I guess Madison wants to save padre and idk make it a better place whereas Troy just wants to destroy the whole thing (presumably once he gets his daughter back? or knowing Troy I wouldn’t put it past him it go in there guns blazing and maybe not think through the fact that his child is in there and could get caught in it. tho maybe he assumes she’s dead). that makes me worry that Troy really is gonna stay in villain mode of the whole season but idk, maybe somewhere in there he will be convinced of a different way to do things, and like I said before, result in them begrudgingly working together

I was thinking that Daniel saying about the dead being Troy’s army wasn’t him saying it as a warning to watch out but as a statement of like almost support for Troy like ‘this guy knows what he’s doing when it comes to weaponising the dead’ but now I don’t think that’s the case bc going by trailers it does seem like Troy is in the opposing side to everyone

I’m interested in the scene where two characters, presumably Troy and Madison, fall off a bridge bc I’m like why are they on the bridge in the first place. I really hope it’s bc they’re going somewhere together and working on something together and not like they’re chasing each other down to murder each other and happen to end up on a dodgy bridge

what the fuck is in that tub thing that Madison has. If it’s Nick’s ashes like I saw someone suggest/saw in a leak I will die bc that it so stupid

also saw in a leak that Madison assumes that Troy murdered the mother of his child which is very interesting. I like the idea that she thinks that but it turns out she actually killed her whenever she took Troy’s kid to padre. Idk. I’m interested to see any kind of background on how Troy got to where he is now. I’m not holding out too much hope for a ton of focus on it, liike I feel like literal flashbacks might be too much to ask for, but I need them to give us something I guess via Troy talking about it (which feels like something he’s not likely to want to do but idk, I can also see him and Madison having the ability to have actual convos with each other despite their relationship obviously being bad like the convos wouldn’t be loving but I can see them telling each other misc things)

thinking about how this is only gonna be six episodes fucks with me bc I feel like I have a lot of wants/hopes for things I wanna see but then I’m like oh yeah this is six episodes in a show with a main cast of like 10 people, Troy is so not gonna get the amount of air time I’d like and it’s gonna be very sad lmao. I don’t want the writers to dismiss other characters bc they did that in the past and I think it’s just shitty but I do hope they kinda recognise that a lot of ppl are probs gonna be watching for Troy and he should get the focus he needs to make him coming back worth it

I saw like two ppl on twitter a few weeks ago theorise about a potential spin-off coming from this spin-off and when I say I need it so badly like.. please. I don’t think there is any evidence to support that a spin-off is coming but i for some reason have this tiny part of me that thinks it’s not impossible. basically I would want it to be a Troy and Madison (or just Troy) spin-off and honestly with how good dead city and daryl dixon were i would have hope it would be pretty good if we got a spin-off that is just centred around a couple of characters instead of an ensemble thing ftwd has going on rn. tbh depending on how s8 ends in terms of where their relationship lies, a Troy and Madison spin-off could be very Maggie and Negan in dead city coded which I would loooove a lot. the final ep

I think Alicia is gonna make an appearance. saw a thing somewhere that said like, someone unexpected shows up or something like that and I’m like…..

more

I just re-read this so (assuming all of it is true which it may not be idk) I now have a few more tbihgths that i cba integrate into what I’ve already written so it’s going here instead

It says Troy’s daughter goes missing which is vague as fuck but I feel like Troy’s daughter being with padre is the only thing that makes Troy being so passionate about padre make sense so maybe it means she escapes padre, they get her back and then she goes missing or maybe they know she’s in padre but just can’t find her for whatever reason. we know she pops up in front of Madison and asks her something (idr what) so I’m very interested in seeing Madison spend time with Troy’s kid. and I think her finding out/realising it’s Troy’s kid has potential to be funny too

Troy’s daughter’s mum being someone who saved him from the dam makes sense to me like yeah. the person in the screenshot I leaked said he seemed like he might be lying but they also said they think the actual mother might be Alicia so like I’m not holding onto their analysis too much bc that would be dumb as hell

Charlie killing herself a couple of eps into 8b is so stupid like why even bother bringing her back like you’ve retconned her dying of radiation poisoning only to bring her back and barely use her. it’s defo possible she kills herself bc she knows the poisoning is catching up with her but idk, that’s still stupid. I am excited to see her scenes with Madison and Troy but it feels pointless in the grand scheme of things bc these six eps already have enough characters to juggle why add Charlie when there was a simple way of writing her out right there already

conclusion idk

I feel like I had a lot more to say and I kinda regret not making tons of notes over the last few months about my misc thoughts bc it woulda made it a lot easier to compile them all into one post but oh well. overall I think I’m way more excited than I am nervous. there are probs some things they could do that would really irritate me but for the most part I feel like I’m kinda good at just accepting what is happening in a show and being like okay this is what we’re doing now idk

I think one thing that wouldn’t be my fave is if Troy is just 100% villain for the whole season like, if they don’t end it with him joining them (begrudgingly or otherwise) like I’d like, even with him in the villain role I think there is room there to show his non villain side and how he does have a lot going on as a character. but for things like him dying, even though it would suck and imo be a stupid choice, I can see myself being fine with it if it’s done decently

and as for all my theories about what could actually happen story wise, if I’m wrong I’m wrong idrc. it possible a lot of the leaks I’ve seen are waffle but for the purposes of this post it was just easier to go in assuming they’re real. theorising honestly stresses me out bc I hate talking about what ifs like I just wanna know what’s going in fr and analyse that instead of having to think about all these different directions things could go bc we don’t have many concrete answers right now

idk how to end this. bye

#twd txt #nataliechats #fear the walking dead #Troy Otto #madison Clark #I’m not tagging everyone #I’ve realised I’m SO in this for Troy #like #I really like all the characters that are gonna be in 8b #but when it comes to like theories and wants and hopes #the focus is almost exclusively on Troy #and I just know that when it comes to watching the eps I’m gonna be sat there just being like ugh when is troy gonna be on my screen 💀 #I also would say I’m pretty in this for Madison #i also keep seeing and remembering other things even tho ive Just posted this #and i just cannot be bothered to go through and edit any of the opinions/theories ive written in here to fix with other bits and pieces #ive seen #so #bone apple teeth idc #i just wanna see the eps already ong #omg

[mwagneto]

vegeta is the only thing keeping hungary together

#just saw my father grab avocado paste from like. half an avocado and pour like 200 grams of vegeta on it #bone apple teeth i guess. ngl i don't like it #fake hungarian everyone point and laugh #barking

[not-the-cheese]

one sentence summaries of every TMA episode

(1-60 i'll add more soon)

part 2 up!

world's most effective anti-smoking PSA

man DOES NOT open coffin. everyone claps.

woman is judgemental towards neighbor even though she has hobbies that are just as weird.

book makes multiple people fall off chair.

man finds bag of teeth and decides he absolutely needs to fuck around and find out.

worm sti.

there was a SCARY MAN in the WAR.

fuck this tree

well at least ted bundy was a great father :)

i'm like 55% sure vampires are real and i'm willing to take those odds

bitches be dying. you're next.

we kill this man because he made the soda too warm.

sorry ur husband's dead. maybe get some help.

Unbox with me ! (GONE WRONG)

hah i'm safe from this one because i have decided to Never Go Into a Cave Ever.

man is so annoying about this spider that even his cat can't be bothered

man's bully finds a book about a Bone Turner and subsequently begins turning people's bones.

this guy sucks at DIY home improvement

aw maybe this priest didn't do anything THAT bad!

oh fuck nevermind

THE SKY ATE MY SON.

the worms stole my identity. i haven't left the house in days.

man beats german children at game of bravery and wins a coin (he later loses this coin)

my ex boyfriend gets casted in the muppets and dies

sorry mom, i've abandoned jesus for a new religion : jesus in the dark.

tall squiggly and HANDsome

old man arm wrestles demon through door knob

the buzzfeed unsolved guys finally catch a ghost but it's their sound tech

immortality but at what cost

working at the big meat factory was so traumatizing it made me vegetarian

i go to america and get almost killed by a furry

well if you love that wasp nest so much why don't you MARRY it (and then she did)

antisocial boat crew bands together to exclude one guy from a midnight party. he dies from the rejection.

bone apple teeth

remember when that norwegian guy threw a tantrum about us not digging a hole? turns out we were right to not dig that hole.

babe come over my parents have taken ill and passed away

man fucks around and it costs him everything

HOMOPHOBIC CHINESE VASE

oh god oh fuck the worms are here

thank you for participating in worms! please rate your wormsperience from 1 to 10.

the wormsperience has left me deeply scarred. i'm going to get lost in a tunnel about it.

🎸music makes me loose control🎸

spooky stories to tell at the next police slumber party

child threatens to run away and join the circus one too many times, and now the circus has come to cash in.

these mosquitoes are mad sus

man frequents local barnes and noble and then dies(?) after liking a book too much.

realtor gets eaten by the backrooms twice. it's a terrible shame.

both me and this weird goth dude have an unsatisfying italy vacation

guy who turns people's bones gets a new job where he continues to turn people's bones.

man who should never be allowed to build prisons builds a prison.

Something Big Is In The Water.

what if u heard me about 15 feet behind you fumbling around and calling out ur name 😳 (and we were both prison guards)

i'm going to be honest i didn't retain anything from this episode except that this guy has the silliest old man voice ever

everybody hates the tax man, including these creepy taxidermy animals

hmmgh. ant house.

so turns out being only 55% sure that vampires are real in my career as a vampire hunter has had some consequences.

the only thing keeping you company in space is your abandonment issues

🎶 the snack that smiles back 🎶 (my husband!)

maybe the real treasure was the house siblings we encased in spider web along the way.

your dead brother wrote books about ancient myths and WHAT

Part 2

#i hope this convinces you to listen to tma #podcast #the magnus archives #martin blackwood #tma #jon sims #sasha james #podcasts #gay podcasts #tim stoker #elias bouchard #peter lukas

[obsessedwithtoomanythings]

Anchor Up to Me, Love

Pairing: Alpha!Leon Kennedy x Omega!Reader

Warning: College AU, Knotting, Claiming Bites, Breeding Kink, Penis In Vagina Sex, Oral Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, But Leon saves the day, cause we love him, Possessive Leon S. Kennedy, Protective Leon S. Kennedy, Violence, just a lil, Leon S. Kennedy Being a Little Shit, Leon S. Kennedy is a tease. Leon S. Kennedy is a Sweetheart, I slept for 2 hours last night cause of this, bon appétit, bone apple teeth, Leon Kennedy loves eating pussy change my mind, Loss of Virginity, Unprotected Sex, POV First Person

Words: 3.3K

A/N: I wrote this in one afternoon, it was not beta'd at all. I pulled this STRAIGHT out of my ass. THIS IS NSFW. IF YOU ARE A MINOR, PLEASE GO AWAY. Title from Anchor by Novo Amor.

The campus was buzzing with hyper energy, the students littering the quad as the weather finally warmed up enough for them to comfortably rest on the green grass. My sneakers slap against the concrete as I take a deep breath in, the fresh air mingling with the student’s scents and I can’t help but feel a twinge of loneliness at the sight of the couples sprawled across the area.

I have spent half my life terrified of everyone - especially alphas - since my father’s warning when I presented. “You need to be careful, pup. Alpha’s only want one thing. You don’t want to end up like your mother - God rest her soul.” The fear it caused has definitely contributed to my self induced isolation. The scent blockers stir in my stomach, and I place a hand over my gut softly as I continue to head toward the library. I couldn’t afford the textbook, and thankfully the library had a cheap copy, but it can only be used in the library. I huff in annoyance as I mount the stairs. I step into the air conditioned building, skin prickling beneath my tee shirt. Should have worn a sweater.

The library is huge, 3 floors of walls lined with books, and the loner in me cries out in joy at seeing how deserted the stacks are. Having memorized the way already, I walk toward where they keep the textbooks and I run my fingers across the bindings until I come across where my textbook should be. I glance around to see if it was maybe misplaced before I head to the front desk.

“Hi, I’m looking for the Understanding Earth textbook for Professor Fieldman’s class?” I ask, and the woman behind the counter looks up with a small smile.

“Oh, that’s a popular one today. There’s a young man in blue who asked for it maybe 10 minutes ago. He should be in one of the study rooms, I think Room C.” The one with the windows. I nod, glancing down at my phone for the time. That paper is due in 12 hours. I’ll have to suck it up and ask if he’s willing to share. I head up the stairs, the hushed whispers of students giggling on the second floor catches my attention as I rub my fingers over my arms to warm them. The straps of my backpack are becoming more and more noticeable the longer the bag rests on my shoulders, and the girls’ voices become audible. “Wasn’t he adorable? He’s in my criminology class. His scent is intoxicating.” I scoff at their words. I walk toward the closed oak door before lightly rapping my knuckles on the varnished surface, and I crack it open as I hear a voice speak. Please be a beta. Please be a beta. Please be a beta.

“Yeah?” The door opens a bit more and that’s when I see him, strong hands hovering over the keys of his laptop, bright blue eyes trained on me as I stand in the doorway, my cheeks probably red from embarrassment.

“Hi,” I say before introducing myself with my name. “I know this is probably weird, but Professor Fieldman assigned a paper due tonight and I need some sources. Would you mind if I shared the textbook with you?” I ask, definitely speaking too fast as the anxiety crawls up my throat, tasting an awful lot like bile. He chuckles and that’s when his scent hits my nose. Those girls weren’t lying. He smells like pine and citrus, which you wouldn’t normally assume would mix, but something about the way it mingles as it enters my nose, my whole body flushes,, and I wonder if it’s because of him being an alpha or just him in general.

“I’m Leon. Leon Kennedy. And no, I don’t mind at all,” he says kindly, scooting his chair over a bit and pushing the textbook closer to the chair next to him. I should not sit next to him. His scent is already almost overwhelming and I’ve been in here for all of 1 minute. I find myself walking forward as I hear the door close behind me and I sit down in the black mesh swivel chair next to Leon. He gives me a small smile before I realize he probably thinks I’m a beta. My scent blockers should be enough. When is my heat due again? I vaguely wonder as I slip my backpack onto the floor next to me and pull out my laptop, opening the document to this stupid paper. “The paper on your favorite mineral and its multitude of uses?” He asks, glancing at my screen and I nervously huff out a laugh.

“Yup. I went with obsidian.” I say as I look back at him. His eyes are like two pools of blue, oceans in their entirety and threatening to drag me under and drown me.

“Good choice. Quartz,” he points his thumb at himself with a small smile as he runs his fingers through his hair before training his eyes on his paper. We sit in comfortable silence for about 10 minutes before the first cramp shoots through my gut. I press a hand to the muscle, hoping pressure will relieve the ache before it increases. I tense up as I groan, dropping my head to the cool desk as my skin feels like it’s on fire. “Are you okay?” He asks, placing a hand on my back, and the warmth of his hand makes me release a very different kind of groan, which I try to muffle by clamping my teeth down on my bottom lip, so hard I may be drawing blood. Heat washes over me and I vaguely register that I am absolutely going into heat right here, next to this alpha I just met. I reach down for my phone to check, and that’s when I realize that I am a week early for my heat.

“I’m fine, I just need to go, I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I stand quickly, slamming my laptop closed much harder than I should before practically throwing it into my backpack, slinging the fabric over my shoulders before I feel a hand lightly wrap around my wrist, not restraining me, just… catching my attention.

“I’m sorry, I can go if you need the-” Leon trails off, his voice fading into silence as his eyes widen. “You’re an omega?” He asks, and I know my scent blockers aren’t very effective anymore. Not against a sudden onset of heat in the middle of the day. I nod smally, feeling tiny compared to this alpha, despite him still sitting down in his own chair. The place where his skin meets mine on my wrist tingles, sending sparks up and down my arm as I am suddenly extremely grateful that I didn’t wrap myself in a sweatshirt. I’d be sweating through it by now.

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, taking a deep breath while facing away from me, as if he’s trying to compose himself before he speaks again. “Sorry, you’re just… You smell amazing…” He practically rasps, voice dropping to a painfully attractive octave. “I thought you were a beta when you walked in. You shouldn’t be out this close to your heat,” he mumbles, still unable to meet my eyes.

“I’m not due for a week. Trust me, I intend to go home,” I explain, and he nods as he lets go of my wrist. Without another word, I walk briskly to the door. I don’t breathe until I’m out in the fresh air, trying to wash Leon’s scent from my nose before I begin to practically sprint toward the parking lot where my car is. I’m almost there when I hear whistles behind me. Oh no.

“Where you going, pretty ‘mega?” My hands shake violently, slick pouring into the center of my panties due to the incoming heat, and I hear several sets of footsteps behind me. There are at least 3 of them. A cold hand lands on my shoulder and I yelp, dropping my keys to the tarmac as tears brim in my eyes. The alpha spins me around as his friends snigger behind him and his hard body presses me against the nearest vehicle, hands roaming over my jean covered thighs as the hot tears pour down my cheeks. His scent is vile, aggression and sweat wafting off of him in waves, and his nose runs along the column of my throat. “You smell so good, baby. How about you let me take care of your little problem?” His voice is gravely and harsh, tongue licking up my neck to taste my sweat. “God, I’m gonna knot you so-”

“Get the fuck off of her.” A voice says, and it takes my mind only moments to realize it’s Leon.

“Fuck off, finder’s keepers.” I squeeze my eyes closed so tightly that harsh colors flash across my darkened vision, and my hands push against his cotton tee shirt pointlessly.

“Then how about this?” The weight is gone, ripped from my body and I open my eyes to see that Leon has physically ripped the guy off of me and I watch as his body collides with the vehicle next to us, the white metal slightly dented from where his head hit before Leon’s fists tighten in his shirt, pressing him into the truck. “Touch my omega again, and you won’t be leaving unless it’s in a body bag.” Leon lets him go and we both watch as the alpha runs away, followed by his lackeys. If he had a tail, it’d be between his legs.

I sink to the ground, knees pressed to my chest and my hands press into the dark concrete. “Holy…”

“Are you okay?” Leon is there, crouching at my level. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?” I shake my head, hands twitching, begging me to reach out and touch him and I can’t stop them as one lands on his shoulder.

“I just want to feel safe... Can you hold me?” I whisper, and it’s only seconds before his palms skim along my bare arms. Feeling like I’ve been shocked with straight electricity, my gasp escapes as I shift to press my nose into his shirt, the blue cotton/spandex mix beneath my lips driving me up a wall and rushing more slick into the gusset of my panties.

“Of course.” His words are soft, fingers carding through my hair in soothing motions. His lips are soft as they press to my temple and I clutch his shirt tightly in my fists. “What do you need?” He asks, making sure to address me by my name.

“You, alpha…” I whisper, desperation in my tone. “Please…”

“Fuck…” Leon mumbles, nodding and accidentally brushing his nose through my hair, and he groans. “Okay, come on.”

The kisses are all tongues and teeth, lips connected as teeth nibble at the already plump flesh as the door opens. Thank god he has an apartment, cause Dad would never let me bring home an alpha for him to fuck me through my heat. The room smells overwhelmingly like him, air fresheners be damned. Palms on hips, slipping into the waistband of denim, untucking shirts, fingers dancing across skin and I tug on the hem of his light blue shirt, silently pleading for it to come off.

“Need something, sweet girl?” He chuckles, a teasing edge to his voice. A whine slips from my lips into his mouth and he pulls back to press our noses together, foreheads in contact as he looks into my eyes. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Off, please, Leon.” Well, he said words. I managed that. He peels the fabric from his chest, my eyes raking over the exposed muscles and soft flesh.

“Eyes up here, ‘mega.” His finger slides under my chin, bringing my eyes to his as our lips collide again before parting to remove my own tee shirt, dropping the cotton onto a pile on top of his. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he whispers under his breath. Before I can process the movements, my feet are off the ground before I feel the weight of the couch beneath me as he tugs on my waistband. “Can I taste you, ‘mega? Please?”

“Mhm,” I hum through my bitten lip, teeth pressing into the tender flesh as I help him remove my tight jeans, my panties flying somewhere in his apartment as he buries his mouth against my cunt without further question.

His name leaves my lips in a squeak as my fingers thread through his dark blonde locks, tugging the strands lightly as his tongue laps at my sex. Growls rumble from his chest as he sucks gently on my clit, the suction forcing gasps and moans from my mouth; I look down and find those intoxicating blue eyes locked on me, the wet sounds coming from my center absolutely lewd. How do people live without this?

“Do you want my knot?” The question should require more thought. More attention.

“Yes. Please alpha, need it.” Leon stands, lips and chin coated with my shiny slick, and I watch as he licks the fluid off his lips before using his fingers to wipe off the remainder before sucking them into his mouth. Oh fuck, that’s hot. Nimble fingers undo the buttons of his jeans, tugging the zipper down tauntingly. “Leon.” His name comes out as a frustrated groan, and I’m gifted by the sweet sound of his light chuckle.

“Patience is a virtue, sweet girl.” I groan, a small laugh of my own filling the air as he comes up to kneel between my thighs, the skin of my ass pressing against his thighs as he leans forward to rub his cock along the length of my core. “Fucking shit, got the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen, ‘mega. Have you ever had a knot before?” He asks, rolling his hips so his tip bumps against my clit and I shake my head no. “Have you ever had sex with anyone?”

“No…” I admit, hands coming up to press against my hot cheeks.

“That’s okay, ‘mega. Do you want to keep going?” I peek between my fingers to see his soft smile. He is willing to stop for my comfort. “I can make you come in other ways if you don’t want-”

“I want your knot, please Leon.” My hips cant on their own accord, rubbing against him and his groan quickly dissolves into a huff of laughter, the sound filled with affection and gentleness.

“Okay, baby. We’ll take this slow, okay?” His head nudges at my opening, pressing the head in. The slight burn doesn’t last as my body adjusts to him, his arms caging me in on both sides of my head filling each of my senses with nothing but Leon, Leon, Leon. It continues like this, him pressing his length pressing in an inch or two before he pauses, huffy breaths puffing against my face as his peppers my face in soft kisses, my hands cupping his jaw and nape of his neck to feel some semblance of balance as he splits me open. I have nothing to compare it to, but he feels pretty big to me. Finally after a painstakingly long time, his hips press forward, flush with mine, and we both release shaky pants at the sensations.

“Please move,” I whimper as my hands shift to dig into the firm muscle of his shoulders, dull nails leaving crescents in his flesh.

“Anything for you, my sweet little omega.” The sweet words are quickly drowned out as he begins a leisurely pace, and I can feel the drag of his cock against my walls at every movement he makes. Kissing is futile by this point; We’re practically just breathing into each other’s mouths. His pace begins to steadily climb, faster and harder as his deft fingers rub soft circles over my bud, my head thrown back in response to the new sensation. “Does that feel good, sweet girl?” I nod before his earlier command rings through my ears.

“Yeah, Leon… Feels so good.”

“Such a perfect little omega, my omega.” The possessive tone sends a wave of heat straight down my spine as he continues. “That alpha touching you earlier… God I wanted to rip his throat out…” Hips slapping harder against mine as my moans grow in pitch, his name practically the only coherent sound that can be heard from my lips.

“Yours, alpha. All yours.” The blonde nuzzles into my neck, teeth grazing across my sweat slicked skin. He speaks, and it takes a nip to my ear to realize he’s speaking, my focus being tugged between the wet sounds of us meeting, his teeth on my neck, his scent in my nose, and his dirty words in my ears.

I want to claim you.

Fill you til it spills from that tight little pussy.

Want my babies, sweetheart?

Knock you up, god you’d look so pretty carrying my babies, ‘mega.

I nod blindly, barely unable to form words anymore as I’m so fucked out, so cockdrunk.

“Yes, please, fill me. Want it. Want you.” I groan in protest as he pulls out, emptiness bringing tears to my eyes before his gentle caress causes me to peel my eyes open to meet his. I’m greeted with a new sight. This isn’t just Leon.

This is my alpha.

“Present for me, ‘mega.” I nod, flipping over so my knees press into the scratchy fabric of the couch, arms resting on the arm rest as my body arches for him practically unconsciously. This is how it feels to find your mate. Callused hands trace the skin of my back, rubbing softly over the skin of my ass before his tip presses against my opening again, sliding in much easier than before, the wet slick aiding in creating a smooth glide and I practically feel him in my throat as he resumes a fast pace. Mumbles of curses fall into the air, sweaty skin pressing to my back, giving him access to whisper in my ear.

“I want you to come for me. I’ll give you my knot if you do.” The rough tips of his fingers return to my clit, rubbing much faster circles as the band in my gut pulls tight. “Come for me, omega.” That’s all it takes. I come with a yelp of his name, followed by a chorus of ‘alpha’s mixing with ‘Leon’. He growls, leaning forward to press the expanding ring of muscle into my pussy as his teeth sink into the flesh of my neck, locking us together in every sense of the words.

Gentle hands maneuver us to our sides, his warm body spooning as he grabs the blanket from the back of his couch to drape it over us as the sweat on our skin rapidly cools in the now chilly air of his living room.

“Are you okay?” He whispers, lips pressing soft kisses across my exposed flesh, and he sounds almost guilty. I nod sleepily, reaching back to run fingers through his hair with a chuckle. “Something funny, cutie?”

“I don’t think sharing the textbook is gonna be an issue anymore.” At my words, we both burst into a fit of giggles, panting breaths as I turn my head to press our lips together before I gasp, hands coming up to my mouth.

“What?”

“My dad is gonna kill us.” I admit with a nervous laugh.

“Nah. I meet parents like a champ.” His face practically drips with confidence and I chuckle.

“Oh really?”

“Oh yeah. Look at my face. This is the face of ‘I’m absolutely not sleeping with your daughter’.” The laughter is uncontainable now.

Oh yeah. Definitely.

Tags:

Leon: @house-of-kolchek @bonnibuckets @athanasia-day @muffimtv Everything: @chaosandbubbles @kassiekolchek22 @akiramoon8088

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon x reader #leon kennedy smut #Alpha!Leon #Omega!Reader #resident evil fanfiction #Alpha!Leon Kennedy

[its-your-mind]

“oh clearly jon feels no emotions and is in complete control of himself at all times. this man is a logic machine.”

did we??? listen to the same podcast?????? this man feels first, thinks later. there is a strong emotion? get ready for jonathan jarchivist sims to act on it with little-to-no second thoughts. rational thinking who. we throw ourselves full force at the first thought that comes into our head. like, we are talking about the man who:

busted into the office of a guy he hadn’t talked to more than twice since he woke up from a six month coma, sincerely offering to gouge out his eyes and run away with him, and was Absolutely Gobsmacked when he was refused

was prefectly ready to let a face-stealing monster live… right up until it reminded him that it had killed his friend without him realizing (that “…what did you say” is one of the lines that gives me GOOSEBUMPS every time)

dove headfirst into a pile of evil sentient worms to grab a tape recorder bc he was so determined to not die as aNOTHER GODDAMN MYSTERY

let his survivor’s guilt from when he was eight drive the major decisions he made for the rest of his life

threw himself into a fear dimension of evil loneliness to save the man he loved (who had refused to speak to him for months) at the probable expense of himself who knows

had so much MALICE in his voice when he killed peter lukas like damn girl you do not get that emotional when you’re just killing someone bc they’re evil or whatever. there was Hatred there. go off queen.

literally was willing to sacrifice an entire WORLD so that no one would ever f e e l what he had to feel when jonah voicesnatched him

LITERALLY speedran a love story in like six weeks in scotland. this man was SO READY to be in love it’s ridiculous. so was martin. I love them sm

heard his predecessor was dead

came to the conclusion that he was next

what should we do with this?

oh I know

stalk every one of my coworkers bc clearly one of them is out to get me

committed himself to living in the archives forever bc he didn’t want to put georgie or “god forbid the admiral” in danger (has his priorities STRAIGHT he does)

oh annabelle caine has martin? and an artifact that completely knocks me on my ass and takes away all my powers? off to hilltop road we go come on basira we have spider ass to kick

threw himself into a coffin to save a woman who LITERALLY was ABOUT TO KILL HIM bc he just wanted to HELP and everyone around him was HURTING SO MUCH

was insulted when a statement giver called the institute stupid and immediately discarded all professionalism and clapped back by calling her wildly successful youtube series dumb

also immediately discarded all professionalism when disgusted by a teeth apple “we do NOT want it.” like damn bro this traumatized doctor brought this bone apple teeth proof in for you and you are too grossed out to grin and bear it

was slightly annoyed by the fact that martin was not the Ideal Assistant. Offhandedly mentioned on an official recording that he wanted an evil flesh witch to slowly kill his literal employee by a series of freak accidents that resulted in the loss of one body part at a time. this man has no chill whatsoever.

took so much satisfaction in killing jonah magnus. like jonah told him not to be dramatic and jon PROMPTLY started monologuing while stabbing douchard directly in the chest.

“I don’t want to die”

“Neither did they.” FUCK YES QUEEN GO OFF GET HIS SMARMY VICTORIAN ASS

sounded so SMUG when he told the eye he was gonna go apologize to his boyfriend. like yeah stupid all-powerful fear god I have a BOYfriend and I LOVE him suck on THAT

remember when he decided to doom his whole world bc he wanted to stop anyone else from feeling like he did? yeah that plan went out the window fuckin imMEDIATely as soon as his beloved martin walked into the room. oh, he’s in the world I’m going to be dooming? well fuck didn’t consider that part. welp guess he’s just gonna have to stab me. and then we will hold each other and declare our love and kiss and hope to still be alive and together somehow as the world collapses around us. our love didn’t save us but it was here and that mattered. okay list cancelled I’m gonna go curl up in a ball for a little bit. ty for your time.

#jonathan sims #the archivist #tma #tma spoilers #the magnus archives #jonmartin #listen martin got a list of unhinged actions #now jon gets his own list of no thoughts head empty only vibes #balanced #as all things should be

[oksurethisismyname]

In continuance of my “zoro learns French” drabble:

Sanji has been busy ever since breakfast. Normally he has time to prep a lot more for lunch but today? It’s like everyone is asking him for something. Chopper had gum stuck in his fur (turns out it was a spit ball from luffy) , Franky asked for help tailoring a pair of pants (finally!), Nami kept asking him questions about different dessert possibilities from tangerines, Robin was wondering about the origin of every variety of tea he has on board, and he just hadn’t had time to get back into the galley.

Finally, it’s an hour till lunch and he tactfully exits the conversation with Robin. As he walks up to the galley door he hears someone messing around in HIS galley. He kicks in the door, ready to find Luffy with his head stuck in the fridge but is stopped dead in his tracks. There, in his kitchen, is Zoro.

Zoro in his apron.

Zoro in his apron that says “kiss the cook”

Zoro in his apron that says “kiss the cook,” flour on his face, scrubbing some dishes that weren’t dirty when Sanji left this kitchen this morning, and a sheepish look on his face that doesn’t look quite natural on him. Almost cute? No. Yes? A little.

“Mosshead, you have 5 seconds to explain what you’re doing to my kitchen before I kick you into the ocean. The only reason you’re still standing there is because it looks like you’re cleaning up whatever mess you made.”

Zoro sets a newly clean skillet on the drying rack, suddenly getting a look of determination, “I made you a croak miser.”

“What the fuck is a croak miser?”

Zoro huffs like he’s both exasperated by his own actions and Sanjis lack of understanding. Rather than clarifying what a “croak miser” is, Zoro walks to the oven and pulls out a little plate. He’s blocking Sanjis view but whatever he just pulled out must have been in the oven just to stay warm because the oven isn’t even on.

Without showing what’s in his hand, Zoro gruffly asks “sit?”

This is getting weird. Sanji, shocked into obedience, sits at the table waiting to see where this is going.

In Zoros hands is a plate with a passable Croque Monsieur. Is that actually béchamel sauce? Wait did Zoro MAKE béchamel from scratch? There’s not too much or too little ham, the cheese looks gooey, wow, this could be good.

As Zoro sets the plate in front of him, a bit of pink creeping into his cheeks. “You were talking about the best comfort foods with Robin last week and I just thought… well you do a lot and… whatever eat the shitty sandwhich, asshole. Bone apple teeth or whatever.”

With that, Zoro turns on his heals and walks out.

What the fuck was that all about?

#one piece #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #zosan #I guess this is less about my French skills and more about my wanting to use the expression bone apple teeth #bone apple teeth #little fic #zoro learning french

[yeyinde]

ATROPHY | Joel Miller x F!Reader

》 SUMMARY: It's her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of.  》 WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT (mild); allusions to death, assault; female gendered reader, female gendered anatomy; minor game spoilers; Joel isn't bad at feelings – he just doesn't want them. Joel is tired™ 》 WORD COUNT: 10,9k

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds. 

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry.

》 NOTES: I did something different with my writing. It's still a Reader insert, but. I tried third person instead of the usual second. also, how this ballooned up to nearly 10k is lost to me since it was just supposed to be smut?? I had this clear image of older Joel laying in bed, his guitar leaning against the wall, catching the light of the sun as you slowly rode him, and now? I don't even know. ⤑The gif is mine. Please don't take or repost without permission

MASTERLIST | FAQ | AO3

Complacency is a death sentence in a world like this. 

Lazy Sundays spent between the warm, damp sheets. Boredom. Afternoons strumming his guitar on the front porch. Sleeping in. Drinking at a saloon in town. Music. Laughter. 

It doesn't exist. 

Shouldn't. 

And yet—

His guitar sits, abandoned, in the corner of the bedroom. The wood still carries the heat from his thumb this morning when he played a song alone on the porch. Eyes bleary, full of sleep, of rest, as he took in the varicoloured dawn cresting through the indigo sky.

Those same weathered, beaten hands that strummed the chords to Hurt are now occupied again. One perched on her hip, skin sateen soft and plush, full and warm and clean from the shower last night as she bears down on top of him in a quiet cadence, a muted, languid dance. The other cups the swell of her breast in his palm, nipple still damp from his hungry mouth, and flushed red from his teeth. 

This should just be a fantasy. 

A dirty thing in the recess of his mind when he has a moment to himself breathe. A thought, a whim. Something to needle away at the last vestiges of his consciousness when he sees her in the wild—vibrant, young, and free—and then sullied in the back of his head when he leans against a tree, and thinks of the dirt on her skin, the blood on her delicate hands, and how they'd taste under his tongue.

But this isn't a dream.

When he sleeps, he dreams in black and white. The only colour that bleeds through is red. Blood red. Pulpy and vicious. Ugly. Garish. It splatters across the pavement where he laid Sarah down, where he lost Tess, and everyone else he never promised to save and still couldn't. 

He knows this isn't a dream when he blinks his eyes open, and she's there. Sitting atop him in a kaleidoscope of colour, drenched in ochre from the still rising sun. The only red is her blistered lips, the rough burn between her thighs from the scrape of his beard, and that sinful little tongue that slips between her teeth when he slides in deep. 

And then—his eyes drop to her side—that ugly wound that cuts her flesh, ripped over the seam of her ribs. 

He's awake. Lucid. 

She's much too heavy to be something carved from fantasy. 

He doesn't say this, of course—Joel isn't stupid, and for someone so considerably smaller than he is, she packs a hefty punch in those slender fingers that curl into a fist barely the size of an apple. The sharp jab of a rusted, blunt knife. Knows where to hit him, too. 

He tucks it away, and lets his hands explore, feeling the tangibility of her weight, her presence, under the tips of his bloodied fingers. 

(Broken on the same teeth that caused her to hurt.)

The knob of her hip bone juts out through her flesh, and he grazes it with his thumb, feeling the soft curve. 

Real, he thinks. Flesh and bone. 

He can feel the flutter of her racing pulse under his hand when he kneads her breast in his hand, and lets her nipple graze teasingly over the rough skin of his weathered palm.

The tight clench of her around him—pussy a perfect knot around the base of his cock, all pretty and tied tight like a bow—is another stroke of realism his dreams, nightmares, fantasies, could never imbue. 

It's a present he's sullied more times than he can count, each touch another tally to the neverending number of sins that pile higher than the hollow skyscrapers in Boston. 

Joel feels each breath that leaves her heaving chest. Each gasping hiccup of his name when she raises her full hips up, and then slide back down the length of him in a slow, languorous roll until he nudges against the seal of her womb, and steals the air in her lungs. 

It's real. 

A paradox, then. 

One of those things that shouldn't happen, but is. Like her, and him, and everything else in between.

He knows what the others in town say when they see her—pretty and soft with a ginger touch and a sweet curl of a voice when she whispers his name. It doesn't make sense for her to be all wrapped up in him, following along behind like a shadow to a man who's cut from ashlar, and reeking of rot. Ruin. 

He's calamity in ageing grey, and she's the ripe, forbidden fruit he's not allowed to bite. Poisoned apple. Cherry sweet. 

(He wonders if they'd recoil once they saw that her insides were gnarled; acrid and sour; bitter melon. Lemon drops.

That she is far more like him than they could ever dream.)

They glare at him from the corner of their eyes when she swells like a lighthouse in the midnight gloam at the sight of him wandering back from patrol, eyes all bright and beaming, and beautiful—Christ. 

She's a picture, he thinks. 

One of those pinup girls he'd find in dirty magazines as a kid. When he and Tommy would sneak a peek behind the barn, away from prying eyes. A portrait of lust. Desire in high gloss. 

A classical beauty—the type that would make men drown themselves at sea. A starlet in the golden age back when it mattered. 

Writers' muse, maybe: she would have been the girl everyone talked about—the one that eluded the tortured artist, made him pine. 

Hemingway would call her brutal. 

Cat in the Rain. 

(She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.)

He doesn't know much about poetry but he knows she's the type who could make a man want to stain his fingers in ink just to capture the curve of her lips when she smiled. 

A vixen. Hellion. Lilith. 

Her voice is a song when she says his name. A hymn. 

Dangerous. 

He doesn't know when this started. 

Maybe, when they brought her in with the rest of the group she was travelling with. Beaten down, hungry. Clinging to life with frostbitten fingers. 

Her eyes were flat; a stagnant pond. Lips a grim, blue line. Placid. Gone. She'd been out there for too long to ever find comfort behind walls, and he knows the feeling of trying to crawl out of your own skin when people stand too close. 

She scoffed at the idea of this place, of sanctuary. Resentful and derisive. He could see the distrust in her clenched jaw, balled fists. This world was a whim—evanescent—and what they gathered from the rest of the group, survival hadn't been easy outside of safe zones.

Wall after wall fell, she said, tone flat. Blank. Haunted by ghosts still lingering in the canyons of her eyes. Stopped believing in stuff like this after a while. 

Her eyes were stained—jaundiced and red, filled with burst blood vessels—and raw from how hard the edges of her knuckles had dug into the flesh of her eyelids. They spoke of sleepless nights. Ones interrupted by her own sense of survival, hyperarousal. 

He knows the feeling of jerking awake whenever his brain starts to lull, to slip into that dangerous facsimile of security. 

Pipe dreams. She wears her fatigue like its armour, wielding the brunt of her exhaustion like a shield. 

(Sleep often feels like a bad habit for people like her, like him.)

But like him, it waned slowly. 

The chips in her veneer cracked, split, and he saw the incipient filament start to seep in. Complacency. Comfort. 

A few months in, she stopped being so defensive when they invited her out for drinks, and when they talked about dinner parties, and birthday celebrations. Derision was still a heavy weight in her distant gaze, clutched in bleached knuckles like a claymore, when she looked at them, a touch incredulous. 

Joel understands the feeling. 

The itch in your guts, the discomfort in your chest. It festers, doesn't it? 

Children play close to the fences, making up games of tag, and hide and seek, as if those things with broken, pustulous faces weren't skulking within arm's reach just a breath away. 

This whole place is a vacuum. The interior is covered in thick molasses; stuck in stasis. They pretend that birthdays and holidays matter. Dance around the saloon at night with drinks in hand. Pale ale. Old booze. 

It's rigid in its structure: patrols that span the entirety of a day—from dusk to dusk in three shift increments—and daily checks of the fences, the gates. Trading with other communities. Rules. Regulations. 

It gives the idea of safety. Of security. 

(But the bruises on his hands and the gash in her side are proof that it's sometimes not enough.)

Slowly, though, as the days wore on and the fences stood proud and tall and secure, she softened. Tucked it away with a smile, and started saying, I'll think about it instead of clipped jerks of her chin, or nothing at all. 

Joel doesn't know if she ever really did think about it like she said she would. 

Broken promises carry a distinct sound. One he knows all too well. 

She never showed up despite the invitations. Never came to celebrate. 

She stood by the fence, and looked out, eyes wide, mouth flat. The coil in her shoulders, the tremble in her hands, reminded him of a trapped animal. Cornered, and tense. 

She'll bite someone eventually. 

(He just never expected it to be him.)

The tension didn't flee the crease of her eyes, but she tried to integrate herself into the fold, the community. Slowly. Slowly. 

He took stock of her in the same measure he does everyone new who wanders in. Assessing. Watching. Cautious. 

He could tell right away that she was a wildcard. A lit match slowly burning down the wick in a sea of gasoline.

Pretty, he finds, despite himself. Drawn in by her allure; a coruscating light in the middle of endless, unfathomable grey. 

He catches sight of the weathered face that blinks back at him from the frosted windows, hazy and thick with condensation that make the grey in his hair, his beard, look startlingly whiter than it was ten seconds ago. It's a jarring reminder of who he is. What he's done. 

It's not insecurity that keeps him from seeking her out, but self-preservation. Some people, he finds, just have this magnetism about them. A beacon. A light. A gravitational pull that drags you closer and closer. 

And hers is purely primal. Animalistic. She smells of sex and sin and makes him think of object permanence when everything around him had been clouded in the sharp shade of ephemeral grey. 

She's a fractured mirror. Medusa in the making. 

Joel's always avoided broken glass. 

(Ladders. Black cats. Cracks in the pavement. Pretty girls who swallow everything like a black hole—)

Too sweet, he finds. Forbidden fruit. Tart, ripe, and sugar dipped. 

(He never had much of a sweet tooth, anyway.)

Through his observations—necessary, he tells Tommy when he catches the way Joel's gaze follows her around when she moves; limbs ballerina lithe, swan songs after dark: just because we let them in, doesn't mean we can trust them—he finds out everything he needs to know. 

A rusted sign on the side of the road says, stay away. Danger in dulcet. Soft and sweet. A perfunctory bow in battle before the deadly blows come. 

He oscillates between finding her both too soft and too hard, and it's the unknown that makes him wary. 

She's a caged animal. Everyone is just kidding themselves if they think she's domesticated. 

Somewhere in the throng of people milling about, drinking and dancing like the world wasn't in shambles, she finds his gaze, matches his stare. 

Most people looked away. 

But she's not most people, is she? 

No, she's dangerous. Pretty in a way that's entirely too ethereal for the broken remnants of what remains. Left behind. Mouldering until death claims its victims. Until the spores released from the earth itself burrow in the rucked lines of your head, sprouting up like flowering buds. 

She makes men want. 

And while the pickings might have been slim, Joel knows there are several (and maybe a little more) above him in terms of desirability. He's older. Gruff. Rough around the edges without any whim of changing, or scouring himself down so that his jagged pieces don't pop something as tender and sweet as her. 

He doesn't put himself in the same bracket. Despite Maria's insistence, Tommy's needling, he isn't a bachelor. 

Hasn't made himself available.

And he isn't. 

Not since Tess. Not since—

None of that matters. He's too old to think about romance, about skin and sex, and warmth. And more.

The thought of it all leaves something sour twisting in the gnarled rot of what remains inside his chest. 

Despite that, or maybe in spite of it, she comes to him. 

(Somehow. Somehow.)

She asks him to dance, and the breathy tone of her voice tastes like a lit cigarette; it plumes nicotine in the air. Second-hand smoke. A contact high. 

He finds it disarming when she laughs after he says no. Firm. Hard. Dismissive. 

Not in your lifetime, sweetheart. 

The unspoken stay away rang clearer than the echo of her laughter. 

And that was that. 

But she came back. 

("If not a dance, then how about a drink?"

"Wastin' your time, sweetheart."

She grins, then, soft and coy. "Not much else to do with it these days besides chatting up a handsome stranger."

He pretends she didn't make him choke on his drink, and eyes her warily instead. Dangerous, he thinks. The type that just doesn't quit. One who is just small and malleable enough to slip inside the tiniest splinter.

Just like a raspberry, she'd rot fast. Festering. Clouded white and infectious. Worse, in many ways, than the parasites outside of the walls. 

"Just don't get your hopes up." He settles on after a moment, a lull, that makes her blood-red lips curl up like the curve of those stupid hearts dangling overhead. 

And hates that he doesn't really know if he's still just talking to her or the wandering eyes in his own skull when he says it.)

He doesn't know why she takes a liking to him of all people. Of all men. He might be out of touch with the reality they live in now, always on the fringes of waiting for things to buckle at the knee, and collapse into ash, but he isn't stupid. Oblivious. 

Joel sees the way she stares at him. Open, wanting. Curious. 

She shouldn't be. There's nothing in him—nothing left. His insides are polluted, gnarled. Ugly. A gurgling cesspit that doesn't know how to fix, only dissolve. Consume. He's acidic. Caustic. 

Bad for anyone's health. 

He can't keep anyone safe, and all he knows how to do anymore is push people away, and lie (and, lately, make Ellie so incensed with anger, she cuts him to the core and spills his choleric blood out onto the pavement where it hisses and sounds just like Tess). 

He's a patchwork mess of a man sewn together with a churlish hand. The broken pieces are borrowed and maligned, but they sometimes feel like they fit when he shifts, and spits enough contempt to keep everyone else from getting too close, and—

It's enough. 

(He likes it that way.)

But she—

His hands grip her tight sometimes—too tight—and the stains he leaves on her skin set his teeth on edge. It's too much like ownership. Possession. 

(And he finds the colour that blooms on her flesh to be too fucking pretty to ever sit comfortably in the gnarled pit of his guts.)

"Don't worry, Joel," she whispers when she catches him staring at the marks he left behind. Dark and ugly. Contrition tastes of old nickels. "You won't break me that easily." 

It's a bad decision. 

But he was never known for his good choices, and when she fluttered her eyes at him, hand pressed to his chest like she were allowed to touch him, he crumbled. 

She didn't give him much of a choice to fight back when all she asked for nothing but the warmth of his skin, and the taste of him on her tongue. 

Pleasures of the flesh. It's easy. Simple. He fucks her behind the saloon, rough and dirty, and swallows the sounds she makes against the brick like they're just for him. He takes her home, and knows that when he's nestled between her thighs, it's as close to heaven as a man like him will ever get. 

And then—it's over. She leaves. He pretends to sleep. 

Rinse. Repeat.

It carries on this way for nearly two years. Distant, cold. He can't remember the last time he had anyone warm his bed, but it takes the edge off, the stress and pain of Ellie's distance, her mistrust, and hatred, and she asks for nothing. 

She lets him grab her when he wants. Lets him bend her body into whichever shape suits him best, and says nothing about the fingerprints that he leaves behind, the astringent tang of rot when she slides out of his bed, his hands, and out the door. 

He lays back, the same hand he used to grip the back of her neck when he fucked her into the mattress now resting under his head, and he pretends doesn't feel colder now than he did before. 

There is no promise of forever. There's no promise of exclusivity, or monogamy, but he knows that she hasn't fucked anyone else since she got here, that those pretty thighs only ever parted for him, and he's too worn down to entice anyone else who wasn't looking for a sleazy fuck against a tree into his bed, anyway. 

Complacency begets comfort, security, wants.

They settle down in their borrowed homes, in their borrowed beds, and think about making the most of their borrowed time.

In that, they yearn. Family. Togetherness. Everything they had before they tried to drag into the now. Forcing a square through a round hole. A mismatched puzzle piece into the slot it wasn't made for.

Sometimes, they get lucky and it slips through. It distorts itself into something different, and new, just to fit through the preconstructed crack.

Joel doesn't think about then. He thinks about now. A broken world no closer to resolution, absolution, than it was thirteen, fourteen years ago. There is no roseate veil over his eyes; everyone else can see it. 

He isn't the type of man someone brings home. The one you push and push until he fits through the front door, and back into normalcy. Stagnancy. 

And she's not the type of woman who'd ever try. 

He likes that about her.

Poisoned candy apple. Pretty on the outside and rotted within. 

There is no future outside of the way he fits inside of her, and this is as permanent as the blemishes he leaves on her pretty skin. 

Then he dreams, and it's of her.

Lifeless, blue. The way her head splits open is beautiful in that macabre sort of way horrible things sometimes are. Flowers burst behind her eyes, petals budding out of the hollowed space that once made his chest stutter when the sun caught the crevasse of black that split from her pupil and bled into her iris. A small stream of ink. 

The canyons of gradient colours are now filled with blooms of enoki. Red amanita curls out from her ears. 

Where he once laid his palm over her chest is now a gaping hole flowering with a pulsing mass of candlesnuff and staghorn. 

Death cap where her heart once beat. 

Beautiful, he thinks, even as he howls her name.

He wakes up drenched in a cold sweat, and the curve of her name heavy on his tongue. His knuckles pop when he fists the damp sheets between his trembling fingers, but the ache feels good. The sting reminds him he's alive. Whole. 

He's awake, but the nightmare doesn't end. The sight of her body lingers in the back of his head when he strums his guitar and plays a song for the demons within. He thinks of her when he forks over the expired box of condoms he found on a run, and listens to Jesse ramble about how Ellie is doing in exchange for the loot. 

It's her he sees. 

She blinks at him, eyes that same shade that sometimes makes his breath hiss between his teeth, and then her crown caves in. Forehead splits down the middle. One half stands where it was as the other falls over on her shoulder. 

Fractals spill from the plumule that was once her brain stem until the two halves are bleached white like dead corals on a ruined reef. 

The flowering toadstool quivers. What was once her—wit, charm; that uncanny ability to make him feel like the ground beneath his feet was crumbling—is a mass of spores. Polluted. Rotted. 

Where she once stood is a puppet. Dead. Gone. 

Her head tips. Ink spills from the putrefying blood vessels, congealing in the air. It spools into a circle. A black hole. 

He lifts the gun, and feels nothing at all. 

Everything he could have felt, feels, is syphoned into the needlepoint of no return, the place where she once looked at him, and said, I don't want anything from you, Joel. I just want you.

He wakes before he can see the aftermath of pulling the trigger. 

A fluke, maybe. But it happens each night after that. 

He knows, then, that there's no turning back. 

Permanence doesn't belong in this borrowed home, but she somehow drags it through the foyer and into his bed, anyway. 

She stayed over last night. 

Joel doesn't think he tried to let go when he collapsed into the bed beside her, arms woven around her sweat-slicked back, locked tight like a pair of shackles that mean about as much as a prison or the law these days.

It was cold. Late. He didn't want her to walk back in the snow all alone. 

That's all. 

But Joel isn't a gentleman, and despite how much he wishes he wasn't, he's egregiously self-aware. 

He knows he's in trouble when it just makes sense to keep her close. When it's easier to have her within arm's reach than it is to meet at the front door, and let her in. 

(When he sleeps better if he can feel her burning skin on his.)

"You're thinking too much," she gasps, eyes lidded and heavy. Drinking him in. 

Joel doesn't know what a pretty thing like her sees in a man like him. 

He can't offer her anything except the cold comfort of a warm body, but even that is null. He knows there are younger men prowling outside her door, just itching for an opportunity to make her look their way. 

(She never does.)

"Yeah," he rasps, the word sticking to his teeth. "Never been much of a thinker."

"Really? Ain't that a surprise."

His hand slips from her hip, palm swatting at the soft flesh of her ass. The sting makes her tighten around him like a vice. 

"Watch your mouth."

The way she gasps his name, breathy and aching, makes him stifle a groan between clenched teeth, her voice rolling over him like warm sea breeze. 

She's a lot, he thinks, and yet—she asks for nothing. 

(Nothing but him. One of the things he can't give her. Won't.)

Still. 

Her nails press into his damp chest, catching on the smoked dusted patch of coarse charcoal hair. Bracing herself against the swell of his ribs, and slowly rocked back into him, taking him deeper and deeper into her soaked, tight cunt. 

The pulse in his neck throbs out of his skin, a tick she likes to press the flat of her tongue against and drink up the briny droplets of his sweat. He can see the want in her eyes when he catches her staring at the column of his throat, the way she bites her lip like it's a substitute for how badly she wants to sink those same teeth into his flesh. Mark him as her own. 

Possession. Ownership. 

Sometimes, he catches the glossy, rotund image of himself in the inky puddles of her pupils, blown wide with feverish desire, and he can see the same expression, the mien, captured in her startling hue. 

Mutual want. 

It's easier to give in sometimes. To let go. 

He can't, though, and selfishly, he knows she'll never ask. She will bite your lip, the inside of her cheeks, and your tongue until it's raw and bloody before she lets the words slip through the gap of her teeth. 

(He feels the rough, chewed ridges on velveteen flesh when he rolls his tongue between her ivory teeth, swiping over the insides of her cheeks; broken skin split and metallic—a testament to her own selfless desires.

He tastes it on his tongue long after she's gone. Wet pennies. Dandelion sour.)

It knots inside of him. She'd ruin herself before she asked him for more. 

Maybe somewhere in his avoidance, his distance, she knows he's ruining himself by just giving her this much. Nothing, and yet—

Everything to him. 

An impasse, then. Uncrossable when he's already two feet out the door. 

"Joel—"

"I know, sweetheart," he murmurs, low. Rucked gravel. Falling rocks. It jars him how easily he responds to her. She says his name, and he'll drop anything in his hands to get to her quickly enough. "I know." 

The wound on her side pulls taut when she moves. It draws his eye like a beacon. Makes him grind his teeth together until it sparks pain down his jaw, the enamel sawed to the raw nerve. 

His hand slides over her molten flesh, trailing over the soft curve of her waist, until his thumb brushes the seam that keeps her insides from spilling out. The swollen, bruised skin is warmer than the rest of her body. Glossy where it tugs against the black threads keeping her whole. 

Joel didn't go with her on this particular trade. She went with some new kid they'd picked up, all varsity grins and clean hands. He seemed so damned eager to get her attention in the pub. Her age, too. 

Made a pretty couple, Ron said. Fucking loud mouth Ron. 

He was supposed to go, but when the kid caught him in the corner, nursing a beer that sat in his guts like a stomach ache, and said, hey, man, can I take your spot? he didn't know how he was supposed to say no and still cling to the degrees of separation he wedged between himself and the world. 

So, he raised his mug to his mouth, and forced himself to drink, to nod. 

Knock yourself out. 

The flash of sadness that flickered over her face meant nothing at all—nothing—but he felt something churn inside of his rotted guts. Atrophy, he thinks. He isn't meant for this. Doesn't want it. Need it. 

She's a bigger liability the closer she gets. A slow-moving black hole consuming all of the counterscarps he dug until nothing is left but crossable rubble. 

It's better, then, to cut it at the root before it infects the rest. 

So, he does. 

Maybe, he expected something different. For her to call this thing what it was, and then demand more of him, yell and scream and beg for the things he wouldn't give her—if only so he could break her heart into pieces, and force her to let go. To stop. 

Force himself to do the same. 

But she doesn't 

It's a quiet acquiesce; a little more than a nod, and a grim line of her pretty mouth. Okay, it says. If that's what you want. 

And that's what she always says, isn't it? If that's what you want, Joel. Whatever you say, Joel. Sure, Joel. Okay, Joel. 

A spitfire in ochre. A bright lighthouse in the middle of the grey sea. 

(The only person she dims for is him.)

Joel doesn't see her off. Doesn't say be careful or come back safe because words like those don't fit between his teeth. They aren't meant for the nothing between them. The chasm of everything she can't pry from his gnarled fingers. 

She leaves with him. 

He drinks alone. 

Despite whatever nonsense Tommy says, spouted over rationed potatoes and deer meat stew, he isn't sulking. 

"Let your girl go out alone? Unlike you, brother."

The way the words sat in his chest felt like an anvil. 

"Ain't my girl," he muttered. He wanted to be angry but all he felt was numbness. "Ain't my anything."

It's Maria who gets under his skin when she scoffs.

"Joel Miller, you're the biggest dumbass I ever met, save for your damned brother. Gonna push a good thing away and die alone." 

"No one asked you." 

Maria tries to fill in the blanks of something that doesn't exist. 

It peels back the gossamer from his eyes, and he sees, then, the way they skirt around him and her like it's something. As if his name is permanently attached to hers. 

He pretends he doesn't feel the burn in Maria's glare when he doesn't see her off at the gate.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't. 

He isn't there when she comes back, and hates, even more, that he feels something prickle inside his chest when Maria catches him near the stables, and says, I expected more from you, Joel.

It doesn't feel good when he bites back, that's your problem, Maria. Shouldn't have gotten your hopes up. 

Joel lives in his vindication, in his pettily forced indifference. She hasn't come to see him, anyway, and he's sure that she and Varsity jacket are meeting at the pub for that date he'll never give her. 

Doesn't matter, he thinks. And then, if only to burn himself in the flames, he adds: better this way. 

She'll know when he's not there. She's smart like that. Know him in ways he doesn't think anyone else ever could. Ever wanted to. 

(He hates it, and her, sometimes, for it.)

She'll understand. She might corner him one day with that dry ire dripping from the corners of her mouth, patronising and grim, and she'll do what she does best when she strips him bare and leaves him to rot. 

Her eyes are cobra pits. Her teeth leak venom. 

But she won't push. 

It'll simmer out when she blinks, knowing that this is it, and she'll say: okay, Joel. 

Okay. 

He braces for it—hates that has to because that means something, something he isn't ready to acknowledge—and—

And it's all moot. 

She never shows up at the gate. 

It punctures something in his lungs when Tommy looks up at him, face ashen and worried, and says: "she didn't come back. They didn't come back."

It takes an hour to find her, left for dead and beaten within an inch of her life by the side of the road. A wound in her side—a gaping hole he swears he can see through. Milky bones poke through, drenched in red, and—

His heart doesn't stop, but a piece of it breaks off and lodges itself in his throat. He can't swallow. Can't breathe.

Something curls out from the moon-white line of her rib. 

A bud, he thinks. Distant. Warbled. A saprophyte. 

He has the image of her in his head. The same one he sees when he closes his eyes and falls into a fitful sleep. 

Beautiful even as the cordyceps split her skull into blooming monkshood in hideous grey and plum. Pale and lifeless; a marionette on toadstool strings. A puppet in fluorescence. 

"She's—"

Tommy's hand reaches down, fingers curling around the sprout. 

Don't— not Tommy, too—

He pulls back, and Joel catches the tremble in his joints, the whites of his knuckles, when he spreads his fingers. 

In the palm of his hand sits a leaf. 

A leaf. 

The bark that leaves his chest tears right through the clot in his throat. Rips him open from the inside out. 

"A fucking leaf—"

He carries her back, and doesn't let go until the doctor is there, urging him out of the room. 

"You'll get in the way." 

He sees the looks they give him when he passes, but Joel never cared what people think. 

Doesn't plan on starting now, either. 

He's on the wrong side of fifty, and has more blood on his hands than the looted bars of soap could ever scour clean. He knows who he is, and maybe, maybe, knows what he wants, and Ron's loud mouth never meant much to him, anyway. 

Joel gets a name when she's sleeping after surgery—lucky, he overhears, got there in the knick of time, any later and—and brings nothing with him when he leaves. He won't need it. Doesn't want it.

He finds them chatting over an open fire, and beats them to death with nothing but his bare hands. 

He doesn't burn them. Doesn't bury them. 

When he's finished, covered in blood and aching, and satisfied, he drives an ice pick through their skulls (the same thing, he finds, that caused the hole in her side), and leaves them to rot. 

They say nothing about the blood on his shirt, or the broken, mangled fingers of his hand. He's content to leave them. To feel the agony as his broken bones split through cracked skin.

(He thinks of her—broken, blue—and clenches his hands so tight, the pain makes him blackout.)

He only lets Maria patch him up when she hisses about infection, and blood poisoning. 

Says nothing at all about what he'd done, where he'd gone. 

She doesn't ask. 

When she's finished, she says: "woke up yesterday."

He knows. Still: "that right?" 

"Gonna go see her?"

"Don't need me crowding around her bed."

"Maybe she, for some reason, wants to see your ugly mug."

"She tell you that?" 

"Didn't ask about you, if that's what you're asking." She snorts. Shakes her head. "Both a'you are really perfect for each other, you know?"

"We ain't." 

Her brow raises. Something prickles across her expression. "Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing," she shakes her head with a small smirk. "Just… didn't know you knew the word we, is all." 

"We done here?"

He doesn't go to her. 

Stubborn as an ox, she comes to him. 

She says nothing about the bandages on his black and blue hands. Nothing about the way he can't make a fist through all the swelling. Her hands are soft, and warm, when they wrap around his. Small, delicate. A baby deer cupping the paws of a grizzly bear. 

His eyes flash with something that tastes of the same rotten satisfaction he felt gnarled inside of his chest when the man who left her for dead on the side of a road wheezed as Joel broke his nose, and then battered the broken bulb into a messy, mushy pulp. 

He didn't stop until grey matter leaked through the holes. 

She knows what he did. He feels it in the way she stares at the black, swollen mess of his fingers. Bones broke on teeth, on a fractured skull. 

He doesn't regret it. He doesn't even think he enjoyed it much, really. 

It had to be done. Had to. 

They took a life. Varsity Jack, she tells him. Stabbed in the heart when he tried to defend her with the same ice pick that ripped through her flesh. 

Her tone is flat. Empty. 

He sees bruises on her knuckles, those little fists were her only defence against them, and the red welt on the man's face makes sense now. 

He feels proud. 

She's not broken—battered, beaten, torn to pieces—but she still stands, whole, intact. Resilient. Strong. 

(A survivalist. The only time she ever alluded to more was to tell him that he was worrying for nothing. That, above all, she would survive. Outlive him, even.

"What are you so afraid of, old man?" A cheeky wink. Her tongue dips out, and touches the upper corner of her lip. "I'm gonna outlive you, anyway."

God, he thought, he really hopes she fucking does.)

It doesn't surprise him to see her eyes cloud with anger, arsenic white, when she brings his hands to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. Anyone else might have asked why. Said thank you, even. 

She just murmurs, "I hope they suffered." 

Saccharine sweet. 

Rotten to the core. 

He saw the same shade of calamity in her eyes when she wandered in, grim and distant, as the one that stared back at him in the mirror. Her complicity in this doesn't surprise him. If anything, he wonders if she's angry he left nothing behind for her. 

The thought makes his lips quirk in a needle of something he hasn't felt in a long time. 

"They did."

The words are uttered like a promise. His busted pinky twitches, and it makes her smile. A bloom of petal pink flowering across her face. Soft and tender. The swell of a sea mark burgeoning out in the gloom of grey. 

And all for him.

Joel pulled her in close. Closer still. 

(Too close, maybe, because now he doesn't know how he'll sleep without her by his side)

His thumb slips over the tumid skin poking out from tight, black sutures. The threads are the only thing keeping her together. 

Beneath it is a bruise. Black. The tip of his thumb presses against the cresting peak. Knuckle to skin, it's a perfect fit. 

(In all the same ways he and she aren't.)

"I'm okay, Joel," she whispers, and the thick, dulcified tone of her voice shakes him from the labyrinth of his mind. 

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds. 

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry. 

"Yeah," he intones, and he isn't sure if he's speaking to her, himself, or a god he hasn't spoken to since he was eighteen and Sarah got sick for the first time. Maybe everyone, all of them, all at once.

It makes her huff. "Am I losing you already, old man?"

"Ain't that old," he bites back, hips lifting when she slides down. It makes him nudge something that has her eyes fluttering, mouth dropping, slack. Her nails catch skin when they rake over his chest. 

Sex has always been an outlet. A comfort. It blankets that part of his head that never quiets—failures, failings—and offers a respite from it all. Her weight on his hips, chest, thighs doesn't dull it all but buffers it. 

White noise in his ears when her nails rake over his skin. The scent of her clings in the air around them—sex, kerosene, cinder, ash: the scent of a wet forest after a wildfire scorched the earth—and clots out the fetor of decay, of mildew, and moss, the earthy tang that reminds them of death. Of them. 

It's a distraction. Distance in skin, sweat, and heat. 

It's just sex, just—

"God, Joel," she gasps loud, sharp, when he pitches his hips into her, blunt and unforgiving, and hits deep. Carves out the shape of him in her soft, fluttering flesh, and tries not to get lost in the thick scent of her. 

It dusts over everything until he still smells her even when she isn't here. 

Temporary made permanent. 

It's the very thing he runs from finally catching up. He feels the graze of fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck when he looks at her, poised and centred above him. Aphrodite in flesh and bone. Her fingers prickle his skin with their sharp tips, and the indents left behind are soothed over when she gasps his name like it's something special. Meaningful. An orison murmured in the quiet box of a confessional booth. 

The curtain rustles. 

"Yeah," he grunts, low and filthy; the noise sticks in the back of his throat when he feels her tighten up around him. A little apple-sized fist of pleasure. He flexes his thighs, hands grasping her tight, and knows he's going to keep her here again tonight. "Fuck, sweetheart—"

The way she moves is liquid. Mercury. He watches, eagle-eyed and enraptured, as she squares her shoulders, and takes him to the root. The base. 

Her presence in his life atrophied his defences until they lay scattered on the sheets that reek of her. In the folds of his pillow where he rests his head at night. The featherlight wood of his guitar when she leans over his shoulder, and says, play me another one, Joel. 

He's a dog without an owner. A stray mutt on the outskirts of town, wandering through the city in search of sustenance. 

She's the one who keeps feeding him. Lays out a dish just for him, and scratches her nails behind his ears until the curl of his lips subsides. A slow broiled trust. He stops showing her his canines, his claws, when she shows him the vulnerable curve of her neck, and lets him mark her skin with his touch. 

Joel will mourn her the same way he does everyone else—achingly empty, and tearless—but he thinks, now, that he might think of her once, and then never again. He's selfish. Always has been. 

(Can't afford not to be when she looks better bearing his mark. When he sleeps easier with her breath in his ear.)

Just sex. The words are weak in the back of his head, and he feels the shaky resolve begin to crumble, chossy wobbling under unsteady feet, when her head falls back in a mockery of prayer, the utterance of his name heavier than the sins on his shoulders. Just sex. Just—

The grille falls, and shatters into smelted pig iron at their feet.

—it's just her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of. Won't. Not now, not ever. He won't give her anything, nothing but the touch of his hands, and the weight of his body, but it's juxtaposed to the worry heavy in his chest, the anger still lacing the broken bones in his fingers when his thumb brushes the curve of her wound. 

It splits in her ardour. The bottom scab tugged too much, lifting from broken flesh. 

Ichor pebbles on the seam. It pools an angry merlot against the indigo scab, but when it slides down her flesh, it's Phlegethon red. 

His thumb catches it. It's warm, and sticky. He smears it over her quivering belly, and fights the urge to try and lick it clean. Knows, somehow, it would taste of Lethe. 

Joel's teeth ache when he grinds them together, tongue lashing across the ivory seal. He's thinking too much—abstracts, concretes; they blur together in a cacophony of want, take, run, hide—

Keep. 

"It's okay," she says again, as if all his secrets laid bare. As if the talons digging into his flesh somehow tapped a vein, an artery, that leads directly to his stem, and she's syphoning the thoughts in his head with the same ease that she steals the breath from his lungs. "It's okay, Joel. It's—"

She doesn't finish. Her words are shorn, bitten at the grain when he reaches up, holding her around the waist, and brutally fucks into her weeping cunt with the finesse of a starving man invited to a feast fit for a King. 

It jostles her. Breasts swaying, head bobbing back and forth as he nearly lifts her off the bed with the force of his thrusts. 

The brutality of it screams one shrill echo of it isn't. None of this is okay. None of it. 

She's chiselling him open until he's a raw wound exposed to the unforgiving air. Until he bleeds and thinks of her. Until the only sound that drowns out the terror raking across his synapses is her voice when she murmurs his name. 

"We're fine, Joel—," it carries the flavour of axiom. Aphorism when she says: "we'll be okay."

She trembles over him, muscles straining to keep up. This isn't her taking; despite being perched above him like a queen astride her throne, she gives. Lowers herself the way he likes. Circles her hips until he sees white behind his eyelids. 

The weight of her feels like an anvil. The heat is enough to liquefy his bones. 

"Keep goin'," he rasps the words out—a strange limbo of being both an encouragement and a demand. It lacks the bite it had before, when he'd bend her over and fuck her until he was satisfied, until the howling in his head, and the ache in his bones was eased with the soporific gossamer only sex could give him. "Just like that, pretty thing—"

It's a slip. An accident. 

Her rhythm stutters. Her ribs expand wide under his palms; ballooning up so much he wonders if she's trying to burst them at the seams or float away. Irrational, of course. Sex makes him stupid. Makes him hungry and needy, and has him feeling like he's almost, almost human, and—

He holds on a little tighter. 

Pretty thing. Her lips form the words in a soundless exhale. Pretty thing. She's used to him calling her all sorts of sobriquets smeared in a palpable stroke of derision. It's not contemptuous, but he makes his mockery of it clear with the flout in his tone. Sarcastic, caustic. 

Sure thing, beautiful. If that's what you want, sweetheart. Go on then, gorgeous. 

She always wore the same sour twist to her lips, the exaggerated eye roll. The heavy huff. 

It was never flirtatious, never complimentary. 

This—pretty thing—is the softest he'd ever regarded her. 

He watches her throat bob when she swallows, eyes tracing the nervous flutter as she struggles to grasp the concurrency of his words, the way he said them. Their meaning. It flickers through those depths that threaten consumption whenever they dust over the length of him. Thinking. Thinking. 

They were always abstract, but his words are concrete, and she isn't sure how to carry the heavy cinder he drops on her. Her fingers are used to the ephemeral weight of his scorn; the delineation of distance—unspoken but unignorable. Unequivocal in its separation. 

"Wow," she breathes, tremulous. She grasps at normalcy but he can see how much those two words have rattled her. She swallows again. Eyes narrowing. Viper pits. "Getting soft in your old age, huh?"

Joel isn't ready to acquiesce. 

He pitches his hips up, letting her feel the solid length of him—blunt, burning iron—and feels his chest flutter when she whines, head dropping back as he bludgeons into her core. 

"Fuck, Joel—"

He isn't soft. Isn't malleable. He's made of carbonised grief, anguish, despair. Reinforced with volcanic clinkers running rivets of apoplectic fury. 

He isn't soft. Isn't what she deserves, or needs, or should even want—

But the way she says his name is pyrolysing. 

Cinder. Soot. Ash. 

He spent so much time holding firm against the walls to keep her out, he never bothered to filter the air he breathed. She clots in his lungs. The scent of her builds. A mass forms. Metastasises inside of him. 

Her hands fall there, palms drawn to the steady thump of his beating heart. It drums under her skin, a stuttering rhythm that makes her own chest swell with her shaky inhale. 

His slide, rough skin scraping over her soft flesh. She burns hotter than the acorn stove in the corner of the room, and he feels the heat simmering in his veins. Scents the sulphur and volcanic ash in the air when she leans down, bending at the elbows to press her lips against his. It's chaste, as far as their usual kisses go. Biting and vitriolic. As if being sweet, tender, was forbidden. 

Maybe it was. He doesn't know what he'd have done if she kissed him like this back then. Honeyed rich, and molasses slow. It tastes like smoke but reminds him of the rock candy he'd make at home with Tommy when he was young. 

She moans into his mouth when his hands slip around her waist, her thigh. He holds her steady, and rocks up into her to the same tremulous beat as her clumsy, fragile kisses. The vibrations buzz on his bruised lips, and the tingle of her voice washing over him makes his cock twitch inside of her. 

The press of him, unyielding and firm, against her soft, soft walls makes him grunt. Another noise pulled into the cacophony of them. It's lower than anything he's ever made before. New. Novice. 

Fucking her now feels marginally different than it had only yesterday. It's raw. Vulnerable. 

He thinks of a slow burn. A candle wick. 

Wonders, then, if she feels it, too. This rawness that sits in his thundering chest; a scraped-out, hollow feeling that draws in more and more of her until the crater is filled with the essence of her sweat, the heavy breaths she tries to stifle in her throat to keep kissing him like she'll never get the chance to again. 

And that must be it. 

This isn't what he normally gives her—bruises and bites, beard burns over the delicate softness of her flesh; he leaves her kiss-bruised and drunk off of the taste of him, malt-heavy and whisky sour. 

Intimacy is saved for moments when she cums around him, tightening up like a strung bow in his archer's hold; when she squeezes herself into the nook of his shoulder, whimpering as he fucks her through her high, and chases his release in the spasming clutch of her willing body. When he cums, painting her stomach, her thighs, her ass, with the stain of his spend, the only physical proof he'd been inside of her, and smears the wet mixture of them on her heated flesh, still buzzing with the aftershocks of her orgasmic haze. 

It's reserved for the microcosm carved from their shared release, drenched in the glow of the chemical slurry that saturates their brains, releasing endorphins until they feel nothing but the buzz of each other. Skin to sweaty skin. Each breath a gasp. 

He lets her linger in these soft moments. This singular dissonance sits incongruously with everything else between them. But then she shifts. The microcosm that filmed around them bursts. 

She slips away after he does, slowly leaning over to pull on her discarded clothes, and wipe the stain of him from her body. 

His fingers itch for a cigarette when he watches her through lidded eyes as she stumbles around on fawn legs. 

She always hesitates for a moment. Joel often wonders if she's waiting for him to ask her to stay. 

He never does. She leaves. 

(Rinse. Repeat.)

But now—

"Easy, now," he murmurs, tongue slipping through the gap of her teeth to chase her taste. "Don't rush this, sweetheart."

Everything about this is unlike him, and she moans her disquietude into the scant space between them, brow knotting together when her stitches pull, and he leaves a bloodied trail across her waist, knuckles split and bleeding anew. 

They're both bloodied, he finds. Drenched in each other's sweat, spittle, and blood. 

It makes dizzy. Makes his fingers dig into her flesh, holding her closer to his heaving chest as he takes. His hips raise off the bed—a clumsy slant into her welcoming sex, and he feels her shudder when he hits deep, cock nudging that soft place inside of her that always makes her forehead crease. 

He can't see it when she leans down, peppering wet kisses across his grey beard, and painting hard through her nose when he presses the flat of his palm against the base of her spine and fucks into her with sharp, unrhythmical thrusts. 

"That's it, take it just like that—," he grinds the words off, and tastes the condescension in his tone. 

In response, she bites down on his pulse point. 

Another break in the routine. The rules lay scattered around them, smouldering embers of this incipient beginning to something neither of them is ready for. 

Her hands wiggle out from between their chests, bringing them closer together than before, and when she tangles her fingers in the damp curls behind his ears, he swears he can feel her heartbeat echoing through his ribs. 

He spears himself into her faster, seeking that place he knows will make her melt—

"Joel, oh—ah, fuck—"

—and once found, he cruelly angles the head of his cock into it, rasping out words of patronisation into her ear. 

Good girl, he says, and groans when her cunt tightens around him like a nautical bow. Taking me so good. Gonna cum for me? Gonna cum around my cock—

He can feel his release brimming up like a fever in his veins. White-hot and arctic cold. It sets his nerves on fire, and the pressure of her around him makes him see pure white. 

He thinks of church on Sundays when she chants his name like a hymnal—Joel, Joel, Joel—and finds nirvana when she sinks her teeth deeper into his flesh, unmarked and unclaimed until now. He'll have the perfect impression of her teeth embedded in his skin, and thought alone makes that gnarled spool inside of him loosen. 

Joel is taken by surprise when she cums—voice a shaky, shrill howl of his name, and the sound of it, the blood that stains his beard when she turns, baring her teeth and pressing them flat to his jaw, makes him grunt. It's raw. An oozing wound.

She flutters around him like the beat that echoes through his bones, and feels a hunger inside of him grow. 

The uncoiled knot inside of him rears, once dormant and dead to the world, now gnashing its jowls at the hands that prodded it from its slumber. Rapacious. A black hole when it yawns. 

The town knows she's his. Has since she sidled up to him, all soft smiles and viper eyes, and asked him to dance, for a drink, and what's a handsome man like you doing in a place like this? Got anyone I should worry about, Joel? Wanna dance? Wanna fuck—

And they know, now, that he's hers when he carries her in his arms, and knocked his forearm into the necks of anyone who tried to pry her from his clutch. 

They know. They know, but it's not enough. 

He wants to mark her, stain her. Leave her with the permanent smear of him on her pretty skin. 

Fuck—

This wasn't supposed to happen, but the keen awareness comes much too late. 

He fucks the frustration into the tight clutch of her willing, forgiving, body, and tries not to come apart at the seams when she mewls his name like he's just as much of a burden to her as she is to him. Bankrupt. Bereft of the walls and the rationale that kept him lightyears away from everyone else around him (until Ellie, the hospital—this place that reeks of stagnancy and burrowed into his marrow), he crumbles in her hold once more. 

His release hits him like a sucker punch to his gut, and the force of it makes him ache.

He doesn't pull out like he always, always, does despite the contraceptive she has, and spilling inside of her spasming cunt feels too much like heaven for him not to come apart at the seams. For him not to shatter into pieces when she pulls him closer, and murmurs, that's it, Joel. That's it—cum for me. Just let go, I got you—

And for the first time in a long time, he does.

It's an awkward assemblage of limbs that don't fit together, bodies that are too incompatible, but he tugs her down onto the mattress beside him, and makes it work. She rests the flat of her palm over his sweat-slicked chest, nails raking through the dusted grey smatter of hair on his chest. The inside of her thigh is wet with him, with her, them, when she slides it over his hip. 

Her head rests on soft tissue where his arm and shoulder meet, ear nestled into his armpit. His arm around her back, fingers resting on the curve of her elbow. It's then, when he finds his thumb brushing small circles into her dewy skin, that he realises what this is. 

Cuddling, he thinks, a touch derisively, in the apocalypse.

It was never a burning release, the aftermath of that intoxicating chemical bath of endorphins, oxytocin, and then a quick until next time. 

Being trade partners for most of the scheduled shifts—his brutality, and her knowledge of survival made them a perfect match outside of this clumsy moment of intimacy—meant that she often stayed for a few hours afterwards discussing plans, and who to barter with next or the places they haven't yet scavenged. Lying naked beside each other, shoulders sometimes brushing as they spoke—that was the extent of their post-sex ritual. 

This, he knows, is new. Different. 

It has the same cadence as last night when his massive hand swallowed her wrist in his palm, and he said, just sleep here, but it's a syncopation. Lighter, somehow, than the gruff way he demanded her company, the brutal divot between his brow. 

She moves, slow and languid, and for a moment he thinks about letting her leave. Repairing the chasm that crumbled between them into heaps of broken ruination and anguish, her hand brushes his when she pulls away, and he knows he won't. 

For such a massive presence, she's surprisingly small in his grasp. The bump of her wrist bone fits snug against the broken, swollen knuckle of his middle finger when he folds his hand around hers. 

The hitch in her breath, the rapid flutter of her pulse beating against his too rough, too worn palm are the only measure of her hesitation, her confusion. 

They're not themselves in this moment. 

The moor around him collapses. A sinkhole forms. 

He clings to her and drags her under with him.

The words won't form on his lips. His throat is bereft of what he feels in his marrow, unable to utter them aloud, to make them real. As if speaking his burgeoning desires is somehow worse than a death sentence. 

Wanting in this world is dangerous, and ruinous, but when Joel sees the dawning realisation buoying to the surface in those unfathomable black holes, he knows there's nothing more worrisome, more deadly, to him than her insatiable appetite. Her desire for more. 

More—

And just him. 

Something in her gaze splinters. Cracks. Her shoulder slump in something that tastes of the same defeat that taints the pinch in his brow. 

"You are getting softer, Joel Miller," she takes a stab at a joke but her hands shake too much for it to land properly. "Who'd have thought all it would take is old age and mortality—"

"Shut up," he grumbles, and fights the thrum of satisfaction that spumes in his veins when she lays back down beside him. "Didn't hear you complainin' this much five minutes ago."

"Yeah, well—" her hands settle on his chest, fingers carting through the damp, matted hair. "There's a reason I'm always on top, you know. Worried you might throw your back out." 

"You say that like I haven't already." 

Her chin scraps over the soft flesh where his bicep meets the curve of his shoulder, eyes bright in the morning sun that smears rays of ochre across the bridge of her nose.

She's pretty, he thinks, and feels that same gnawing in his guts, that same hunger, when she dips, and presses a kiss to his skin. 

"Poor baby," she coos, brows drawing together in mock sympathy. "I can't believe a little missionary ruined you so badly. Guess I should take better care of the elderly."

"Wasn't the missionary," he huffs. Her skin is soft, tacky, when he runs his fingers over her shoulder. "It was carrying your heavy ass home."

"Did my heavy ass snap your hips, too—"

"Christ," he bites out, but it lacks any heat. "You just never shut up, do you?" 

He hears the click in her throat when she swallows. 

"Guess you'll just have to shut me up, won't you, old—"

He presses his lips to hers, and steals the goading words from her quivering mouth. 

"Call me an old man again, and I'll spank your ass, little girl."

The condescending tone is thick, but where he expects her indignation over the same words spoken to her by everyone else when she said she wanted to go with him on runs—stay here where it's safe, little girl—it instead makes her suck in a sharp breath between her teeth. He feels the vacuum of it against his lips, and blinks up at her. 

"Did you like that—"

"No," she snaps, and drops her head to his chest. "God, Joel, you really know how to ruin a moment."

"Is that what this was? A moment?"

"Yes," she volleys back. "You don't think it was?"

He swallows down the tang of panic that salts his tongue, and presses his lips to her crown instead. 

"Ain't much of one, was it?"

"We'll make a better one," she murmurs, the lilt of a promise heavy in her words. 

When she settles in his fold, cheek laying flat against his chest—hiding her embarrassment he tones with a particular thrum of fondness so sweet it makes his teeth ache—he folds his arm over her shoulder, keeping her tucked into the bracket of his body. 

She's too small for him to ever be a perfect fit. Too hard inside that pretty little head for him to ever wiggle through. Too soft for him not to ruin her completely when he holds her too tight in his hands that overlap in a way that sometimes makes him dizzy, feverish with want, with fear. 

She doesn't click in the same way Tess does—did. 

A silent agreement of unspoken distance. Never ask for more, it hissed because you'll be brutally disappointed. Never hunger because you won't ever be satiated. Don't yearn. Don't want. Don't, don't, don't—

No, she doesn't click. She doesn't fit. Not with him. Not at all. 

(Tess left him whole. 

She devours.)

Consumes. 

Her eyes are black holes, and ever since she looked at him through the fanned ring of her lashes, and said: you won't break me that easily, he's been standing on the edge of her event horizon waiting for that perfect singularity to swallow him whole. 

(He thought her pull would happen quickly. Instantaneous. 

But she's been ripping him apart the entire time; morsel after morsel until all that remains is raw nerve. Scraps.)

A slow descent into comfort, kinship. 

She's on the same plane of existence as Tommy, Ellie. Maria, too, he supposes, a touch begrudgingly. His circle widens, expands. The bubble encompassing her, too, and he knows that he'd mourn her in the same hushed breath as the rest. 

I'll outlive you, old man. 

(He's never wanted something more in his life right now than for those words to come to fruition.)

For the first time since the walls reared, since the gunshot that still echoes in his ears like a reminder of his sins, his failures, Joel thinks of tomorrow. And the one after that. And after that. 

He thinks of her, and them, this, in the afternoon. Over old stew. Tommy's laughter. Maria's knowing glances. Ellie's anger. Her scorn. Distrust. 

Wasting the night away in the bar that's always several octaves too loud not to make him tense, antsy. Watching her dance around the room, ballerina nimble with a sprinter's pace. Listen to her joke and laugh with the men who look at her a touch too long, and a shade too intense, and—

Bringing her home after. Back here in this small house where he rots. Where he plays his guitar as if the chords of Hurt would ever be enough to drown out the bullets and the bloodshed. The clicks, the groans. The scent of moss, and fungus. 

Taking her to bed in the sheets that hasn't stopped smelling like her since he fucked her three times over Christmas until she sobbed into his pillow, and begged him for respite. When she brushed the grey hair from his temple with fingers that wouldn't stop trembling despite the ease in her grin, and the polynya in her eyes as she regarded him with more than just desire. More than just sex and sweat and the comfort that comes with losing yourself to the chemical high of another body tucked into the crevasse of your own. 

She doesn't fit. She doesn't belong. 

But fuck—

He knows he's gone when he can't imagine her anywhere else. 

"Sure," he says, and wonders when she let herself into his life, into the gnarled remanants of his chest. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

(He only dreams in black and white, but when he closes his eyes and dreams of her, it's in a startling palette of browns, reds, and blues.)

#UMMMMMMM #this ended up becoming bigger than i expected #it was honestly supposed to just be super quick smut as an intro to me writing Joel and now it's a Thing #Joel Miller #Joel Miller TLOU #joel tlou #tlou #joel miller x reader #joel x reader #joel tlou x reader

[curiositydooropened]

Ranged • 00: Prologue

After Hell brought Horror to the Heartland, America’s dirt roads and open woods began to fall to rot and ruin. To prevent further inter dimensional slips, the government dispatched several workers, such as yourselves, to travel the country saving small communities. 

Pairing: special agent!Steve Harrington x special agent!Reader

Wordcount: 922 - This fic is episodic.

Warnings: very slowburn, coworkers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, canon-typical gore, weapons, fighting, murder, viruses, decay, monsters *This chapter contains mentions of animal harm, blood, and vomit/nausea.

This blog is 18+ only. I do not give permission for any of my fics to be duplicated, reposted, or put into AI. Thank you!

Navigation • Masterlist

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Moodboard • Episode 01: Firetower

Blood shone in thick, dark splatters across a freckled cheekbone. It stuck his hair to his ear and his collar to his throat. It stained a shoulder. You watched it glimmer under street lamps, watched the clench of his knuckles around the steering wheel, watched the bob of his Adam’s apple as he avoided your gaze.

There was no point saying it anymore, the words exhausted their meaning a year ago, but it was true nonetheless. You can’t save everyone. You both knew it. It didn’t hurt less.

You mopped at the blood splatter on your own cheeks with a spare t-shirt to flirt a discount out of the motel attendant. He slid you a key on a novelty ring while Steve parked on the far side of the lot.

You’d set the phone on its receiver by the time he exited the shower. You rinsed bloody clothes in the sink and brushed your teeth and slipped into an oversized t-shirt. You couldn’t remember who it belonged to. Maybe you’d picked it up at a thrift store along the way. 

“Owens?” He asked, voice gruff, eyes red. A claw mark dug into the flesh of his cheek, to the bone.

You reached into your duffle for the first aid kit to procure ointment and a butterfly bandage. “Sit.” 

He sighed, but did as instructed, towel falling to his shoulder. He winced as you patted ointment into his wound. “Did he say where to go next?” 

You nodded, pressing his flesh together until it wrinkled near his eye. “Small town in Western Montana. Locals think it’s the water supply. Park ranger called it in.” 

“How far?”

“Eight hours.” You zipped the kit closed and wedged it back into your bag.

“Okay,” he muttered, tossing his towel into a corner near the sink. He stretched sore muscles with a groan, and you watched the bruise on his ribs bloom in greens and browns. The swelling was down significantly from two days earlier. “We’ll leave first thing.” 

He meant first light. You glanced out a fogged window at the glow of street lamps. The vacancy sign buzzed bright red. The sky remained dark just beyond.

“Okay.” You sighed and toed under linens that had yellowed years ago. 

Steve triple checked the lock and toted his bat from the nook near the front door to his bedside. Then, he pulled his lighter from his pants pocket and shook it to his ear. By the look on his face, it needed a refill. He placed it to the bedside table between you, just beside the Bible.

“Are you okay?” He’d asked it four times already, a compulsion you’d learned to ignore.

“Yes.” You knew better than to reciprocate, knew he wouldn’t answer you anyway. You had minimal sleep hours left. It wasn’t worth the fight. You can’t save everyone.

“I’m going to turn the light out.” He warned, sliding himself into his own double bed. A large hand reached beneath an orange lampshade and the room went dark.

The darkness was spotted orange and blue, and you fought back the images of Steve’s fists meeting and elderly man’s face. You fought back the screams that rang in your ears, the copper taste on your tongue, and that pang that lay permanent in your nostrils.

Steve shifted in his bed, springs groaning beneath his weight, and you honed in on him instead. Every night, you fell asleep to the steady in and out of his breath, the comfort of him an arm’s length away.

—

The ranger’s uniform matched the coffee and cream in your styrofoam cup. The confusion knit between his brows matched those of dozens of local law enforcement across this country over the last year. You flashed you badges and asked him to take a seat, and hours later you were holding your hand over your nose to mask the smell of decay.

The corners of Steve’s mouth pulled upwards in a grim apology, sipping his own coffee.

A room full of National Guardsmen looked aghast. There was no guarantee a burn of that size could stay contained. Half of the state could be up in flames by the end of the week.

“Better than the alternative.” You promised.

The Spread started on a cattle ranch north of town, the herd dwindling as calves and heifers slipped into cracks and broke legs and necks. A large crevasse rotted through a patch in the back forty, splitting the land down the middle from government land near to the rancher’s estate.

On the back side, it seeped into the river. Trees were downed and turned to mush and rot. Where once sat a hunting perch, now folded into a vat in the ground.

The Ranger had taken you up by four-wheeler, an excursion neither of you had been prepared for in slacks and blazers. You supposed those were hazards of the job though, wading through the remnants of a hillside in nylon stockings.

Steve rolled the cuffs of his sleeves up past his elbows to dive into the meat of a fallen tree. It came back green and gooey, but nothing had nest inside. Not yet, at least.

“You called just in time,” he wiped his hand on his pant leg and you dry heaved a little.

“So this… virus,” the Ranger gestured to the pocket of melted flesh, root to branch, “it can infect humans too?”

“If it festers too long,” you nodded.

“And what might that look like?” He asked like he already knew the answer.

---

[A/N: Here she is. These two have been my new best friends lately, the one thing I've written that actually stuck because it felt good. Let's hope it stays that way so I can keep riding this train. I don't know how often I'll update this, but it'll be on-going. I'd love to write blurbs, and I have a few episode locations/monsters in mind.

I'd really appreciate it if you reblogged and/or left me a comment. Or if you're more inclined, head to my Ao3 and leave me a comment there. It'd really mean the whole world. xoxoxo]

#stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #stranger things fic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington hurt/comfort #steve harrington slowburn #amanda's wips #wip fic #ranged fic

[peachy-wolfhard]

Dating Leo II

a/n: I wanted to add more after I posted part one so here it is Bone Apple Teeth, I love leo sm so its LONG

Let me know if you would like to be on my tmnt taglist!

Warnings: swearing, grandchildren mention (splinter is gonna splinter), illness mention, insomnia, mentions of slapping leos bald head

Word count: 738 -woof

Insomnia gang

This turtle physically cannot sleep

When you don't spend the night he is CONSTANTLY texting you everything that comes to mind

“y/n…why is pizza a circle?” “idk lee can i come over :3” “yeth pls HURRY IM DYING HERE WITHOUT U”

Lying in his bed, cuddling, matching eyemasks ON, fan ON

Even with all of that, nothing works

The nights that the both of you are actually able to sleep he has a grasp on you

Holds you so close to him all the time, you guys are joined at the hip

Everyone besides Mikey and Splinter thinks you guys are gross

“You can't even say their names apart now it's ALWAYS Leo and y/n. You can't separate them they will DIE without each other”

“Calm down Mikey please you're scaring Shelldon”

Splinter is…well Splinter. He stays in your guys' relationship, with how dramatic you guys are he doesn't need his soaps

He loves to show you baby pictures of the boys esp the ones of Leo

((cough cough he definitely mentions grandchildren like the old man he is))

Bites all the time like anytime anywhere

Making breakfast peacefully listening to music- CHOMP

Getting ready for work- CHOMP

Dr. Delicate Touch has to intervene

Play fights with you in slow-motion

(slow motion voice) “yyy/nnn iiiimm goooinggg tooo kick your aaaasssss”

(also slow motion voice) “im gooonnnaaa kick yours firrrst”

HAND! HOLDING!

Initially, it started as a way to keep Leo from running off when exploring places, but then it turned into a regular thing

“My love, light of my life, future spouse eHEM!”

“What Leo”

“WHERE’S YOUR HAND I AM GOING TO DIE WITHOUT YOUR HAND IN MINE!! I ALREADY FEEL WEAK PLEASE I AM SUFFERING”

Absolute drama queen and don't get me started when he’s sick

Picture those old paintings of the sick children in bed, he’s that but dialed up to eleven

All he wants is cuddles and daytime television and don't you DARE come in between him and his Maury

Giving him medicine is surprisingly easy maybe it’s because he’s so out of it or maybe he’s just in love he’d let you do anything to him

But if you’re ever sick he does the exact same for you

If you fight medicine (just like me fr) he’s NOT afraid to use those ninja moves to get you to take your meds

Loves it when you read to him no matter what you are reading

Manga? Sign him up! Horror book? Let's get spooky! Sad book? I'll get the tissues! He just loves to hear your voice especially if you do different voices for the characters but not overly comedic voices, he’s here for the story!

Falls asleep listening to your voice with his head on your lap 99% of the time

Going to the Hidden City for date nights and getting up to absolute mischief

(having to then call Raph to come get you guys because you pissed someone off and just kicked their butt)

Speaking of the Hidden City! During their break in the Hidden City (when everyone gets arrested) you join Leo at the spa

After he gets kicked out he BEGS you to go to the creepy spa across the street with him

“Sorry sweetheart I too am in DIRE need of some relaxation plus it’s not often I’m in an exclusive club”

The moment he shows up with that gorgeous hair you’re suspicious

Texts you a selfie of his new hair with the creepy ass background

“Whatcha think? Even more handsome than normal? ;)” “go back to being bald i miss slapping ur bald head :(“

Anyway when he starts “sleepwalking” your immediate reaction is “Maybe it's the wig” but quickly forget all about it due to relaxation

“Um… yyyy/nnnn could you please help me out with one teeny tiny situation…? Please?”

Now you and Leo are on the case!

“Ooo lala finally some privacy ;)”

“Don't touch me until you’re bald AND we figure this out”

“Pwetty pwease? JUST ONE!”

“Fine, ONE kiss”

After the evil hair reveal and fighting with your boyfriend’s hair he's finally bald again

Leo explains the massage guy’s deal but it falls on deaf ears

“Hey, who’s that guy?” “He'sthe non-member we kicked out earlier!”

“I bet he and that human are the thieves. Call the cops”

After a quick stay in jail, you’re now peacefully back home

#rottmnt x reader #rottmnt leo x reader #tmnt x reader #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles x reader #rise leo #rise leo x reader #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #leo x reader #masterlist

[yourgentlegirlfriend]

Apple pie

HI!! i’m finally getting out of my writers block </3 i was so surprised i even wrote this whole chapter. now i know i said this is the last chapter… but maybe not.. who knows. i hope you’ve all been super good as you deserve and i love you all.

my masterlist

DISCLAIMER: IF YOU WERE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH NSFW/DARK CONTENT OR ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18 PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT WITH MY BLOG. MUAH.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of panic attacks, other than that there’s no other warnings </3

Word count: 3K

“Bone broth?”

Leon mumbled with a mouth full of food as you looked at him from across the table as he pushed his fork back into the big plate of pasta in front of him.

“I made bone broth and I boiled my noodles, It gives it more flavor.”

You shrug as you take another bite of the food you made, your eyes glancing over Leon’s shoulder to your open window behind him with the wide open view of his house.

“Did they say when they were gonna repair your door?”

It’s been two weeks, not that you mind Leon staying with you but you were curious when the house wasn’t going to be labeled as a crime scene, you weren’t supposed to go into the house but the investigation was so ongoing there were hardly any people there. They didn’t know Leon was staying right across the way, it was a little secret.

He let everyone know he was staying at his friend's house across town, it was super secluded and he swore nobody would find him. Right under their noses he laid in your bed.

The situation between you two was more than complicated, he had all this money so you only had to work one day at the diner a week he says. Being home with him has been weird though, your eyes glancing from your book every so often to see his arm behind his head as he leans on your couch, his eyes fixed on the TV in front of the two of you.

“What?”

You were staring again. The last two weeks Leon claims you have an awful staring problem. You denied it and of course you did, but it was hard to not stare at the man. It took you a while to even look him in the eye, but you slowly got used to his presence, intimidating or not.

“Nothing”

Your finger turns the page to your book as your eyes shift back to the words on the page. Leon leans himself forward, his eyes reading your book over your shoulder.

——————————————————————

It takes everything in him to not press his lips against your shoulder, your glasses resting so perfectly at the tip of your nose and that rose red spreading so perfectly across your cheeks.

It’s been hard staying here with you. When you think he’s asleep and you peek your head into your room, staring at him for a few seconds before walking away. His body is still healing from all his wounds but everytime he comes out to get a glass of water he sees you on the couch, body all curled up on the uncomfortable sofa he can’t help but pick you up, his teeth gritted as he carries you to your bed. You’ve been an angel letting him rest, but he felt guilty for the impure thoughts that invaded his mind.

You were just so perfect to him. Breakfast, Lunch, and dinner, everyday. He tried to just give you your space because he was in so much of it, your house was much smaller than his. He can’t help himself sometimes though.

——————————————————————

one month

Saturday nights specifically he noticed your routine was to do all the laundry and watch a random movie. This Saturday's random movie not playing though, the room silent as you fold at your shirts.

“No movie?”

Your head turns from the white basket to see Leon leaned against the frame of the entryway to the living room. The comfort of your own silence has been better than a movie lately, it’s been better since Leon was living here even if it was temporary. It used to be scary being all alone, the creeks in your floor making your heart race. He made you feel so much safer. It shocks you to look at him though, the change in his behavior was a good thing but it was like putting your foot in cold water. He went from ignoring you to suddenly living in your house.

Leon stared at you for a few seconds before he walked over to your radio on your desk of dying flowers, switching it on to some classical station. His hand reached into the big basket of laundry, his eyes wandering over yours to see how you folded your shirts. Your body shifted towards him, your arms laying the shirt flat in your arms. It’s hard not to laugh showing a grown man how to fold laundry properly, but he caught on quickly.

The radio hummed a soft piano song, usually you didn’t like jazz, not because it was bad but it wasn’t your favorite. Leon finished the last shirt laying it carefully on the stack of neat clothes before he glanced over at you, noticing your eye peering to the side to look at him as well.

“You know how to ballroom dance?”

Of all the things this man has asked you, you never expected this to be a genuine question from him.

“Am I supposed to?”

Leon chuckles softly before he reaches down, his fingertips dragging down your arm and to your hand.

“I’m not very graceful.”

You laugh as your fingers squeeze around his hand, your palms pressing against each other as his other hand lays your arm flat against his shoulder then goes down to your waist.

“Yeah I know, I live with you. Step forward when I step back.”

Is it that easy? Leon took a large step back, your legs moving forward but of course you stumble into Leon, his hands gripping your hip as a whistle pushes past his lips.

“Okay maybe you step back, I’ll step forward.”

Your feet step back, his body pushing forward into you.

It was that easy.

The music skipped song after song, your head laying against Leon’s chest. His heartbeat echoing through your ears. When was he holding you this close, his fingers tracing across your back in small circles.

The radio is silent but you’re still swaying with him, your eyes staring at the wall as you feel his chest rising and falling. Leon’s eyes were closed, his head tilting downward as he takes in a deep breath when his nose pushes into your hair.

“You don’t have to leave, you can stay.”

“I know.”

Leon’s voice is just above a whisper as his eyes open, his lips pressing to the top of your head.

——————————————————————

The energy shouldn’t have been awkward but it was. Because for some reason you and Leon have never once talked about his demeanor towards you. You set Leon’s plate down in front of him before sitting down across from him, rubbing your tired eyes as you take a bite of the eggs you made for you and him. And of course the room is dead silent, your fork scraping against the plate making you cringe a bit.

“When you.. stormed out of here that one time, why did you do that?”

Leon knew you’d eventually ask, it was only a matter of time before you became curious. Leon’s eyes scanned over the chipped wood on your kitchen table before he carefully set his fork down, swallowing the food in his mouth.

A man ridden with his own trauma. Years of even attempting therapy but he threw it down the drain because he knew it wouldn’t help him, how could it? How could somebody understand what he was going through? No normal person has seen what he did, have done the things he’s done.

“Leon..”

Your soft voice snaps him from his thoughts, your hand resting over his shaking one. And for once he felt like he had a choice, this wasn’t his job telling him or forcing him into interrogation rooms, this was just you and him.

“I was scared it was a trap.”

Leon admits as he turns his hand, his thumb grazing over your fingers as his head shakes.

“I’m a grown man, you know? I should be able to handle myself.”

“Sometimes it’s okay to let your guard down.”

You whisper as you squeeze his hand, his head nodding slowly before he brings your palm to his hand, pressing his lips to your soft skin before he grabs his fork, taking another bite of his food.

——————————————————————

three months

Your hands dig into the deep roots of your garden, your eyes fixated on the fact that they seem to have been overly healthy. This is surprising due to the fact that since Leon has been staying here you’re never outside anymore, yet your garden and your flowers were.. perfect. A sigh of defeat leaves your lips as you rest your wrists on your knees while you squat down before your eyebrows frown at the line of.. daisies? You don’t remember planting daisy seeds. You stand up, your feet slowly walking to the big section of white beautiful flowers at the front of your house, right by your porch

They’re beautiful too. Your fingers graze so carefully over the delicate flowers, admiring how soft the petals are as you rub your thumb over them.

“You finally noticed”

Leon’s voice made you jump, your hand pulling away from the flowers and your head turning to see him standing on your porch, but making his way down to where you stood.

“I was shocked you didn’t notice me coming outside so often to plant them, but they just started blooming and I’ve been playing a waiting game.”

The brightest smile spread across your face, your hands clapping together in joy before you grabbed his arm tugging slightly as you squeezed it

“Leon, I haven’t seen grown daisies since I lived in California when I was like… fifteen.”

Leon couldn’t help but smile happily as he watched you admire the flowers, the wind blowing slightly making you pull some hair behind your ears. The sight of you was almost overwhelming, the way your skin glowed and your lips curled into a small smile.

“Thank you.”

Your words made him focus back on you, meeting your eyes once more as he nodded, his hand coming up to fix your messy hair.

“Anything for you.”

—————————————————————-

four months

“You didn’t retire, and you’re still being called in for missions, the doctors said your injuries have subsided, you should be happy they’re letting you back Kennedy.”

Leon’s foot tapped against the tile of your kitchen floor as he stared out the window. His handheld at the counter as he let the line fall silent before he hung up, shoving his phone back into his front pocket as he glanced back down the hallway to see you sleeping, your arm hanging off the bed and your hair a mess.

He cleared his throat as he felt his balance shift, he held at the wall but could feel his heart racing so fast. His eyes squeezed shut as he groaned, his palm coming to rest at his chest as he sat himself down on the floor.

He should’ve ran. He should’ve gone home.

He felt fingers brush at his hair, and there you were squatted down beside him. Your words weren’t processing though, he watched your lips move as the sound of your very muffled voice rang through his ears.

You quickly noticed his state though, your thumbs rubbing over his cheeks as you sat down next to him, your arm laying against his back.

Leon’s breathing began to steady as he leaned down resting his head against your chest, his eyes closing as he let out a long breath listening to your heart beat.

You hoped he didn’t notice your heart racing, his hand coming up and rubbing the top of your hand.

“I’m sorry.”

Leon mumbled quietly as his ears finally stopped ringing.

“Never be sorry, not to me.”

——————————————————————

Sundays.

The only day of the week you work.

Leon knows that.

This specific Sunday was overwhelming, all you thought about was going home to see Leon. And for some reason on the way home you hit every single red light. Your stomach was aching too, why was your stomach aching? Your fingers anxiously tapped at the gem steering wheel cover as you pulled into your driveway.

He was asleep already? It’s only nine. You did stay an hour overtime, maybe he got tired. You pushed your key into your door, turning it open and throwing your purse on the small side table.

“So many people wanted decaf coffee today I burnt my palms so bad having to constantly re-brew pots.”

You spoke out as you ran your hands through your hair. You stopped in place, your head tilting towards the living room to see the lights off, and the same with the kitchen.

“Leon?”

You called out as you looked down by the door to see his shoes gone. Your hand twisted at the bathroom door, pushing it open to see the lights off.

Why are your eyes watering?

You walked down your long hallway which for some reason felt much longer than it usually did, you walked into the bedroom seeing the bed perfectly made as you and him left it this morning.

Your fingers nervously played with the hem of your shirt as you opened all the drawers frantically, all your clothes still perfectly on the left side but all his gone on the right.

Your throat let out an involuntary cry as you pulled open your closet doors to see only your clothes and shoes.

Why?

You hurriedly ran to the kitchen, flipping the light on to look for the spare key to his house but of course it was gone, a small slip of paper lying on the counter.

You wiped at your tears as you reached for it, your eyes scanning over the words.

“Daisy care instructions: Water at the base of the plant, at least once a week, the flowers don’t grow well in soggy soil, ample sunshine of course, and talk to them.”

Your elbows leaned against the counter as you dug your fingertips into your scalp.

How could he just up and leave? How could he not say goodbye.

——————————————————————

“I’m already so late.”

You yelled as you smudge your lipstick on in the bathroom, Leon smiling from the couch at the sound of you running down the hall. He quickly stood, his hand grabbing at your purse as he handed it to you.

“Don’t be late next time”

He chuckled as you stared up at him angrily, your hand squeezing at his forearm. He stopped you from walking forward, his hand resting at your waist before he sighed softly scanning over your face.

“What?”

You ask self-consciously as you reach up to see if there was something on your face. Leon shook his head as he stepped forward, his lips pressing against yours softly. Suddenly it didn’t matter how self conscious you were.

These past six months were proof Leon was your puzzle piece, you needed this man.

He carefully pulled away, his thumb rubbing at your bottom lip to fix your lipstick as he smiled down at you, kissing your forehead as you stepped away from him and out the door.

Watching you leave though was harder for him.

Especially knowing that he had to leave. He knew you’d work extra tonight, making sure to clean the whole house, and write you a quick note.

His hands ran over your favorite shirt, his head turning at the sound of his phone going off.

He was surprised you didn’t notice they gutted his house clean, he was also surprised you never noticed that they were calling him daily.

Maybe this would be good for you, he wasn’t what you needed and you deserved more and he hoped you knew that.

He needed you, but he had trained himself to not care as much. He thought about you getting married to another man, carrying his child, making his dinners. It hurt but that’s what he needed, he needed it to hurt him.

It’s what he deserved.

#yourgentlegf #leon kennedy #resident evil #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #leon kennedy angst #older leon kennedy #re6 leon #leon kennedy fluff #smut #fluff

[reddpenn]

Here is a song about my rock collection! It is a tune you probably recognize. Lyrics under the cut!

Permit me to parade my petrological anthology Collected in my quest for comprehensive mineralogy. Their shininess is second to their science and lithology. This song’s about my rock collection! Man, I love geology.

Oh, amethyst is purple ‘cause of iron, isn’t that real neat? And citrine is just amethyst plus lots of geothermal heat. And smoky quartz is brown from radiation and aluminum… Inclusions such as chlorite, rutile, goethite can bloom in ‘em!

(Inclusions such as chlorite, rutile, goethite can bloom in ‘em!) (Inclusions such as chlorite, rutile, goethite can bloom in ‘em!) (Inclusions such as chlorite, rutile, goethite can bloom in bloom in ‘em!)

Oh, sapphire and ruby, well, they’re both corundum chemically And emerald, aquamarine, and morganite are beryl. See, Historically each color had a different etymology And now they’re in my rock collection! Man, I love geology.

(Historically each color had a different etymology) (And now they’re in my rock collection! Man, I love geology.)

My fluorite is a favorite when it’s glowing under UV light. But should it be from Rogerley it changes when the sun is bright. And if you like fluorescence, put this fact inside your cranium: Chalcedony glows green because of ions of uranium!

When making porcelain vases, you need kyanite that’s powdered fine And celestine’s in fireworks and toothpaste such as Sensodyne. There’s mica in your drywall, and the litterbox has zeolites… Your bones and teeth and kidney stones are all hydroxylapatites!

(Your bones and teeth and kidney stones are all hydroxylapatite!) (Your bones and teeth and kidney stones are all hydroxylapatite!) (Your bones and teeth and kidney stones are all hydroxyl-apple-apa-tite!)

When dating strata layers ammonites can be real helpful guys. The sutures in their shell can tell how long ago they fossilized! And artifacts obsidian track trade in archeology. Those ancient folks had rock collections, man I love geology!

(And artifacts obsidian track trade in archeology.) (Those ancient folks had rock collections, man I love geology!)

Oh, did you know that peridot, as super hot peridotite Makes up the planet’s mantle and is also found in meteorites? Which make lechatelierite when it’s sandy soil that they strike. Another form of that is made by lightning, that’s called fulgurite!

Well, garnet makes the best dodecahedrons that you’ve ever seen. Prismatic crystals with three sides are quite unique to tourmaline. A certain mine in Spain produces pyrite that is cubical… Lepidolite can be botryoidal, but that’s quite unusual.

(Lepidolite can be botryoidal, but that’s quite unusual!) (Lepidolite can be botryoidal, but that’s quite unusual!) (Lepidolite can be botryoidal, but that’s quite unusu-usu-al!)

My knowledge of earth sciences is only as an amateur. But hounding and collecting rocks ain’t only for a connoisseur. And for my love of minerals I’m making no apology. Cause rocks are fun for everyone and man, I love geology!

(And for my love of minerals I’m making no apology.) (Cause rocks are fun for everyone and man, I love geology!)

#music #rock collecting #red pen has cool rocks #i am the very model of a modern major general #the pirates of penzance

[spiral-man]

This ep opens with describing how exhausted Sam is at work….something about the bone-apple-teeth not falling far from the horror podcast tree, Jon being like Elias/Jonah despite how hard he try’s not to be and Sam being like Jon. I should know (👁️) better by now then to get attached to characters doomed by the narrative, but I’m gay, so I won’t be doing that.

Anyways hope everyone’s excited for brutal pipe murder day tomorrow!!! <3

#the magnus archives #tma #the magnus protocol #tmagp #tmagp spoilers #the magnus protocol spoilers #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #samama khalid #sam khalid #doomed by the narrative #elias bouchard #jonah magnus #the eye #brutal pipe murder

[bunnyuki]

UNSAID WORDS. toge inumaki

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ) gift for: @darlingspeach

CW!! AFAB READER, she/her pronouns. au fantasy/medieval. toge is a dragon, reader is a human. mentions of slaughtering/people dying/hunting. mentions of blood and injuries. he doesn't understand much of human language. this is very short and silly, i apologize. SFW, FLUFF.

YOU DON’T SEE as many dragons around as you used to. the kings of the earth and the heavens were destroyed by greed. their wings were struck by spears and cannons, their blood was collected and tested as a product. the rich wear their scales at dinner parties, because they become necklaces and delicacies. their teeth became hunters’ trophies. dragons had nothing against humanity, but humans had a desire to have everything. their ruin brought that of other peoples.

and so, the remaining dragons fled. running from the world, choosing the loneliest places to call home. deprived of reliable companions, of their companions with wings, dealing with the losses of their loved ones. nothing was left for them but memories and bones. so disappeared that they became merely legends.

fantastic stories that parents told their children to amaze them, or scare them. false and lying stories for merchants desperate to sell their products cheaply. one of the strongest, most influential and powerful races in the world. reduced to nothing more than tales. a small belief spread among the dragons. humans were dirty. rotten, spoiled. disgusting creatures that cared about nothing. the sick apple that would rot the rest of the basket. by extension, hatred for those creatures that had barely sustained themselves for a century grew. humans who encountered dragons and their treasures did not come out alive to tell the story. and no one heard from them again.

life in a village is not easy. taxes are merciless, and nobles drown in champagne while families in your village count coins to find out if they can eat. you are not exempt from this. the marquis who controls the region is obsessed with more amounts of money. the village has been going through difficulties, and with winter approaching, some have already said their goodbyes. people will die. that is a fact. for the king and his court, nothing more than numbers.

the sweet embrace of death comes to seek everyone, eventually. this is the mortal life. but that’s not how you’ll end up. huddled in a bed, on a cold morning, praying to a god who wouldn’t listen to you. you refuse. that will not be your end.

plantings have been disappointing. food becomes scarcer every day, and from what it looks like, this will be a year with lots of snow and abundant hunger. and for this reason, a good deal of adapted hunting became the main source of food and income.

the local forests are dark, specks in the middle of nowhere that is your village. full of trees and animals that need to hide from people like you. like a squirrel collecting dried fruit and nuts. all you have is a rusty knife, a crossbow with five arrows, and faith. not in god, not in greater forces. all you need is yourself.

the traps you planted exist in strategic points. hidden by grass and branches, abusing the natural environment to create the illusion of safety. merely for a noose to tighten around the body of a small animal, or a bear trap to bend into a cruel bite.

checking the traps daily has become part of the routine. just as many other villagers were forced to adapt, so were you. the skins are usually removed and worn by you. or sold.

instead of finding a small animal split in half by your bear trap, what’s in front of you now is a boy. a young one. maybe your age. his purple eyes seem to contain decades of wisdom you couldn’t dream of. his hair has an abnormal tone, like a very pale shade of blonde. he turns over and groans, his ankle caught in the trap. the metal teeth dig deeper into the flesh every time he moves, and the blood is thick and red.

but what really draws attention to him are his horns. and the tail. highs rising from the forehead and rising, white like the snow that will soon fall, with purplish tips. the same pattern for the long, tail full of scales. his nails are sharper than normal. when he opens his mouth to groan in pain, his teeth look like fangs. around his mouth, there's a strange pattern that doesn't seem to be a painting, but his skin. snake eyes and fangs.

he raises his arms to try to open the trap and free himself. the skin on the forearms has traces of scales of the same whitish tone.

his first instinct seeing you is hissing. actual hissing. like a scared snake, ready to pounce. the reaction of a scared, injured animal. you— pity him.

of course, you shouldn't. legends about dragons make it very clear what they think of your species. this boy would make you a forgotten corpse once he had the chance. but that didn't seem true. he was scared. alone, lost. his ankle caught in a trap that hurt more every moment. contrary to common sense, you choose to put the beast down and follow your instinct. approaching slowly, with your hands raised.

“easy there.” another hiss. it's a clear message. stay away. your steps are slow and you show that you are not holding any weapons. “i'm not going to hurt you. i'll help.”

no matter how sweet and loving you force your voice to be, the distrust in his eyes doesn't go away. you crouch before the stranger, staring for a moment. he is a pretty boy. you can't deny that.

your hands grip the bear trap, and you look him in the eyes. “I'm going to open this, and you're going to take your foot off. all good? on three. one. two. three.”

at the end of the count, you muster the strength your hungry muscles allow you to open the bear trap. the stranger quickly understands the message and moves away from it, allowing you to let the metal go without consequences. his hands release the trap, and it closes again with a click. the metal resonates as it strikes itself. there is fresh blood on his fingers and on the trap, and his face turns to look at the boy.

he's sitting by a tree, grabbing his injured ankle with a groan. you approach slowly again, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. his eyes narrow in suspicion.

“hey. hey, i'm not going to hurt you. okay? i promise. just let me help.” he frowns at your words, his lips parting to reply in a language you do not know. oh, well. this can be complicated.

“i don't— i don't understand.” you pause, moving to sit besides him. he furrows his brows, but doesn't say a word. “can you understand what i am saying?”

by his pout and frown, you think the answer is no. okay. what to do now, then? you quickly point to yourself, pronouncing your name out loud. then again, slowly. he repeats, the sound beautiful on his tongue. his pronunciation is a little bad at first, but the third time he's repeating it, he seems to have understood.

he follows the example, pointing to himself. “toge.” he states, and your eyes narrow.

“toge. okay. i think that's your name. you are injured.” you point out to his ankle, and he stares at you for a moment. if he could speak your language, you are sure he would be sarcastic right now. oh, don't say.

you gesture nervously, trying to sign you wish to help. after almost ten minutes of denying and hesitation, he holds out his injured foot to you. your hands are gentle, and you don't touch the injured area unless you have to. he hisses and groans in pain.

toge stares at you, decided to say something. his lips part, and he sounds confident when he says. “salmon.” you frown.

“what?”

he repeats again. salmon. seaweed. tuna mayonnaise. he only talks about...ingredients? toge is desperately trying to tell you something, confused why you don't understand the message. then it clicks. oh.

“you only know ingredient names. that's all you know in my language.” you murmur. he nods slowly, and you sigh. communicating like this won't be impossible, but it will prove itself as a challenge. but these thoughts are for later. he is injured. because of you.

it's your obligation to help this young dragon — secretly. the people in the village would take every last drop of his blood for gold coins. you'll have to improvise. “okay. uhh. does it hurt much?”

he pauses. “salmon?” another sigh escapes your lips.

this will be complicated.

#[ ♡⃗ ] writing. #jjk #jjk x y/n #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #inumaki x you #jjk inumaki #jjk fluff #jjk toge x reader #toge inumaki x reader #toge inumaki x you