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sailoryooons · 2 months

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Boyfriend Material | jjk (m)

☾ Pairing: Hockey Player!Jungkook x f. Reader

☾ Summary: Jungkook isn’t boyfriend material – except when he is.

☾ Word Count: 2,127

☾ Genre: FWB, Hint of Angst, Smut

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

☾ Warnings: Friends with benefits who are very obviously pretending not to have feelings, being in a confusing relationship that is basically a relationship without titles, feelings of confusion and self-doubt, lying to oneself, mentions of some toxic interactions with other people/women, repressed feelings, explicit sexual content including oral (f. receiving) in the shower, honestly, in general, some very cliche/stereotypical conflict you’d find in a relationship with someone of status

☾ Published: March 23, 2024

☾ A/N: This is a self-insert of one of the most confusing relationships I have ever had in my life and I will die on the hill that no one should date athletes because 98% of them are the rule, not the exception no matter how much they seem like it! TRAUMA!!! Also, should I have been dating a professional athlete for the sport I worked in? No!!!! This is for all the people who have been in a not-relationship-that-is-a-relationship why the fuck do people do that like it is okay to have feelings and call ur partner ur partner??

☾ A/N 2: This is drabble number six for the Drabble Challenge that I have been utterly failing at! Today I rolled for ‘athlete’ but I didn’t feel like writing actual sports so I was like :) I worked in sports for ten years, I can just share a glimpse of my life when I was 23 years old :) Enjoy

☾ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

Main Masterlist ☾ 100 Drabble Masterlist ☾ Ask ☾ Song Inspiration

“Fuck, I’m so tired,” Jungkook groans, leaning back in the chair and stretching his arms. Sun beats down on his golden skin. You feel the heat of it on your back and the top of your head. It’s pleasant, the cool spring breeze threatening to send the napkins on the table running. “Wanna lay out at the pool?”

Finishing the rest of your coffee, you nudge the empty plate away from you. Where once an eggs benedict had stood is now smears of leftover yolk and a single onion you missed when eating your hashbrowns.

“Not sick of me?” you ask, raising a brow.

Jungkook isn’t looking at you, scrolling on his phone. The bill of his hat is pulled low, hiding most of his face as he squints down at the device held low in his lap. You wait patiently for his answer, running your finger up and down the now-empty glass as it sweats from the sun.

“Nope,” he answers, popping the end of the word sharply. “Did you ever get your desk fixed? Yoongi said he would fix it if not.”

“I have not.”

He nods. “He said he’ll swing by this afternoon. We can lay out at the pool at my place and then head to yours after?”

Your mouth twitches. You don’t say it out loud because you don’t want to risk him backing out, but another full day spent with Jungkook is a surprise to you. Not because it doesn’t happen often – it does. But rather because it keeps happening more often.

Jungkook isn’t boyfriend material. He’d established that the first night he met you at a bar. Him being a professional athlete was a warning sign enough that you didn’t want to romance that but what had come afterward has been nothing short of surprising.

Friendship and… well. You don’t know how to explain the extras.

Jungkook isn’t boyfriend material. But you do your groceries together on the weekend. You drop him off at the arena when they’re heading out for a road trip. You take him to doctor's appointments to monitor the knee injury from last season.

You’re not Jungkook’s girlfriend but he takes you to team events. He lets himself in and does your laundry at your apartment while you’re at work so you don’t have to do it when you come home. He has his teammates fix furniture for you and they’ve asked you to babysit their kids.

“Babe?” the endearment makes you blink a few times, realizing you’d been staring into your lap. Jungkook’s dark eyes are focused on you now, phone shoved into his pocket. “We don’t have to go to the pool. We can just nap.”

We. Not you. Jungkook is going to hang out with you regardless if you like his original idea or not. Your stomach flips in that way you hate, the way that you know you’re doing everything you said you wouldn’t.

“Sounds good.”

Jungkook flashes a grin and you become acutely aware that thinking you could be friends with benefits without being anything more was a stupid idea. Jungkook is not made to be resisted, with round eyes that darken when he’s turned on, a giggle that contrasts with the big, broad-shouldered athlete built, a smile that lights up the room and can dispel any tension, a sweet voice that can tempt anyone the moment he pouts or when he decides to pur.

You were fucked - literally and figuratively - that first night you let him in your apartment.

Instead of thinking about it, you hide from the truth. Again. Jungkook is not boyfriend material, despite the fact that he pays for breakfast despite your protests, and reaches over the center console in the car to squeeze your thigh.

“Mmm,” he hums, fingers skating over your flash and making you squirm in the passenger seat. “Warm.”

“I was sitting in the sun.”

“I like it.”

Jungkook likes a lot about you. He tells you all the time, very open about how he likes the way you taste, likes the way you organize your books by color, likes the way you sing in the shower, likes the way you speak in Star Wars quotes.

Perhaps that’s what makes you the most wary about him. He says he’s not boyfriend material, but his actions betray his words. And you let them, every single time.

Jungkook smells like sunscreen, sweat, and a little bit of his cologne from earlier that morning. You’re hyperaware of him as you lounge on the cabana bed together, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his firm body.

His tattooed arm is tossed over his eyes, blocking out the sun as he snores a little. Careful not to knock into him, you lean over him and grab his phone to check the time. You haven’t been lounging in the sun long, but you don’t want him to get a sunburn.

Again.

You wager you can stay a little longer, placing the phone back down under his discarded shirt where it can hide from the sun’s heat. Sitting back in your spot, you pick up your book from your sweaty thighs as the sound of the gate to the pool yard opening catches your attention.

Some of Jungkook’s teammates live in the same apartment complex. It’s easier that way, especially for the players who get sent up and down from the minors. You catch a few of the younger players with a few girls you don’t know the name of tugging a cooler on wheels behind them with a speaker blaring.

Jungkook doesn’t so much as move. He can sleep through anything – has slept through you falling into his gaming setup while trying to get to the bathroom drunk. His slumbering leaves you to watch them head to the beds a few over from yours.

One of the girls notices you. You don’t recognize her specifically, but she recognizes Jungkook. Looks back at you. Frowns and mutters something to one of the other girls, who is not very subtle as she cranks her head around in your direction.

You don’t wince anymore. It’s not an uncommon thing, among these circles. You refuse to engage with any of it. You used to tell yourself it was because a casual whatever-Jungkook-is simply isn’t worth the drama. At night, you know you don’t engage with it because you don’t want to know.

Ignorance is bliss, especially in this dangerously plastic world Jungkook exists in.

Thankfully, you’re not alone in the matter. Jimin appears out of thin air, dropping down on the empty bed next to you. Namjoon – arguably Jimin’s better half and team captain – is nowhere to be found. Jimin lowers his shades and looks beyond you to the group of now rowdy players.

“Gross,” he huffs. He slides his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and stretches out on the bed like a cat. Jimin doesn’t play, but he certainly has the body of an athlete, all fine lines and corded muscle. “Ignore them.”

“I was doing that already.” You lift your book as if to prove yourself.

He snorts. “You were thinking about it, be honest.” Your silence is answer enough and Jimin grins, lacing his hands behind his head as he tilts toward the sun. “Don’t let Jungkookie burn again.”

“I’m not,” you huff before snapping your book shut. Jimin is in the circle of player’s partners that you genuinely enjoy, but he has the keen ability to get under your skin and tell you all of the truths that you don’t want to be voiced out loud. Still, having him on your side has more benefits than just keeping the hyenas away from you. He’s also genuinely nice when he wants to be. “Jungkook, wake up.”

The man mumbles and turns his head away from you. You sigh heavily, squeezing his strong, very sweaty arm gently. “Come on, you’re gonna burn if you stay out here any longer.”

“Mm. Feels nice.”

“A sunburn won’t feel nice.”

“You can rub aloe all over me.”

“I will not.”

“Just five more minutes.”

“Jeon.”

He drops his arm from his eyes, squinting in the bright light at you. His hair is damp with sweat and hangs in his eyes. He’s been growing it out longer and longer, especially since Seokjin keeps encouraging Jungkook by telling him he has the best flow on the team.

“So you don’t want to rub aloe all over me?”

“You don’t need to get sunburned for me to touch you, Jungkook.”

“Bleh,” Jimin grunts.

That makes Jungkook sit up, rolling his shoulders and twisting to pop his back. He sighs for a moment, closing his eyes as though willing himself to get up. When he opens them again, there’s a light in them and he smirks, looking you up and down.

“Wanna shower?”

Your mouth twitches and you roll your eyes to hide how much you want to shiver. “Come on,” you sigh, getting up, the fabric of the sunbed clinging to your sweaty skin.

Eyes cling to you as you pull the sundress over your head and slide your sandals on. You don’t have to glance over at the mini-party a few sunbeds over to know you’re being watched. You suppose they’re watching Jungkook more than anything, but you’re in direct view behind him, grabbing your book.

You know Jungkook notices them. He says nothing, though. Instead, he offers his hand out when you shove all your belongings in a bag, wanting to carry it. You grin and hand it over to him, smile growing as he shoulders it easily and offers his hand again, this time for you to take.

And you do take it. Perhaps the satisfaction that thrums through you as he leads you out of the pool yard and onto the deck that crosses the lake toward his apartment building is a little bit insidious. You don’t care. The momentary triumph that you shouldn’t be feeling at all is far too powerful and Jungkook’s hand is far too warm and safe in yours to care about why you feel good about the public display of affection.

It isn’t like he hasn’t done it before. Jungkook isn’t shy with others in front of you. It’s what makes the whole thing worse, somehow. Because Jungkook isn’t boyfriend material, but he introduces you to people and friends and slides between your legs to lean on you when you’re sitting on a barstool. He holds your hand when you go on a lunch and shopping spree with your mom and he brings her coffee and flowers.

Jungkook isn’t boyfriend material, but you don’t care when the shower hits the warm skin and runs down your back as he presses your chest to the cold shower wall in front of you. The cool stone stings against your nipples, over-sensitive and sending a shiver down your spine as your eyes flutter shut.

Jungkook isn’t boyfriend material, but he curses low under the sound of the shower as he pries your legs apart, tongue seeking the heat between them hungrily. Your mouth falls open as Jungkook’s tongue licks you soft-slow, lips sucking gently against your clit.

“Shit,” you hiss. The difference in temperatures between the hot water and the cold wall makes the room spin. Steam makes it harder to breathe, your head pleasure-dizzy as Jungkook laughs and rolls his tongue lazily around your dripping cunt. “Fuck.”

Jungkook isn’t boyfriend material, but he eats you out slow and hungry. He doesn’t care that the water starts to lose its warmth as his mouth works you, smacking his lips loudly and moaning, vibrations going straight to your core where you drip on his soft tongue.

His hands grip your ass, fingers digging into the flesh as he pries you apart further, tongue delving into your aching hole. He slurps at you, mouth loud and sticky over the sound of your panting and the water hitting the tile floor. His little hums of appreciation buzz through you, making the room spin.

“Fuck,” you whisper, pressing your cheek to the wet, cold stone as you try to ground yourself. You twist an arm backward, gripping Jungkook’s wet hair. He lets out a loud groan in appreciation, always pleased when you pull on his hair. “Don’t stop.”

Jungkook isn’t boyfriend material, but he does whatever you want him to. His tongue delves in, working you to orgasm until you’re shaking against the wall, knees knocking together and nearly collapsing on him. He catches you easily, standing and pressing you against the wall as he grabs your chin and brings your mouth toward him, his to devour.

Jungkook isn’t boyfriend material.

But more than anything, you want him to be.

#jungkook smut #jeon jungkook smut #bts smut #jungkook fic #jeon jungkook fic #jungkook bts fic #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #bts fanfic #100 drabble challenge

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gingerhastoomanyobsessions · 4 months

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the lords in black are so interesting to me because. they’re so us. we’re watching the citizens of hatchetfield suffer for our own entertainment just as much as they are. we’re their accomplices in all of it

pokotho made hatchetfield into a musical because musicals are entertaining. and we ate that shit up! it’s soooo fun watching a little man scramble as the world around him bursts into song. the musical genre is satirized because pokey knows how the genre conventions work just as well as we do. we like watching musicals so much that black friday and npmd are musicals, too, even though they don’t revolve around pokotho’s plans as much as tgwdlm. we want them to sing. pokotho does too.

bliklotep is the audience and the audience is bliklotep. trail to oregon calls the audience “the watcher with one thousand eyes” and that’s not all, in watcher world blinky seems to be able to see through the eyes of anyone and everyone who loves spectacle. he wants to see the characters go through angst because WE love angst. it’s fun to watch alice and bill express their buried frustrations. blinky wants it to end in bloodshed because he loves tragedy, and let’s face it, so do we. it’s like that one post about how hamlet is aware of the audience and is angry that we don’t do anything to intervene because we want to see how it plays out. personally, I think blinky could have stopped the woodwards if he really wanted (he’s an elder god, after all) but alice shooting him shifted the narrative so that the emotional payoff would be more fulfilling if they escaped. and blinky loves a good story.

t’noy karaxis has blorbos. we joke about it, but that’s really what it is, isn’t it? he’s the fan who watches the movie again and again and again and again to see his favorite character’s dramatic death scene. he’s the guy who writes and reads angst fics by the hundreds because he likes to see his faves cry. he’s the hatchetfield enjoyer who’s on the edge of their seat waiting to see how ted kicks the bucket this time. the bastard’s box is pretty much just an ao3 account filled with whump and hurt no comfort. he’s sadistic AND he genuinely adores ted, because we fans are often cruelest to the characters we love the most. he puts ted through character growth— the realization that his life went the way it did because of his own mistakes, his inability to be vulnerable with jenny before it was too late— and he does that by writing a 56-chapter angst fic that’s still updating to this day

nibblenephim is the fan who voraciously devours every scrap of content that a creator produces and demands more, more, more. let’s face it, the fandom will never let starkid rest until we see this story through to its end. and then someone will demand a sequel series. nibbly is hungry because we will never stop yearning for more stories. he’s simple because that desire itself is simple— as humans, we need creativity like we need air to breathe. nibbly wants more because we want more. and we will never be satiated.

wiggog y’rath is the ruler and the king because he’s the self-inserting writer. I think jon matteson plays paul *and* wiggly for a reason— wiggly is the only lord in black to be played by the same actor in every single show, and that actor also plays the protagonist of tgwdlm. wiggly wants to be the protagonist. he tries to force himself into the human world of hatchetfield because he wants to participate, dammit! he wants to be the bestest ruler that the earth has ever seen! everyone has to love him because he’s going to be their bestest fwiend! when he appears in human form he’s gonna be the prom king! he’s the ebony dark’ness dementia raven way of the hatchetfield multiverse. he wants every human character to bend to his whims and to love him and to put him at the tippy-top of planet earth because he’s the writer and the writer’s main character, you fuckheads, and he can make whatever story he wants, whether the other characters like it or not! if you’ve ever written a self-insert story? congratulations! you’ve been wiggog y’rath.

and the funny thing? I don’t think the lords know that they, too, are as fictional as anyone else in hatchetfield. maybe blinky knows— he sees through the audience’s eyes, after all— but I don’t think the others do. if they did, maybe they’d be a little less tyrannical. a little bit nicer.

but then the starkid writers wouldn’t have much of a story to tell, would they?

#the lords in black #starkid #hatchetfield #hatchetverse #npmd #join me in the metafiction analysis hole.#the real villains of hatchetfield are the starkid writers themselves and those of us who want to see the shows!#the only reason the lords in black fuck up the world is because WE want to see that story!!!!!#note: the ‘you fuckheads’ bit was meant to be in wiggly’s voice/pov. I do not think the good people of starkid fandom are fuckheads.

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the-writer-arrived · 8 months

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In Sickness and In Health

Synopsis: how does your lover act when you're sick?

Characters: alhaitham; wriothesley.

Warnings: gender neutral!reader; established relationship (marriage); pre-4.1 release so wrio may be ooc; wrio is a duke, so i think he'll have a mansion and people working for him like navia and diluc have (servants? retainers? idk); wriothesley is portrayed to be a bit overprotective, but that's just his alpha wolf side talking lol.

A/N: this will be very self insert of me bc i'm sick and want my two husbands to take care of me :( also we can finally hear wrio speak!!! i melted at his first words <3 AND HIS THEME SONG??? ABSOLUTELY FIRE!!!!

(p.s: today may be my birthday, but this is a gift from me to you all <3 thank you so much for all the support and love <3 feel free to drop an ask, brainrots or just fangirl over the new genshin characters :D)

"I told--"

"Not another word."

You know exactly what Alhaitham is going to say and you really do not want to hear it right now.

The glare you send his way would be """intimidating""" to your lover (no, it wouldn't), if it weren't for the fact that you're buried under the covers, making you look like a burrito (a verycute one, in his opinion).

You see, there was a sudden shift in Sumeru's weather: the week began so very hot, even during the night, but then the temperature dropped and became chilly and rainy out of a sudden.

Alhaitham had told you to take an umbrella and you did have it with you! But it was just a few droplets of rain when you left work, so you didn't bother to use it, thinking there wouldn't be any consequences.

...Well, you felt the consequences when you woke up this morning with a sore throat and a stuffy nose.

Luckily for you, your husband, who's trying really hard to not say 'I told you so', doesn't have work today and can spend the day taking care of you.

Wether he really doesn't have to go to the Akademiya today or has decided that himself, you're not completely sure.

Alhaitham doesn't loom over you nor follow your shadow 24/7 asking you if you need anything.

He lets you do your thing, since you simply have mild symptoms of a cold, but checks on you from time to time, reminding you the right time to take your medicine, drink water and rest.

Of course, if he catches you overworking your body, Alhaitham will gently but firmly drag you to bed or the nearest couch, going as far as carrying you in his arms, if you refuse to concede.

When he asks you what you want for dinner, you jokingly say you want a soup, knowing that your lover isn't the biggest fan that kind of dish.

To your surprise, however, you wake up from your nap with a delicious smell in the air (which is a sign that your nose isn't as stuffy anymore) and find your husband taste-testing the soup he has prepared for you.

"You misunderstand." He says, after you question him about his dislike of the dish. "I don't hate soup, I just find it inconvenient to drink it while I am reading. Now, come eat dinner, I'll feed you."

You laugh, thinking Alhaitham is joking about feeding you.

...Jokes on you, he isn't. And if you continue to resist, he will make you sit on his lap while he feeds you. You obey, fearing you might get a fever from embarrassment.

When it's time to go to sleep, you offer to sleep in the guest room to avoid having him catch your cold.

"My immune system isn't weak, I don't get sick so easily like you."

You feel somewhat offended, more by the fact that you can't deny that, rather than by the words themselves.

Even if what Alhaitham says is true, you don't want to risk it, so the solution you come up with is: spooning!

...But with him as the little spoon.

It is quite an amusing sight, really. You look like you're hugging a giang body pillow by the way you're snuggling your face on the back of your lover's neck. He's glad you can't see his face while he tries not to show that action of yours tickles him.

Feeling that your breath has slowed down and you are asleep, Alhaitham turns around to face you, staring at your peaceful expression. You look much better now than in the morning, which he's glad he took the day off to take care of you.

He gives you a kiss on the forehead, before closing his eyes and allowing sleep to come to him.

'How troublesome.' He thinks.

'But, since it's you, it's always worth the trouble.'

"But, Wrio--"

"Absolutely not, you are to stay in bed while I call a doctor."

You huff, looking away when Wriothesley continues to frown at your sniffing figure.

Fontaine's weather has been crazy lately. One day, the heat is almost sweltering; in the next, it's cloudy and rainy for days. Only those with strong health can endure these drastic changes. Unfortunately, you are not one of those people.

Yesterday's weather wasn't exactly cold, but it was raining the whole day. You didn't have work, but still had one last errand to run.

Yes, you could let the workers of Wriothesley's mansion do that. Would you actually do that? Of course not <3

It was becoming late, afternoon quickly ending and you were starting to feel antsy. You looked at the window and didn't see the droplets hitting the glass, which makes you believe the rain had stopped momentarily. No way you would let that opportunity slip by, right??

Hah, sike!

The moment you step outside, you realize that no, the rain hadn't stopped and you were foolish enough to not grab an umbrella on the way out.

The smart thing to do was to turn back and grab it, right? Yes. That's what you did, right? Nope :D 'Too much work' was what you thought as you stepped onto the streets.

...It doesn't take a genius to know what happened then. No umbrella + very cold rain hitting your skin = sickness!

And it didn't even take long for symptons to appear. Goosebumps, runny nose, cold sweating, sore throat... Although things weren't looking serious, you looked for medicine to keep those symptons under control.

Also, your husband has been very busy with dealing with the Fortress of Meropide and coming home late, you shouldn't add more to his plate by making him worries about a simple cold... At least, that was your plan.

What you didn't count on was to have a fever in the early morning, which is what brought you to the current situation.

For outsiders, Wriothesley seems quite angry at you. However, the truth is that he's angry at himself.

He hasn't been able to spend much time with you lately, having to be up at the crack of dawn and come back home late into the night. As lovely as your sleeping face is, he misses your smile, your laughter and overall misses being by your side.

And now, you've fallen sick and he can't even stay to take care of you. Who wouldn't be upset in his place?

Your husband's tense shoulders relax by a fraction when the doctor tells him you're just with a cold, but he still tells the people of the mansion to take care of your evey need and not let you lift a finger.

The workers think it's a bit of an overreaction on their lord's part, but they know it comes from a place of deep care and affection for you, his lovely spouse.

Still, they are a bit more lenient after Wriothesley leaves for the Fortress, allowing you to get up from bed and do things on your own, but someone is quickly by your side when fatigue wears you down.

Another order the servants received from him is to send him frequent reports about your well-being throughout the day, which... quickly gets tiring...

Thankfully, you decide to take that task to yourself and turn the reports into a exchange of short letters to one another.

I sure hope this is by a (mechanical?) messenger pigeon or else, poor servant running through Fontaine LOL

For the first time in weeks, Wriothesley comes back to the mansion at a reasonable hour! Past dinner time, but oh well, he worked really hard to finish every task in record time just to go back to his spouse.

"What are you doing up and about? You should be resting, my love." He says, after you appeared to greet him like a puppy running to his owner.

"Darling, please, I already spent way too much time in bed. I'm not bedridden, for celestia's sake!"

After a much needed couple quality time, it is time to go to sleep... which brings a problem to your husband's mind.

Considering that he owns a cryo vision, his body is a bit colder than normal, so that may make you--

"I know what you are thinking and you are NOT going to sleep elsewhere. You are to sleep by my side and that's final."

Wriothesley, the famous Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide, the man who can maintain peace in that place by using his words or his fists, will always give up on doing or saying whatever that he had planned and concede to the words of his spouse. Especially when they use that particular tone that leaves no room for negotiations.

Still, it is true that your man's body temperature is a bit on the colder side due to his powers, but that will NOT get in the way of your cuddling.

You wrap yourself with the warmest blankets you have, looking like the most adorable burrito he has ever had the pleasure to love, before worming your way into his strong arms.

Wriothesley huffs a chuckle and holds you protectively to his chest. He has a good health, so he's not worried about getting sick.

"...Is it irresponsable of me to think it wouldn't be that bad to catch your cold?" He quietly asks, not expecting an answer while looking at your sleeping face.

"Heh, I can almost hear you scolding me for wishing for such things." He gives you a kiss on the top of your head. "Rest well, my love."

thanks for reading <3 likes, reblogs and comments are very appreciated <3

heart divider made by @/cafekitsune

pink alhaitham and wriothesley banners (fluff) made by @/the-writer-arrived aka yours truly ;)

#blue.writes: genshin impact #blue.writes: alhaitham #blue.writes: wriothesley #blue.writes: fluff #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #alhaitham x reader #al haitham x reader #wriothesley x reader

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feelbokkie · 1 year

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When he has to keep your relationship a secret

☀️Feelbokkie M.list☀️

Part 2

genre: disgusting amount of fluff

pov: 2nd person

description: Subtle ways bf!skz simps for you when he can’t reveal your relationship.

pairing: bf!skz x reader

warnings: there is like one swear word

word count: 1,934

방 찬 (Bang Chan)

Makes a playlist

Loves you and also wants to keep your relationship private anyway

But also adores you and wants to show you off

He thought it would be fun to mess with Stay too

So he just started playing music that spelled out your name with the titles during his lives

He didn't do it all in one day because he was scared that someone would figure it out immediately

So he spread it across several lives

After he was done spelling out your name, he would just play your favorite songs

Or songs that would remind him of you

Or a song that you two heard while you were together and formed a core memory to

Would be blushing smiling like a dumbass while the songs are playing, remembering you and all the happy memories

Makes a playlist with those songs and shared the link on his bubble

He adds songs to it periodically so fans don't read too much into the order and see your name

이 민 호 (Lee Min-Ho)

A special hand sign

He's not the type who is big on matching couple items

And you were okay with that, he wasn't supposed to talk about your relationship anyway

But he was so in love with you, he wanted to tell the world

So he came up with a hand sign that he could do during performances and vlogs

Spent a lot of time researching sign language to make sure he wasn't going to do anything offensive or stupid

It also needed to be small and not complex so he could sneak it into dances

The first time he did it in a performance, he sat down with you and watched your reaction to the video

"Why did you do that? Did you forget the move and freestyle?"

You had sat through enough rehearsals and watched enough of their performances to know the choreography, especially Minho's parts, to know that he was not supposed to do that

"No, I did that on purpose." "Why?" "For you." "What?"

He let you sit confused for the rest of the video before finally explaining

The hand sign is meant to let you know that he loves you

And misses you

And is thinking about you

He did it every chance he got

It got to the point where Stay noticed and just thought it was a Lee Know Quirk™️

Naturally, they adopted it

You thought he would be annoyed that Stay was doing it too

"They're just helping spread and amplify my love for you."

서 창 빈 (Seo Chang-Bin)

Wears a necklace with your name

Genuinely does not care about having to keep it a secret

Wants to shout it from the rooftop

And has

The only reason he keeps quiet is because you don't feel comfortable being in the spotlight

But he will wear a necklace with your name on it

Like a dog collar

It literally says "If lost, return to Y/N"

Smug bastard

Refuses to take it off

Won't even tuck it inside his shirt

Will even purposely show it with your name facing out in pictures

It has to be edited in every picture

It's either edited to read "If lost, return to Stay," made to look blank, or edited out completely

Stay thinks that the return to Stay is the original so they made their own versions of it

"If lost, return to *insert select skz member*" or "If lost, return to Stray Kids"

Fans don't try to read the necklace anymore, they just think it's the Stay one

It's also a tiny locket

Which you only found out about 3 months into him owning the necklace

Naturally, there is a little picture of you in it

황 현 진 (Hwang Hyun-Jin)

Couple rings

He wears a lot of rings anyway, so nobody would think about the one that you two share being a couple ring

It was the one ring he never swapped out so Stay just thought it was his favorite

They aren’t wrong

That thing is always on his person at all times

If it doesn’t match an outfit for a photoshoot or a performance he’ll either wear it as a necklace or in his shoe

One time he tried to be creative and tied it to his hair so you could see it when they did a close up for a performance

Naturally, the ring flew off when he was dancing and it was lost

Couldn’t even go on stage to look for it when he realized because another group was on stage

Had a mini panic attack and called you crying while the guys tried to help find it after the show

You tried to calm him down over the phone and tell him that you two can just buy a new one

He didn’t want a new one, he wanted that one

He knew he could buy a new one, but he couldn’t buy the memories that came with the original

He won it in a claw machine during the date where you two made it official

It was one of those games where the prizes are actually expensive and good quality

After you two redeemed the rings, he got down on one knee and “proposed”

“Y/N, will you make me the happiest man alive and allow me to be your boyfriend?”

And on your one year anniversary you two got each other’s names and your anniversary date engraved on the inside

A few days later a staff member brought the ring and told him how they found it when they were taking down the set

After that he made sure all of his performance clothes had a tiny pocket on the inside just for his ring

한 지 성 (Han Ji-Sung)

Paints one of his nails to match yours

It started randomly

You two were watching an anime together and you were painting your nails because you needed something to do with your hands

When you finished, you saw how engrossed be was in the show

So you painted his pinky nail to see if he would noticed

He didn’t

After you finished painting his pinky, you contemplated painting the rest of his nails to see how far you could get

Decided against it since it would be a waste and he would just take it off soon anyway

“Look, we match!” Drawing attention to your handiwork

He looked confused at first

He saw how happy it made you and decided to just leave it

You were honestly surprised to see the nail polish still there 2 weeks later and slightly chipped

He was not happy to see that you had painted them a different color

“We don’t match anymore.”

It’d take you a second to realize that he was talking about the nail polish

"Let's get that fixed, shall we?"

"Can we put it on this finger this time?"

He would point to his ring finger

Wears his nail polish like a wedding ring

Has gotten to the point where you just text him when you changed the color

Would not let his stylist remove the polish or paint over it anytime he had to paint his nails for work

That nail was reserved for you two only

Fans thought he was just trying to be stylish and different with the singular different color nail

He bought a large set of mini nail polishes so that he would be prepared for the next time you went and painted your nails

Takes them with him on tour with him so he can keep up

Stares at his hand fondly and thinks of you

이 용 복 (Lee Felix Yong-Bok)

Matching bracelets

He was helping you move out of your parents' house and into your first apartment when he found a bracelet making kit

Persuaded you into taking a quick break so you can make bracelets

You taught him a few simple braids that he could weave together on his own

Took him a few minutes but he got the hang of it

When you two were finished, he suggested that you two swapped bracelets

Only takes it off when he has to for work or when he's taking a shower

Stay once made fun of it because it was so out of place with all of his expensive accessories

"This is the most expensive accessory I own, actually."

He felt bad because the one you wore was like a shoelace compared to his

You had incorporated both his and your favorite colors and somehow added little heart beads

Bought his own kit and practiced making bracelets until he was satisfied

Surprised you with the new bracelet

"Now I have one for each arm." "You can just take off the first one." "Why would I do that?" "You don't have to pretend to like it." "Why would I pretend to like it? I love it, you made it for me. A Lix original."

Would try not to cry, and fail miserably, over those words while tying the bracelet for you

김 승 민 (Kim Seung-Min)

Keeps a photo of you in his phone case

You two went and printed photo cards of each other at the mall one day

It was one of those kiosk where you could upload personal photos and they print out in photo card form immediately

You guys have two each, one individual photo of each other and your favorite couple photos

He keeps the couple photo framed and takes it with him on tour

But the one of just you? That's on his person 24/7

He considered getting one of those phone cases where you could insert a photo card or a clear case but he knew that would only cause him trouble, you two were meant to be a secret

So inside the phone case it went where it couldn't be seen

That thing is so protected, even if his phone fell into a sink full of water, your photocard would be fine

Pulls it out and stares at it when he's sad

Or tired

Or anxious

Or stressed

Or mad

Or drained

Or happy

He's so in love with you that he's always staring

Especially when you two are apart for long periods of time

If you two are unable to video chat but can talk on the phone normally, he'll pull out the photo card so he can at least look at you while talking

Panics any time his phone is missing

That photo cards, and the countless other photos he has of you on his phone would be gone forever

If you ever ask him about where he keeps his picture of you, he will lie and say it's at the dorm or something

You can't know how much he is actually in love with you

Sometimes the boys will find him asleep clutching his phone and when they go to try and take it so that they can charge it, they realized that he was just staring at the photocard taped to the case

양 정 인 (Yang Jeong-In)

Sets a picture of you as his lock screen

It took a lot of work

Chan had to help him figure out how to do it at first

If anyone looked at his phone, they wouldn’t see you, they would see a random landscape

But, if anyone held down on the lock screen, they would see the landscape pan over to you and you would be smiling at the camera

He saw that trend where people were turning live photos in to lock screens and figured it was the best compromise

Plays the video often when he misses you

Just sitting there, looking at his phone lock screen

Is careful how he holds his phone in public, does not want to accidentally trigger the video to play

Gets teased and called a simp for how often he looks at his phone smiling

But he doesn’t care

He just want to see the love of his life

—

Buy me a coffee?

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jeonsbabygirlsworld · 8 months

Text

CHAMPAGNE CONFETTI

SUMMARY: It was supposed to be a perfect night to spend with Jungkook and his mom, though you are nervous Jungkook helps you to calm down but after a few hours the things take a toll on you both .

PAIRINGS: FWB TO LOVERS (rockstar Jungkook x Reader)

WORD COUNT:2.1k

WARNINGS: AGNST, SMUT, FLUFF at the end kind of not really...? also Jungkook rides a bike, has a beef with his brother. Reader slaps Jungkook once .

SMUT WARNINGS: Unprotected sex, Fingering in elevator, oral m,f , missionary, cream pie as always, fingering, so many kisses, squirting, making a sex tape for like 2 minutes?

A/N: oh god 3D jungkook has an effect on me you guys I hope you enjoy this . As always please like, comment, follow and reblog sweet pies. <3

“I don’t know Jungkook are you sure about it?” You ask nervous about the fact he had invited you to his mother's birthday party.

“I’m sure baby, please come. I'm sure she would love to have you there, also wanna have champagne confetti there?”He said and you just know he wiggled his eyebrows.

“Fine kook I’ll get ready. Can you come and pick me up, also I’m always up for it”You answer him chuckling right away.

“Yeah, baby I’ll be there in a few get ready yeah baby, and great.” Saying goodbye, he hangs up.

Present

You get ready soon after his call doing a slight makeup, hair styled in wavy curls and wearing a new dress you saved for a special occasion the dress ends right above your knees.

There was a knock you heard while wearing your black heels. Opening the door, you meet with the site of Jungkook dressed in a suit his hair-sleeked blazer resting in his hands and a few buttons unbuttoned.

“Hey pretty girl, you ready?” Jungkook whispered while extending his right hand, nodding at him you allow him to guide you to His bike. “Hop on pretty girl,”he says giving you a helmet. Make sure to not ruin your hair.

“Hold on tight baby,” he says starting his bike, the speed of his bike fastened while you reach the venue safely “Kook I’m nervous what will she think about us,”you say nervously while jungkook walks you into the elevator“Relax she is gonna love you,”he says huffing out a chuckle “I’m just stressed,” you say entering the lift and staying by the railing.

“Can I do something to make you relax baby?”Jungkook says pressing his body to yours “Jungkook you crazy” you answer not believing him “Come on y/n we’re going 28, you’ve got 25 floors to come” he heaved “fuck go for it, kook” you say his fingers coming up to circle your clit rubbing them in eight shapes and inserting his fingers “cum baby” he said while you whined “oh my god gonna cum” you say slightly griping his blazer not wanting to ruin it.

“Gonna cum jungkook” you moaned yeah’s leaving your mouth soon cumming on his fingers and removing them he sucks on them “mm came so much” he teases you “Shut up let’s go”You kiss his cheeks.

While the elevator Dings and opens to the Room directly, holding his hands he guides you to meet his Mom woah she looks amazing you say loudly in your mind “Hi, good evening Mrs. Jeon, Happy Birthday” you say a bit cheerful “Oh hello dear and Thank you so much” she says hugging you both “Son make her comfortable all right?” She stated “Yes Mom don’t worry”Jungkook exclaimed.

Now both you and jungkook and his mother were sitting on the sofa chatting about the new song he was going to release “Hey Kook let her listen to the song you going to release”you say excitedly “ Yes here you go Mom”he smiled.

In the middle of the song buzzing he gladly told his mother to dance with him “Oh Mom, I love you” The room was completely filled with laughs and giggles while saw them happily dancing while his mother called you too “Come here honey, join us” she says forwarding her right hand accepting it you both started dancing “oh twirl sweetie “she says while Jungkook stood there looking at both of you with a wide grin.

“Oh, looks like someone is having a great time over here”Then there came someone whom Jungkook wished never to see. His older brother. While you squeaked a tiny “hi” to him. Jungkook stopped the music looking at his mother “Mom? You said it was going to be only us, didn’t you?” He hounded “I said it because I knew if I told you he was going to come you wouldn’t have come here” she said grabbing his arm “Leave Mom I don’t wanna stay” he said removing her hands, Jungkook eyes his brother “Oh she’s the new one kook? Good taste indeed” his brother laughs “You always bring someone new, you going to push her off too soon? Using her just for her body, right?”He says with a whiskey glass in his hand “Baby get your purse we are leaving” Jungkook warns “Did I get on your nerves, Kook, you had one girl, but it was too boring right? So two girls are cool for you?” His brother laughed away.

It happens really quickly Jungkook grabs the glass from which he was drinking and hits him luckily his brother misses it his mother yells “Jungkook are you crazy?” She says raising her voice, never batting an eye he grabs you by your hand while you stand still scared “y/n get it together let’s go” he growls.

Getting back to your senses you “Jungkook are you fucking stupid? What would have happened if it would have fucking hit your brother?” You bombard him with questions only to receive a low groan “fuck”.

Jungkook had it even with you asking him questions “Y/n can you shut the fuck up, please?” He says pinning you to the elevator railing and grabbing your cheeks making your lips pout out. “Be quiet, can you? I know what I did” Shutting you up you were scared to see Jungkook like this.

Exiting the elevator you follow Jungkook who is walking at a fast pace “Jungkook wait” you call out “Walk fast y/n we are going back to my place” he says handing you the helmet “Jungkook no, you need to tell me first what the fuck happened up there” you exclaimed, oh boy that was his last straw “fuck y/n can you not stay calm for a fucking second I know what I did and who are you to ask me this stuff you're not my girlfriend and that’s right I keep you for your body , and your acting as if you didn’t knew I have many girls , you anyways will get boring ” he exclaimed, hearing this made your blood boil you slap him across his face and leaving from there.

Tears run from your eyes, and you call for a taxi you go home crying, you and Jungkook were fuck buddies but staying with him didn’t feel like you were just using your bodies, you went on dates, play dates with bam, showering together, hell you both have gotten so close to each other he has a fucking tattoo of your initials( “or maybe it was just an illusion, and it's just the initial letter of all his fucks”) on his Adonis belt and the aftercare made you more than just fuck buddies.

Reaching home, you unlock the door and collapse on your knees you cry loudly when you hear a continuous ring of the bell and a loud banging noise. “Open the door baby I know you in there, I’m sorry baby, and I know I messed up listen to me, will you?” Jungkook banged harder and pushed open the door finally, instantly getting on his knees hugging you.

“Baby I’m sorry I didn’t mean that at all baby” Jungkook said kissing your forehead you cried harder in his arms “That really hurt Jungkook, you saying you use me just for your pleasure hurt me like shit I know that’s the point of our deal but still” you speak in between the sobs. “I know baby I’m sorry I really didn’t mean it, you can yell at me, curse me, just don’t leave me” he says his face levelling yours while you slightly chuckle at him through tears.

You slightly peck his lips not intending on making it last longer, but Jungkook grabbed your chin and kissed you roughly the kiss soon turned into make out when he carefully takes you in his arms and kisses you.

He lays you down on your bed coming to kiss your neck leaving wet kisses and also sucking on few hickeys on his way down towards your pussy. Fuck you were already wet, his fingers soon finding your clit he groans “Fuck baby wet already?” He says rubbing them over your panties. Going face to face he removes your panties whining when he sees your slick connecting a string to your panties.

“Fuck Jungkook I’m so wet need your fingers now” you grab onto his hair already whining “yeah baby? Moan my name I like it when you say it” he smiles teasing is finger in your pink hole “mm put it in” demanding he inserts one “what a sight y/n” teasing you with his long fingers he fastens the speed hitting your g-spot making you moan loudly “kook right there” you say, “here baby?” He asks making sure just to hit the spot right after.

The feeling of his fingers inside you was overwhelming “too much” you whine when his tongue comes to press kisses on your clit “no kook sensitive” you cry “No y/n it’s never too much cum, pretty baby going to squirt?” He teases you knowing damn well Jungkook and his work with his fingers “cumming Jungkook” you say while squirting all over his fingers “that’s write made you a fucking mess” he growls.

Hovering over you his slick covered fingers make way in your mouth you suck like how suck his pretty cock removing his cloths his cock was now out of the boxers the tip swollen and red begging for attention when you slightly palm him.

Pushing him you were the one on top of him kissing him on the cheeks you make your way to his abs licking them and laying kisses all over them and pressing bunch of kisses on were your initials are tattooed “Fuck kook they look so hot every-time I see them” you moan now giving attention to his cock “take it in your mouth baby "you palm him giving kitten licks on the tip and fastening your pace “ oh shit” Jungkook groans his head moving backwards because of pleasure while your left hand comes near his to choke him while hand hands make a ponytail for you hair Such a head pusher “ fuck y/n, no baby going To cum inside you” he says swatting your hands in few seconds .

“Come on sit up on the bed yeah show me that pussy again yes baby?” He says while you’re slightly confused while he goes and grabs his phone asking for your consent “can I baby?” He asks while you verbally consent him “yeah go-ahead kook” his fingers coming back to your pussy he slightly rubs in between your lips while you grab in his palm telling him to touch you there, and he angles his phone perfectly “oh yeah kook” you murmur “moan baby moan” he praises you. Your pussy makes wet sloppy noises.

You grab on his hard on gently circling his tip. “Now want you inside kook” you say grabbing his phone and throwing at the end of the bed “hm lay on your back come on ready for some real champagne and confetti? “He asks giggling. “Yeah, always ready for it” Missionary his favourite

Jungkook rubs his swollen tip sliding them in your pussy lips to wet himself enough to not hurt you. “Fuck such a tight fit” mumbling he starts delivering rough thrusts while your pretty manicured nails claw on his shoulder, his fucking sliver necklace swinging in front of your face makes him look ten times hotter than he already is.

“Fuck Jungkook, so big” you moan getting closer to your orgasm “kook cumming” you say while he backs away to look at the creamy mess between you both the white ring of your slick makes him thrust back even further roughly “fuck y/n, love fucking your pussy, love you baby “in the heat of moment you say it back not minding while you both soon chase your orgasm.

He cums right after you pulling out to make a mess with his spilling cum pushing it inside. He backs away collapsing next to you while you hug with your legs tucked on his

“Did you mean what you said Jungkook because I meant what I said” you asked hoping he would mean it too “Yes baby I’ve been in love with you like forever now but I was bit scared to admit it” he says hugging you tightly.

“And about what happened in the door don’t think about we usually never cross paths but yeah he did get on my nerves” he explains so you would calm down about the matter “But kook it would be really dangerous if it would hit him on the head,” you said worrying “yeah baby I know I’ll talk to mother tomorrow morning let’s sleep? I know you are tired” he tucks you down and kissed your lips.

Good night baby …. Jungkook whispers slightly humming a tune good night Jungkook hugging out a breath. Jungkook is left there thinking all night about the events.

Taglist : @babybella337 , @jungk97kwife , @kimmingyuswifee .

#bts #jungkook #jungkook x reader #btsfanfic #bts fanfiction #bts smut #jeon jungkook #jungkook smut #bts jungkook #bts fanfic bts smut #Rockstar jungkook #bts fanfic

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deanbrainrotwritings · 5 months

Text

— SUMMER’S STELLAR GAZE

SUMMARY : part III of gimme half. on a mini-roadtrip to the bunker for something dean left behind, she decides to test dean’s word and his promises.

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : none

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit (18+), fluff, Dean isn’t allergic to cats in this universe bc wtf, blowjob, hair pulling, dirty talk, road head, risky business

WORD COUNT : 2.2k

A/N : silverstein song title. so yeah, I love Dean forever and ever actually, just like I wrote in my diary when I was ten. Omniscient POV to reader’s POV like a good ol’ movie. Xxxxxx

Dean sort of wanted to impress her.

She was a hunter, like him, after all.

If he showed her the Bunker, he hoped she'd be impressed; by him, by it, he really hoped so. There was a lot about the Bunker that impressed him when he’d gotten there. The dungeon, the showers, the lore, the garage, the kitchen, everything. That was his first thought when Sam asked Dean for some boxes of the kitchen items he’d left behind since they couldn’t bring everything with them. Dean saw the opportunity to show off.

The past two weeks went by quickly. They were together now. Shared a New Years kiss at the behest of Eileen, Jack, and even tiny, baby Dean.

Sam and Eileen were like kids with Barbie and Ken dolls, thrilled to make their favourite couple kiss at last. Cas and Jack were stunned at the discovery that two of them hated each other at first, but they were happy to see that Dean was happy.

It all just came together, somehow, after falling apart so messily. Her and Dean. Their lives.

It was natural for her to be around all of them. Dean forgot that it was him she had a problem with at first. It made it easy for Dean and hard for him all at once. They knew her better than he did and she knew them well, too.

They began bonding over hunting stories when he told Sam, Eileen, Cas, and Jack that she was also a hunter; she'd ask Cas and Jack a dozen questions whenever she could after finding out they were angels—the other, a nephilim. Sometimes, he’d catch a glimpse at Cas’ phone notifications and see what she asks him with a smile on his face.

They’ve all been hanging out because of the holidays. She stayed with him during the weekends because he asked her to. He met her family, it was terrifying since they just started… dating… but her family was funny and kind to him. It eased his nerves, but they told him they’d heard of him from other hunters. He knew he was safe, hunters mostly liked him and his brother… except for the parts where they were at fault for all the bad stuff.

Miracle was happier than ever to have his friend back, her Cat, Bubbles. Dean had a feeling Sam and Jack would take Miracle over to her place or maybe Miracle and Bubbles truly still remembered each other.

Things are better, hotter now that they are together, more than when they were enemies. Dean was just beyond happy that he had her, that they talked about it… sort of.

“You listen to the same music as my big brother,” she chuckled from beside him, the box of cassette tapes resting on her lap as she riffled through them. Dean smiled, taking his eyes off the road to gaze at her momentarily.

“Yeah?” He asked, turning back to the road as they drove into the long, wintry, still-green forest that would lead them to the Bunker.

“Yeah, I grew up on all of this music. My dad even loves Led Zeppelin,” she told him distractedly, staring at the clear plastic box labelled as Led Zeppelin. She shrugged and inserted the cassette tape into the deck of the car, Bonzo’s Montreux playing softly.

“You get more and more awesome the more I get to know you,” he told her, biting his lip when he looked over at her. She pursed her lips as she smiled, entertained by his flirty, deep voice and his suggestive wink.

“Awesome?” She smirked, putting the box back into its place. He turned to look at her once more, but he couldn’t look away from the softness and mischief in her eyes the whole time.

“Perfect?” He offered, glancing away from her, taking in the big green trees he’s already familiar with. “Kissable? Hotter?” He suggested, smiling coquettishly. “Mmm, extra fuckable?” She looked at him through her lashes, her cheeks pink, and her breath unstable.

Dean shifted in his seat and sat up straight, looking away from her arousing fuck-me gaze with his fingers tightening around the black steering wheel of his heavy car. Heat flooded the area between her legs at his reaction. Her clit pulsed in pace with her heartbeat and she bit her lip. A million ideas streamed through her mind. A million ideas to relieve the need she had to be fucked by Dean once more.

The tension in the car was nearly as thick as the first night they had sex, it made her breathless, her heart pounded heavily with lust in her chest, and her pussy squeezed around nothing, instantly remembering the sex they had in his garage before they left.

She placed her hand on his thigh and he inhaled sharply, quickly turning to look at her with a deep blush on his face. Dean relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, and held it with only one hand, to put one of his hands over hers. She bit her lip and watched the side of his gorgeous face as he guided her hand higher.

She smiled brightly and lifted her hand beneath his to smack his hand away. He chuckled, taking a quick glance over at her playfulness.

“You said you’d fuck me anywhere, at any time,” she leaned over slightly, placing her arms on top of the seat, and resting her chin on her crossed arms. He glanced at her, exhaling shakily as she held his gaze through her lashes. “You promised me a lot of things, actually,” she moved her hand away, tracing his jaw with her fingers. His eyes fluttered shut. “Dean…” she murmured, moving her fingers up to his lips, and he opened his eyes before he could swerve too far from the road. “I recall a few things you seemed to really like.”

She leaned forward suddenly, licking his earlobe mischievously. Dean moaned softly, his eyelids heavy with lust, and his eyes clouded over with arousal.

“Like making me choke on your cock,” she whispered into his ear, dragging her lips down his neck. He groaned softly and shuddered, squirming as he attempted to focus on driving. “I want you in my mouth, Dean,” she purred, sliding her hand down his chest and stomach slowly, “right here, right now.”

“Fuck,” Dean moaned, lifting his hips up into her hand when she cupped his cock over his jeans. She sucked gently at his pulse, making the faded mark on his neck return. “Yes,” he whispered, biting his lip hard.

“I love when you get hard for me, baby,” she murmured, squeezing his cock.

“I need you,” he rasped, “I want to see your pretty mouth wrapped around me.” She laughed softly, unbuckling herself from the seat and then him. He chewed on his lip and focusing on driving as he got closer to the Bunker while she unbuckled his belt. He lifted his hips after she unzipped his jeans, allowing her to lower them slightly until his cock was free.

“You’re aware of how blessed you are, right?” She teased, biting her lip, sliding her fingers up his cock. Dean gasped and then he laughed breathlessly, his dick twitching at her delicate touch.

“I’m aware of how much you like my dick?” He smiled down at her shyly. She licked her lips, and rolled her eyes at his modesty. She kissed the tip, then gently placed her hand around the base to kiss her way down.

“Have you heard the sounds I make when you fuck me?” She whispered against the velvety skin of his cock. He grunted softly when she flattened her tongue and licked her way back up. “I don’t make those often, by the way,” she said casually, swirling her tongue around the tip.

“Here I thought you were a good girl,” he breathed out, lowering one hand into her hair, to try and push her down on his cock. She squeezed his cock, jerking her hand up and down quickly, then sucked on the tip hard, causing him to choke on a moan. She pulled away with a loud suckling sound that made him curse under his breath.

“I went over to your place without underwear, and then I asked you to talk dirty as I sucked your dick, and then I begged you to cum inside me. What part of all that made you think I was a good girl?” She lapped the precum that beaded from his tip, her mouth watering at the taste of him.

“The morning after,” he answered softly, his emerald eyes flickering to hers. She stopped licking his cock momentarily to consider his words, the tenderness in his voice causing her stomach to flutter. It was things like this, his words, his actions… things like that about Dean that aroused her even more.

She moaned appreciatively, lowering her mouth over his dick, then pulled up almost all the way off, repeating the motion, and then began sucking, and licking. He moaned her name softly, struggling to focus on driving such a heavy car, but she noticed the slower speed.

She took him deeper into her mouth, gagging slightly when he touched the back of her throat. Dean moaned out a curse, tightening his grip on her hair, pushing her up and down his cock faster. She moaned softly around him, letting him guide her as she sucked her way up his cock, her tongue moving along the underside of his length. Occasionally, her throat constricted around his length as she swallowed.

His hitched breath made her wetter, throaty groans, and desperate grunts made her clit pulse uncomfortably in her warm dress pants. She reached down to press her fingers against her clit and took him all the way down her throat. His hips bucked upwards and the leather around the wheel squeaked under his tight grip, but he never pulled too roughly on her hair.

“Holy fuck,” Dean grunted as she wrapped her hand around the base of his cock when she got to the leaking tip and sucked the taste of his precum. Then, she began to twist her hand around him, following the path of her mouth up and down, until she heard rocks and dirt crunching beneath the wheels of the car, and the Impala coming to a complete stop.

Dean relaxed completely as he set the car in park, leaning his head backwards. The sounds of his pleasure and the wet sound of her mouth and throat getting fucked competed for volume. Dean lifted his shirt and gazed down at her, thrusting his hips up faster into her mouth.

She blinked away tears to stare into his eyes, her cheeks and ears burning hot, her jaw and lips sore from taking him. She moaned softly again, letting him push his cock up into her throat, catching the blurred ecstasy on his face. His red lips trapped between white teeth, his freckled cheeks rosy, and his brows furrowed.

“I’m gonna cum, baby,” he panted, lovingly moving her hair from her pink and wet face. She hummed around him in approval and closed her eyes, focusing on bringing him closer to his climax. Dean’s thrusts began to stutter and he started to get more vocal, arousing her further. “God, I love your mouth,” he whispered, thrusting upwards hard as he came in thick, hot spurts down her throat. “Fuck, yeah,” he moaned, shuddering at the feeling of her swallowing around him.

Dean pulled her off him despite not finishing, his cum dripping down his cock despite her best efforts to collect everything. That seemed to be the purpose. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her with his tongue poking between his teeth, looking both cute and sexy.

“What?” She asked, and kept tugging at his cock as his cum dribbled down from the slit, and over her hand. She tightened her hold around the heat of him in her wet hand. She bit her wet, swollen lip, and sat up, slowly stopping the strokes of her hand to watch him.

Dean leaned forward to kiss her all of the sudden, her heart lurching in her chest, the way it always did when he kissed her. He held her jaw, licking her spit and his cum from her lip. He moaned into her mouth, pulling her face closer, meeting her warm tongue with his. She let go of his dick, and smiled against his mouth, before pulling away.

Dean chased her lips, but she pushed his chest roughly so he stayed pressed against the seat, laughing quietly. He smiled leaning forward anyway, his nose brushing against hers, lips agonisingly remaining a few millimetres away from hers.

“Can we have sex in your old bed?” She whispered, tugging gently at his jacket, her lips brushing against his. He panted against her mouth, whining softly in attempts to make her kiss him.

“Yes, whatever you want,” he responded quietly.

She hummed when she kissed Dean once more; a passionate, long, and deep kiss with tongue and teeth that made her needier. She helped readjust him as they made out, a hot and breathy exchange before heading back on the road to the Bunker.

➥ closer than this

taglist

@rominaszh @livingdeadmak @lanassmarty @murdockscumsock @zepskies @candy-coated-misery0731 @stxrgazer03 @epsilonsagittarii @lyarr24 @spnfamily-j2 @globetrotter28 @deansbbyx @lickmybawls @jackles010378 @winchstrdean @deanwinchestersgirl87 @the-achievementhunter @deanfreakingwinchester @k-slla @madzzz0797 @laylaackles @fanfic-n-tabulous @kristophalis @mrlonelycat @taylortots-world @evznackles @ohnosy @juicyballsworld @angelbabyyy99 @girls-alias

main masterlist

dean winchester masterlist

dean’s 45th birthday celebration masterlist

do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or republish my work on another platform

#dean’s 45th birthday celebration #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean x female!reader #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean winchester x you #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fanfiction #dean win

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hey-august · 2 months

Text

Lil sweet and angsty. I guess that's bittersweet.

WC: ~780

Warnings: NSFW, mdni, buggy x GN!reader, insertion sex.

buggy woke up first. he usually does on days like this.

you didn’t wake up to an empty bed or a cold spot. your bed was sized just for you, so it was either full with just you, or overflowing when the pirate visited. what you woke up to was normalcy that felt uncomfortable. having spent the entire weekend sharing your sheets with the visiting captain, it felt wrong to have the bed all to yourself.

you found buggy in his usual spot. he sat on the window bench, overlooking the harbor. loosely draped in your purple robe, he watched the colors of his ship change in the misty sunrise.

hearing your soft footsteps, buggy swung one leg off the bench. you nestled in the space between his legs and leaned back. you could feel his heat through the thin fabric of the shirt you tossed on. it was his shirt. sometimes you’d wish he would leave one behind.

buggy pressed his cheek against your temple and started humming softly. a nameless sea shanty, one of the countless odes to the sea he knew. the song poured into your head and heart, reverberating through your chest and his. the tune was nearly familiar, but just out of your grasp. like buggy.

the harbor was still asleep, but it wouldn’t stay like that for long. you wouldn’t stay like this for long.

“it’s almost time again, huh?” you speak softly, trying to hide the words under his humming.

he nods against your head. “mm-hmm,” is how his song ends.

you twist your head and body, wanting a taste of the ocean he sings about. a taste you find on his lips and tongue.

to buggy, you taste real and lasting. you fill his mouth. your breath fills his lungs. he place a hand on your cheek, holding you like a goblet brimming with an elixir that he wants all for himself.

and you always give yourself to him. no matter how many times the sun rises while the pirate is on his adventures - when he’s here, you belong to him.

“please,” you whisper against his lips. the start of questions neither of you will ask. instead, you both pretend it’s another question, one that can be solved with a temporary solution.

buggy breaks the kiss. and then he kisses you again. he tries to stop, but can’t. not as long as you’re in his arms.

with the next separation, you pull away.

this time, buggy asks the question. “please…”

you turn to straddle the pirate. he shifts below you and guides your hips until you slot together. like it’s meant to be. the fullness reaches your chest and leaves you breathless. you sway with the throbbing movement that ebbs and flows inside.

buggy presses his forehead against yours and rolls his hips in time with your breathing. he orchestrates your sounds, building a slow cresendo that fills his ears. it’s beautiful and he wants to take from the source.

your lips are captured in a kiss that is rough and gentle. bruising and soothing. he bites your bottom lip and caresses it with his tongue. he’s greedy, pressing into you until he’s nearly pushing you away. a passion you love, but also fear.

you feed into the fire. placing hands on shoulders that the robe fell off of long ago, you grind against the pirate. you ride the wild waves of his ocean as he pours his own moans into you.

his hands slip up the loose shirt you wear, seeking more of your warmth and heat. buggy rests his head on your shoulder and clings to you. whether he wants to keep you in place, or to tether himself to you is unknown. he just needs to hold you as he unravels.

you feel him shudder as his movements grow erratic.

“m’gonna- gonna,” he stutters, unable to finish the words before he’s overcome.

“fuuuuuck,” he hisses, pressing his face against your neck. buggy holds you tighter, pushing you down on his pulsing hardness until he’s dripping out of you.

“n-need you to come. please…”

such a simple request, yet it’s your undoing. you shake under those words, clenching and holding them tight until you tremble and see stars.

your bliss is what buggy asked for, but there is another question that will remain ignored. in a few hours, the captain will sail away with his ship, and you will lay alone in your small bed.

buggy won’t ask you to come with him and you won’t ask him to stay. that’s just the way it is.

but the next time he’s here, it’s for you. it always is.

#buggy smut #buggy x reader #buggy the clown x reader #buggy x you #x reader #buggy op #opla buggy #one piece buggy #buggy the clown #buggy the clown smut #one piece smut

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mochie85 · 10 months

Text

20 Questions

These Wicked Games Collection | Complete Masterlist

Summary: You wake up in Loki's bed the morning after as you try to ascertain exactly what is going on between you and the seductive god. A/N: This follows The Chase. This is also for @sarahscribbles Birthday Celebration. Happy Birthday, my love. I'm sorry this was late. I used one of your fluff prompts and made it dirty 😆🤭. "Are you really so oblivious?" Suggested Song: "Wicked Games" by Kiana Ledé (video after fic) Word Count: Over 1.9K Pairing: Loki x Female Reader Warnings: Smut; fingering, P in V, Oral.

“Oh, pet. Is all this for me?” Loki growled appreciatively. He swiped his fingers through your folds causing you to whimper at his cold touch. He flicked your sensitive bud as he captured your lips in a heated kiss.

You could feel him, but it wasn’t enough. You held on tighter, wanting him closer. You ran your fingers through his curls and held on to his face as you met his lips with a passion of your own.

“I could get used to this every morning,” he said as he inserted two of his fingers inside your eager pussy making you moan into his mouth. “Waking up with you next to me. Wet and ready.” He began rimming his fingers around as he rubbed your nub with his thumb. “Would you like that, darling?”

“…Loki…” you whimpered, and your brows furrowed. But the feeling was…incomplete. You felt empty. Starved for his touch. You wanted to feel him closer to you. You writhed your hips, edging him to go deeper as he inserted a third finger inside you.

“I can make you scream every morning,” he exhaled, grinding his hips along with his fingers.

“Yes Loki, please!” You moaned out loud.

The sound of your loud moans woke you from your own slumber. Your consciousness slammed back into your body, waking you up from your delicious dream.

You turned over to find Loki hovering above you. His eyes gleamed with promise as he kissed his way down to the valley of your breast. You felt your legs forcefully widen as Loki separated your knees and positioned himself in between them.

Your thighs ached from last night. The spreader bar Loki used prevented you from closing them completely leaving you in an uncomfortable position. “Loki,” you moaned.

“I woke up to the most wonderful noise this morning,” he teased as he licked and nipped the underside of your breasts, heading towards your navel. His lips were soft and plush. His hands were warm as they rested on your abdomen, keeping you pinned to the bed. “You were saying my name. Chanting it even. And I had yet to touch you.” His fingers dug into your supple thighs. “Wider,” he commanded, and you obeyed, without demur, feeling the soreness spread throughout your legs.

“Good girl,” he praised. You could feel his hot breath on you. Every word he spoke sent a vibration to your core. His tongue would lash out and just miss your sensitive nub, teasing you with every syllable out of his mouth.

It felt like your dream. His presence surrounded you but still, you wanted more. “…Loki…” you whined softly.

“Hmm. That’s exactly what you sounded like. What were you dreaming about, precious?”

“I…umh…” you stuttered as Loki’s lips hovered over your dripping cunt. He made it so impossible to think. Especially so soon after waking up. “Loki. No.”

“No? Would you like me to stop?” To his credit, he did stop, waiting for your reply.

“Yes!...No! No…don’t stop!”

“That’s my girl,” He turned his attention back to your thighs as he watched you fall further into your desire. His eyes were clear and bright as he made a show of biting you and then sticking his tongue to soothe the bruise that will show there eventually.

“I just…mmhmm…you said you would answer my questions this morning!” And you know you wouldn’t get any of them answered if he continued the way he was.

“Of course, my dear. You can ask me anything. Go ahead.” He held your eyes calculatedly as he licked one strong stripe up your lips and flicked your sensitive bundle of nerves. “…If you can,” he grinned.

The sight of his messy curls in between your legs sparked a wave of arousal inside you. Your body betrayed you as he teased you mercilessly and aggressively. His soft lips sucked and parted on your skin. His tongue licked around your sex, making you dizzy and needy.

“I can’t answer until you ask a question, love,” he rumbled, trying to get your mind to focus.

“I…mmhmm…Loki,” you mewled as he took another strong lick up your folds. “I can’t think when you’re…”

“That’s the game, darling.”

“You and your games!” you tried to protest but Loki latched his lips around your sensitive bud causing you to scream out loud.

“Ask!” he growled into your dripping cunt as he pulled you closer to his mouth.

You released the deep breath you held and gave in. His grip on your thighs and the promise of his tongue made you squeeze internally. “Fine! You-you said…hmm…”

“Hmm…what did I say, dearest?” he whispered as he ran his tongue over the hood of your clit.

“You said you liked me?”

“Yes.” Loki nodded his head. His nose brushed up against your sensitive nerve as he answered, making you squirm underneath him.

“H-how long?”

“Ah, ah, ah. My turn. And you still haven’t answered my first question,” he sighed naughtily. “What were you dreaming about?” He nuzzled against your heated skin, made sensitive by his dangerous mouth. He held his face upward, waiting for your answer. You tried to lift your hips to get in contact with his wicked tongue, but his arms held you down firmly. “My needy girl. Answer the question and I’ll be merciful.”

“I-I…my dream was a-bout you,” you whined. He smiled and dipped his head against your aching pussy, kissing it as if it were your mouth. You bit your lips at the sensation. “How long?” you asked him.

“Clever girl. Now you’re getting it,” he commended through your heady moans. “Since the first moment, I saw you.” He answered your question.

Loki flexed his jaw. His voice sent tiny vibrations to your already sensitive cunt. Loki nudged his nose up again, positioning his mouth over your sex. “What was I doing in your dream?” he asked before he took another strong lick up your folds.

“Ahhm-m. Me.” You yelled out grabbing the pillow by your head. “You were doing me.”

“What was I doing to you in your dream?” he asked cheekily.

You bit your lip and pushed his head down onto your dripping cunt, making him kiss you and suck on you. “No, no,” you teased. “It’s my turn to ask the question,” you said breathlessly. Loki chuckled at your confidence. He obliged by closing his eyes and moaning his praise into your dripping sex.

“Fuck, Loki. I’m so…”

“Ask!” he growled.

“Me? Me… Why me?” you panted.

“Are you really so oblivious?” he asked.

“That counts as your next question.” You laughed. “You’ve asked me two and I haven’t gotten answers to mine yet! You scoundrel!” Loki sucked on your clit hard as a warning, making you scream out from the slight pain. His tongue soothed and caressed it while his lips latched onto the surrounding folds making you buck into his face.

You both grew impatient. You didn’t think you could last any more questions with him constantly attacking you like he did.

Loki growled. His fervor and desire ruling all rational thought. “I love that you’re intelligent,” he said as he flattened out his tongue and lapped the juices flowing from your cunt.

“…Loki…”

“I love how clever you are.” He said giving your sensitive clit a soft kiss. “I love how you’re willing to play my games.” He laughed as he kissed his way up your stomach.

He knelt up on the bed, towering over your lustful figure beneath him. His eyes were wild taking in your heavy breathing. Your glowing skin. And how utterly besotted you were when you looked at him.

Your eyes were hooded and pleading, missing his tongue. Your mouth was open, ready to beg him to continue.

“And by the Norns, you look absolutely sinful laying on my bed the way you are now.” He lined his hard cock at your entrance and slammed his way inside your tight folds.

Both of you cried at the feeling of finally being joined together. “You beautiful creature.” He said taking himself out and drilling back in. “…unnh… The way you look at me,” he grunted. “The way you moan for me. The way you call out my name.”

His thrusts started getting faster and faster. He lifted your hips and sat them on top of his thighs. The new angle and position allowed him to go deeper and harder. Fucking up into your tight cunt.

His hands held your waist down as he used you as leverage to thrust deeper and deeper inside you. “Come for me, darling. I love the way you look when you come for me,” he said with eyes slanted and his mouth ready to scream his release.

You obeyed. The breathless tightening of your muscles, balling up inside you. The definitive explosion of your desire released itself through your screaming of his name. You gripped the sheets next to you. Your walls spasmed around his large girth as he moaned out your name and fell into his own release.

After his breathing evened, Loki chuckled and crawled his way up to you. He laid beside you, turning your body towards him as he held you in his embrace. “Was that anything like your dream?” he smiled.

You reached for his face to pull him closer to you. You could taste yourself on his lips as you kissed him zealously. Your fingers pulled his hair, making him moan and hold you tighter. “This was better than my dream.”

“Tell me what happened, and I’ll make your dreams come true.”

You giggled at his cheesy line. “Is that one of your questions?”

“No more questions,” he said. “I haven’t the patience for them when you’re already wrapped in my arms.”

“Can I ask one more, then? Just one?”

“What do you want to know?” he said scooting closer to you.

“What is this? Between us? What are we?”

“That’s three questions.” He taunted. “This is a very good morning...A very. Good. Morning.” He said flicking your hardened nipple with his thumb. “Between us is a mutual attraction that I’d like to explore further. And as to what we are…What do you want us to be?”

You didn’t know how to answer that question. You’ve slept with each other twice now. You didn’t want to sound desperate and clingy and say that you wanted an exclusive relationship. But you also didn’t know how deep this attraction between the two of you was. Was it just earth-shattering sex? Can the two of you get along without it?

“Stop thinking.” He said, noticing your silence and worried look.

“I wanna know how you really feel about me.”

“I think I just told you while I made you scream out my name.” he teased. You recounted what he said. You were clever and intelligent. He loved that you were willing to play his games with him.

“Is this all just a game to you, then?”

“No. What made you think that?” You started to get up from his bed, detangling yourself from his embrace. He doesn’t love you. Of course, he doesn’t. He just wanted a toy. Someone new to play with. “Why? Why come into my room last night?! Why seek me out then?” Loki’s voice grew angrier and louder as he watched you get dressed.

The blissful moment that you both shared just moments ago shattered into pieces. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.”

“A mistake?” Loki looked hurt and angry. You put on your clothes that were neatly laid out on his table. You couldn’t get out of his room fast enough. “Fine. We all learn from our mistakes. This will never happen again.”

You opened his door and yelled, “Fine!”

“Fine!” he yelled back as you slammed his door closed, leaving him to seethe in his pain.

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⬅️The Chase | Truth or Dare➡️

🏷️ @emarich7 @michelleleewise @coldnique @vickie5446 @psychospore @mukagentropy @lokisgoodgirl @silverfire475 @fictive-sl0th @springdandelixn @wheredafandomat @goldencherriess @peaches1958 @salempoe @thomase1 @kkdvkyya @a-witch-with-words @mischief2sarawr @sarawr-reads @vbecker10 @peachymallow @irishhappiness @cakesandtom @simplyholl @here4thefanfics @tallseaweed @holdmytesseract @immersed-in-mischief @joyful-enchantress @lovelysizzlingbluebird @lokisninerealms @kikster606 @glitterylokislut @loz-3 @slytherclaw1227 @chantsdemarins @the-lady-amphitrite @eleniblue @km-ffluv @lokidokieokie @n3rdybirdee @melsunshine @lokischambermaid

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bambisnc · 2 months

Text

he's the one that's livin' in my system baby! [04]

pairing : roommate!sungchan x reader genre : sickfic n fluff nawt smut im sorry about the opening line i js thought it was funi ,, cw/tw : food mentions + hes sick bc he looked after the reader too well D: wc : 0.4k ishh

you've discovered over the past 2 weeks that your nights are spent significantly more productively when sleeping with your roommate.

as in literally sleeping with your roommate i.e. just lying in the same bed (usually his).

you did start out with a well defined list of rules the most highlighted of which was to ensure a pillow boundary between the two of you at all times.

sungchan always somehow ends up going against it thought, much to your delight dismay.

and as you woke up one day in the middle of the night, the clock displaying an even 4.00 am, with his limbs fully entangled with your own in a way you would not have thought was possible; the only thing you can think about is how hot he feels against your skin.

....he is quite literally burning up. and you can almost swear his heart seems to be beating a little too much faster than normal (given your position with your face dangerously close to his chest.)

he's sick.

the idiot's sick.

after the multiple times he insisted he'd be fine and made the extremely clever decision of forgetting all constraints of personal space because he's jus' taking care of you :( pshh obviously no he won't catch your little cold but if you cuddle with him you'll feel soo warm and comfyy~ <3

... you'd hit him if you didn't feel really bad right now; especially because sungchan's intentions were never bad, if a little stupid. he's always looking out for you.. and the one time you tried doing something for him you ended up with prescribed bed rest.

the least you could do was take care of him.

(and there was also the whole him saying he wanted to get ice-cream with you thing which could totally just be you over thinking but sungchan and you definitely did need to work that out. eventually. a couple of months should be ideal...)

you lay a cool, damp washcloth on his forehead; brushing away the messy hair which sticks to his skin slightly.

and you really, really shouldn't; but you can't help gently placing a feather-light kiss to his temple.

but hey. idiots don't get sick right?

or do they..? yeah you honestly can't recall what the lesson supposed to be learnt from all of this was...

later, when you're able to pull yourself away from your roommate's bedside and make your way towards the kitchen to whip up some porridge (light on the stomach, warm for the throat); a little sniff tells you that you are not alone.

and there stands sungchan, busily rubbing out the residual sleep from his eyes, managing to still look annoyingly adorable - which is a great feat considering his height.

scolding him for getting out of bed gets you nowhere, he only declares that he wouldn't have been able to rest anyway; not without you there..

notes : my god how do phone users do htis my laptop isnt laptopping v well so im doign this from via a phone and ouch. + [series m.list] [m.list] (will edit in links later)

song rec : sugarcoat by natty. No i wont be inserting a link.

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meadow-hearthfire · 2 months

Text

[Insert dialogue of a ten-year-old ranting to his previously-unknown Pop dad about the mistreatment he and his sister endured in the Techno foster system just for being half-Pop.]

--We didn’t ask for any of that! We never asked to be made!! Where was all that love and care these past ten years? Where was that these past FIVE YEARS?!!

I have no excuse… I’m sorry I wasn’t there.

No kid should ever have to go through such hardship, especially not at such a young age as you were…

Despite how angry and upset they are, they’re still kids and they’re hurting and they need a hug. Also, you gotta let them get it outta their system.

---

I love @zivazivc's OCs Eddy M and Ravin! (Oh, and their Techno dad is confirmed to have been in his twenties when he had them.)

Some songs I listened to while working on those pics:

youtube

This takes place in a universe in which Floyd mans up and takes those kids in after being reminded of their existence and informed of their situation. There are some other things that sets this AU apart from Ziva’s but I’m not gonna spoil any more than I probably already am. Plus, the AU is still a work-in-progress.

The kids are sent straight to Pop Village after the events of Trolls World Tour, and all of BroZone is informed of the kids’ existence after ancestry test results come out.

Why’s Eddy M pissed at Floyd, you may wonder? It’s because Eddy M knows Floyd knew of his and Ravin’s existence from the start and didn’t bother being part of their lives until Floyd was reminded of their existence and informed about their situation. Ravin knows that too, but she’s more upset that she’s reliving the trauma she and her brother underwent.

In the Mirverse, Eddy M and Ravin’s Techno dad died when they were five, and their Techno grandparents, whom they thought loved them, shunted them off to the Techno foster system where they were mistreated for being half-Pop.

The kids are supposed to be ten years old in this. If Floyd is thirteen when BroZone split, in his mid-twenties when he had those two eggs with that Techno troll, then he should be in his mid-thirties in this (at least in the Mirverse and according to my headcanons). If you notice the kids’ heights are possibly inconsistent for a ten-year-old, please ignore this error because I was too late to fix it. Maybe their time in the shitty-ass Techno foster system stunted their growth?

Wondering about Eddy M’s bandages? Well, all I’m gonna say is that Eddy M ran into trouble and got hurt. And nope, it wasn’t during his and Ravin’s time in the Techno foster system.

As for the clothes the kids are wearing? They were gifted those clothes when they were in the much nicer Pop Village foster home/orphanage.

Notice Floyd’s tattoo? The flowers are forget-me-nots, which I picked for a symbolic meaning that's literally in the name. I’m gonna let you try to figure out the rest (; btw the tattoo design isn't finalized, so it's subject to change.

Oh, and I hope you don’t mind the alterations and errors in Eddy M and Ravin’s designs. I was almost done with the pic so it was too late to fix those errors (the bangs and eyebrows), I’ll try to rectify that and see if I can make those details work next time I draw those two. As for the alterations, I wanted to simplify Ravin’s skin for ease of drawing and I struggled to make Eddy M’s Techno troll teeth work.

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sardonic-the-writer · 5 months

Text

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬

↳ summary: in between their friends voicemails, and a spanish teachers punishment, troy and abed are struggling to tell you something important. or; a reader insert of season one episode sixteen

↳ warnings: period accurate jokes, internalized homophobia, jeff being weird, and alcohol

↳ notes: abed and troy are in a relationship change my mind

↳ song: me and your mama—childish gambino

masterlist | commisions | carrd

It was early morning, just before first period Spanish, when you finally decided to say something.

“Okay, so I can’t be the only one creeped out by that thing, right?”

You looked around with a sense of judgement as six pairs of eyes immediately whipped around to meet your own. Taking a moment to observe the flower in Annie's hand, and the box of chocolates in Shirley's, you stopped biting at the end of your pen momentarily to gesture at said thing; which just so happened to be your school's mascot.

It was Valentine's day at Greendale community college. Something that, in between your day to day classes and usual group shenanigans, you had forgotten about. If the seven couples french kissing hadn’t reminded you of that enough on your way to the library, the pair of heart shaped boxers draped over the statue outside did.

You had sat down at the study group as usual, expecting Britta’s rant about the patriarchal undertones of the holiday and a well timed meta quip from Abed, but instead all you got was a pair of artificially painted eyes staring at you.

The mascot in question turned to you and made what sounded like an offended gasp as it stopped wheeling its little cart full of gifts. Cards covered in pink hearts and lacey trim overflowed from it, all attached with tacky glue, and you got a good look at one of them as it was sent flying near your forehead.

“Jeez! Sorry, man! I didn’t know this job meant that much to you!” You swiftly ducked under the table to avoid the line of fire. Coming up once the sound of squeaky wheels on carpet faded away, you ended up glowering as Troy laughed at you.

“Shut up, Barnes. Abed got more muffins than you.” You glared, referencing the lack of valentines gifts he'd been given. Troy was quick to choke on his laughter after that. He straightened his posture consciously, only stealing a look or two at the goodie basket placed neatly in front of Abed.

“Great dodge.” The amateur filmmaker praised you in his usual quick pace as you picked up the card from the floor. “If you had been in the Matrix, and that card was a bullet, that would have been the second coolest scene in the movie. Next to the other part where Neo also evades bullets.”

“Neo’s? I have a few friends that are those.”

“Ignoring Pierce's questionable life choices and their daily allotted hazing— ” Jeff sighed from his usual spot next to you, “— I have more important things to discuss. And speaking of which!”

Jeff slouched further into his chair as the door to the study room opened once more. You all watched as an extremely hungover Britta stumbled in, a pair of reflective aviators resting on the brim of her nose.

“Sorry I’m late.” She grumbled. Going to sit down she nearly fell out of the chair, and all of you exchanged various looks. If the way Jeff was smirking at Britta said anything, there was some new weird sexually charged adventure to be had between the two, and you were not ready to be in another one of those. You had done your time last week, and you weren't eager to repeat it.

"Actually, you're very late, Britta. See you later!" You slammed your Spanish textbook down on the table with an overly cheesy smile to punctuate the end of your sentence. Britta jumped at the loud noise, hissing at you to shut up, but you were already walking out of the room by then. If the shuffling behind you told you anything, it was that the rest of the group had done the same. Sans Britta and Jeff, per usual.

You tilted your body sideways as you navigated through the busy hall full of various highschool dropouts and divorced parents, letting the sound of tennis shoes squeaking against the floors bounce around in your head. It was more annoying than usual today, and it took you a second to realize that it wasn't the shoes making the noise, but rather Troy as he called after you.

“Hey! Hey! Wait up!" He wheezed. "You are very fast when you want to be!” The athlete gasped for breath when you finally slowed down. Coming to a stop as you turned around to face him, you saw another pair of legs enter your line of sight. This time much thinner, and accompanied with a wicker basket full of various baked goodies.

“Troy, I know you like to have someone hold your hand as you walk to class, but normally that's Abed’s job. Please don't allow me to take that pleasure from him.” You said, face completely blank. If you looked hard enough, you thought Abed’s nose flared a bit to insinuate a laugh.

“No, that’s not what I'm here to— hey how did you know that?” Troy took another gulp of air as his brows furrowed.

“I took a guess based on the way both your bodies and hands are angled apart each morning as you walk into Senior Chang’s class. Also, when you eat Cheetos, it rubs off onto the back of Abed's palm.”

“I don't eat Cheetos that much.” Troy frowned. “Do I? For the record I am not gay." Troy made sure to ennunciate that last part as he stared you down. His facial expression reminded you of a nervous first grader doing a bad job in their school play.

“You do, and that's not important right now.” Abed answered back. His head snapped to you with the same amount of intensity that he always got when thinking of a movie reference, and you got the sense he was holding back for the sake of the conversation.

Raising both eyebrows, you motioned for them to go on. The hallway was clearing out a bit more, and you didn't want to be caught late for Changs class a third time in a row. Last time he threatened to beat you with maracas, and you wouldn't put it past him to actually carry through with it this time.

“Listen, we have something important to say.” Troy began. Abed backed him up with a furious nod, or his equivalent of it. Which really just boiled down to a regular paced nod.

"Is this about Valentine's day? You should ask Shirley about that."

"Come on man!" Troy threw his hands in the air, turning away from the both of you and crossing his arms. "How did you possibly come to that conclusion so fast?!"

"We were just talking about us holding hands."

"Thank you Abed." The both of you said at the same time. Albeit Troy with a little more teeth grinding then nessicary.

"Did you become a ninja overnight? Did you take a ninja class?" Troy took a step forward as he pointed his forefinger in your face. You stared at it as it approached, going cross-eyed momentarily.

"Yes. And if you did, I would like the name to that class." Abed pipped up.

"No, I didn't go to a ninja class." You said while pushing Troy's arm down. "Does this mean I'm right?"

The lack of response from Troy and Abed's unbothered expression provided you with your answer.

"Are you two trying to ask for dating advice or something?" You frowned as you started to walk in the direction of Spanish. Both of them followed as you fixed your backpack strap. "Because if so, Troy you could learn a lot from Abed. And Abed, if you're having a problem, I don't know how to make you anymore appealing to the ladies than you already are."

"It's true." He responded, looking off into what he probably thought was the fourth wall. "I am devilishly irresistible."

"Stop that!" Troy waved his hand in front of his friends face, bringing both their attentions back to you. "Listen. We were wondering how to go about asking the same person to the dance tonight."

"Oh. So like a love triangle thing? I never liked that troupe."

"No no." Troy shut his eyes as he shook his head. "More of like, uh—"

"Neither of us exactly know." Abed cut Troy off in a matter of fact manor. "We both see ourselves hanging out with them at the dance, but aren't exactly jealous of the other being there too."

"If you wanted me to I could crack open Websters dictionary to find a word for that."

"No thank you." Abed echoed. You simply shrugged.

"Okay. So what do you want me to do about it?" You questioned while turning a corner to another hallway. The three of you were nearly at Spanish now, but this conversation had pulled you in more than conjugating verbs ever could.

"We don't. Exactly know how to ask this person to go to the dance." Troy sucked in a breath.

"You guys have seen plenty of movies. Do the typical thing. Flowers, chocolate, and not what they do in your sci-fi movies Abed." You grinned at him knowingly as you passed through the doorway to class. "Personally I'd take kickpunching robots over literally anything ever, but I tend to be the exception for most things."

"It's not a date though. It's, like, three really close people hanging out. Not in a gay way though! I like girls! With boobs. Yes." Troy stammered as you all plopped into your rickety seats.

"Nice save Troy." Senior Chang called from the front of class with a snicker. He brought his feet down off his teachers desk to lean forward and cup his hands around his mouth. "Or should I call you gay-lord!"

"I really hate this language requirement." Troy grumbled, sinking into his chair. You snorted as Abed stiffly reached his hand out to pat his shoulder, making robot sounds as he did so.

"Cheer up." You allowed yourself a shit eating grin. "It is Valentine's day after all."

“Well that was a disaster.” You said over the sound of a ringing bell. Students and teachers alike passed you and Annie by as the two of you made your way through the hall, neither of them seeming to care very much if they bumped into you or not. To say that’d you’d almost gotten into a fight or two due to traffic here would be an understatement.

“I don’t know.” Annie frowned. She brushed her hair out of her face and clutched her books to the front of her chest. You made a face subconsciously, the sight reminding you all too much of the stereotypical school girl. “I thought it was very mean of Senior Chang to do that to Troy! And Pierce, I guess.”

“Annie. He called a balding senior citizen and a lonely freshman out on their sad Valentine’s Day gifts to themselves. It’s Chang. Of course it’s mean. But mean things can also be also be disasters.”

The girl next to you seemed to think about your words for a second. Furrowing her brows once or twice, she eventually let out what you could only describe as a harumph.

“Well I think we should do something about it!”

“Pass.” You said without a seconds hesitation. Annie deflated a bit at that and eyed the tips of her shoes. You stole a look down at her, and let out a sigh.

“You know me. I’m such a big fan of sticking my nose in other peoples business when it doesn’t belong— “ Sarcasm. “— but I think you and Shirley would be a better duo for this. She’s ruthless when she sets her mind to it, and you’re crafty in the way that you could have written the script for the movie Seven if you wanted to. Probably.”

“Aww thanks! I think.” Annie beamed. She regained some pep in her step as she skipped ahead of you, only turning back to say one more thing to you. “No wonder Troy and Abed like to talk about you so much. So many obscure movie references between you guys. Cute!”

“Seven was a box office hit, Annie— “ You began with the hint of a frown tugging at your lips, but she was already off. No doubt to find Shirley before lunch so they could cook up their plan in a flurry of giggles. That only left you with one more question.

“They talk about me?”

Jeff huffed as he walked into the near empty classroom. His hands, which he had spent the last three minutes nervously slathering in expensive lotion as a part of his mid-day exfoliation routine, were stuffed deep into his jacket pockets. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to this interaction, but sometimes he’d throw his better judgment out the window. Sometimes.

Raising a single eyebrow, he glanced around at the spare video equipment set up; the bulk of which was sat right in front of his target. The former lawyer ignored as a kid in a yellow button up kicked a trash can across the room, instead making a beeline for Abed. Who was giving directions rather loudly to the angry kid.

“Wow. Do you normally deal with divas like this?” Jeff flashed his signature charming smile while commenting on the temper tantrum. Better to be friendly and break the ice rather than dive right in. Otherwise you’d scare people off. He learned that while working at the firm.

“One Papa Johns commercial, and he thinks he’s Christian Bale.” Abed pursed his lips comically.

“Look, uh— “ Jeff began to steer away from the topic of the questionable kid as he pulls Abed’s attention in. “You were right earlier. During Spanish. Britta is being weird around me, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“By being right, do you mean my prediction that the accidental booty call she sent you while drunk is going to cause the imminent breakup of our fragile group?”

Jeff blinked.

“Yeah. That.” He spat out.

“Nice. So what can I do for you?” Abed leaned back into his makeshift directors chair while crossing his legs. “Do you need a drunk voicemail of your own to send to her so the score will be evened? Because I have nowhere to be for the next twenty four hours and personal dilema to avoid.”

Jeff inhaled with the intent to bulldoze over the younger mans statement, but ended up falling flat.

“Ignoring that last part, yeah I do, actually. How did you know that?” He squinted. Jeff would never admit it, but sometimes it creeped him out how easily Abed could predict what people would say next.

“Classic sitcom staple.” Abed shrugged without changing his expression one bit. “Goes hand in hand with the booty call. Now— “ He leaned forward with a glint in his eye. One that Jeff didn’t quite like.

“How well can you act?”

You don’t know how you ended up here, and you had been ready to leave the moment you arrived.

A faint punch stain from years ago sat at the hem off of your slacks, reminiscent of a house party from a year ago that had ended in disarray. They were the good slacks too. Paired with what was thankfully an unstained button up polo shirt. This was the closest anyone was going get to fancy from you tonight.

Various pink and red hues cascaded across the dance floor, playing into the Valentine’s Day theme as the schools mascot continued to prowl around on the dance floor. You were sure that the dean would be happy with himself over that if it wasn’t for the fact that couples were making out everywhere. It was pretty fun watching him try to break them all up, actually. You’d made a little game out of it with how long you’d been standing at the punch table.

The toe of your shoe came in contact with a stray balloon from one of the tables centerpieces. With a downward twitch of your lips, you picked the rubbery material up into your hands and started messing with it. Sounds of latex on skin distracted you from all of the screeching and poor singing.

“Not having a lot of fun, huh?” A voice from your left asked.

Glancing near the onion rings that had been laid out as finger food, you saw the familiar form Britta peering at you from under some fake eyelashes. That would have been more of a shock to you if the skimpy red dress she was wearing didn’t overshadow it.

“Hey there.” You avoided her question as you threw the balloon back into the crowd it had come from. “Great disco ball costume. Very sparkly.”

“Ha ha.” She mocked you before crossing your arms. “For the record, I still think Valentine’s Day is a sham. I’m just doing this to see Jeff squirm.”

“Ah. Well then, I’m sure all of the women out there will forgive you for your transgressions.” You teased her with an empty smile.

Britta let out a cross between a laugh and a huff, gaze straying from you to look out at the mass you launched your balloon into. Occasionally someone in unusually high heels would fall, only to be swept back up into the bobbing heads.

“Have you talked to Troy lately?” Britta cut in suddenly. The tone of her voice made you narrow your eyes, and you hummed out a suspicious no.

“That question is both too casual and well delivered on a night like this to have come from you. What’s going on.” You had fully abandoned kicking around stray balloons for talking with her. Or at least, staring at her forehead while she talked. You didn’t know if you could manage eye contact right now.

“He was looking for you earlier at lunch. While sweating. A lot.” Britta scrunched her nose up as if she could still smell the body odor. “Sounded like he wanted to ask you something.”

You looked away from her for a moment, temporarily overcome with a feeling of nausea.

“Oh, yeah. My bad. I was in the study room.” A pause. “Studying.”

“Troy said that he checked there beforehand.” It was Britta’s turn to squint at you. “Why are you the one acting weird now?”

Rubbing at the back of your neck proved as a temporary relief to her question. Inhaling through your mouth, you pulled out your phone and messed with it for a second.

“I got a weird voicemail from Abed today. The main part is him talking to me about the dance scene from Breakfast Club, I think, and some weird phone thing with Jeff and you— " Britta coughed into her hand at that “— but the last few seconds really threw me.”

You opened your mouth to continue the story, but quickly shut it once you saw that Britta wasn’t paying attention anymore. You didn’t even have to follow her line of sight to know she was staring at a dejected looking Jeff— who had been standing by the cusp of the exit for six minutes now. You didn’t even have to nod at her to go before she took off, awkwardly waddling in her stilletos in an attempt to not trip.

It only took a few more minutes of watching the two of them go back and forth for you to give up on anything exciting happening to you. With a halfhearted grumble, you took one last grab at the punch bowl before starting towards the double doors. You hoped the juice had been spiked. If you made all this effort to show up to some lame school thing, might as well get a little tipsy.

“Well this is awkward.”

A harsh cough came from your throat as you choked on your own spit. In an attempt to make yourself feel better, you turned around to glare at whoever had scared you, only to start coughing more.

“Abed?” You wheezed. Letting out another round of coughs, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the sunglasses on his face.

“I came as fast as I could when I realized Troy was stuck as Senior Changs whore for the night.” He looked at you calmly as you continued to die a little right in front of him.

Finally taking one more gulp of punch from the table, you calmed down enough to string together a sentence.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Let me explain for any in the audience that might have missed it while in the bathroom.” Abed held up a finger. All you could do was deadpan weakly at him.

“Both Troy and I approached you a little bit ago saying that we had something important to say to you. He worded it wrong. We were supposed to ask you something, not tell you. Instead, Troy allowed Senior Chang’s torture to ruin that question, and later I with Jeff and Britta’s voicemail problems”

“Their what’s? What is going on with voicemails today.”

“Not important.” Abed carried on. “What’s important is that while I was fulfilling the spot of Jeff’s drinking buddy, I realized something.”

“That you shouldn’t be drinking??” You questioned wildly. It was beginning to feel like this night was a special episode in a really bad main cable show. Either that or this place was finally getting to you.

“No. I realized that while Troy was fitting himself and Pierce into extra tight women’s suits, that we would miss the opportunity to ask you what we wanted to. I called Troy to tell him to go look for you, but only after sending a call to you that I do not remember the contents of. I assume you have it?” He blinked owlishly.

With a pair of very wide and very confused eyes, you grabbed your phone for the second time that night and shook it with a loose wrist. The audio from a few hours ago began to play faintly. It’s sound was swallowed by the bass of the dances music, but the both of you could still make the words out. Abed’s voice tumbled out at twice the speed it normally does, his energy no doubt heightened by alcohol.

“— e’re sort of like Marty McFly and Jennifer Parker, but there’s three of us. Have you seen the second movie? I need to show you the second movie. There’s more of Jennifer in that than the first. And Martys mom isn’t trying to get with him. Oh, and you don’t have to have a time traveling car for us to want to go to the dance with you. Although that would be nice. Jeff stop drooling on tha —"

Abed looked at it silently as the message continued to run. It was as if he expected nothing more from its contents. For a second you wondered how he’d react to the twenty minutes before that where all he talks about is Breakfast Club, but you figured it would be the same.

The feeling of nausea from earlier was back, and this time was trying to crawl out of your throat with a ferocity. Swallowing both your nerves and that not so metaphorical metaphor, you inhaled.

“So. Troy’s okay with this?” You asked cautiously, as if this was a dubious prank. Abed nodded almost immediately after you asked. The nausea subsided.

“And you’re okay with this?”

Another nod.

“Alright.” You shuffled. It felt like ten pounds had been lifted off your chest, and you didn't know how to express that. “I’ll go to the dance. With the both of you.”

A brief period of silence stretched between the two of you. The lights continued to flair, and the music continued to shake the floorboards, but none of you moved.

“Abed?”

“Sorry. You made me so happy I peed a little, and didn’t want to say anything.”

The corner of your mouth lifted up once. Twice. It only took one more time for a tirade of laughter to escape you all in one go. Abed’s unmoving expression just watched as you laughed to yourself, waiting patiently until you had stopped. When you paused to catch your breath, Abed placed a hand on your shoulder and looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully.

“Normally this doesn’t happen in shows.” He hummed. “Do you think that this is a way of adding some diversity in the form of a polyamorous couple at a community college?”

“How about no lables?” You suggested. “It feels weird. What if it was just me, you, and Troy for now.”

Abed repeated your words under his breath, mumbling a little. He lifted his head back up to you with his thought on the proposition, which arrived in the form of a steady thumbs up.

“Cool. Cool cool cool.” You grinned at him. Abed’s nose flared at your use of his unspoken catchphrase, and he turned away from you to cup his hands around his mouth.

"They said yes!" He told the figure dancing on the floor; the likes of which responded with a yell of victory before getting back to it. It took you a minute to get past the skintight blue suit and floral scarf to realize who it was.

"Troy?!" You sputtered with an open mouth. He looked at you at the mention of his name with a painful smile before turning back to his dance partner with a dramatic sob.

"What is he wearing? And why is Senior Chang— oh god." Your eyes widened, unable to look away. "I think I'm going to puke."

"It's better if you don't question it." Abed told you, his hand just a few inches shy of touching his eyes as he hid behind it.

"Give me your hand Abed." You said blankly. Without questioning you, he held it out. You were quick to sheild your own eyes from the dancing.

"So." You turned your head to look at him after a moment of gross silence, both of his hands still in the air. "Movie date tonight when Troy is released from captivity?"

"I've been waiting forever for you to ask that."

148 notes · View notes

yeyinde · 1 year

Text

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.

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

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