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tallulah477 · 4 months

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Pretty, But Not Stupid

Extra of Hunting the Tawtute

Kinkmas Day 10: Breath Play

Pairing: Lo’ak x Fem!Human!Reader

Word Count: 3.8K

Warnings: AgedUp!Lo’ak, Dark!Lo’ak, ***NON-CON***, Dub-Con, Breath Play, Choking, Size Difference, Alien Genitalia, Oral (male receiving), P in V, Belly Bulge, Creampie, Scenting, Mention of knots (but no knotting yet), Slight threesome (and Dark!Neteyam), Mentions of death/dead bodies, Reader is not having a good time (although idk...i think she’s having a great time), Mentions of war

A/N: Guess who’s back, besties!! Been MIA, slacking on prompts, and about to lose my fucking mind with all my family around, but I somehow got this done and I’m about to read as many fics as I can before someone else demands my attention.

A/N 2: This was not intended to be a full Part 2 yet, but it's way too long to be called a drabble. So I’m calling it an extra for now until I decide what to call it lmao. Hope y’all like it 🧡

A/N 3: DEDICATED TO @oakbuggy AND THEIR AMAZING ARTWORK (Everyone stop reading and go look at their art rn, all of them are god-tier but the one for Hunting the Tawtute definitely holds a special place in my heart. Thank you again, Buggy! You're amazing!)

Summary: With their father’s impending retirement as Olo’eyktan, Neteyam has more responsibilities to the clan and less time to see his favorite human. Thankfully, Lo’ak is there to pick up the slack.

**PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS - DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ**

Translations:

Vrrtep - Demon

Tawtute - Human

Sevin - Pretty

Palulukan - Apex predator resembling a lion or panther

(Mountain) Banshee/Ikran - Large, dragon-like aerial predators

Mawey - Calm

Narlor - Beautiful

Tam tam - Calm, be content, there there

Srane - Yes

Yawne - Beloved

Paskalin - Sweet berry (term of endearment)

Their father is stepping down as clan leader - at least that’s what Lo’ak tells you when he comes to visit you in the isolated hut the brothers have set up for you on the side of a cliff face. It was for your own protection, they told you. You couldn’t stay in the village yet, their father would never allow it, and you clearly couldn’t be trusted not to run away if they built you something on the forest floor.

“Tawtutes with their tiny brains are stupid,” Neteyam had sneered as he hauled your combined weight up the cliff side. Your arms locked around his neck tightly, legs wrapped around his lithe torso as your eyes squeezed shut, determined not to look at the insane height you were being pulled to. “You might think to run away and then become the next meal of a hungry Palulukan.”

“Nah, bro,” Lo’ak said, the grin on his face audible in his teasing words as he climbed up the cliff behind you, ready to catch you if you decided to end it all right there and try your hand at plummeting to your death, no doubt. “Our little vrrtep would never run from us. Right, sevin?”

The hut they built for you was as cozy as it could be. Assembled further into the cave and away from the treacherous cliff side, thick material wrapped around sturdy posts to keep out any harsh weather that the cave itself couldn’t keep out. They’d given you plenty of blankets, assuring you that even though your human nose can’t smell it, their scent is all over them.

“To keep you smelling like us, when we can’t be here to do it ourselves.”

But they’re always around, day after day they come for you. Lo’ak grinning a deceivingly sweet smile and Neteyam’s amber eyes burning holes into your face as they grab at you, pulling you towards them as they all but rip off the loincloth and chest covering they gave you, baring your marked up body to their hungry gazes. They spread you open, fucking you and fucking you until you’re a crying overstimulated mess, drooling and teary under your mask as they fill you up.

They know exactly how to touch you, where to press, where to rub, where you’re most sensitive. They learned how to play with your body better than you could ever know how, dragging orgasm after orgasm out of your trembling, exhausted body until your left limp and they’ve decided they’ve had enough for the day.

Your body still struggles to take their cocks (although they love to tell you that you were made for it - “made to be our little cocksleeve”). Your only saving grace is that they’re still not sure if they can knot you. They’ve gotten close to trying, instincts desperate to push that large ball of tissue at the base of their cocks inside your already stuffed to the brim pussy. You feel how they test the resistance, pushing juuuusttt a little deeper, the swollen knot stretching you even farther than you ever thought you could stretch before they back off.

When they fill you full of their cum, it’s with their own hand squeezing tightly around the knot.

Usually, it’s both of them. This time, you’re shocked to see only Lo’ak climbing over the edge of the cliff.

“Neteyam sends his regrets,” Lo’ak says, kneeling down to wrap his arms around your body and press his face into your neck. His flat nose presses against your rapidly increasing pulse point and breathes in your scent. “He said to tell you that he’s sorry he won’t be able to visit you today, but that he’ll make sure to come see your pretty face and fill your tight pussy tomorrow.”

Your face flushes hot at his words, shivering when his nose slides up to nudge just behind your ear, but you stay silent.

“But that’s good news for me,” He continues. “Because that means I get you all to myself for tonight.”

Neteyam isn’t coming to visit you today because their father is stepping down as clan leader, which means increased training, more hours at council meetings, and less time to sneak off with his captive human.

“What does that mean?” You can’t help but ask. Lo’ak’s hands smooth down your sides, large palms dragging over your bare skin until they’re squeezing your ass. Your voice cracks at the feel, but you push on, your eyes doing their best to keep contact with his bright amber ones. “Your father stepping down? What does that . . .”

What does that mean for me?

“Nothing you have to worry about right now,” He says.

Without warning, he stands, pulling you with him so your legs wrap around his torso as he supports you with a hand on your ass. A loud yip rips from his throat, echoing through the cave as he walks you both towards the cliff’s edge. The responding roaring shriek makes you cower against him as the large dragon-like animal lands on the platform behind you, wings flapping hard against the wind.

“We’re going on an adventure,” Lo’ak says as he walks you closer to the banshee. You whimper, arms locking around his neck so tight you’d think you would be choking him if you could think straight. But you’re not, head whipped around staring wide eyed at the monstrous creature as it turns its head sideways to stare back at you.

“Lo’ak, no,” You beg through gritted teeth, but he ignores you as he approaches the banshee, his hand settling lovingly on its snout.

“Mawey,” he coos, carefully rubbing along the blue leathery skin on the banshee’s snout, but you’re not sure if he’s trying to calm the large animal or you. “Mawey, narlor,”

“Lo’ak, no,” You plead, still clinging to his upper body. Tears pool in your eyes and a panicked whimper escapes your lips when you feel the puffing breath of the mountain banshee on your back. “Please, please, no!”

But you’re ignored again, even when your body goes rigid at the feel of that rounded snout pressing against the curve of your spine, hot exhales practically burning your skin as the banshee sniffs at you. Fuck, fuck–you could die. Right now, you could die in a second, that snout pressing into your skin could disappear, replaced with dual rows of long curved teeth that would take only a second to open and bite down and rip you clean in half.

You can hear the smile in Lo’ak’s voice from where your mask is digging into his collarbone, his soft murmurs of encouragement loud even through your terrified thoughts. “Srane, tam tam. Look at my two beautiful girls, getting along so well.”

He moves swiftly, not leaving room for any more pleading as he bonds with his banshee and climbs on, bringing your clinging body with him. The rush of air as the large animal takes flight makes you squeeze Lo’ak tighter, desperate for safety as you feel the wind bat at your back as the banshee cuts through the sky like a bullet from a gun.

“Is this all it takes for you to cling to me, sevin?” Lo’ak teases as he rests a secure hand on your trembling figure, all five fingers spread so wide that they nearly span the entirety of your back. “A little ikran ride and I get you all cuddled up, nice and close?”

You ignore his dig, teeth clenching together as you fight to find your voice around the wind rushing around your ears. “W-where are we going?”

Lo’ak nudges his chin against the top of your head. “You’ll see,”

The flight feels like hours. Hours of watching miles and miles of trees and forest thousands of meters below from over Lo’ak’s shoulder. Logically, you know you’re exaggerating. It hasn’t been hours, and even though you’re still high enough to die as a splat on the ground if you were to fall, it's probably not as high as it feels. But heights have never been your friend, and frankly, neither has time management.

It’s only when the banshee lowers to the ground and Lo’ak dismounts, depositing you on your own two unsteady feet, that you realize where he’s brought you on your ‘adventure’.

Your mouth opens in horror at the remains of your old home. The RDA outpost, a once tall and strong fortress that housed the lives of hundreds of humans, now practically nothing more than a heap of rubble. The walls once meant to provide safety to those within them have crumbled down, victims of their own explosives used against them by the enemy. Debris lines the paved ground, thick boulders and metal platings that were once walls, bullet shells glinting in the sunlight. There’s a few AMP suits scattered around the battlefield - you can’t see inside them from your vantage point, and you’re terrified of what you might see if you get too close.

“This way, tawtute,” Lo’ak says, reaching for your hand, but you yank it away before he can grab it.

“No,” You say, but the firmness in your voice is overshadowed by the shakiness. “No, I’m not going in there.”

“Yes, you are,”

Another headshake. “No,”

Quick as lightning, his hand shoots out and grabs the bottom of your mask, gripping on the valve at the bottom as he bends down so his face is level with yours.

“Demon,” He growls, fangs on display for just a moment. A warning. “You are pretty, but not stupid. You do as I say.”

Fear claws at your throat and your hands immediately latch onto his wrist, silently begging for him to not pull your mask off. He never does, and neither does Neteyam. Not as a punishment at least. When they use your mouth, there’s always a warning - a “hold your breath, yawne,” before the air is cut off from your lungs and your mouth is full of alien cock. But the fear never leaves, the possibility is always there at the forefront of your mind, and you cling to his wrist like the lifeline it is.

Lo’ak’s face softens at your expression, grip loosening from your mask as his hand slides to cup the back of your neck. “You know I would never hurt you. You need to trust me,”

Hesitantly, you shake your head again. You’re pushing your luck, you know it. But you’ve learned Lo’ak is the more lenient of the brothers and will tolerate more ‘disobedience’ than Neteyam will. “I can’t,”

“Yes, you can. Nothing in there will hurt you. If anyone is left in there, they’re dead,”

And that’s the problem. The terror of facing the place where life as you knew it was ended in a heartbeat. If there’s still people in there, people you once knew, people you talked to, some people who were good, lying on the ground . . . lifeless . . .

In the end, it’s not a choice. Lo’ak sighs, pulling you back in his arms and cradling you to his chest like a toddler. You sniffle, eyes sliding shut, determined to not watch as he walks you towards the remains of the outpost.

It’s hard to admit, but being carried by the brothers can be really soothing if you let it. They move swiftly, with grace and confidence in every step, careful not to jostle you despite the usually uneven terrain of the forest. It’s even smoother now as Lo’ak walks across the flat pavement of the base. If you close your eyes, it can almost feel like you’re floating.

There’s a loud chu-chunk sound followed by the rapid hiss of air and the loss of sunlight behind your closed lids. You open your eyes to see that Lo’ak has found a still intact entrance, the airlock working to adjust the oxygen levels to whatever lies beyond the interior door. He smiles when the pressure stabilizes, opening the door and stepping into the inside of the base. This time, he doesn’t warn you when he pulls off your mask, the sound of escaping air hitting your ears, but you don’t choke. Instead you can breathe, deep complete breaths without the need for a mask covering your face.

Lo’ak wastes no time nuzzling his face against yours, sliding his cheek across every new inch of face and neck that he can comfortably reach, a deep content rumble vibrating through his chest.

Scenting you.

“I can smell you,” He whispers, lips pressing against your cheek. “Not just you right now, but where you were, where you’ve been, here, within these walls.”

“W-what?”

His feet carry him, guided by an old scent that you can hardly believe is here after so long. But it is, it has to be - you know the journey, have walked it hundreds of times during your time on Pandora, but you can’t imagine that Lo’ak would. You don’t think he ever went inside the outpost during the attack. He shouldn’t know that it's the second hallway instead of the first, shouldn’t know it’s two left turns and one right, and that your door is the 3rd on the left. But he does.

He even knows which bed was yours and which was your roommate’s, only confirmed when he drops you down onto the thin RDA issued mattress against the far side wall. You land with a yelp, bouncing slightly from the force of the drop, but your noise of surprise is cut off by Lo’ak’s lips against yours.

“Stupid humans,” He growls against your lips. “Can't even breathe air without help. Wish I could teach you, so I wouldn’t have to go without your pretty lips on mine every day.”

You whine into the kiss, his big lips nearly twice the size of yours as they capture your mouth completely. It’s not the first time he’s kissed you, but it’s the first time you can breathe while it happens.

He pulls away after a few more kisses, his breathing shallow as he reaches for something tied to his loincloth. It’s only then that you see the CO2 mask that’s been attached to his hip this whole time. He pulls the cross strap around his body, the mask hanging low on his chest and the CO2 canister hanging around his hip. He brings the mask to his face with one hand, taking in a few deep breaths, while the other hand works at the ties on his loincloth.

The material of his covering falls to the ground and he drops the mask in favor of gripping your chin, thumb rubbing soothingly across your cheek.

“Someone wants to play with you,” He purrs. “Be a good girl and invite him out, okay?”

Your breathing is shaky as you rise up on the bed, knees pressing into the mattress as you come face to face with the flat plane hiding Lo’ak’s cock. His hand moves to the back of your head, guiding you forward until your lips press against the smooth space between his thighs.

Experience has you knowing what to do now, how to hold onto his thighs with both hands to keep yourself steady as you pepper gentle kisses along the hidden slit. Lo’ak tips his head back at the feel of your tongue sliding along the seam, little teasing kitten licks against the engorging slit that are always from him demanding them, demanding the slower teasing buildup, rather than you being coy.

He pushes your face harder against him, hissing a ‘yeah, good girl. Like you fucking mean it,’ as he urges you to lick him deeper. When his slit opens, puffy and dripping, you can’t help the moan that falls from your lips as the sweet taste of his slick coats your tastebuds. It controls your body, whatever is in the slick. You feel it, making your body heat up, making you want things you definitely don’t - and you’re in the thick of it now, no mask or breathing breaks to cut whatever effects it usually has on you. It sets your body on fire now, making your thighs clench together as wetness pools in your core, and your brain fuzzes as the first touch of Lo’ak’s cock teases your lips as it starts to slip past the slit.

You don’t know how long he keeps you there, sucking his cock. He’s dragging it out, taking advantage of the rare opportunity he has now of you without your mask. He drags your mouth along his cock, staring down at you with hooded eyes and letting you suckle gently on the lavender tip. Sometimes he’ll growl, pushing you down harder on his length just to hear you gag when the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat. Other times he’ll pull you off completely, twisting your head so that your lips wrap around his girth from the side, before sliding you slowly back and forth along his length, tongue running over each and every bump and barb along the hot cerulean skin, the bright bioluminescent freckles decorating his cock practically shining under the layer of slick and saliva.

When he’s finally used you to tease himself enough, he pushes you back flat on the bed, large hands wrapping around your calves and pulling you closer so your ass is just barely hanging off the side. You whimper when he pulls your legs apart, ripping the soaked loincloth from your body, hungry amber eyes staring at your swollen, wet cunt.

“Such a pretty girl,” He moans. The tip of his cock slides along your folds, nudging against your clit before sliding back down and positioning at your entrance. “You ready?”

Your brain is fuzzy and your clit is throbbing, hole clenching with the need to be filled. You close your eyes, looking away from his intense gaze - you don’t want it, you try to remind yourself, you don’t, he’s making you. But a swift smack on your thigh makes your eyes fly open again, Lo’ak’s hard gaze seeming to cut into your very soul.

“Say it, demon. Wanna hear you say it,”

A small cry escapes your lips, body unconsciously trying to bear down on his cock even as you shake your head. He shifts forward just the tiniest bit, lavender tip just barely pressing against your drooling hole enough for it to start to stretch before stopping again.

“‘Need you, Lo'ak,” he recites, brow cocked, expecting you to repeat it. “Say it.”

“Fuck!” Is what comes out instead - a whiny, frustrated curse, that has your eyes tearing up again and Lo’ak’s ears pinning back against his skull.

His hand is quick to wrap around your throat, fingers digging into the blood vessels at the side of your neck as he hisses down at you. Your hands wrap around his wrist again, fingernails digging in and no doubt leaving red crescent shaped marks in the blue skin. He’s not squeezing your neck, not crushing your windpipe out of anger. You can breathe, the gulping breaths your gasping for are making it into your lungs, but the fingers pressing into the blood vessels make it feel like you can’t. Your head is clouding again, fuzzing like TV static, vision going blurry as his hand doesn’t relent.

“Fine,” He grunts. “You don’t wanna talk? Don’t.”

You want to scream when he pushes forward, cock bullying its way past your entrance and inside you, stretching you and filling you up. It’s slow and torturous as he fills you impossibly full, the barbs along his length scraping ruthlessly against your slick walls. He sighs, ears flicking in pleasure as your heat envelopes him, stretching around his girth so perfectly he swears you were made for him.

You can feel the bulge in your belly, the pressure disappearing and reappearing again as he begins to move inside of you. Long, purposeful strokes meant as a punishment, meant to make you feel every agonizingly blissful inch of him as he fucks into your soaked cunt, harder and harder with each thrust. Your mouth moves trying to form words, sound fleeting save for the barely there whispers of ‘fuck’, ‘oh my god’, and ‘please’. Lo’ak hears them anyway, leaning down to silence you with a filthy kiss. His hips pound against yours, unrelenting in their mission to completely fuck the soul of your body, and the sound of slapping skin against skin mix with Lo’ak’s groans and your barely audible breathy whines.

Lo’ak’s fingers find their way to your swollen clit, rubbing persistently at the sensitive nub until you're crying into his mouth, thighs trying desperately to close together but can’t because of his body between them. The thick press of his knot against your entrance is what pushes your oversensitive body over the edge.

At the first suffocating clench of your pussy around his cock, Lo’ak releases your throat letting all the air it felt like you weren’t getting back into your lungs in a rush of oxygen. You gasp, crying against his lips as you arch up against him, creaming pussy fluttering around him as you cum on his cock. He growls when your teeth latch onto his bottom lip, blunt teeth digging in enough to draw blood, but the way he immediately grabs your hips, shoving his knot against you as hard as he would dare without actually penetrating you, tells you that it was a lust filled growl this time, not an angry one.

He moans when he spills himself inside you, face pressed against your neck as he fills you up. You swear it feels almost scorching hot, heating you up from the inside and then out as it spills from around Lo’ak’s still buried cock and runs down the curve of your ass and onto the bed sheets.

Someone clears their throat from behind Lo’ak, and you gasp at the sudden sound, frantically trying to look around Lo’ak’s hulking body to see who it is.

Lo’ak sighs, undisturbed by sudden intrusion, even going as far as rolling his eyes before slowly pulling out of your used cunt - more of his cum spilling out onto the bed now that he’s not still inside you to keep it in. “Wasn’t expecting you today, bro,”

Your eyes widen when he moves out of the way, revealing a smug looking Neteyam in the doorway, still very much dressed up in his warrior’s gear.

“I had to make time to see our pretty little demon,” Neteyam says, bright amber eyes sweeping over your exhausted form. He crosses the room with three long strides, one knee pressing into the bed as he leans down to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “That was a nice show. I know you’re tired, paskalin,”

His eyes meet yours, amber irises practically swallowed up by the blacks of his pupils. A hand presses against your belly, sneaking down towards your oversensitive pussy, his pointer finger reaching out to tap against your clit as you whine.

“But it’s really not fair that you smell more like Lo’ak than me now, is it?”

**Special thanks to @neteyamsyawntu for the prompt!

Taglist: @eywaite @loaksulluyswife @erenjaegerwifee @f-cklife @beautiful-brown-skin-05 @anastasia1777-blog @localjasmine @tsewtx @skywonder @neteyamswillow @luvv4j4ybe11 @pandoraslxna @avatarwifey

#𝑻𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒆 𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔 ✎#Avatar12DaysofKinkmas #lo'ak smut #lo'ak x female reader #lo'ak x reader #lo'ak x human reader #tw: noncon #tw: non con #tw: dubcon #tw: dubious consent

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coralinnii · 1 year

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❋ Falling into his arms ❋ feat: Vil ⭑ Azul ⭑ Deuce ⭑ Malleus genre: fluff note: gn!reader, no pronouns used with reader, unspecified relationships, reader is depicted as magicless,

Trying out his new heels

Vil has an extensive collection of designer shoes of all styles from his modeling gigs or even gifts from companies to entice him to work with them. On occasion, he gets a few of the same style if he ever thinks he knows someone that would pull them off, like you for example.

The young model offered to try out these pair of heels that he said would accentuate your legs even better and he wouldn’t stop until you tried them on, so you did.

But these particular pair were taller than what you were used to walking in so rather than an elegant figure, you more resembled a baby deer wobbling on ice. You only managed a few steps before you tripped up and started falling forward from your loss of balance.

Luckily Vil was keeping a watchful eye on you or before your literal fall from grace, the Pomefiore leader wrapped a strong arm around your waist to pull you upright.

“Good grief, you’re a disaster in heels” he sighed which you pouted in rebuke. Blame the shoes, not you!

“Try again, make sure to lift your legs so as to not trip and shift your weight accordingly” Vil instructed, strict as ever.

But he didn’t move away from you. In fact, Vil offered his arm for you to hold on and stepped in line with you. The blond senior was probably making sure you don’t hurt yourself but you couldn’t help but think you two resemble a couple walking together which conjured feelings of butterflies in your stomach.

You kept your silence about it, hoping you get to stay like this for as long as you can. However, Vil caught your poorly hidden glee and smiled bemused by your cuteness.

Working at Monstro Lounge

It was a busy day at Monstro Lounge as Azul revealed a limited addition menu using a shipment of rare ingredients he procured recently. With the heavy traffic of customers, you took this as an opportunity to make some extra cash for the week.

It was not because you wanted to stay close to a certain caecilian merman. Pfft, of course not.

And even if you did, you didn’t manage to see much of Azul anyway when the stream of students coming in and out made you busy throughout your shift as you zoomed around the restaurant taking orders and serving dishes.

In your haste to bring in a new order, you failed to notice a student getting up from his table and knocked you over, sending you flying backwards.

Panicked, you braced yourself for a bruised back and/or bum. But to your surprise, you felt a pair of arms scooping you before you fell. In your peripheral vision, you noticed the flutter of a large silver coat and matching wavy locks.

“While I appreciate the liveliness of my business, I must prefer to avoid mishaps” Azul quipped, bringing you upright to your feet with such ease that you never realized how sturdy the lean Housewarden really was.

The student who knocked you over apologized sincerely to you which you easily forgiven and the atmosphere returned to a happier ambiance as everyone turned their focus away from you.

You thanked Azul for rescuing you and he played off your gratitude with a business-like smile. “Well, you can also return the favor to me” How typical of the calculating student.

But before he left to return to his office, Azul whispered in your direction and if you weren’t already hyper-focused on him, you could have missed it.

“I rather you take a rest than to run yourself ragged and hurt yourself”

Azul walked away before you could question him but you felt a warm bubbling feeling in your chest. Was the Azul Ashengrotto worried for you?

An accident during flying lessons

Flying lessons are typically uneventful for you since you couldn’t participate with the other magical students. Being on the ground while you watch your classmates soar across the sky stung (though you supposed it’s better than running laps with Coach Vargas)

One day however, Grim had the brilliant idea of letting you fly with him on his broom. He was confident in his skills on the broom that he could handle the extra weight. He is a genius mage, after all.

You should have had better common sense. You’ve seen his progress and you’ve seen him nosedive towards the ground a couple of times so how in Twisted Wonderland can he handle a passenger? But you let your envy win as you wanted to experience the joy of the wind blowing in your face as you flew so you agreed.

So, that was a terrible idea.

There was a moment of excitement as it seemed to be going well. Grim was keeping the broom steady despite the new addition on the stick. The two of you managed a few short laps and you started to let your guard down…then it happened.

You heard Grim let out a yelp as the broomstick suddenly stopped mid-flight and suddenly jolted upwards, scaring you as you were knocked off the broom and started falling straight towards the field.

The wind rushed by your ears, deafening you. You couldn’t hear anything but your own racing heart as tears escaped you.

Then suddenly, you saw a familiar shade of blue as you crashed into a firm body as something - or someone - stopped your fall. Warm arms wrapped around you protectively as you and your saviour descended ungracefully but safely back onto the ground.

“Yo, are you guys ok?!” You heard Ace yelled out as he dashed towards the two of you. “Nice catch, Deucey. Talk about a close call”

It was Deuce who saved you? Clumsy but well-meaning Deuce? Your eyes looked over to see Deuce with his signature blue hair scolding Grim on your behalf and you placed a hand on your chest. Your heart calmed down a bit but it was too quick to be normal. Your face felt hot and your hands felt clammy.

It’s just because of your adrenaline, right?

A misstep while gargoyle watching

Be it by choice or by convenience, you became the main companion to the great fae mage during his nightly stroll to find gargoyles to appreciate. You walked through many nights with Malleus, listening intently to his passionate explanations of these old figures. Whether you like them or not, you have to appreciate the pure joy in Malleus’ voice as he talks endlessly about them.

During one night, the two of you decided to take a closer look at the particularly old gargoyle as Malleus to look over the details of the figure that can only be seen up close.

You were atop of the roof of an old manor, and you could feel how decrepit the building was as you felt certain parts of the roof coming loose or weaker than other areas. Malleus wasn’t worried as he lifted himself to not add his weight on the building.

After a while though, you forgot your worries as you listened to your companion speak about the gargoyle that caught his interest tonight. He pointed out a particularly small detail that you couldn’t quite see. So, you took a step forward to take a better look.

When suddenly, a piece of the roof broke beneath your feet and your foot was caught as you started to fall forward towards the edge of the roof.

You let out a scream fearing the worst, but then you felt a rather gentle brush of wind before you felt your body slowing down. In a flurry of green lights you found yourself floating into Malleus’ arms as he caught you before you even descended off the roof. Gently, he pulled your foot out from the broken part of the manor and proceeded to float down towards the ground below with you in his arms.

“I apologize. It seems I’ve underestimated the state of this building” His voice was calm but you saw glimpses of concern and guilt in Malleus’ green eyes. Without a hint of discomfort, he started to walk towards the Diasomnia dormitories “You have gotten hurt on my watch so I will take responsibility in tending to your injury”

Even if you were shocked by the sudden turn of events, you didn’t voice any complaints as you chose to relish in the warmth of Malleus’ hold. You also didn’t question the young fae why he didn’t just teleport into his dorm or just heal your injured foot right there.

You were willing to take the scolding from Sebek and the embarrassing teasing from Lilia any day for time spent with Malleus, and the feelings seem to be mutual

#twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland x reader #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland scenarios #twst x reader #twst imagines #vil schoenheit #vil x reader #azul ashengrotto #azul x reader #deuce spade #twst deuce x reader #malleus draconia #malleus x reader

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mistydeyes · 7 months

Note

Hello! I love your page layout!! May I send in a request for Platonic Headcanons with TF-141 and Los Vaqueros with a hacker reader? (Like SilverWolf In Honkai star Rail) Reader is part of a group of 4 deadly people including their self and act as their hacker. They’re notorious for breaking into many government and military systems and are an enemy to TF-141 and Los Vaqueros. With reader having a bounty of 51 billion but still having the lowest bounty compared to others in their group!

I’d be interested in their reactions to reader!

(Take your time tho!)

ahh thank you so much for sending this in! I've been in a bit of a writer's block so this brought me back :)

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summary: When your file crosses the 141's desk, they find themselves hunting after you and your notorious group.

pairing: Task Force 141, Los Vaqueros x platonic!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of weapons/violence

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When your file first crossed Laswell's desk and she passed it over to the team, they were surprised at its sheer size

From hacking the US government to disabling NATO comms, it was clear you had become an enemy of every government across the globe

The US even tried to make a deal with you and offered a high-paying job in the NSA in return for a detailed account of how you hacked into their systems

You returned the job offer with a hack that left their website non-functional for weeks

"Impressive one you have here, Laswell," Price commented as he flipped through your file

"They call them 'Oblivion' and the use of 1's and 0's is a nice touch" she quipped before briefing them on your team's current location

That's how they ended up back in Mexico and crossed paths again with the Los Vaqueros

"Fuck it's so hot here," you said as you fanned yourself with a makeshift paper fan

The leader of the group, Phantom, rolled his eyes as he continued to clean your array of weapons and tools

"Not my fault we got tracked down to that oil rig in the Pacific," he replied through gritted teeth and you threw a stray stack of files toward him

"Told you, that wasn't my fault," you angrily responded, "the Australians tracked down someone's unprotected IP"

You shot a glance toward the single individual who was the source of all your forged documents and consistent flow of funds

As the group divulged into chaos at your singular comment, you were distracted by the blinding light and ringing from a flash bang through the window

"Get down!" you could hear a loud baritone voice boom as you blinked rapidly amongst the rubble of your work

As you looked around at your surrounding teammates in various states of disarray, you could see the vague outline of an attack team making their way through the destroyed door

"Fuck me," you swore as you grabbed a weapon and your laptop- two vital necessities

You scrambled to your feet and found yourself crouching behind a sturdy kitchen counter

"Isn't there supposed to be four of them?" you could hear a distinct British accent, probably from Manchester, comment

You silently swore at yourself as you attempted to shuffle away towards the back exit

"Oblivion, we know you're here," another voice replied as you could hear cuffs being slapped onto your team accompanied by their pained and disoriented groans

You put your ear to the counter, hearing the vibrations of their heavy footsteps on the home's wooden floor as you turned the safety off your weapon

"Come out now and we'll lessen that bounty on you," the same voice chided, "what is it 51 billion US now?"

As you held your breath, you could hear them slowly making their way through the home. By your estimates, there were about 6 of them, give or take

Your mind raced with different scenarios as you heard one of them walk into the kitchen

You pushed yourself into the corner and with a stroke of luck you noticed them inspect the cupboard

"I got you, you Brit," you whispered as you wrapped your arms around their neck and held a gun to their head

"Don't say a word and follow me," you instructed as they struggled against your grip

Strength was never your best feature but it helped you to overpower the soldier, the name "Garrick" printed on his vest

As you walked to the main area, you immediately felt all eyes and guns pointed at you

"I wouldn't shoot if I were you," you said calmly, "wouldn't want anything to happen to your Sergeant"

"We don't negotiate with terrorists," an older man spoke, by the way he was directing the team, you assumed he was their captain

"I'm more of a gray hat hacker regardless," you smirked, "steal from the rich and give back to the poor."

"How noble of you," another sarcastically replied as you stood in the tense atmosphere

"Regardless, you'll let me walk out of here and maybe we can have the pleasure of this another time," you remarked as you cocked the gun in your hand

"And if we don't?" the Captain asked as he raised an eyebrow at you

You smiled as you wiped away the dust from your face and stared back at him

"My bounty is going to be higher than the rest of them," was the last thing you said before releasing the sergeant and lodging a non-fatal bullet in his shoulder

As the entire room delved into chaos, you made a hasty escape and hopped on your motorbike outside

"Thanks for everything, Phantom," you whispered before riding off into the sunset with the hopes of running into that mysterious group with better circumstances

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rainbowsillz · 7 months

Note

Could I maybe ask for your take on how the dorm leaders react to their SO playing with their hair (and their ears/horns when it comes to Leona/Malleus)?

I love your writing! 💜

“How are you so carefree with this? I swear you are full of surprises..”

Pairings: Multiple Characters X GN! Reader.

-*-

Note: Sure! Thanks for this request(*^o^*)✨ I admit I got a bit lazy so no Vil and Idia qwq.

RIDDLE was near to conjuring his signature magic with you, and he was very tempted to it when he felt a hand tucking a strand of his ruby hair behind the back of his ear until his eyes met yours. The howling snarl in his mind settled when he downed his cup of tea. In an attempt to remind himself. What kind of person would he be if he loses his conduct with a spouse of his because of his mania? And because you informed him how much he was as exquisite as if he was a prince from a mythology you heard from.

LEONA was generally meh with it. Just don't touch his tail, 'kay? Or else, he'll be making you his pillow for the rest of his evening. Let's say, you're lucky to be his mate because if it's the others, he'd probably flip with this blunder, deemed it as an annoyance for him. He's also extremely prideful with your display of affections and reassuring words, it somewhat feeds into his ego that at least he's number one in your opinion (unlike that damned lizard). It means a lot to him even if you are as dense as a rock or something too.

AZUL has an intriguing reaction. Internally, he's kicking his feet and beaming like a high-school boy interacting with his crush, how about external wise from your point of view? Gripping his coat, as he forced another customer service smiling face (that looks unnatural) as if he wasn't on the urge to hide himself in his octopus pot. Does that mean you'll marry him? Is this a yes? He's delusional. Not that I would blame him, he's overjoyed after all. From his tone, he seemed to be okay with these gestures...?

KALIM behaved as you'd guess. Zero hesitation. Poke his forehead? Go ahead. Hold hands? Wonderful. I wholeheartedly believe that he would encourage you to because it means that you were at ease with his presence. Easy to talk him into your sort of thing (while Jamil suffered). With how dazzling and happy-go-lucky he is, you wouldn't have the heart to refuse him either. He jumped up and dragged you to his drawer as he motioned you to pick out a brush so you could use it on him as you wished.

MALLEUS was ecstatic, that wouldn't be enough to describe him. For you, it may be due to your own curiosity or you being adventurous with the said fae, his pupils intently gazing into you. Is this how humans express their emotions? What's the underlying meaning? Too invested in his thoughts at this time. You ran your fingers along the curve, sturdy and bony sprouts on his height. Amusement was creeping on his features as he let out a chortle at it. How brave. You differ from everything he knew of, aren't you?

#twisted wonderland x you #twisted wonderland x reader #twst imagines #twst scenarios #twst prompts #twst riddle x reader #twst leona x reader #twst azul x reader #twst kalim x reader #twst malleus x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #gender neutral reader #etihw.writes

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bakvrue · 5 months

Text

a man's strength

izuku x reader

provocative imagery, strength kink, izuku and reader are married and in love (feverishly so), mostly fluff with horny sprinkles, for my lovely mimi, ~1.3k wc

The cheers from the audience echo through the back halls of the late night studio and you make yourself comfortable in the green room.

This isn't the first time you've sat backstage while your husband smiles and waves at the large crowd. The host, a newcomer who has just recently snagged the prime slot, ushers Izuku over to his seat but when he goes to sit the applause continues.

Who wouldn't want to keep cheering for the number one hero? But your husband plays it down, laughing it off coolly and thanking them before sitting down.

Izuku could barely talk on stage in your first year of high school, turning into a defective robot, but years of experience really does make all the difference.

The host, Lux Larson, plays off of the audience spectacularly. The topics they discussed before the show are a hit with the audience, and the banter they have with Izuku and their band leader is actually funny. It's refreshing.

They laugh like old friends and Izuku tells harrowing stories of recent rescues, he talks about being a husband and you. Pink dusts his ears when you're brought up but the conversation naturally moves on to talk about the new hero initiatives Izuku is promoting. And before long the interview is over.

“Mr. Deku, thank you so much for being here tonight.” Lux sticks their hand out and Izuku happily accepts, shaking it with a smile. “The grip strength on this guy. Wow. More with Deku right after this!”

You hear a buzzer and people on set start moving all at once and you're confused when your husband is led from his seat to the large open area. He still seems relaxed, he must know what's going on, but you don't.

Your eyebrows furrow, the smile on your husband's face is enough to make you suspicious.

A knock pulls you from your mind before you can start to theorize.

“Mrs. Midoriya, your presence is requested at the center stage.”

You follow the assistant through the maze of hallways until you're standing behind the cameras.

The large open stage now has a large sturdy stand holding a glass window. More are off to the side with a variety of thicknesses, and a dawning washes over you.

Izuku jogs over to you the moment he spots you, his smile is so big, he's so excited.

“Izuku, is this why you were practicing your punches in the mirror this morning?”

You cock an eyebrow at him and as much as he would love to bask in the playfulness of your voice right now, he's on a time limit.

“We'll be starting soon, I want you to be front and center to enjoy the view.”

“What do you mean enjoy the—”

A buzzer goes off and he kisses your forehead.

“Watch me,” he whispers softly into your hairline before he walks back to Lux.

The lights dim and a producer counts down until Lux takes over.

“Hello and welcome back! We're still here with Deku and we're about to see the Pro's strength in action. What we have in front of us is a single pane of bulletproof glass. Have you ever punched through glass like this?”

Izuku's hands are in his pockets as he leans down to talk into the microphone Lux is holding, “I've punched through many things but I can't say that I’ve ever punched through bullet proof glass on purpose.”

“I can't imagine any of us have either,” Lux laughs. “Normally punching through glass is very dangerous, and we do have medical staff on standby, but how are you protecting yourself?”

Izuku takes off his suit jacket and begins rolling up his sleeves as he says, “I'll be wrapping my arm with one of my quirks, it should shield my skin from loose glass and prevent me from breaking anything.”

Lux laughs, “Break anything? I don't think the studio can cover breaking you. Are we sure about this? Audience, what do we think?”

The audience cheers and your husband has the audacity to turn and wink at you.

Lux points their finger at the audience, “If he breaks it's you guys that are footing the bill!” The producer hands safety glasses to the two on stage and Lux pats Izuku on the back before backing up. “Whenever you're ready!”

The band gives him a drum roll, “Now kids, don't try this at home.”

He gives you a half smile as he turns to face glass in front of him. The drumroll gets faster and so does your heart, pounding in your chest as wisps of black whip curls around his hand and wrist.

He pulls backwards, the muscles in his back causing his shirt to strain as he pushes them to their max. Electricity crackles in the studio as he punches. His fist collides with the glass, and you watch almost in slow motion as the glass cracks and gives way. His punch goes clean through, an almost perfect circle missing from the center of the shattered glass.

You gulp, realizing just why your menace of a husband wanted you up here. You shift your weight hoping the spark inside you doesn't turn into a raging fire.

Izuku is talking to Lux, probably talking about the breaking points of bullet proof glass and replaying the slow mo footage of the break.

You can see it playing on screen, and while the two of them are interested in the way the cracks in the glass all converged to a single point, you're too busy staring at the bit of forearm not concealed my black whip. Thick, powerful ropes of muscle…

You refocus on the two talking, Lux is pointing out a rip in the seam of Izuku's shirt, to which your husband decides to rip the shirt even further, pulling at the threads until they break.

Now shirtless, he lines up to punch a new piece of bullet proof glass. This one is three times thicker than the last.

His body braces again, but this time you can see every muscle tense in his back. His shoulder pulls back, and he thrusts his fist forward. The glass cracks under the force as his tricep bulges. He plunges his fist harder and deeper, feeling the glass resist him before it breaks to his whim.

The crowd claps at his strength as you struggle to stand. Your cheeks are heating as you watch the replay. The slow motion video shows just how easy it was for him. Like a knife slicing through butter.

You step back farther into the shadows behind you, covering your face. And Izuku knows. He smiles at you and you hope and pray to god that he does not come over here, that the cameras don't record the absolute hunger that must be sitting behind your eyes.

The third and final pane of glass is moved into position. A level eight. It's eight times thicker than the first and made to withstand 5 shots of an ak47.

Izuku once again braces himself for the punch, his bare back glistening under the hot studio lights.

His fist closes, and he presses it against the glass focusing on his breathing.

A drop of sweat trails down his back and he pulls his arm back. He breathes deeply before unleashing his power on the glass.

His fist collides with the glass. The force pushing and bending the thick glass around his arm, until it snaps and shatters.

The leftover shape reminds you of what a drawing of wormholes look like, except this one is broken to pieces in the deepest part of the pit.

The pure raw strength of your husband is enough to break through the strongest of security measures. You feel dizzy.

You reach your hand out towards the wall behind you and look at your monster of a husband. He's laughing with Lux before they send the program off to commercial break.

Thank god the dressing room has a lock, if you'll even make it that far...

#izuku x reader #deku x reader #💕.izuku #🍥.mimi

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kiwisbell · 8 months

Text

Whiskey Sour

chapter seven [epilogue]: ancient mariner

Reuniting with your estranged father while you finish college in Austin has unintended consequences. His best friend, for one.

series masterlist

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

series tags and warnings: dbf!joel being extremely criminally attractive, big ol' age gap (40s/early 20s), unprotected piv (do not follow the leader), creampie, multiple sex positions, multiple orgasms, oral sex (m and f receiving), dry humping, spitting, biting, joel miller is a MUNCH, very appropriate use of a showerhead, consensual somnophilia, yoga, heavy emphasis on payphones, daddy issues, family reunions, angst, dead mom, grief and mourning, father/daughter relationship, bartending, reader is a woman in STEM (author is not), being a student in university deserves a warning probably, attempted drugging (roofies), college boys suck, possessive sex, possessive joel, protective joel, obligatory warning for joel's salt-and-pepper hair, masturbation, wet dreams, no outbreak AU, hurt/comfort, healing, no sarah or ellie, stargazing, face-sitting, pining/yearning, happy ending

word count: ~ 11k (oops)

a/n: thank you for being here besties. here's a little epilogue/slice-of-life bonus chapter. i love you so much and i hope you've enjoyed this fic. whiskey sour will forever hold a special place in my heart and i had the best time ever writing it xx

chapter 7 [epilogue]: ancient mariner

Loving.

You take Joel to visit your new apartment.

It's small and quaint and so you. Pictures of you, your father, and your friends are tacked to a cork board. Decorative pillows and blankets are strewn about your love seat and plush chairs. Your kitchen is just big enough to fit you, light woods and natural light and your favourite colours. The floor-to-ceiling windows on the north wall give you a good view of the university a few blocks away. You're on the twelfth floor.

“What if there’s a fire?” says Joel, inspecting the locks on your door. They seem sturdy. The walls are a pleasant white, the floor clean. There's no mould or mildew. Everything looks perfectly safe.

“If there's a fire, I’ll take the stairs.”

“If the stairs are on fire?”

You give him a look. “I’ll yell down to the firefighters to set up a mattress on the ground, and hope for the best.”

“And your neighbours?” he says, breezing past your smartass little comment. “They good people?”

“I haven't gotten the chance to introduce myself yet.” You shrug your shoulders, watering a snake plant that hangs down from your curtain rod. “I’ll bring them some cookies next time I bake. I’m sure they're lovely.”

“You can't know that,” he points out.

You hum dismissively, and Joel catches a wicked smile on your face. “No, but if I want to bring a guy home, I don't need to sneak him past any housemates.”

Joel walks right up to you where you stand by the windows and snakes his arm around your waist. “Wanna keep bein’ funny,” he says, “or are you gonna finally let me kiss you again?”

“That depends.” You smile up at him, placing your hands on his chest. “Will you help me put together my dresser?”

Joel grins, tilting your chin up and kissing you softly. You smile against his mouth, winding your arms around his neck. He guides you to the window and presses your back against it, your body curving up against him. “My girl,” he murmurs, his lips at the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

“Kiss me again and I’ll believe you.”

He does. Decadently.

Hands on your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your sweater, teasing your soft skin. His tongue parting your lips, tasting bitter morning coffee and mint. His mouth and yours. The smell of his cologne.

When you pull away, you litter kisses from his nose to his forehead down to his scruffy beard. “Do you want dinner?” you ask him softly.

His eyes light up, and he looks down at you like a hopeful puppy. “You want me to stay?”

You squeeze his strong biceps. “I need to put you to work, and there is no way I’m letting you leave my sight tonight.”

Joel answers by crushing his mouth to yours, feverish, his rough hands exploring the soft skin of your hips beneath the fabric of your sweater. You’re wearing a pair of soft lounge shorts, and he can feel the pretty lace of your panties just under the waistband. Jesus, he's going crazy. You smell like perfume and you feel so good. This is where he belongs.

When he pulls away, he rests his forehead to yours. “If I ever fuck up like that again,” he says, “kick me in the balls.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you mean it.” You shake your head at him. “Nobody’s gonna hurt me. Especially not you.” You lace your fingers through his and bring your joined hands to your heart. “You came back to me.”

And it is never enough. But your heart beats strong and steadfast under his palm, and he knows you believe it. “You know I can be a real idiot sometimes,” he says.

“Yes,” you reply, your fingers tracing the lines on the back of his hand. Marks of age and scars and sunlight.

“My foot’s in my mouth all the time.”

“Mmm.” You bring his hand to your mouth and press soft kisses to his rough knuckles.

“I’m too old for you.”

Your lips find the pads of his fingers. “You’re just right,” you whisper, playfully nipping at the tip of his index finger. “Everything about you is so right, Joel Miller. Like Goldilocks. But… grey.”

Joel steps forward and presses his body against yours. This time, it’s your hand he takes, putting it to his chest. Your fingers slip greedily under his shirt to find the warm skin that lies beneath. “Feel that?” he says gruffly. “Feel how fuckin’ fast my heart’s beating?”

You bite your lip when you smile. “For me?”

“It’s only ever for you, baby.” His hand is a solid weight at the back of your neck, his thumb stroking your jaw. “Makin’ me feel like a goddamn kid with a crush on the pretty girl.”

“You could have all the pretty girls you want,” you tell him, your hand dipping to his belly. “You’re so handsome. So strong. And so good to me.”

Goddamn, he likes it when you say things like that. His ego gets a big fucking kick out of it, and his cock certainly hangs on every syllable of your praise. He hasn’t been good to you, not always—not the way you deserve—but he’s here for a reason. He’s here, in your shiny new apartment, to prove that he can be the one you want to put your faith in.

“Don’t want any girl but you.”

“Good.” You’re so close, the shapes in your irises so mesmerising, and he needs to kiss you again. “Because I’m all yours.”

Fuck, if that doesn’t shred the last of his self-control through a pinhole. Joel winds his arm around your waist and walks both of you toward your bedroom, his mouth attacking yours with no more ceremony than a fucking animal in heat. He cannot stop touching you. It’s all he knows. It consumes him, devours him whole. His hands on your body, vaguely discomforted with the layers of clothing between him and your nudity even as his brain goes fuzzy and forgets all sensation except for you.

His mouth is on your throat as you both stagger until your back is against your bedroom wall. “Put me to work, baby,” he says into your skin, kissing his way down your neck. “Let me undress you.”

“So no dinner, then,” you laugh, a little breathless as he sucks a dark spot into the curve of your neck.

“I’ll skip to dessert.”

You giggle when his nose tickles the spot below your ear. “Cornball.”

“Let me,” he pleads, pulling back to look into your eyes. His pupils are wide and they gleam with something close to mischief. You nod your head.

Joel takes his time undressing you. Your sweater goes first, tousling your hair as he brings it up over your head. His lips attach to your collarbones, your sternum, his fingers slipping around your back to the clasp of your bra. He unclips it with one hand and slides the straps down your shoulders. “So beautiful,” he whispers, gripping your hips a bit tighter when he says it, his voice taking on a bit of a growl. “Lie on the bed for me.”

You back toward the bed on shaky legs and sit down on the edge, watching him fit himself between your open legs. “I said lie down, baby. Not sit down.”

You push your tits out, just begging for him to touch. “What if I want you to make me?”

Oh.

Joel’s fingers tease the shape of your hard nipples, your lashes fluttering as he circles the points. His palm presses flat to your sternum and pushes gently, lowering your upper half down to the mattress. Dipping down toward you, he flicks his tongue against your nipple, sucking it into his mouth. Your breath trembles out of you, your hand flying to the back of his head and tangling his greying hair.

He hums, his hand slipping between your bodies so he can grab your thigh and wrap it around his hip. He grinds absentmindedly against your thigh, achingly confined in his boxers, while his mouth continues sucking and licking your nipples like he’s a goddamn cat. You taste so good—softness and soap and the tang of perfume that still lingers on your skin—and Joel can only groan, his fingers squeezing your thigh so hard he’ll leave bruises.

“Joel!” It comes out as a helpless gasp, your head falling back into the mattress when you feel his free hand take a greedy handful of your ass. His mouth begins a path from your tits to your belly, lavishing your skin with his tongue as if he’s trying to permanently etch the memory of it into your body. It’s working.

“This fuckin’ perfume,” he groans against your skin, his nostrils flaring. He feels like a crazed animal set free.

“You like it?” tumbles breathlessly from your lips.

“It’s all I think about. Fuckin’ dream about it.” He presses his lips to the spot just above your belly button. “So goddamn sexy. Fuck, baby, I missed you.”

You’ll never, ever buy a different perfume again. His fingers hook in the waistband of your little shorts and the panties underneath, and your hips writhe. “Joel,” you mewl, looking down your body at him, the way he begins to slide them off. “I…”

I missed you, too. I missed you so much that my body ached. I can’t lose you again.

Like he can see the words flooding your mind through the wetness in your eyes, he presses a gentle kiss to your inner thigh. “Don’t have to say anything,” he tells you, moving back to give himself just enough room to remove your bottoms and reveal your pretty, wet pussy to him. “Just keep lookin’ at me.”

Wordlessly, you nod. Joel wraps his arms around your thighs, pulls you to the edge of the bed as he kneels at the foot of it, and buries his face in your pussy.

“Oh, shit!” It’s hard to keep your head upright, to keep your eyes fixed to his wide brown irises, when you watch his tongue dart out to lick your little clit. You can feel your cheeks burn when he spreads your folds with his thumbs just to have better access to his meal, slick and wanting before his eyes.

You cover your face with one hand to stifle your blush and your moan, but Joel growls right into your pussy, and you realise he doesn't like that. You drop your hand and fasten it in his hair, your fingers tugging him gently toward you. “Please,” you whimper. “Please, baby…”

The nickname falling from your mouth sends what's left of his blood soaring downward. Joel flattens his tongue against your folds and licks a hot, slow path to your clit. Your sweet sigh spurs him on, his fingers abandoning their grip on your thigh to spread your slick around your entrance. He dips two fingers into your hole and curls them toward him as his lips attach to your clit.

Your hips buck involuntarily with the jolts of white-hot pleasure that have you seeing double. “Feels so good,” you manage to choke out. It's an understatement. It feels like electric jolts to your system, a hundred lethal jabs to your veins.

“Mmm,” is Joel’s reply, the hunger in his eyes engulfing you. His moustache glistens with your wetness and you want to feel embarrassed about how quickly he's reeling you toward the edge of a cliff, but you can't. Not when he's looking up at you like you're the first snowfall in a desert and he's eating you out like you’re the only meal he's had in months. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs as he meticulously applies pressure to the spongy spot inside you.

You begin to shake but Joel does not relent. He licks and sucks your poor clit until your orgasm is a foregone conclusion and there's no going back. “I… Joel, I can’t— ah, fuck! Gonna… gonna come—!”

Your back arches and your head falls to the mattress, unable to hold itself up any longer. Joel fixes his mouth to your pussy and drinks down everything you give him, soaking his fingers while your thighs clamp around his ears. He wants to die like this, he thinks. He’ll go happily, your body muffling the sounds of the world outside.

Fuck, the way you look when you come. He’s never going to forget it. The scrunch of your brows, the fluttering of your lashes, the arch of your back. The fucking noises. The sweet, broken moans that slip past your lips, unrestrained. Unapologetic. It makes him so fucking proud of himself: you feel free with him, free to take and take. He’ll give you another if you let him. Jesus, he'll give you five more.

He’s already dipping his head again to lap up the rest of your orgasm and start over, but you gently tug him back with a little cry.

Your tits are heaving and he wants to put his mouth back on them. “You’ll kill me if you do that again.”

Joel chuckles, a little winded from his own arousal, pressing kisses from your navel back up to your chest. “I need you alive,” he mumbles, his rough hand caressing your thigh, which he's got wrapped around his hip.

“Please get naked,” you beg, your hands dropping from his shoulders to the hem of his T-shirt. Joel grins, sitting back so you can follow him and tug the shirt over his head, letting it tousle his hair some more. You admire the softness of his belly and the strong, broad shoulders; the arms whose muscles ripple when he reaches down and unbuckles his belt.

You must be practically salivating at the sight of your man undressing for you, whipping off his belt like it owes him money, because he gives you that smug look and turns you both around. Lying on his back, he positions you on top of his erection. The sudden jolt to your clit makes you jump. “Warn a girl,” you laugh.

Joel, now naked beneath you, digs his fingers into your hips and guides you along his hard length. You shudder, your thighs closing around his sides. “No fun in that,” he says. “I like seein’ you squirm.”

“Yeah?” You angle your hips to catch the head of his cock at your entrance and begin to sink down on him. He hisses, baring his teeth as he watches your bodies meet. “Not so cocky now, Miller.”

“I don’t know.” He reaches up and squeezes your tits in his big hands. “Still feelin’ pretty cocky. Sexiest woman on the fuckin’ planet is sitting on my dick.”

You give an experimental roll of your hips as he bottoms out, and stars turn to supernovas behind your eyes. You throw your arms forward to keep your balance and dig your fingertips into his chest. “That’s it, baby,” he groans, helping you grind yourself on his cock with his hands on your ass. “So fuckin’ pretty like this. So fuckin’ good.”

You continue to ride him, your thighs beginning to burn as his cock slides deliciously against your g-spot over and over again. “You're so big,” you gasp, your head lolling on your shoulders. “Fuck, I missed you.”

He grunts your name, his hand applying pressure to your lower belly. “You're takin’ it so well for me. My perfect girl.”

You gasp raggedly at the thick, heavy weight of him inside you, his warm hand at your navel, the way his dark eyes ground you in this moment. Here, no one can interrupt. The two of you are locked in orbit, and the blackness between the stars pushes in on you. You lace your fingers through his and rest them next to his head as you lean down and kiss him.

It’s a little sloppy with the movement of your body, but he isn't being greedy. He’s taking everything you want to give him and groaning happily into your mouth, your lips swollen and your chin chafing slightly from the scratch of his beard. “Lemme touch you,” he pleads whenever he finds breath. “Baby, I wanna touch you.”

Okay. Maybe he's being a little greedy. You release his hands and he surges upward, his back pinching again. He doesn't even register the pain. Everything is you. He wraps one arm around your waist to keep you balanced on his lap, his cock shifting inside you and his other hand cradling the back of your neck. You’re grabbing his shoulders for support as you begin to bounce up and down on him, ripping a growl from his throat.

It devolves until you're both animals. Your pussy gushes on him as you ride his cock, the sounds of sex obscene and the smell of your perfume clogging up the pathways in his brain. Your tits jiggle with every motion and Joel, his hand firm on your upper back, takes your nipples between his teeth—alternates between sucking and nipping and tugging. You moan his name, losing the ability to support your own head on your shoulders.

His eyes are glazed over, black with the promise of you, the knowledge of being yours the way you're his. You drop your forehead against his.

“Joel,” you whimper, fucking cock-drunk as he takes your tight cunt. You feel so good that he can't see straight, his fingers wrapping around your hair as your thighs slap against him. “I’m so close.”

“C’mon, baby girl,” he rasps, his nose sliding against your sweat-cooled temple. You cry out, and he nods his head, baring his teeth on your cheek. “I know, baby. Me too. Me too.”

Your thighs burn and your toes curl, your mouth dropping open in a feeble attempt to take in more air as you crumble in his arms. Your tits are squished up against his chest, sensitive and sore from his mouth. You grasp his biceps as you come, sinking all the way down onto his cock and fixing him to you.

“That’s it.” Joel helps you ride out your orgasm, going blind with the way your pussy grips him, pulsing around his length like the beating of a heart. He's lost his fucking mind. He's overcome with the need to keep himself lodged inside your cunt, slick and hot and needy (Christ, you're so needy, mewling and grasping at his body like you'll never have enough). He doesn't lift you off his cock. He won't let you go. He’ll fuck you like this every goddamn day if it means he can hold you this way at the end of it all.

Your lust-filled, bleary eyes drop to his lips, and Joel takes pity on your post-orgasmic haze, kissing you with a fervour you can't quite match. Your lashes are sprinkled with dewy tears. Your smile irradiates the darkening sky. You're the picture of beauty. For a moment, he wishes he were an artist.

“You didn’t come,” you mumble, leaning in for another kiss.

It's true. He's still hard and aching inside you, spilling precum into your pussy, but Joel rubs his hand up and down your back and says, “You nearly blacked out. Had to make sure you didn't keel over on me.”

You grin, contracting your muscles around his cock and watching his jaw tick. “I want you to come,” you whisper into his ear, kissing the spot just below it. “Inside me, please.”

“Jesus,” he huffs, his cock twitching inside you. “Get on your hands and knees.”

You go eagerly, arching your back all pretty for him when you get in position. He smooths his hand over your ass and says, “You know the drill, baby.”

You lift your upper half and curl your fingers around your headboard. Joel hums, satisfied by the bend of your body, and notches himself back inside you. The way your hole swallows him has his head tipping back in ecstasy, holding into your hips like they're two lifelines. “Honey, you gotta stay still,” he groans.

You hum, wiggling your ass back on him and earning a smack to it. “I already came. It’s your turn.”

He leans down and peppers kisses on your shoulder blades, just because he can. “And you're gonna give me another. Hold on tight.”

You do. And he shows no mercy. Joel’s hands keep your sore hips in place as he begins to pound you from behind, your hands firm on your headboard. “Joel!” you squeal, jolting forward on the bed.

The sound of his name passing through your lips makes his teeth clash together. “No runnin’,” he says, wrapping his hand around your hair for leverage. You gasp at the mixture of pleasure and pain as he fucks you deep, one hand detaching from the headboard and blindly reaching backward to grasp for his hip.

Joel takes pity on you, interlocking your fingers together at his side. Your hot, wet walls suck him in and contract relentlessly around him. Every instinct has him punching deeper, harder, intent on pulling another orgasm from you. The little voice at the back of his head screams at him: fuck her hard, make her scream, ruin her for every other man.

Not that he's letting you go. Not ever.

Your legs are beginning to shake, your upper half losing the strength to hold itself up. Luckily, he's got you, holding you by the hair and pulling you up toward his chest to deepen the angle. He bites down on the curve of your neck and tears a moan from your throat. “Oh my God.”

Joel grins into your sweet-smelling skin. “Got any room left in that pretty mouth for my name?” he says darkly. “Hmm? Who’s fuckin’ you?”

Your eyes roll back in your head when he takes a break from pounding you to grind, his length pressing against your g-spot. You can't come again. You can't. Except—he's going to make you. He's always been able to make you.

“Joel,” you whisper, your throat clicking with drool.

You can feel the shape of his mocking pout against your throat, kissing his way back up to your jaw and nipping at it. The scratch of his beard, the strength of his arms, the warmth of your intertwined fingers—you’re spiralling. Crashing. He's being a real asshole now. “Can't hear you,” he says. “I’m old, remember? Right ear doesn’t work so good.”

You want to snip at him just to take him down a few pegs, but he knows your body; and you know, deep in your soul, that you cannot lie to him. “Joel,” you moan, squeezing his hand, “it’s you. It's only you. I’m yours.”

“That’s right, baby.” He brings your joined hands to your front and presses your fingers against your clit. You keen, your body bowing. “Go on. Give me one more.”

You moan. “I… I c—”

“Yeah, you can. I’ll help if it gets too hard.” Smug, arrogant bastard. You rub your clit in fast circles, pinpricks of hot pleasure surging through your body and lifting the hairs on your arms. Joel’s pace inside you doesn’t slow or deepen. He’s steadfast, urging you to your peak so he can seek his own. And when you crash, your blood singing and your nerves needling, his hand moves from your hair to your throat, applying gentle pressure and refusing to let you fall to the mattress. You choke on your cries as you leave divots in your headboard with your fingers, clenching around his cock.

He works you through it, grunting his praises into your ear, your interlocked hands flexing at your clit while your muscles cease functioning. Joel tips off the edge with a series of groans, his voice breaking as he fixes his teeth to your shoulder. With how tightly you squeeze him, you can feel every spurt of hot cum he spills into your cunt, every pulse of his length as his balls empty inside you. Coupled with the stuttering thrusts against your backside, you can tell he’s trying to push as much of himself in as he can, his moans waning to near-whimpers as you help wring every drop from him.

Even then, when he gently lower you to the mattress and leaves kisses down your back, he’s using the head of his cock to collect the cum that’s dripped out of you and spreading it all over your used pussy.

Holy fuck.

Your thighs twitch with every gentle swipe over your clit. “Joel,” you moan brokenly, heaving with your face buried in your pillow.

You know he’s through with indulging himself when he drops onto his back next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you into his side. “C’mere.”

You’re already going, nuzzling your face into his lickable neck and nudging your nose against his scruffy jaw. He pulls your thigh up over his hip and caresses the length of it with his rough fingers. You’ve missed being held like this. Fuck, you missed him.

“Wasn’t kiddin’ about your perfume,” he says, the timbre of his voice rattling your ribcage as you inch closer to him. “Can’t keep my goddamn hands off you.”

You laugh. “Maybe it’s time you stopped blaming the perfume, Miller, and start blaming your self-control. Or lack thereof.”

At that, he lands a smack to the side of your thigh. “Don’t wanna control myself if I can have you like this.”

He’s got a point.

He turns his head toward you and brushes your hair away from your face. “You’ve got it good here,” he says softly. “It suits you.”

You bite your lip, warmth seizing your chest. “It’s a nice bed, too, huh?”

He grins. “Real nice.”

Now that he isn’t consumed with getting inside you, Joel can finally look around your bedroom. There are still unopened boxes and furniture parts scattered about the floor, but he’ll help you with that. It’s the walls that draw his attention. Pictures of you and your mom, you and some friends from New York, you with your yoga instructor Jill, both of you twisted into pretzels.

The periodic table on the wall above your desk (which is already piled with books) is what yanks at his heart like it’s tied with a fishing line. He doesn’t really know why. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re really staying.

“I’m gonna put you up on that wall,” you tell him, following his gaze.

“Yeah?” He doesn’t let on how excited it makes him. “With duct tape or nails?”

You hum, taking his jaw between your thumb and forefinger. “I’ll put you in a frame first. Maybe I’ll keep you on my bedside table.”

He leans in and kisses your lips, then your nose. “Don’t wanna sleep holding me?”

You smile against his mouth. “I’ll take the real thing.”

Between classes, you decide to bring Joel lunch from the sub shop on campus. His job site is nearby, since they're working on an addition to a house in the neighbourhood. It’s Tommy Miller you see first, though, with his hard hat on and his bright orange vest tucked into his jeans like he's trying to make it stylish.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Tommy beams at you, squinting in the sunshine with his hand shielding his eyes. “Nice dress.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “Nice vest.”

“Your dad’s in the office, but Joel’s fuckin’ around just over there.” He points to the site, where a small cluster of guys in similar dress are securing the foundation of the client's new walls.

“Thanks, Tommy.”

“Wait up.” He bends down and picks up a yellow hard hat, securing it on your head. “He’d kick my ass if I didn't make you wear it.”

You pat his shoulder. “Don't work too hard.”

He produces a cigarette from behind his ear and grins. “Don't worry about me.”

When you make it to Joel, he’s on his own, bent over blueprints on a table in the middle of the barebones room, rubbing a hand over his scruffy beard. “Remind me to remind you to get a haircut,” you tease.

He looks up, seeing you in that dress and that bright yellow hard hat, carrying a paper bag filled with sandwiches, and his face breaks into a grin as his heart swells three sizes. “Hey, baby.”

“Hey.” You sidle up next to him and place the bag on top of the blueprints. “I won't stay long, I promise. But you need to eat.”

He swipes his arm across his forehead to wipe the sweat away. “You brought me lunch?”

You unravel the bag and hand him his sub: ham and swiss on white. “Is it up to code?”

His crooked smile makes your heart flutter. “Best one I’ve ever seen.”

“You aren't even looking at it.”

“Don't need to. I’m fuckin’ hungry.”

You smile, tilting your head back so you can kiss him. He pulls away slightly, grimacing. “I’m a mess, baby. I’m sweaty.”

“Are you kidding me?” The sun and labour have left a sheen of sweat all over his tanned skin. His biceps are rippling with every slight movement and you want to sink your teeth into them. His hair is tousled and damp with sweat, curls peeking out from beneath his hat. It's a cruel fate, to be so close to someone so sexy when you know you can't take it anywhere.

Joel tugs you closer by the small of your back. “You're clean. I’m not.”

You raise a challenging brow. “So get me dirty.”

It’s thrilling to watch his pupils dilate, his hand tightening around the fabric of your dress. He ducks his head and kisses you softly, his thumb and forefinger on your chin. You let yourself indulge for as long as you can, your hands slipping beneath his bright vest. Until his coworkers approach, wolf-whistling at the pair of you.

“Miller, you dog!”

“Get a room!”

You hide your face in his chest while Joel takes off his hat just to smack one of his guys in the shoulder with it. “I ain’t payin’ you to sit around, assholes.”

“He payin’ you to date him, sweetheart?” says Chris, white-haired and bushy-bearded. “Blink twice.”

You pat Joel on the chest and give him a mortified look. “That's my cue to leave.”

He still looks like he wants to take on his coworkers in the boxing ring, but he loosens the tension in his jaw and meets your gaze, hiding your faces with his hat so he can kiss you again. He gives you a couple more along your jaw and your forehead, ending at your nose. “Thank you for lunch, baby. See you tonight.”

You frown, a slight panic squeezing your chest at the idea that you've forgotten an important date. There's nothing marked in your calendar. “Tonight?”

But he's smiling, all feathers and cockiness, fitting his hat back on his head. “Takin’ you out to dinner.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “I’ve got a test next block, so I don't have time to stop at home. Pick out my dress for me.”

He lifts his brows at the prospect, his eyes glittering. There's mischief in that rich brown. “Yeah?”

Your fingers, wrapped around his firm bicep, pulse gently. “Yeah.”

“Attack your test, pretty girl.” He gives your hip a squeeze. “I’ll do all the work tonight.”

Your teeth sink briefly into your lower lip. “Now I’m hungry.”

“Fuck physics! Fuck everything about it and the asshole who invented it!”

Joel can hear your voice carry before you've even opened the front door. The sound of your keys clanking around the bowl echoes in his ears like the ring of a bell. He hurries down the stairs, still pulling a shirt over his head, and meets you in the living room.

Fuck. You’re wound up. Your shoulders are pulled into your body and your chest heaves with every breath, your pretty face drawn in a miserable frown. “Hi,” you bite out, trying to reel in your anger. He doesn't deserve it. “How was work?”

Joel tries a smile. “I don’t think one person invented physics.”

You groan, burying your face in his chest. “Do not question me right now, Joel Miller.”

He does his best to quell his own amusement in favour of empathy. You're not particularly frightening when you're angry, but it's not your job to be. He's the frightening one in this relationship. “I’m sorry, baby. Test not go well?”

“I don't get it,” you croak. “I studied for days. Actual days.”

“I know you did.” He can live with eating dinner by himself, but he doesn’t like knowing you often forget to eat altogether when you're not with him.

“I’m at the library so often that the other people there know not to sit in my usual spot.” You put your head in your hands. “I made flash cards. I quizzed myself. I forced all of my friends to quiz me. I was halfway to forcing you to quiz me!”

“Baby, you know I would've quizzed you a hundred times.”

“Apparently, it wouldn't have helped,” you snap. “I failed. I don’t fail.”

He says your name, then repeats it when you don't respond. “You're spiralling.”

You shut your eyes, digging the heels of your palms into your lids and taking three deep breaths. “I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don't gotta be sorry. You can yell at me all you want.”

“Never at you. Just… to you.” You pull back and wind your arms around his neck, scratching your nails at the back of his neck. “I didn't mean to get mad.”

“You’re like a hissing kitten when you get mad. I ain’t hurt.” He caresses your arms and ignores your harmless glare. “Wanna tell me what went wrong?”

You let out a long sigh through your nose. “I know what I screwed up on. I’m just frustrated with myself. I’m a good student, and this felt like a total waste.”

“It ain't a waste.” Joel’s pout means he's not happy with how you view yourself; it's different from his concentrated pout and his mocking pout. “You're the smartest person I know.”

You can't help the smile that splits your face. He's a man of few words most days, and he always knows exactly which ones to use. You know you're smart. It doesn't mean it doesn't feel really fucking nice to hear it with so much conviction. “Yeah?”

“Hmm. Smartest.” His lips brush your forehead, your nerves lighting up with sensation. “Prettiest.” He nudges his nose against yours. “Sweetest.” You let him part your lips with his, slipping his tongue inside your mouth. You let him distract you. And it's good to let go.

There will be other tests. There will be more chances. There's only one Joel.

He smells like fresh air, sawdust, and the cologne he always wears. You understand why he's obsessed with your perfume. This fucking cologne is certifiable in its ability to make you melt against him.

He tastes like mint. Joel’s hands are on your back, one palm digging into the space between your shoulder blades and the other into your lower back. You both stumble a bit when he gets eager, catching yourselves with a hand out on the sofa. He pulls away, his pupils blown wide, his chest expanding and depressing with each rapid breath.

“C’mon,” he says, taking your hand and guiding you upstairs.

“What are you—”

“Helpin’ you de-stress.”

“From the looks of the situation in your jeans, you might be the one who needs de-stressing.”

Joel huffs, turning into the bathroom. “This ain't about me, baby. Take off your dress.”

You raise your brows but unzip the dress and step out of it, leaving it in a pool on the floor. Joel turns on the hot water in the shower and appraises your body at the same time you admire his, strong and sturdy and sexy. His erection visibly strains his pants before he gives himself some relief, shedding all of his clothes, too. His cock taps his stomach, making you rub your thighs together as the thought of having it inside you—always a good relaxant.

“C’mere.” You put your hand in his and step into the shower, drenching yourself in the scalding water. You can feel the steam melt your bones, easing the knots in your shoulder from working yourself up onto a ledge. Joel steps in behind you, pressing his mouth to your shoulder.

You sigh, lacing your fingers through his, where they rest against your hips. “Mmm. This is nice.”

You can feel his dick sit heavily against the swell of your ass, but he isn't paying attention to his own needs. He's focusing all of his energy on you: kissing your shoulders, caressing your waist and your belly, sinking his teeth into the crook of your neck like he's a vampire. He’ll gently soothe the marks with his lips when he's done, leaving his claim all over you and fizzling the tightness in your muscles with every attentive touch. All while the water beats at your breasts, trickles down between your thighs, and warms your body.

Joel detaches the shower head from its mount on the wall, tipping your head backward so he can lean down and slant his mouth over yours. “Keep holdin’ onto me,” he says, guiding the spray of water over your chest, slowly making a path down your sternum.

You nod, sinking into his deep brown eyes as the jet meets your thighs, burrowing deeper until—

“Joel,” you gasp, choking on your own breath. He’s guided the shower head over your clit, the pleasure scalding and sudden. You grasp his wrist, writhing against the cold metal while hot bursts of water consistently meet your bundle of nerves.

He tuts like you're doing something wrong, frowning against your cheek. “No moving,” he says. The order resonates through your chest and wriggles into your brain. “Does it feel good?”

You moan when he pinches and rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “Feels so good.”

He takes your earlobe between his teeth. “Relax. You're still tense.”

You sigh, squirming under the heavy spray of water against your sensitive clit. Joel keeps his nose buried in you, inhaling your scent, indulging in every way he can. Your wet hair is plastered to your skin, your buttery eyes meeting his under dew-slick lashes. “Joel,” you moan, your stomach tightening as you try to find a grip on the shower wall. “Please…”

“What do you need, baby?” He kisses your jaw, angling the shower head upward so it sprays harder against your clit. Your eyes roll back into your head, your hips bucking against the metal and your hand blindly grasping. It finds his arm, wrapped around your waist from behind. He lets you dig your nails into his tanned skin while your composure dwindles.

“Just like that,” you cry out, the pleasure rolling over your body in catastrophic waves. The pressure is so intense that you have to blink away black spots, Joel’s lips on your neck pulling you back down to the ground.

“I got you, baby girl. I’m not gonna let you fall.” His voice is the rumble of thunder, and your orgasm crackles through you like lightning. “Let go. C’mon, baby.”

Your moans turn hoarse and your thighs tremble uncontrollably as you topple over the edge. Joel keeps his hand wrapped around your waist like a seat belt, holding you firm against his chest.

The spray of water lights up a thousand nerve endings and turns you into liquid fire. He feeds praise into your ears and lets you ride the shower head until your body settles, shaking but satiated. He secures it back into the holder and turns you in his grasp, cupping your face and kissing you deeply.

“Mmm, that was nice,” you say lamely, still a little weak on your feet. Joel hums in kind, going right back in for another kiss, his lips plush and warm against yours. You wrap your arms around him and press your palms against his strong back as the spray covers you both. His dick is hard and leaking against your belly, but he isn't making a move. He's just kissing you, like it's all the satisfaction he needs.

“Have I told you today— mmmph —how much I like you?”

He pulls away, his eyes glittering with a boyish joy. “Not today.”

“Well.” You reach between your bodies and wrap your fingers around the base of him, squeezing softly. His groan stutters, his forehead falling to yours. “I like you. A lot.”

“Fuck, baby.” Joel grasps your wrist. “This ain't about me,” he says again. You know he's only trying to convince himself.

“What if this is something I want?” you say with a wicked smile, nipping the tip of his nose.

The hollow of his throat caves with a shuddering breath. “I’m a grown man who can—fuckin’ Christ—take care of himself.”

“Yeah?” You pout, gently stroking him until your hand is wrapped around the head. His cock twitches in your grasp. “But it's so much more fun when your girl does it for you. Isn't it?”

He's losing control; you can see it in his eyes. “Wash up,” he bites out. “And when you get out, you’ll bend over the counter.”

You bite your lip, arousal clambering back up your spine. “And what will you do to me?”

Joel grasps your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Whatever I goddamn want.”

You've never finished showering so fast.

When your birthday comes, it isn’t the warm press of his body next to you that drags you from your peaceful sleep. It’s the sound of Joel’s fire alarm blaring in your ears. And he’s not in bed.

You don’t even have time to blink yourself awake, stumbling out of the bed still half-tangled in the sheets and hopping haphazardly into his shirt and a pair of boxers. You can’t find your own clothes; he was adamant in them being as far away from your body as possible once he drove you back from the club last night. The alarm screeches as you bolt down the stairs, rounding the corner in your frantic search for your boyfriend—and a fire.

It’s when you skid to a halt in the kitchen that you finally find him, standing in front of what is definitely not a fire. At least the alarm has stopped beeping.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

Joel turns to you, holding a plate of black squares. Smoke still curls out from the toaster. “Did I wake you up?” he asks, as if he isn’t balancing the incriminating evidence in his hands.

“No, honey, the smoke alarm woke me up,” you say, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. “Are you okay?”

There’s a towel slung over his shoulder, but it doesn’t look to be doing much good. He rushes to you and hands you a steaming cup of coffee. “Did this right at least,” he grumbles. “Tried to cook you breakfast. Fuckin’ burned the toast.”

Despite the abrupt wake-up call of the fire alarm, you’re overcome with a dizzying wave of affection. His brown eyes peer down at you like he’s a puppy awaiting a treat, and his greying hair is deliciously tousled. He wanted to make you breakfast: Joel Miller, the man who eats only to survive. It’s hard not to love him. As if you’ve ever bothered to resist.

“White bread is bad for you, anyways,” you say, bringing him down to you with a hand at the nape of his neck and kissing him tenderly. “Thank you, Joel.”

A low rumble vibrates in his chest as he blindly sets the plate of burnt toast on the table so he can wrap his arms around your back. “Happy birthday, baby,” he says, kissing his way from your lips to your jaw, unconcerned with any morning breath you may have.

You pull away and grin up at him, raking your fingers through his hair. “Is there hope for the eggs?”

“If you don't distract me,” he says, caressing your arms.

“Mmm. Sounds boring.” You press your chest to his and ghost your lips over his neck. Your mouth on him earns a soft groan, but it also earns a slap to your ass.

“I’m tryin’ to be good to you,” he says, cupping your face in his hands. “Don't make it hard.”

“But I love making you hard.”

“You're funny, baby.” Joel splays his fingers over the small of your back. “Sit down and relax.”

“And let you burn down your kitchen?” You click your tongue, giving his ass a pinch for good measure. “How about we work on breakfast together?”

Joel pouts. “It’s your—”

“My birthday is going to be amazing, because I’m with you.” You lace your fingers together. “I can get back in bed when it's done, and you can bring it to me. How's that sound?”

“Good.” He kisses the top of your head. “It sounds good.”

He brings the poached eggs on toast to you on a tray, complete with a brand-new cup of coffee. Joel’s not much of a breakfast person, so he sits next to you as you balance the tray on your lap, drench your eggs in sriracha, and dig in. The problem is trying not to get crumbs on his sheets or topple the tray onto the bed.

Joel doesn't seem to mind. He idly rubs your back below the hem of his sweatshirt, sipping his own coffee every now and then. The sun shines golden through the window in his bedroom, illuminating your glowing skin and the light in your eyes. He’s captivated by the beauty that radiates from you. He can't keep a houseplant alive, so he has none, but he's convinced your smile could revive them. It's added years to his own life.

“You’ve got work today,” you remind him, setting the tray on the bedside table and facing him with your legs crossed.

“I called in sick.”

Your brows shoot up. “Joel.”

His hand shifts to stroke your thigh, giving reassuring squeezes. “Baby, I’m not spending your birthday at a job site. Tommy can handle it while I’m gone.”

“And nobody on the site knows that it’s your girlfriend’s birthday?”

“It's bad enough hearin’ Tommy flirt with you every goddamn chance he gets,” he says, lifting your legs up onto his lap. “Don't wanna hear it from the guys, too.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull yourself up onto his lap. “If you want me to wear a shirt that says your name on it, just say so.”

His thumb traces one of your lower vertebrae. “That an option?”

“Tommy doesn't know boundaries when it comes to teasing his brother.” Your finger twirls a lock of his grey hair. “The others know better than to piss you off.”

He grins, nudging his nose against yours. “Which means they won't question me when I tell ‘em I’m sick.”

“You win this round.” Your lips meet his in a slow, sweet kiss. His hand cradles your jaw while the other presses at your back, guiding you closer. You taste like coffee and toothpaste and you smell like his body wash, and it's enough to send blood surging downward. He groans faintly into your mouth and pulls back.

“Hey,” you protest. “It’s my birthday. I can kiss you as much as I want.”

“And if you do, I won’t be able to think straight long enough to give you your present.” To punctuate his point, he grinds up against you, letting you feel the hardness in his jeans against your thigh.

You shift so you're straddling his hips. “Thinking straight is overrated. Come back here.”

Joel hesitates, his lips parted, and your heart stops with the implication. “What did you do?” you demand.

“Mike may have called me,” he says, rubbing soothing circles on your back, “and we have to be at your place in an hour. Consider this your warning for your surprise party.”

You gape at him. “Joel!”

He cups your face in his hands and kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your nose. You’re annoyed with how easily it loosens the tense muscles in your shoulders. “Baby, he wanted to surprise you, and I know you're too much of a—”

“If you say control freak, I’m breaking up with you.”

Joel places his hands on your shoulders and squeezes. “Be honest with me. Would you have wanted a surprise?”

You grit your teeth because no, of course not. And he knows it. You would have happily let the surprise go without warning, just to please your dad. But Joel’s got his warm, work-worn hands on your body and it melts all your neurotic energy away. “You're lucky I like you so damn much.”

“Yeah?” His face gets a bit closer to you, seeking your mouth, as his hands migrate to your waist.

You bite your bottom lip to smother your smile. “Yeah.”

Joel hums, inching his boxer shorts up your thighs. “Tell me all about it, baby.”

“It’s my birthday,” you tease, guiding his hands to your tits. He palms them greedily over the sweatshirt. “If you want it so bad… lick it out of me.”

Joel’s eyes turn coal-black. “What did I say about distractions?” His voice is the grate of boots along concrete.

“We have time,” you purr. “Unless you don't think you can make me come before the hour is up.”

“How did I get so goddamn lucky,” he grunts, sliding his hands under your sweatshirt and shucking it up over your head. “You're a fuckin’ dream.”

You shriek with laughter when he rolls you over, pressing open-mouthed kisses on your sternum and flicking his tongue over your perky nipples. He replaces it with his hands when his mouth migrates down your belly until he’s kissing all over your stomach, dragging his boxers off your legs.

“Mmm.” You grin, your eyes fluttering shut as you rake your fingers through his hair. “I just decided—I don't need a present. This is all I want.”

Joel huffs into your skin. “Good thing it ain't anything special.”

“It’s from you. It is special.”

Looking up and resting his chin on your belly, Joel squeezes your hips. His eyes are gooey, warm, soft enough to roll around your palms like velvet. He's never been one for tooth-aching declarations. He’s good at telling you the truth. He's good at reminding you that not everything requires a panicked response. He's good at grounding you in the world with a single look. And it’s why he doubles his efforts to make you feel good, sinking down your body and burying his face in your pussy.

You both arrive at your apartment with minutes to spare. Thankfully, your dad and Joel collaborated on dinner during their illicit phone call and decided to order from your favourite shawarma place in town. Joel takes the liberty of hanging a colourful streamer that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY. There was no time to pick up a cake on the way, given Joel spent forty minutes between your legs this morning, so you decide to make one.

It gives him the opportunity to show his first gift to you: a box stuffed with new measuring cups, spoons, cupcake wrappers, cookie cutters (shaped like hearts, stars (for Texas, he says), and beakers), and, at the very bottom—

“My mom’s old recipe book,” he says, scratching the back of his neck and looking sheepish.

You gape at him, a painful needling behind your nose as tears well up. “Joel,” you say weakly. “I can't accept this.”

“I never used it. I can't cook for shit, and she never trusted Tommy with it.” Joel tucks your hair behind your ear. “I know for a fact she would love you. She'd want you to have it.”

You sniffle, your fingers tracing the edge of the photograph on the inside cover: a teenage Joel and his mom in his childhood kitchen. She’s grinning, pinching his cheeks between her thumb and fingers, while he tries to smile. “She was beautiful,” you say. It’s all you can manage.

“She was.” Joel smiles down at the picture. “Had this sixth sense for when we were about to get into trouble. Always knew exactly what to say, what to do.”

“So did my mom,” you tell him. “I was a good kid, but I was always high-strung. A little lonely. She was my best friend; always knew when I needed someone to talk to.”

“Sounds like they'd like each other,” he says, his hand idly rubbing your back.

You turn the page to find more images, blinking away your fond tears. “Yeah. I think they would.”

He indicates an image of Tommy, who must have been ten at the time, and a group of his friends. “Back in our day, we had to go to our friends’ houses if we wanted to go out and start shit.”

“You’re ageing yourself, Miller,” you say teasingly, wrapping your arm around his and guiding his face to yours. Before you kiss him, you meet his gaze and brush his hair back from his face. “Thank you. This is beyond thoughtful, and I love it.”

His expression softens into that look he only reserves for you. It’s serene and heavy-lidded, his smile a bit crooked. It’s one of the few times you see him utterly relaxed. Naked. “Happy birthday,” he says softly. His nose brushes yours and your lips meet.

You're wearing a ratty orange-and-white University of Austin T-shirt and a pair of jeans that aren't at all sexy, but he still touches you like you're the most radiant creature on the planet. Like you're a goddess.

His tongue parts your lips and slides along yours, your body bowing against his as you wind your arms around his neck. Your back bumps the counter while Joel crowds you, inadvertently knocking the mixing bowl to the floor in his overzealous attempts to get his hands on your ass. “Shit,” he says, pulling away. “Sorry.”

At the same time, your buzzer sounds. “Shit,” you parrot. “That’s Dad.”

You watch his eyes sharpen through the haze and the heaving of his chest flatten to a typical rate, although his hair is still admirably tousled. You imagine you don't look much more put-together.

When you at last let him in, he tackles you with a hug. “Surprise!”

“Dad!” you squeal through your laughter.

“Hey, hon,” he says, lifting you and twirling you around in the doorway. He’s holding a gift bag that bumps against your hip. “Happy birthday.”

“I’m so glad you could make it.” You usher him inside, shutting the door behind you. “Joel’s in the kitchen.”

He grimaces. “And that’s a good idea because…?”

“He’s not touching anything. I’m making a cake.” He sets the gift bag on your coffee table and joins Joel in the kitchen.

“Hey, asshole. You've already made a mess in here.”

The bowl has been salvaged from the floor, but the measuring cups and the cookie cutters are strewn about the countertop. Joel pulls Mike into a brief hug and slaps his back as a way of greeting. “That would be your daughter’s mess.”

“My daughter doesn't know what the word mess means.”

“He’s got a point.” You begin to collect Joel’s gift back into the box and tuck it out of the way. You lie his mother's book on top, smoothing over the cover with your palm. “Both of you can leave the kitchen. Pretty please.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Joel, his hand brushing across your back and his lips pressing against your temple as he exits the kitchen.

Your dad sits on the stool on the other side of the pass-through window. “You feel old yet?”

��No older than you, Dad.”

“Smartass.”

Joel sidles up to the pass-through as you're blending your wet ingredients together. “Hey, baby. Turn around.”

When you do, a bright flash obstructs your vision. Joel’s holding your Polaroid camera, plucking out the picture and grinning down at it. “If you're gonna take a picture of me, you should be in it,” you say.

“I ain't as pretty as you.”

It’s a good candid. You, slightly frazzled, with a bowl and electric beater in your arms. Flushed and beautiful. He tucks it inside his back pocket.

“I beg to differ.”

Mike slaps him on the back. “You want a beer?”

“Nah, I drove.” Joel gives you a look. “Someone went out on a pre-birthday bender last night.”

You roll your eyes. “It was a Friday night. Didn't even mix my liquors.”

Mike lifts a brow. “You need a babysitter when you go out?”

“Don't be condescending. I had a babysitter. Leigh.”

Joel snaps another picture, this time of you and Mike, mid-mock-argument. “It's like watchin’ two mice in a screaming match.”

Mike plucks the camera out of his hands and takes a picture of Joel instead. “Look at that. Still old as shit.”

Joel slaps him square in the chest and goes for a headlock, but Mike evades him. You reach through the window and snatch the picture out of your dad’s hand. In it, Joel’s looking at you, a crooked grin on his face. His eyes are warm and the silver in his hair illuminated by the fuzzy glow of the Polaroid. He looks happy.

“This is going on the wall.”

“See, Mike?” Joel sidles up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist. His thumb idly caresses your hip bone. “I get the wall.”

“Miller, if you don’t stop feeling up my daughter right in front of me—”

You pin him with a glare. “Dad.”

“Just because I’m not actively knockin’ his lights out doesn’t mean I don’t want to. I’m still your father.”

Joel just kisses your temple and rests his chin on your shoulder. “Don’t you have a girlfriend to bother?”

You decide not to point out that technically, he’s the one bothering his girlfriend. At least he deigns to help you scoop the batter into the cake pans. Later, when the cake is cooling on the table and your dad’s girlfriend Melissa arrives, music plays idly on your Victrola (Joel’s second gift to you) while the four of you lounge around your apartment. Your dad and Melissa occupy two plush green chairs, having shifted them closer to one another to hold hands. You’re on the sofa, surrounded by gift bags and Joel, whose lap you’ve taken residence on. He drums his fingers along each of your ribs as you delve into the gift bag from your father.

A delicate, beautiful necklace with your birth month’s gemstone embedded in the pendant (Melissa helped pick it out, he confesses). A bar cart he made himself. And a card with a neatly-written message inside:

There's a lot I could write here, but I want to keep it short and sweet, since we’d both rather be eating cake. I’ve loved you your whole life, but it was the first phone call that taught me how much of an idiot I really was. It’s easy to love someone like you. You're sweet, and you're smart, and you love so strongly. It’s a crazy feeling to be your dad. Kind of like looking right at the sun.

To all the years we’ll make up for. Let’s start with this one. I love you, kiddo.

—Dad

Melissa surprises you with a present she got herself: a culinary home garden kit, sprouting with the beginnings of basil, parsley, and cilantro. It doubles as a housewarming gift, she says with a tinge of pink on her cheeks. You have great light in here. And they smell great.

From Joel, his penultimate present: a French press machine.

You're unashamed of the happy tears you cry over their thoughtfulness. The card goes on your refrigerator; the herbs sit happily on the windowsill; your French press is tucked next to the bag of grounds Joel keeps in your place for when he drinks the light roasts you hate; the bar cart is filled with all the liquor Sonya gifted you; and Joel helps clasp the necklace around your throat, settling the pendant in its hollow while he litters kisses all over your shoulders and back.

That night, on the couch with your legs thrown over his lap, you and Joel sit face-to-face even though the darkness turns his features into a grainy half-image, you let out a long, happy sigh.

“Best birthday ever.”

“I don't know,” he says, his voice low and raspy, “mine was pretty damn good.”

“Mmm. But this time, you can fuck me.” You grin when his grip on your waist tightens where he's been skating his fingers up and down your curves.

“Yeah, I can.” Joel grins, ducking his head to kiss you. “Ain't over yet, baby. Gotta get into somethin’ pretty so I can take you out.”

His final present.

“This isn't pretty?” You lift up your flour-coated shirt to expose your tits.

Joel’s eyes hone in on them like they're beacons in the dark. He tugs you closer until he can situate you on his lap and take a nipple into his mouth. You gasp, your chest pushing out, giggling when he leaves a few teasing bites. “Okay,” you say breathlessly, “I learned my lesson.”

“Mmm-mmm,” he grumbles, blindly tearing your shirt off your head. His tongue circles each nipple and wets them generously, taking his sweet time with your body. His slow, deliberate pace has you writhing on his lap.

“Sam bought me the black dress I’ve been eyeing forever,” you tell him, trying to distract yourself from the onslaught of pleasing jolts to your core. “It’s a good option for a dinner.”

“Mhm,” is all he says, still lapping at your right nipple like he's a fucking cat.

“Assuming, of course, you're taking me somewhere nice. Are you?”

Joel opens his eyes and pins you with a stern look. Let me take control, he'd say, if his mouth wasn't full.

“I just”—you're cut off with a strained moan when he bites down again, a warning to stop worrying so much—“ah, fuck, forgot what I was about to say.”

Chuckling, he litters kisses up your sternum and nuzzles his face in the juncture of your neck and jaw. “Wear the black,” he says, inhaling your dark, sexy scent. “Can you be ready for eight?”

“Can you?” You stroke his hair away from his face as he rests comfortably against you. “This hair takes a long time to tame.”

“I’ll be ready.” He kisses your jaw and you feel his lashes tickle you as he closes his eyes and groans. “Just gonna have to jerk off first.”

You roll your eyes and pull away, giving him an affectionate smile before you disappear into your bedroom to change.

Joel showers before you so he can take care of his erection. You shimmy into the long, elegant dress, paint your lips, and meet him in the doorway to ask his help with your strappy heels.

As he slips the second shoe onto your foot, you tell him you love him.

For a moment, eyes meet in the dim light. The next, he's grinning, and telling you the exact same thing as he closes the straps around your ankles.

“Ow. Goddammit.”

“You gotta stretch out your back, honey.”

“This shit hurts. It ain't my fault.”

“Your position is all wrong.”

“Well, get over here and help me, then.”

You sigh, dropping from Warrior I so you can shuffle over to Joel. He’s trying, and you really love him for it, but it's no wonder he's in pain. You softly tut, placing a hand on his belly. “Picture your bellybutton going in toward your spine. It’ll take the pressure off. And don’t twist your torso to the side. You have to keep facing forward.”

“Jesus,” grumbles Joel, trying to fix his posture. “Too many rules. I thought you just made it all up.”

“Everything is made up. But this”—you gently press down and help align his spine properly—“will help. Your back will thank you.”

Joel huffs, refusing to admit that he feels the pressure on his lower back alleviate once you fix him up. “I deserve thanks for doin’ this shit with you.”

You grin, shifting around to the front of him so you can unbutton a couple buttons at the bottom of his flannel shirt, leaning in to leave a flurry of kisses over his soft belly. “And what kind of thanks are you looking for, Mr. Miller?”

Joel looks down his body at you. You're so cute, smiling up at him like you aren't inches away from his dick. “I can think of a few things.”

“You keep on thinking,” you tell him, “and we’ll get into the next position.”

He groans. “Can you at least do it naked? Jesus.”

“If you're good.” You button up his shirt again and move back to your yoga mat. “Ready?”

“You're a real fuckin’ tease, baby.”

“Tell me all about it, Joel.” You roll your eyes fondly, shifting onto your ass. “Follow my lead.”

Joel Miller is not flexible. He's remarkably capable of other feats, and he's never let this drawback affect him when it comes to your sex life, since he's usually twisting you into a pretzel. Still, you know this will be good for him. If you can get him to stop grumbling about it for a minute or two.

You press the soles of your feet together in front of you and straighten your back. “Just like this,” you say, watching him copy you. His eyes, however, are fixed on the space between your thighs.

You’re smart enough to understand when you need to take your lumps.

“Joel.”

“Hmm?”

“Do you want me to get naked?”

“Yeah.”

Maybe you'll try again another day. You’ve got all the time in the world.

THE END.

#kiwisbell's fics #whiskey sour #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou hbo #the last of us #the last of us fic

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in1-nutshell · 29 days

Note

Hi! I saw/read the Transformer crossovers and it's amazing

If it's okay to request, from the Transformer crossover poll, TFA Elita One's twin sister with SG! Megatron (and/or other shattered glass cons, if you like to add them)

You can decline this request if you like, Thank you!

I decided to go with SG! Starscream's twin instead of SG! Megs twin.

Hope you enjoy!

Starscream's twin meeting with Elita One's twin sister again

SFW, Platonic, Familial, Cybertronian/ techno organic reader

TFA

Elita One's twin name Silver Aid

Starscream twin is Skyline

Sky ends up in silvers dimension

Skyline was taking some time to inspect the Constructicon’s latest attempt to make a groundbridge. Megatron had specific orders to keep the cons on schedule.

“Why are we here again?”--Starscream

“Well, I’m here on Megatron’s orders. I don’t know why you’re here. You worried Screamer?”--Skyline

“Psh! As if I had to worry about you. You could fall off a cliff if I cared.”--Starscream

“Hmm, love you too.”--Skyline

The portal turns on and starts sucking everything in.

“Oh, Come on!”--Starscream

“Scrapper! Turn it off!”--Skyline

Skyline holds onto a rail while Starscream digs his digits into the rocky wall.

“I would but we haven’t made a switch for that yet!”--Scrapper

“WHAT!?”—Starscream and Skyline

Skyline notices a huge rock coming towards his twin.

“Starscream!”--Skyline

He activates his thruster and flies to his twin.

He yanks his arm and throws him out of the way letting the rock hit his back.

Starscream looks in horror as his twin’s unconscious frame gets sucked into the portal.

Before he can get up the portal disappears.

“SKYLINE!!!!!!!”--Starscream

Now in Silver Aid’s dimension…

Silver is in the med bay cleaning some equipment when the portal opens on the wall.

She immediately latches her webs to a sturdy railing as the portal started sucking things in.

“I AM NOT GOING BACK IN THERE AGAIN!”—Silver Aid

Megatron and Starscream burst through the doors and immediately grab onto something to keep them from falling into the portal.

The others follow suite.

“HOW DID YOU SUMMON ANOTHER ONE?!”--Blitzwing

“HOW SHOULD I KNOW—”—Silver Aid

A figure flies out of the portal with a bunch of rock straight at Silver Aid.

“SILVER!”--Megatron

Silver gets taken out and the portal closes.

The others let go and run over to see their fallen medic.

Silver groans clutching her helm.

“Please tell me I didn’t get sucked in…”—Silver Aid

Skyline sits up too.

“My aching helm…”--Skyline

Silver’s optics snap open and looks at Skyline.

“Sky?!”—Silver Aid

“Silver?!”--Slyline

Silver hugs her friend tightly; he returns just as so.

“It’s been too long my friend.”--Skyline

“Too long.”—Silver Aid

Megatron clears his throat catching the two’s attention.

“Can someone please explain.”--Megatron

Skyline helps Silver Aid up and bows to Megatron.

“You must be the Megatron of this dimension. I sincerely apologize for the… ‘dramatic’ entrance.”--Skyline

“…What…?”--Starscream

It does take a few tries to explain everything to the group, but they do eventually get it.

Lugnut is the fastest to get used to Skyline.

He was sold the moment Skyline bowed and gave his respect to his leader.

“Silver Aid… I have something to tell you… in private.”--Lugnut

Silver looks at Lugnut a bit confused but complies.

“Wait for us right here Sky.”—Silver Aid

Lugnut and Silve Aid move into a different room.

“What do you want to talk about Lugnut? Is Skyline making you feel uncomfortable?”—Silver Aid

“NO! I mean, no…”--Lugnut

Silver Aid puts a reassuring servo on his.

“You can tell me Lug, what’s going on?”—Silver Aid

“…Do you think that Skyline and I can be Amica Endura through dimensions?”--Lugnut

“… I think that’s something you have to talk to him about Lugnut.”—Silver Aid

Lugnut is not too surprised to hear that Skyline is spark twins with his version of Starscream.

There are a lot of similarities that could be compared between him and his Starscream.

Bliztwing doesn’t mind Skyline being around the base too much. He can respect someone who can respect Megatron.

But he is fully convinced that Skyline is a clone and not Starscream’s actual spark twin.

None of his faces agree with it despite the number of times Sky and Silver try to explain it.

“Is there nothing that can prove it?”--Skyline

“Yes there is one way.”--Blitzwing

“What is it?”—Silver Aid

“A CNA test.”--Blitzwing

Megatron had conflicted feelings about the new bot.

He does appreciate that this is a loyal con to his alternative’s army. It’s a trait he’d never associate Starscream with.

But he is jealous of the mech.

Silver Aid had been spending a substantial amount of time with the newcomer and all the inside jokes and friendly touches were starting to make him mad.

He will not say that he is jealous.

Nope, never going to happen.

Megatron does get a change in his feelings towards Skyline after Silver Aid comes to the picture.

“Excuse me, Lord Megatron.”--Skyline

“Yes?”--Megatron

“Silver Aid just told me that you and her are together, is that correct?”--Skyline

Megatron suddenly feels a bit uneasy and on edge.

“Yes. And what of it?”--Megatron

Skyline just smiles and looks over at Silver Aid trying to pry a screwdriver from the wall.

“I just wanted to congratulate the both of you. She really looks much happier than when I last saw her. And I take it you are one of the causes?”--Skyline

Megatron just looks at Silver Aid finally prying the tool from the way while stumbling on her back.

“We are both happy with this.”--Megatron

Skyline smiles a bit more.

“I hope to be as happy as she is one day. She earned this.”--Skyline

“Yes… after everything, she does.”--Megatron

“… Is this a bad time to mention that My Megatron tried to flirt with her?”--Skyline

“Excuse me he WHAT?”—Megatron

Starscream takes the longest to come around Skyline.

Something that Skyline understands 100%, no matter how much it stings.

Silver Aid does intervene and gets the two to talk.

“So… you are my spark twin in an alternate universe?”--Starscream

“That I am. I take it that you don’t have an alternate version of me in this universe?”--Skyline

“You are correct.”--Starscream

Silence…

“…I’m sorry.”--Skyline

Starscream looks at him confused.

“Umm, sorry for what?”--Starscream

“Sorry you never met me. I know that you—I mean—my Starscream hates being alone, I hate being alone. I can’t imagine having to go through this life without you by my side. For that I am sorry.”--Skyline

“…You had nothing to do with it. This is just what the universe gave us.”—Starscream

Skyline chuckles a bit.

“Yeah, you’re right.”--Skyline

Starscream’s wings lift up a bit.

“Of course I’m right!”--Starscream

Skyline smiles a bit.

“Classic Starscream, the ever the humble Decepticon.”—Skyline

The two bots laugh while Silver Aid smiles from her hiding place.

It is a bit of a rough goodbye when the portal comes back a couple of days later. Some of them don’t want him to leave but understand why he needs to go.

Skyline giving one last hug to Silver Aid.

“We will see each other someday my friend.”--Skyline

Silver waves at him holding Megatron’s servo in the other.

“I’ll be waiting for it!”—Silver Aid

Skyline goes into the portal.

In his universe…

Skyline crashes into the throne room face first.

“I hate these landings…”--Skyline

“SKYLINE!”--Starscream

Starscream runs and tackles his twin to the ground pulling him into an armor denting hug.

Skyline just smiles and hugs back.

No words exchanged for now.

Just hugs.

#transformers x reader #maccadam #bot buddy #tfa x platonic reader #tfa x reader

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digoload · 6 months

Text

the paladin line up!!! (click for better quality)

This is a part of my voltron AU that I already did a bit of art on this here. i'll probably update my foolish design at some other time but there he is for now.

Under the cut -- my reasons for these particular characters, plus some sketched story ideas i had for them/their backstories prior to canon.

(also, yes - qtubbo tucks his jeans into his socks)

Green Paladin - Tubbo. He's green already, fantastic. Also, a nerd like Pidge and naturally curious. I considered other Create-oriented QSMPers for green lion but I think Tubbo fits the best!

Yellow Paladin - Missa. For a while I was gonna make Forever the yellow or blue paladin, but then I realised the whole cast would be wayyyyy too zany or weird. We needed a sturdy, relatable character. Someone who was scared. Someone who didn't really want to be there. Someone who would have an unlikely romance with a menacing purple rebellion-leader alien in space. I knew Missa was perfect for the job.

Blue Paladin - Etoiles. We don't know the specific qualifications for someone to be the blue paladin (thanks Lance), but there are some clear similarities between Lance and Blaytz (I know Allura doesn't really fit with the pattern towards the end of the series, but work with me here), so I sort of made up my own requirements. 1. screams with joy when they get to pilot their lion. 2. dogboy. 3. ready to throw down. (season 1 allura fits all 3 of these, but arguably not really towards s6-7-8). I kinda relate him most to Blaytz out of all the blue paladins.

Red Paladin - Roier. You KNOW it had to be Roier. Who else. Literally who else. The man is red. Ready to throw down. Trusts his instincts. Angsty backstory. Right-hand to the guy who takes the lead in most situations. Also, just in general, I have a vivid vision of qroier in the red lion's cockpit. He could totally pull it off.

Black Paladin - Cellbit. The other characters I considered for this role were bbh and philza, but in the end I liked them more with having alien roles mainly due to their backstories (BBH as an immortal soul-guide demon and Philza as an avian). I just think that Cellbit would fit this role better. He already sort of heads the Order, is associated with the colour black as well. But most of all. I think there's a lot of potential for an angst arc where he goes off on his own for some dumb self sacrificial reason I guess, or maybe because of his extremeee trust issues, and neglects his leader duties because of this. and then there's a whole lesson learned kind of thing, maybe roier brings him back, etc.

Now for some backstories:

I think Tubbo would follow Pidge's backstory and motives pretty closely, given his penchant for breaking into the federation offices and snooping around (very Pidge-like behaviour). The thing I struggled with was getting someone to be kidnapped by space aliens that Tubbo cared enough about to go searching for. I already have plans for Fred, Phil, and the eggs, and they're the main things that drive qtubbo. Also, ideally, they'd have to be somewhat older than Tubbo in order to be on the Kerberos mission in the first place. For a while, I thought about somehow having Tubbo and Pierre being connected, but they're not super close in canon, even if he would make an Excellent Sam Holt.

BUT THEN I REMEMBERED: MORNING CREW. ITS PERFECT. I don't think they'd be directly related, but Pac as Matt Holt just works so well. I think Fit and Ramon would be rebel fighters that free Pac from the Galra and they sort of fall in love that way, but Mike was on the Kerberos mission too and is still missing, and that's Pac's main motivation.

So I think the best people for the Kerberos mission crew would be Pac (technician), Mike (engineer), and Cellbit (pilot). Cellbit obviously takes Shiro's role (sans robot arm, that's Etoiles' duty later on - this AU would divert from VLD canon pretty early on). Roier never gives up on Cellbit, just like Tubbo never gives up on Pac (and Mike). Except unlike Tubbo, who has to purposely get enrolled at the Garrison as a cadet in order to get intel, Roier is already graduate from the same class as Cellbit. He KNOWS there's a coverup of some kind, but he has no way of proving it. Fortunately, an old upperclassman/ex-tutor believes in him enough that he believes in Cellbit too, and together they get to work on figuring out this mystery. When an alien pod crash lands, they know they've got to get a closer look.

Missa is an unfortunate decontamination unit first-responder who gets in the way. They can't just leave him behind to sound the alarm - he has to come with them while they rescue Cellbit! Unbeknownst to them, Tubbo has already taken out the alarms and is also on his way over. Miraculously, they all escape with their lives, and magic space lion adventures ensue.

I feel like none of them would really have any time to change into casual clothing, so they're all in uniform. Cellbit would probably still be in prisoner clothing but tbh I just didn't think of that lol. Also, I wanted to draw him in a garrison uniform that wasn't detox or combat oriented. There are so many cool garrison uniform designs out there so drawing the same one twice was kinda soul crushing lol. cant wait to show you guys their individual character sheets!!

#my art #qsmp tubbo #qsmp cellbit #qsmp roier #qsmp etoiles #qsmp missa #tubbo fanart #cellbit fanart #etoiles fanart #roier fanart #missasinfonia fanart #qsmp fanart #qsmp #voltron legendary defender #digo speaks #qsmp vld au

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immortalmsmoon · 4 months

Note

Holaaaa^^

Can i request Ren x Reader x Akira where the Phantom thieves suddenly got into some unpredictable accident in mementos thus creating Akira and now they have to live with two leader with the same face but different personality: Ren being the soft and patient lover while Akira is flirty and mischievous~

I'm dying for the AkiRen battle lmao XD

Two Boyfriends Is Better Than One!

A/N: THIS REQ IS SO CUTE AGHAHAGAGAHHG!! thank you so much!!

What's Better than one Akira? Two!

Warnings: None!

Wordcount: 584

the last thing everyone expected when they went into mementos was to come out with two Akira's.

it was strange, really. that there were two of them. especially because they were so different.

akira was a little jealous honestly. he wanted to have your undying attention, and technically he still had it, but he still that in the cat van pouting.

the other version of him, Ren, was an ABSOULUTE sweety.

blushing and giggling and smiling at you like an idiot!! he's kind of shy as well :)

Akira is pouting bit, but still keeping up with a little flirtatious banter here and there.

Ren and Akira go together very well, and they complement each other as well.

Ren's sweetness is so endearing, and Akira's flirtatiousness keeps you on your toes

It was an awkward drive around Memento's to say the least.

you weren't even sure how this happened to be honest. Everything was going smoothly, and then all of a sudden...things got a little rocky, to say the least. Well, rocky for your boyfriend. After all, he had competition.

you sat in the very back of the Morgana Car, pressed in between your boyfriend, and his exact copy, who you had all taken to calling Ren. he was an exact copy of Akira, with his messy soft bedhead, and the same soft face. the only difference was that Ren was a blushing sweetheart.

Honestly, you considered yourself rather lucky. Its not every day that someone gets lucky enough to have to boyfriends. You decided to take advantage of the situation, and quickly started up conversation with Ren, occasionally throwing flirtatious comments in and admiring the way Ren's face would light up a bright shade of red, and giggling at the way he would tuck strands of hair behind his ear's when you complimented him only to quickly shake it back when he could feel his ears getting hot.

as you continued to converse with Ren you noticed the way Akira had stiffened up. you threw a glance his way, noticing the way his jaw had clenched, and the stiffness of his arms crossed over his chest. you felt slightly bad that you had neglected him all this time, but honestly you were enjoying his reactions just as much as Ren's. You giggled as an idea lit up in your head, and you quickly turned over to Ren once again.

you giggled a little more as you placed your hand on Ren's chest. It felt the same as Akira's, toned with muscle, but still soft. he smelt the same as well, like rich coffee, and a tad bit of chocolate. You felt Akira stiffen next to you, and took notice to the way his finger's twitched slightly.

you decided to push your luck even more, spreading your palm on his chest, and pressing yourself closer to Ren, who was blushing so intensely you were sure he was bound to pass out. You moved your head up, pressing a swift wet kiss to Ren's cheek, before backing up a bit and looking at his face. he had frozen in shock, his face somehow a deeper shade of red than before. you giggled again, before feeling a sturdy pair of hands on your waist.

you were pulled into Akira's chest, his hands quickly wrapping around your body, squeezing you slightly. he pushed your head into his neck, before pressing a quick kiss to the crown of your head. you smiled into him, wrapping your arms around him as well.

#persona 5 #persona 5 x reader #p5 #persona #akira #ren amamiya #ren amamiya x reader #cuties <3 #cutie patootie

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lovehotelreservation · 10 months

Text

Burn Without

Summary: For nothing else could quell the heat that was possessing Clive other than you.

[Contains plot spoilers for Final Fantasy XVI]

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: F!Reader/Clive

DICK REALLY MAKE YOU DO SOME CRAZY SHIT LIKE I CAN’T BELIVE I’M MASTERING PRECISION DODGE FOR CLIVE FF16 😭😭

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

Your leader was on fire.

A gnashing of teeth, snarls and growls howled into the air, toned and chiseled naked flesh slick with sweat, iron chains clashing with the might of a beast made into man, a glow of white crystal from metal cuffs subduing the fiery roar of an Eikon.

Cid the Outlaw was Clive the possessed.

The powers of Ifrit had to be called during a recent clash on the sands of Dhalmekia. While the priming was successful, it was returning to his mortal form that was the crux of the present dilemma, the flames and primal instincts of his Eikon form still coursing through his body, leaving him his human will at war with his Dominant powers.

In other words, your leader was on fire and you had a duty to douse him out.

While you were but an assistant to Tarja, you were assigned with the task of providing Clive succor for this particular ailment. By your unique relationship with magic and willingness to literally ride through the flames of hell and back, it made you the ideal candidate to approach him during these times of torment.

Here, as the day fell into the depths of dusk in a room located at the furthest and lowest segment of the Hideaway, you inspected over the state of your leader while he continued to thrash about right as you allowed the last of your clothes to fall to the floor.

The first time this occurred, you were petrified with nerves, wondering if you could bring him back to his senses.

Now, you couldn’t help but smile ever so slightly as you stepped towards the bed he was currently bound upon, your voice in a soothing coo while you spoke,

“Let’s cool you off then, shall we, Clive?”

And as his glowing sapphire eyes immediately locked right onto you, your smile widened all the more while you joined him in bed.

It was a wonder how the solution to bringing peace to raging hellfire was to have such flames mingle with the heat of your own body.

A man in dire need to be freed from his own inferno finding comfort in the form of your bare skin pressed right onto his, to have his sturdy hips straddled by your thighs, the slick and velvety warmth of your core squeezing around his thick cock to encourage him to flood you full and stuffed with his seed while you bounced up and down his long length.

The abrupt jerks and twists of his hulking form would eventually source not from possessed rage but out of needy desperation, of which was heightened all the more when your hands cupped his stubbled jaw to bring his face towards yours for a kiss.

By the Founder how he loved being kissed!

So much so that a brush of your lips on his mouth and the soft sigh of his name was enough to send him bucking his hips wildly up into you for release, with much more left in store with a long night ahead for the both of you.

Not that you minded.

There was something about witnessing your mighty leader left at the mercy of your touch that appealed to you ever so deeply.

Though, there was also another means of satisfaction when at one point, you became alarmed at the sudden sound of metal snapping, the sight of broken chains lost to your gaze, for you soon found yourself damn near pounced by a wall of pure muscle.

Clive’s arms wrapped around you tightly, protectively, keeping you in place beneath him as he readied to pummel into you relentlessly. His lips hungrily sought your grinning ones for more kisses, his desire far from satiated.

But not before his mouth fell by your ear, his voice low and raspy, his tone weary yet enamored while those familiar stormy blue eyes gazed affectionately into yours.

“Please. Allow me to give thanks.”

#clive rosfield x reader #final fantasy xvi #final fantasy xvi spoilers #ffxvi spoilers #final fantasy 16 spoilers #ff16 spoilers #reader insert #Fic #super freaknasty writing

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a-dinosaur-a-day · 11 months

Text

The Birdcage

Jurassic Park: It's Ironic, by Meig of A-Dinosaur-A-Day

What follows is a retelling of the Jurassic Park story, mainly based on the 1993 film, with portions of the original novel used to supplement the story. The main point of divergence occurs when the park is unable to find workable nonavian dinosaur genetic material for cloning, since - as in the real world - dna degrades much too rapidly. Instead, the park consists only of extinct dinosaurs that can be brought back - birds from the last 2.5 million years. What happens after that is, as Ian Malcolm would say, an emerging pattern.

Infinite thanks to beta readers @plokool, @killdeercheer, and @otussketching! And extra thanks to @i-draws-dinosaurs for the killer logo! Happy 30th anniversary of the JP Film!

Link to the masterpost of chapters

Chapter One: Magallanes Basin, Chile

It was frigid at the dig site, with sharp winds battering everything they could, knocking over rocks and tools and even people. Some folks were shouting over the wind, while others were hurrying to protect precious material. The chaos was almost too much to deal with, but Donald Gennaro had work to do, and needed to consult with the dig site leader, Juanito.

Dig site leader was, honestly, not descriptive enough. Juanito Rostagno was one of the most respected paleontologists of South America, and he oversaw all the dig sites run by International Genetics Technology Incorporated, otherwise known as InGen. And it was precisely because of his competence and knowledge that Gennaro had made the trip so far south.

Magallanes Basin was as far south in Patagonia as you could get, near Tierra del Fuego. The freezing winds and icy temperatures prevented it from being inhabited in most locations, with only a few population centers popping up here or there. The dig site was near the sea, among the rocky crags and crevices, far away from the more famous Patagonian steppe. Snow was common, which made the dig perilous – at any point, the material could be lost forever. As it was, a miracle must have prevented the material around them from being swept out to sea.

“Hola Juanito!” Donald greeted, finally finding the scientist among the others, reaching out to shake his hand as he tripped over a few rocks.

“Hola! Bienvenido!” Juanito shouted, gesturing for Donald to follow him across the rocky terrain. He was dressed in khakis and a thick flannel shirt, not bothering to wear a hat for fear of the wind blowing it away. Donald had lost his own hat about fifteen minutes ago. But among the researchers and workers dressed more similarly to Juanito, Donald felt quite out of place in his business suit.

“So Hammond is back at the island?” Donald asked, trying desperately not to trip over another rock. In the distance, a group of penguins walked by the workers, to their delight as they attempted to talk and interact with them. Donald had been brushing up on his knowledge of local wildlife, and was pretty sure they were Magellanic Penguins, a small variety similar to the African or Humboldt. They were really very cute. Sometimes he could really understand the appeal of Hammond’s vision.

“No, he had to go back to California early. He sends his apologies,” Juanito explained, grimacing slightly as the pair made it to one of the sturdy tents tucked away against the side of the mountain. It was significantly warmer here, both protected from the wind and supporting a small space heater.

Donald bristled but kept his voice even as he responded, “We are facing a twenty-million-dollar lawsuit by the family of that worker! And you’re telling me Hammond can’t even bother to see me?”

“He wants to be with his daughter, she’s getting a divorce,” Juanito said, picking up a bone fragment and examining it.

“I understand that, but we’ve been advised to deal with the situation now. The underwriters feel that the accident has raised some very serious safety questions about the park. This makes the investors very very anxious. I had to promise to conduct a very thorough, on-site inspection.”

Juanito looked up from the bone, frowning at Donald.

“Hammond hates inspections, they slow everything down.”

Donald fought the urge to laugh as he responded, “Well I need to or they’ll pull the funding. That’ll slow him down even more.”

“Juanito! Juanito!”

Both men looked up to the tent mouth to see a young graduate student waving them outside. Donald grit his teeth and followed them, bracing himself for the wind as they ambled down the hill towards a more secluded spot. The rocks were tucked against the mountain, with a pit a few feet deep so hidden Donald almost fell into it.

“Qué tenemos aquí?” Juanito asked the student, as they both began talking in rapid Spanish. Donald had learned Spanish, of course – hard to consult with a company that did most of its business in Latin America if he hadn’t – but he still could not follow the native speakers as their words flowed seamlessly like rivers between them. He could pick out the occasional world – something about a skull, dirt, and a new specimen.

“A ver muéstrame, muéstrame,” Juanito finally said slowly enough for Donald to pick it out, following them down into the pit carefully. Donald tripped into it, as he had almost predicted, steadying himself against the side of the rocks.

“Watch your footing!” Juanito warned as they came into the main center of the pit.

“If two experts,” Donald continued, determined to move past the fact that he couldn’t walk down here, apparently, “Sign off on the island, the insurance guys will back off. I’ve already got Ian Malcolm, but they think he’s too trendy – they want Alan Grant.”

Alan Grant and his research team had been early consultants on the project, though they never really knew what they were consulting about. Now they were just on Hammond’s digsite payroll – always looking for that one in a million chance that, maybe, his original dream could still happen.

“Grant?” Juanito snorted, “You’ll never get him out of Montana.” He picked up a skull fragment and looked at it excitedly, calling for the students around him to come over to examine it with him.

“Why not?” Donald asked, irritated.

“Because Grant’s like me,” Juanito explained, smirking, “He’s a digger.”

“Well what about Spinoza, down in New Zealand? She was hired for consultancy when the project changed direction.”

‘Changed Direction’ was the official wording for the major speedbump that had nearly thrown the entire enterprise out the window. Even mentioning it made a small frown appear on Juanito’s face. Donald didn’t like even mentioning it, given how much of the original investment had been lost chasing impossible dreams. They had kept as much of that original idea as they could, of course – even continuing to consult with Grant, Sattler, and others, when their work was no longer particularly relevant – but there was no getting around it. Hammond’s big dream had to be downsized. The laws of nature were against him.

“Spinoza?” Juanito continued, “Maybe. I do know she returned to the States recently for a conference, so she may actually be available. But she’ll insist on Grant and Sattler coming, too.”

“Why?” Donald asked, eyebrows raising towards his receding hairline. He had not even understood why they kept them on the payroll.

“Because she’s Grant’s former student, and none of them know that Grant and Sattler are no longer our chief experts,” Juanito snorted, “This is the price of all our secrecy, is it not?”

Donald sighed, “I suppose. So, what, in the middle of this lawsuit and the investors getting nervous, I’m supposed to fly down a whole spread of experts, regardless of their actual relevance, to check out this park?”

“Sattler is still relevant,” Juanito pointed out, “And beyond that, Grant is one of the strongest researchers in behavior we have. He will still be helpful. If you can get him to leave.”

“Any idea how I can do that?” Donald laughed.

Juanito helped his students start to prepare the specimens before them for transportation. He turned to look at Donald, frowning.

“Well...” Juanito paused, taking a deep breath and looking Donald straight in the eye, “Funding for us diggers. Nearly impossible. As always.”

Donald sighed.

It always came back to money.

“Since he couldn’t be bothered to join this meeting, I’ll have John sell it. His boisterous enthusiasm and cavalier attitude towards money will make it more enticing, anyway,” Donald said.

“Certainly is a better salesman than you,” Juanito laughed. Donald couldn’t help laughing with him.

“Unfortunately I cannot come with,” Juanito continued, frowning apologetically at Donald, “After all, look what we have here.” He gestured to the new material, which looked just like more bone scraps to Donald. But he wasn’t an expert.

“Think that’ll be a new species we can add?” Donald asked.

Juanito shrugged, walking back up out of the pit and helping Donald with him, “Well, we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Donald wasn’t confident enough that the project would move forward to answer.

#jurassic park #jurassic park au #jurassic park: it's ironic #palaeoblr #dinosaurs #birds #the birdcage

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deepouterspacecandy · 5 days

Text

Spared

I intended to write a short drabble about Abby being immune to Cordyceps, but alas, it morphed into approximately 5k words right before my very eyes. How does this happen? Anyway. I appreciate your presence, taking the time to read these fragments of my mind. Thank you for being here. I hope you enjoy. This is a darker, more angsty, gore-filled journey and, as always, it’s intended for 18+ audiences only. Violence and sexual themes.

A man on a mission, Dr. Jerry Anderson devoted himself to eradicating the plague that wreaked havoc on the world.

Developing a vaccine against Cordyceps consumed his life.

In their quest for answers, people would come from all corners of the globe, hoping to be included in his trial. Despite undergoing countless procedures and surgeries in a desperate pursuit of a cure, most patients tragically succumbed to the treatments themselves or to their initial infections. As the years passed and resources became scarce, his experiments progressively lost their footing.

Mere weeks before his untimely demise, Dr. Anderson conducted his last trial on a patient. The experiment unfolded in a way he never anticipated.

After receiving the injection, the patient, without previous exposure to the virus, experienced a perplexing mutation, developing far more than immunity to the perils of infection.

She possessed the ability to communicate with it and maneuver through it, like a ghost.

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

“You wanted to see me.”

Isaac extends his arm, signaling for you to have a seat at his desk. He swirls a decanter filled with a rich, dark liquid before pouring it between two sturdy glasses.

With a jarring crack against the maple surface, Isaac sets one glass before you.

“I don’t drink,” you say.

As you bring the potion to your nose, the pungent smell of the liquor assaults your senses, and you search for a compliment to give out of courtesy. Hoping to dissuade him from making further gestures of rapport, you decide against it.

“Is this an issue I need to be aware of?” he asks. “I have no patience for drunks.”

Leaning back in his chair, he peers at you intently over his glass.

“No, sir.”

Given the stories you’ve heard about his inebriated escapades, it’s quite ironic to hear such a statement from him.

You feel the uncomfortable burn of his glare, a demand for you to elaborate. Clearing your throat, you offer him a hesitant explanation.

“I prefer to keep my head straight. It’s important in my line of work,” you say.

Unimpressed by your reasoning, he leans forward and flicks your glass, producing a sharp sound that resonates through your chest.

“Do you smell smoke?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “But I’d really rather not—”

Silencing you with a raised hand, he swiftly cuts you off.

“Good. I don’t recall setting a fire. Have a drink,” he orders. “We have matters of discretion to discuss.”

As usual, his matters of discretion connect you to his hidden mercenary, a soldier you have treated multiple times throughout the years unbeknownst to your comrades. She’s Isaac’s most lethal weapon, a secret you wish you didn’t have to protect. What he is doing with her feels cruel, using her impenetrable body for brutal warfare and then leaving her isolated with her injuries, all while she waits for the next assignment.

It takes weeks for the roiling feeling in your gut to subside after meeting with her.

“When do you plan on ending this?” you ask.

Maybe the booze is taking effect, emboldening you beyond your usual self. It’s impossible to bite your tongue, the torment of watching this unfold gnawing at you.

“Excuse me?” he drawls.

“Sir, she’s alone out there. It’s not right,” you say, reluctantly downing the last remnants of the glass before pushing it across the desk. “There are factors you need to consider. Mental decline, her physical limitations. If you’d consider bringing her in, she’d make a promising squad leader.”

Trying to reason with him about her basic human needs will be futile, so as with every other matter, it’s more effective to approach the situation from a tactical standpoint. His perception of human beings as living entities is questionable as is.

“Do not underestimate her faculties,” Isaac says. “She’s built differently. This is the purpose she serves to keep her people safe, and she does it willingly.”

“I hear what you’re saying, but sir, if you’d just give me a minute.”

“Do I need to find someone else to handle this case?” he asks.

It’s a loaded question, a double barrel to your temple. The act of assigning someone else to handle her case doesn’t entitle you to be included in the mission rotation again.

Only you hold the key to the secret of her existence, and it will die with you.

“When do I ship out?” you ask.

“Tonight,” he mutters.

He turns his back to you, and you can hear the faint sound of liquid pouring into his glass. When he dismisses you by consuming it alone, you see yourself out.

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

The journey to the prison is a tumultuous one.

The absence of infected is a relief, but the spray-painted rattle snakes garnishing the buildings and the maze of explosives on the roadways dangle ominously in your face. With Bear, your devoted canine companion, you make it as far as the gas station before a spike strip shreds the front tires of your Humvee. The sunken road, slicked by rain and oil, causes the vehicle to lose traction completely, sliding sideways into the long-abandoned propane tank sitting at the edge of the freeway.

Warmth spills through your eyebrows, prompting you to reach up and touch your forehead to locate the source. Your fingers, stained bright red, begin to tremble as you observe Bear—his ears flattened with every dark hair along his spine raised in alarm.

It’s a matter of seconds before a pair of violent hands tear you from the vehicle and toss you into the dirt, jarring rock granules forcing your eyes shut. You blink them away until all you see is a mangled police visor staring down at you, its surface speckled with dried blood, a menacing baton swinging an inch from your nose. Though the mask muffles the voice behind it, there’s a barbed, frigid edge to his tone.

Bear lunges out of the cab, seizing the enemy by his throat and forcing him to the ground. It grants you enough time to scramble to your feet, only to be met with the disturbing view of an infected hoard stumbling toward you from the hillside, chains dragging behind some of them.

Your vision becomes increasingly blurry as nausea ferments in your stomach, twisting you inside out. You pilfer the rifle off your attacker, as a group of his mates emerge from the shadows. You lean against the Humvee, examining the firearm before chambering the only bullet attached to the limp body at your boots.

“Fuck ‘em up,” you command.

Bear is a missile, darting through the rubble, his target set everywhere at once. Next to Isaac’s best kept secret, your dog is a diabolical killing machine.

“Shoot that fucking dog!”

Your eyes narrow in on the enemy poised to strike Bear, and you steady your aim. The roar of your scream lingers in your ears as you fire the only round you’ve got. An aggressive swarm of infected are moving toward the chaos in a cluster of rot and tangled limbs and you’re frozen. A horrific slaughter, surpassing any level of violence you’ve encountered, breaks out in a flash.

The infected shred your attackers apart, ribbons of flesh and shattered bone coating the pavement. The moment you call out for Bear, the sudden noise turns a dozen vacant, pustule eyes on you.

With no weapons at your disposal, you frantically scramble onto the roof of the Humvee, scanning the surroundings for an escape route. A sea of infected pool together like a rancid colony of ants.

Some say that the pain from a Clicker attack is unlike anything else. Perhaps it’s their blind, frenzied hunger that makes them so vicious.

You’re on the brink of discovering it firsthand when the decaying corpse, with its outstretched arms and gnarled fingers, halts mid-motion.

The infected stop in their tracks one by one, haunted marionettes with abruptly yanked strings. Save for the sound of your own blood pumping in your ears, the silence becomes deafening. Their bodies writhe in an eerie synchronicity as you try not to breathe.

In rare form, you squeeze your eyes shut to escape the fear. The sudden weight of a hand on your shoulder causes you to swing violently in its direction, your fist caught by a solid, calloused palm. Your piercing scream permeates the silence before you instinctively clamp your hands over your mouth.

Despite your shock, the lifeless figures remain unaffected, and you squint to make sense of it.

“I don’t understand,” you say.

Through tangled locks of greasy hair, celestial blue eyes stare expectantly. Her intense gaze rakes over you, a familiar pearl-white streak marring only one iris. It’s been a while, but her angular face is a sight you remember well.

“They can’t hurt me?” you ask.

“They can,” she explains, reaching up to examine the gash on your forehead. “But they won’t.”

“Bear,” you blurt.

Using her thumb and forefinger, she turns your chin until you spot your dog at the edge of the hoard. You can feel his confusion as his tail wags anxiously, ready for your next command. The simple act of turning your head sends a tsunami of vertigo crashing over you.

Out of nowhere, your mind becomes a jumbled mess, making it a challenge to string coherent thoughts together. She senses your trepidation, and her hands immediately find your hips, offering stability as you falter.

“I’m dizzy. I need to get down,” you stammer.

Her grip tightens and you try to focus on the sharp sting of her fingertips digging into your skin. The world tilts, the infected shuffling and groaning as they slowly snap out of their trance.

“Breathe,” she says. “Stay with me.”

Darkness cloaks your vision before you can summon the energy to respond.

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

As you blink awake, the biting cold hits you first. The source of the unwelcome breeze draws your attention, as the chilly gusts sneak into the room through a slit in the concrete. It’s meant to be a window, but it falls miserably short of the mark.

You’ve spent countless nights inside this prison, mending the wounds of Isaac’s soldier in the dim, flickering light. It’s the first time you’ve landed yourself in her bed.

The blanket, enveloping you like a cocoon, is unpleasantly musty, and you peel it away. Rising from the rigid steel slab, the room spins, deterring you from getting on your feet. Your body feels heavy and sore, a relentless ache pulsating behind your eyes. You give it another shot and stumble to your feet, using the walls as a crutch until you regain your balance.

Bear sleeps peacefully at the foot of the bed, his gentle snores filling the room. It’s intriguing how he finds more peace in the prison than in his own home, but he certainly deserves some rest.

The clank of iron plates echoes down the corridor, and you follow the sound. Your bare feet recoil against the chilly ground, and you’re left pondering when exactly you misplaced your boots. The hiss of heavy breathing and the occasional strenuous grunt accompanies your journey from one cell to the next, guiding you down the hallway toward the sound.

You peek around the corner and wild blonde hair appears in your line of sight.

Chances are, she already senses your presence, but you give a gentle warning that you’re approaching just in case.

“How long have I been out?” you ask.

Performing dips on a rusted bench, she maintains her focus, her back turned to you. Muscles flex and bulge with each repetition and you notice she’s adopted fresh scars across her ravaged back since your previous visit. Without a word, she powers through her reps and smoothly transitions into her next set.

It took several visits before she would give you anything more than a frosty response. Despite the feeling of regression, it’s possible she just needs time to adjust.

“I noticed you grabbed my bag,” you say, idly fidgeting with your hands as you linger in the doorway. “Thank you for that—for all of it, really. I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you.”

Her body stiffens into a plank, losing momentum in her push-ups. Beads of sweat roll down her face and drip to the ground, her solid body trembling. She takes a deep breath before releasing it in a huff, continuing her routine without pause.

“Have you eaten? I packed some spices I think you’ll like.”

With a frustrated growl, she shakes her head, trying to dispel the irritation. Your instincts tell you to leave her alone to finish her workout, but for some odd reason, you find yourself unable to hold back the torrent of words.

“I thought it’d be cool to start a garden here. Herbs are nice to cook with, you know? Some for healing, too. There’s a decent spot in the yard for it.”

“What’s next—rose bushes?” she mutters.

“Roses can be great for tinctures,” you explain. “It’s a learning curve, but you get great sunlight for them.”

She props herself up on her elbows mid-push-up and lets out a choppy breath. When she raises her eyes to meet yours, anger fills them to the brim, and the hostility is scalding.

“I want Isaac to stop sending you.”

The pain of the unexpected dagger is far more intense than you could have ever imagined. You often wish that Isaac hadn’t implicated you in his secret, but you’ve grown to care for this wounded soul.

“You might as well take me out back, then,” you chuckle humourlessly. “Because that’s a death sentence.”

“Give me five minutes,” she sneers. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Look, I didn’t ask for this,” you say, a kernel of truth wrapped up in a rather emotional reaction to her painful barb. “I’m his soldier, too.”

Springing up from the ground, she snatches her shirt off a nearby chair and pushes past you. Before she slips the tattered garment over her head, you catch a glimpse of a deep, jagged laceration at the base of her neck.

While you make a mental note of it, you ultimately decide against bringing it up.

Rather than hounding her when she clearly wants to be alone, you decide to hunt for that old claw bathtub, desperate for a soak and maybe a good cry.

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

This tomb scatters beauty, but you easily find its seeds.

The copper tub catches the flickering candlelight, and the gleam is otherworldly against the lonely shadows. The moment you step into the hot water, you can feel your skin buzzing with gentle licks of heat and your tired muscles begin to surrender to the relaxation it brings.

You can recall the day she dragged this old bathtub into the prison, the legs of it squeaking across the concrete floor as if the claws belonged to a corporeal animal. Showers alone proved ineffective in hastening her healing process and cleansing her wounds and, surprisingly, despite her initial uncertainty, she took your advice.

The candles differ from the ones you previously left behind, so you assume she still makes use of the hollow luxury when the mood strikes.

Submerging your head, you study the muffled sounds brought about by the density of the water. Everything is disparate beneath the surface, the low-pitched hoots of an owl muted and distant.

“I made food.”

“Jesus Christ!” you choke, body thrashing and creating a chaotic spray of water in every direction.

Your actions soak the woman standing beside the tub and, when she averts her gaze, droplets of water slip from her dirt-slicked lashes.

“Knocking helps!” you say, bracing your arms on the copper ridges.

“Count the doors in here—I’ll wait!”

Her sarcastic wit catches you off guard, and you feel your cheeks sting as confused gaiety tugs at them.

“What’s that face for?” she snaps.

It’s difficult to discern whether she’s asking a genuine question or if she’s in a defensive stance, so you wager it’s a blend of both.

“You’re funny,” you say. “When you’re not being a jerk.”

This time, when her eyes meet yours, the fury dissipates. There’s something soft and temperate where you’ve only ever witnessed the bane of unforgiving steel.

The pads of her fingers are a deep pink hue, and it dawns on you that the porcelain bowl must be extremely hot. You gesture to the side table disguised as a wooden stump and she sets the dish down.

“Can I have a look at that?” you ask, reaching for her hands.

The tub and clever positioning shroud your naked body, but the rest is all about her and her sudden ardent manners. With her face turned away, she offers you her palms first.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” she says.

While inspecting the burn and its surrounding wounds, you notice her shoulders dropping.

“You can sit, if you want,” you say.

Upon surveying the area, you’re aware that the number of chairs matches the number of doors, prompting an apologetic chuckle. A tiny smile teases her mouth as she crouches at your side instead.

“You need to run this under cold water, okay? And I should dress these cuts, so they don’t get infected.”

“What about you?” she asks. “I tried to clean it out, but it’s ugly.”

She moves to touch the gash on your forehead, and her quick movements startle you. When you flinch, her hand lingers in the air until she decides to rework her pace, taking a more languid approach.

“It’s been forever since someone called me ugly,” you jest.

“Missed opportunity,” she mumbles, biting her bottom lip to keep her grin at bay.

“You haven’t polished off that honey I brought yet, right?”

Her expression resembles a guilt-ridden thief caught in the act, and you struggle to suppress a burst of laughter.

“I should’ve known better. Maybe you need a hive instead of a garden,” you say.

She snorts at your suggestion before grabbing the cloth hanging on the tub and dunking it into the water. Instinctively, her weathered hands shape the fabric to dab gently at your injury. The surface is bruise-tender and the pain throbs outward in torturous sparks. She cups your jaw with her other hand to keep you from squirming.

“What if I’m allergic to bee stings? Because that’s a death sentence,” she mimics.

“I’ll try not to throw you in then,” you say. “No promises.”

A wide, earnest grin spreads across her tough features, and you forget how to breathe for a spell. She’s filthy and in desperate need of a hairbrush, but she’s still prettier than anyone you’ve met.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

Isaac never refers to her as anything other than his mercenary, and every time you had considered asking her in the past, your better judgement advised against it. Her preference for anonymity is clear, but you have so many unanswered questions.

In a smooth motion, she glides the cool cloth across the bridge of your nose.

“Do you really want to know?” she asks.

Seeking a moment of connection, you grasp her wrist, pausing her ministrations. Her gaze meets yours with a sense of urgency and she doesn’t break eye contact.

Water trickles from your hands, twirling along her wrist and cascading down her forearm. She fights to keep her eyes open, a raspy hum building at the back of her throat until goosebumps skate across your skin.

“I really want to know,” you say.

Her nod is slow and deliberate, contemplating the price she will have to pay for her decision.

“Once you see me,” she warns, and it’s uncertain whether she’s cautioning you or herself. “There’s no going back.”

“I can live with that,” you whisper.

Just when it looks like she’s ready to share, her body tenses up and you can almost touch the impenetrable barrier rising between you.

“Your stew is getting cold,” she says. “I’ll grab you a towel.”

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Away from the stadium lights, midnight is a mesmerizing weave of glistening diamonds spilled across an indigo sky. The sight of the Milky Way reminds you of her. That blemish etched along her iris—a celestial river carving through blue canvas.

You curl up on a bedroll in the tall grass and listen to the melodious ensemble of crickets and frogs, yearning for extra time in the countryside. There’s a sense of security here, with no sign of danger for miles. The tall and formidable walls back home do little to drown out the blood-curdling cries of the infected. Their presence is always looming, close enough to unsettle you, but never close enough to harm. It’s enough to disrupt your sleep, their ruined faces bleeding into your nightmares.

The once spirited and untamed landscape of home now only grows the carefully cultivated visions that Isaac orchestrates, depriving both his plants and his people of freedom.

Prior to Isaac recruiting you for his mission, you contemplated abandoning your ties to the WLF. You didn’t want to spend another moment on this planet living in a perpetual state of war, never knowing when you’d catch a stray arrow.

The peaceful ambiance of birdsong in the early morning tempers the harsh world for you. It’s a reminder that amidst famine and devastation, there must be more.

“You’re not sleeping inside tonight?”

Bear’s collar jingles, bringing you a sense of comfort as the dog keenly explores the prison yard before heading back indoors to nap. Your pup instantly feels at ease with the mysterious woman from the middle of nowhere, and you have no trouble comprehending why.

“I am,” you say. “I just wanted to see the stars first.”

“You don’t see much of that where you’re from?” she asks.

When you pat the ground, she sits cross-legged next to you like an old friend.

“Not really. It’s too bright in the city,” you explain. “I’m going to need to stitch that up—don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

While shooting you a disapproving look, she absentmindedly traces the cut near her collarbone before leaning back on her rugged arms. She tilts her head to study the cloudless sky, and it draws your attention to the neat braid resting at the nape of her neck.

A fresh and woody scent emanates from her, with a subtle hint of pine carried to you by the wind.

“I’ve always wondered why there are no infected here,” you say. “You keep them away when I’m around, don’t you?”

You know it’s her, the one responsible for it all, but you’re still in the dark about her methods. The extent of its impact on her remains elusive to you, but you’ve witnessed her increasing exhaustion. Her strength and abilities set her apart, but they also have the power to decimate her reserves.

“They’re closer than you think,” she says.

“If I get up right now and walk out those gates, am I in danger?” you ask.

“Yes,” she says, a look of agony flashing across her features. “But not for the reasons you think. I can’t—it’s people I can’t control.”

“I wasn’t imagining things, then?”

Her teeth grind in apprehension, as she plucks blades of grass from the ground to build a small mound above the laces of her leather boots. You let the gears turn, patiently waiting for her to come to her own conclusions. The struggle lies in wanting her to confide in you, wanting to divide the burdens that shackle her.

“I’m here,” you say. “Whenever you’re ready to talk.”

“What if I can’t?”

“I’ll still listen,” you say.

When she turns her head to face you, fragile threads of trust blur her stern demeanour, a courageous step taken in silence. She lumbers from the ground until she finds her feet.

“Where are you going?” you chuckle lightly. “You need rest.”

Brushing the dirt off her pants, she makes her way to the perimeter fence, beckoning you to follow.

Left untended, the field beyond it is a forgotten acreage of towering weeds, sun-stretched wildflowers wilting beneath the somber moon. The ringing chorus of quick, guttural frog croaks fades as a Runner emerges clumsily from the treeline.

Your heart skips as her rough fingers intertwine with your own, a bolt of sweet lightning cleaving through your chest. You can feel the strength in her grip as she guides your joined hands to the chain-link. She squeezes, pressing the tips of your fingers around the galvanized wire.

You’re left bewildered, staring at her, before she gestures towards the field with a subtle tilt of her chin. The writhing, infected body creeps nearer and your heart pounds. With every graceless step the creature makes, nervous vibrations fuse between your ribs. It stumbles, festering limbs lunging forward, and it takes every ounce of self control to keep from screaming.

The warm body at your side inches closer to ease your erratic breathing. Her composure is remarkable, as if she has performed this action countless times, a mastery of the dead—a striking juxtaposition to your tight, hard swallow resonating through the lonesome field.

Behind the disease-ridden shell, the faint traces of a woman’s features start to emerge as the battered body reaches the other side of the fence. The infected woman is so close to you that you can see the intricate network of veins in her eyes, and the red, inflamed rims of her eyelids where her eyelashes once were. Every muscle in your body freezes, not daring to twitch or even let out a breath.

The septic woman pushes her forehead to the fence, head tilting at an unnatural angle, seeming to study every detail of your face. The putrid odour hits your nostrils with such force that it’s impossible not to recoil. As terror grips you, it spreads like wildfire.

“How?” you rasp, your voice so faint, it’s barely a whisper. “Why isn’t she attacking me—doesn’t she want to?”

“It’s all she wants.”

Your attention falls to the soldier whom Isaac has bound you to restore, and you notice she is rapidly losing strength, her skin growing paler as the life force ebbs away.

“Okay, that’s enough. Make it stop,” you order, panic rising as her nose trickles a thin stream of red. “You know what? Fuck it!”

Without hesitation, you reach for the knife holstered on her thigh, sliding the sharp blade through the fence, until the spindly body collapses to meld with the soil.

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

Your hands move with care as you suture the wound above her collarbone, the heat of her breath fanning your face. Positioned behind her is a mural she painted, featuring a serene beach and a shipwrecked boat nestled against the coastline. Decorated with kelp and dappled with rust, the sailboat’s intricate detailing is striking.

“I’ve never been to the beach,” you say.

Her blue eyes, wide with curiosity, lock onto yours, and a huff of quiet laughter escapes her parted lips.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

“I’ve never been, either,” she admits.

You take a step back to observe her, noticing the lines etched on her face that tell stories of resilience. There is a captivating depth that makes you long to delve further.

“Well, you had me fooled,” you say, reaching for the scissors on the surgical tray. “You’re a talented painter—I’m sorry I hadn’t noticed sooner.”

With a dismissive shrug, she makes it seem like transforming a gloomy prison into a magnificent cathedral of art is a piece of cake. Her artwork is so impressive that you would never guess she has spent little time at the beach.

“Nah, it wasn’t here last time,” she says, adjusting her stance and widening the space between her thighs to provide you with more room to work. “I thought I’d try something new. We’ll see if it sticks.”

You lean in closer, gently tending to the cuts and scrapes that have gathered along her shoulders and neck. Her skin, adorned with freckles, is a beautiful mosaic of its own. Some strands of her braid have unraveled, perhaps because of a lack of practice, but the untidiness complements her.

“I’ve always wanted to learn to braid hair,” you say, pondering for a moment if, for her, it’s a self-taught skill or something guided by someone more experienced. Her mother maybe. “It suits you.”

Her nose wrinkles skeptically as she lifts her hand from her lap, her fingers carefully tucking your hair behind your ear.

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” she asks.

Given the antics outside, it’s a valid question. You can’t think of a scenario that sent chills down your spine quite like that one. But with her by your side, you felt an unspoken sense of protection. She nudges you with her knee, her eyes narrowing in anticipation of a response.

“I think I am,” you confess, pulling the steel cart to the other side of her brawny frame to better access the supplies you need.

“And yet, you stay,” she asserts. “I guess you don’t have much of a choice.”

“I always have a choice.”

While you meticulously inspect her newest scars, cleansing the wounds that besiege them, she takes hold of your hand, motioning for you to stop.

“Abigail,” she says, worrying her bottom lip. “My name—if you still want it.”

In an instant, your inquisitiveness peaks, keen to uncover both her origin and the path that led her to this place. All in good time, you suppose.

“Abigail,” you say, appreciating how smoothly it rolls off your tongue. “That’s a really pretty name.”

You watch in awe as a blush creeps up her cheeks, giving her a rosy glow.

“Thanks,” she murmurs. “It doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore.”

“Maybe we can change that,” you whisper.

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby

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