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sceletaflores · 8 months ago

Text

well, all right i’m bad, but then you’re no prize either…

pair: joel miller x fem!reader

wc: 8.6k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no ellie, general violence (only referenced), age gap (56/26), swearing, so many spacers lmao, not quite friends to lovers and not quite enemies to lovers but a weird other thing, kinda mean!joel for a good sec, dressing wounds, joel miller TUMMY, loss of virginity (reader is a virgin but she's not completely oblivious and weirdly infantile about it lmao), fingering (fem!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex whoops, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, porn with a tiny plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: well, i finally caved y’all. baby’s first tlou fic! this literally took me forever to write and even longer to post cause i was so terrified LMAO so please give me some grace if it’s shit and he’s ooc and timelines are a little fuzzy cause i barely know what i’m doing. thank you chickens love you mwah mwah mwah. kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

joel found a lodge house…

You don’t know what you did to make Joel Miller hate you so much.

He's never outright said it, but you know it’s there—in every sharp glance, every clipped word, every deliberate avoidance.

Besides, his silence is worse than anything he could say. A quiet condemnation that settles in your chest like stone.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that you don’t care what he thinks, but the truth is harder to swallow.

You do care—more than you want to admit. His approval, his respect, hell, even a sliver of kindness from him feels like an impossible prize you’ll never win.

And you hate yourself for wanting it. For needing it.

It's not just the weight of his disdain that eats at you, it's the not knowing why. God, do you wish you could ask him why.

What did you do to make him look at you like you’re some necessary evil he has to tolerate. Why does he hold some unspoken grudge that's manifested itself into something you couldn't dream of ever comprehending.

But the thought of confronting Joel feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into a void that might swallow you whole.

So instead, you do what you've always done. You keep your distance, try to match his indifference with your own, and tell yourself it’s better this way.

You were young when the outbreak hit, six years old.

You’re sure that’s part of it. That that’s how Joel sees you, as some bumbling, naive child who’s more of a hassle than anything else.

Another mouth to feed, another back to watch, baggage.

You've been with him for almost seven months now, traveling side by side when you may have well been miles apart. Trekking through abandoned cities, overgrown highways, and every godforsaken patch of wilderness in between.

In the beginning, you did everything you could to prove him wrong.

You pushed yourself past your limits, hunted, scavenged, fought, kept up. You did everything that needed to be done without hesitation.

All to show that you were more than what he made you out to be. It never seemed to matter much.

After you lost your parents in the early days of the outbreak, it was just you and your sister. She taught you everything you know, taught you how to survive.

It's because of her that you know how to shoot a rifle, how to skin a rabbit, how to start a fire with nothing but sticks and dried moss, how to snap bones and locate which vital arteries bleed out the quickest.

It's because of her that you've been able to hone some sick skill in the maiming of clickers.

A skill you never thought you'd need to use on her.

You were supposed to be safe in the QZ. You weren't supposed to be fifteen years old, aiming a gun at the one person you had left.

Your own flesh and blood wasn't supposed to be the very first in a long list of red tallies under your belt.

It’s been years and you’ve still never forgotten that day. December 19th, 2012, the date burned into your brain like someone took a branding iron to the tissue.

You can’t count the amount of times you’ve been ripped from your sleep drenched in a cold sweat with the tail end of a scream tearing at the skin of your throat.

The image of what was left of your sister, slumped on the ground lifeless as her blood painted the wall behind her flashing behind your closed eyelids. The sound of her last labored breath ringing in your ears louder than any shotgun blast.

You ran that same night, with the weight of her death on your shoulders.

Your entire world spinning out around you as you clawed through barbed wire fencing, not caring where you were going or what would happen to you—just needing to escape.

There was nothing left for you to do after that but survive. And that’s what you did, for years, scraping by in a world that had already chewed you up and spit you out a mangled mess.

You learned how to be ruthless because of it.

How to harden yourself against the loss, the pain, the brutality. But there were cracks, too. Cracks you hid well, buried deep beneath layers of stubbornness and distance.

The endless days blurred into each other. Empty houses, hollow streets. A life reduced to scavenging, hiding, and the occasional, fleeting moment of human connection that inevitably ended in loss.

And then you found yourself with Joel.

You hadn’t exactly found him, though. More like crashed into his orbit by accident.

A few desperate days spent scavenging through the ruins of a small town, a chance encounter that left you both wary and unwilling to turn your backs.

But, inexplicably, you somehow became part of his traveling routine.

He wasn’t like any of the others you’d met before. At first, you thought he might be different. A man who seemed broken, but different nonetheless.

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, you began to see the truth. Joel Miller wasn’t concerned with you. He didn’t need you. And, more than that, he didn’t want you around.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

It’s a bitter kind of irony. You’ve survived all this time completely on your own, fought tooth and nail to stay alive, but with him, you might just crumble.

Joel found a lodge house. It's a small, weathered place tucked away in the dense trees of the wood surrounding it.

He only deemed it suitable after an extensive perimeter check and a thorough sweep of the interior.

It's not much—just another run-down place in the middle of nowhere—but for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s a roof over your head for the night.

The walls are sturdy, though the windows are cracked and half of the floorboards creak like they're about to give out at any moment.

You explored the second floor alone, creeping through the desolate rooms and taking in all that was left behind.

Old family photographs covered in thick layers of dust, worn clothes riddled with holes still hung in the few closets you stumble across.

The oddest of all was an old jewelry box tucked away in a dresser draw, tarnished silver dull and muddy.

The sound of familiar footsteps comes from somewhere behind you. The door creaks open slowly.

Joel. Of course.

He clears his throat, the sound abrasive in the quiet of the house.

“Fire’s low,” he says, voice rough from its lack of use today.

You don’t turn around, not yet. You take the box in your gloved hand, running your fingers across the intricate design of the lid, touch trailing over winding vines and small roses.

“Okay,” you mutter, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. “I’ll grab some more wood later.”

Another beat of silence. Then, “It’s gettin’ cold out, I’ll go.”

Your fingers pause their ministrations, moving to flip the lid open. Empty.

“Suit yourself,” you reply after a moment, your tone just as neutral as his.

Joel doesn’t leave right away. You hear the floorboards groan beneath his weight, his presence lingering in the doorway.

You wonder what he’s waiting for, or if he’s waiting at all.

Finally, he speaks. “Don’t touch anything.”

With that he turns and leaves the room, you wait until you can’t hear his footsteps trailing down the stairs anymore to let out the scoff festering in your chest.

You snap the jewelry lid shut with a little more force than necessary. “Asshole.”

Joel's been gone for a while now. Longer than it takes to chop a few logs for firewood.

You came down from the upstairs a few minutes after hearing the tell-tale sound of the heavy door opening and closing. The main room is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the dwindling fire.

You're perched on an old armchair near the entrance, peering out the dirty window that has the best view of the treeline as you nervously pick the skin around your nails.

You tell yourself not to worry. He’s probably fine, he’s been doing this a lot longer than you. And if Joel is anything, it’s annoyingly competent.

Still, a nagging doubt itches at the back of your mind. It's been at least half an hour, maybe more.

You’re just about to grab your own pack and go looking for him when the front door creaks open.

Joel stumbles inside, the frigid evening air rushing in behind him before he slams the door shut. At first glance, he looks fine—no more haggard than usual.

But then you notice the way he favors his left side, the way his free hand is pressed against his ribs, blood seeping through his fingers and staining his torn undershirt.

You’re on your feet in an instant.

“Fuck,” you say, voice sharper than you expected. “What the hell happened?”

“Raiders.” Is the only explanation you get as he tries to brush past you like it’s nothing. The stiff way he moves and the tightens of his jaw betray him. “S’just a scratch.”

“Bullshit,” you snap, stepping in front of him and blocking his path to the fire. “Sit. Now.”

He gives you a look, one of those deep, withering glares you’ve seen him use to intimidate countless others into submission. But you stand your ground, chin raised and jaw set–defiant.

His stubbornness finally meeting its match in your own.

Finally, with a low growl of frustration, he drops onto the couch. “Happy now?”

"Not until you let me take care of that." You motion toward his side, where the blood is still spreading.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, lolling his head back to rest more heavily on the couch.

“Sure you are,” you snap, crossing the room to rifle through your bag. “And I’m the fucking Queen of England.”

"Said I’m fine," he bites through gritted teeth, but you’re already moving, heading back to him with the first aid kit from your pack.

"You want to bleed out on this ugly-ass couch? Be my guest," you shoot back, dropping to your knees in front of him. "Otherwise, shut up and let me help."

Joel surprisingly doesn’t argue any further, just sighs heavily and reluctantly sinks further into the couch cushions.

You push the front of his jacket open to slide it off his shoulders as gently as you can, peeling back the layer of his flannel next.

The smell of blood hits you immediately.

The gash is about five inches long, trailing the span of his ribcage. It’s deep—but not fatal—just an angry red and oozing blood.

Definitely not the simple 'scratch' he made it out to be.

Your stomach churns at the sight, but you push it down. No time for that.

“Jesus, Joel,” you mutter under your breath, reaching for the alcohol in your kit. “You really know how to underplay a situation, huh?”

He doesn’t respond, just watches you with those dark, calculating eyes of his. Always watching, always assessing.

It’s unnerving, but you focus on the task at hand, grabbing a clean cloth and soaking it with alcohol.

“This is gonna hurt,” you warn, though there’s a part of you that doesn’t mind the idea of causing him a little discomfort.

A petty, vindictive part that still stings from all the scorn he’s thrown your way.

“Just get it over with,” Joel grits out, his voice low and gravelly.

You don’t give him any more warnings as you wipe the soaked cloth over the wound. He flinches, a harsh curse slipping through clenched teeth, but he doesn’t pull away.

You work as quickly as you can, wiping away the blood and dirt with steady hands, your movements as gentle as possible given the situation.

You let out an annoyed huff when the torn fabric of his shirt gets in the way of your hands for a second time.

You lean back on your heels, glancing up at Joel. “You need to take your shirt off.”

Joel raises a brow at you, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That really necessary?”

“Yes, it’s necessary, Joel,” you huff, already losing patience. “Unless you want me to sit here and cut around every thread of this ratty thing while you bleed out, then by all means—”

He sighs heavily, cutting you off as he shifts forward and grabs the hem of his shirt. He tugs at the fabric, grunting in pain each time it strains his ribs.

You roll your eyes at how slow he’s moving, and your patience—already worn thin by the day's events—snaps.

“Jesus Christ, let me help,” you huff, reaching forward and grabbing the fabric.

Joel jerks back slightly, his hand shooting up to stop yours mid-motion. “I got it,” he growls, a sharp edge in his voice.

You glare at him, your hand still caught in his grip. His palm is calloused, his hold firm enough to make your pulse jump unexpectedly.

For a moment, the two of you just sit there, locked in a silent standoff.

Then he releases your hand and pulls the shirt over his head himself, wincing as the movement pulls at his side.

You wait with your arms crossed, trying to ignore the awkward flutter of nerves in your stomach as the fabric peels away to reveal his chest.

Joel’s broad, solid frame isn’t new to you. You’ve seen him shirtless before—brief glimpses when bathing in rivers or changing in run down houses between stops.

But this time feels different, more intimate somehow.

You’re staring, and you know it.

The firelight cast shadows over his skin, illuminating old scars, faint lines of muscle, the barely there jut of his stomach over the hem of his jeans.

You had been getting more game kills recently, two hunters are always better than one.

Joel clears his throat, dragging your focus back to the present. “You gonna gawk all night, or can we move this along?”

You snap out of it, scowling to cover your embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

You finish cleaning the gash and grab the small needle and thread lying next to you.

“This’ll hurt worse than the alcohol,” you say, threading the needle easily.

Joel snorts, a rare sound. “Figures.”

The needle pierces his skin, and this time, you catch the smallest hitch in his breath. He doesn’t make a sound, but his jaw tightens, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.

His hands grip the edge of the couch hard enough that his knuckles turn white with it, but he doesn’t tell you to stop or slow down.

He’s too damn proud for that.

You shift closer, your knee brushing against his leg as you position yourself to work from a better angle. You feel his eyes on you, that intense, scrutinizing stare that makes your skin prickle.

“You’ve done this before,” Joel says after a moment, his tone less sharp than before. It’s not quite a question, more of an observation.

You shrug, keeping your hands steady. “Of course I have.”

“Who taught you?”

The question catches you off guard, Joel’s never shown much interest in what your life was before you met him. You glance up briefly, catching his gaze. There’s no malice there, no judgment—just curiosity.

You swallow hard, dragging your eyes back to stitches, half way done now. “My sister.”

You don’t elaborate and Joel doesn’t push.

Maybe it’s the sudden tightness in your tone or the look you know must be clouding your face that keeps him quiet.

You finish off the stitching, tearing the thin strand of thread with your hands before you’re leaning away again.

“Good as new,” you say, dabbing some more alcohol on your own hands to disinfect. “Try not to tear these open anytime soon.”

Joel leans back, strong arms spread across the back of the couch, his face unreadable as he peers down at the fresh stitching on his side.

“Could’ve done it myself,” he mutters, but the edge in his voice is gone, replaced with something softer, almost resigned.

You roll your eyes with a scoff, not even trying to hide your irritation as you rise from the floor. “Sure you could’ve, right before you passed out. You’re welcome by the way.”

You gather your supplies and turn to head back to your bag, but Joel’s voice stops you in your tracks.

“You’re always like this, y’know,” he says, and the words carry that same gravelly drawl, but there’s something new there—something heavier.

You pause, your hands tightening around the kit in your grasp. “Like what?”

“Pushy. Stubborn,” he replies, his tone cutting, though it lacks the usual venom. “Like you’ve got somethin’ to prove all the damn time.”

You whip around, your patience officially gone. “You think I’m stubborn?” you shoot back, your voice rising. “Coming from the guy who would rather bleed out on a fucking couch than admit he needs help?”

Joel’s jaw tightens, and his hands flex against the couch cushions, but you don’t stop. Not now. Not after months of this.

“I’ve been busting my ass since day one to prove that I’m not dead weight to you. I’ve fought for us, for you. And for what? Just to get more of your bullshit attitude?”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” Joel snaps, pushing himself upright despite the obvious strain it puts on his freshly stitched wound. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”

“Because you won’t let me!” you fire back, stepping closer, your voice rising. “All you do is look at me like I’m some burden you can’t wait to get rid of.”

Joel’s glare sharpens, his lips parting as if to respond, but you cut him off.

You really can’t stop yourself now that you started, all the anger and frustration reaching a fever pitch hot enough to burst the tight lid you’ve kept on your emotions.

“If I’m such a hassle, why didn’t you just leave me back there, huh? Why didn’t you just walk away like I know you wanted to?”

Joel’s breathing is heavier now, his broad chest rising and falling as his dark eyes bore into yours.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, he stands, and the sheer size of him forces you to tilt your chin up slightly to keep your glare fixed on his face.

“You think I wanted this, kid?” he growls, his voice low and strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. “You think I wanted to be responsible for someone else? To have someone else’s fuckin’ life on me?”

“Don’t call me kid,” you spit, shoving a finger into his chest, ignoring the way his jaw ticks at the contact. “I’m not a fucking kid.”

He scoffs, casting his eyes to the ceiling disbelievingly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Fuck you, Joel,” you growl, fists clenching at your side. “If you hate me that much, why the hell are you still here? Why didn’t you tell me to fuck off the second you met me?”

“Because I couldn’t!” Joel snaps, booming voice filling the small space.

The confession slips out like it pains him. His fists clench at his sides, and for a moment, he looks like he might break something.

You’ve never been scared of Joel, even though you’ve seen first hand just how scary he can be.

Now, as he looms in front of you, eyes blazing and jaw working furiously beneath his skin, it’s the closest to scared you’ve felt.

“I’ve seen you out there,” he continues, tone low and dark. “You’ve got a fuckin’ death wish. You’re too damn stubborn to just stop, and I’m not gonna let you go so you can run off and get yourself fuckin’ killed.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, his words hitting far too close to home.

“I’m just trying to survive, Joel,” you snap, your voice shaking. “That’s what we do, isn’t it? Survive.”

“Survive,” Joel repeats bitterly, his gaze burning into yours. “That what you call it? Throwin’ yourself into every goddamn fight, gettin’ stabbed and shot right fuckin’ in front of me and expecting me to brush that shit off?”

You let out a humorless laugh, nodding your head exasperatedly. “Yes, yes I do expect you to just brush it off, because that’s what you always do.”

“Well I can’t,” he grates out, taking a step closer. “I can’t ‘cause despite whatever it is that you may think about me, I don’t hate you. I care about you too damn much and that's my goddamn problem.”

That shuts you up, your mouth snapping closed with a sharp click of your teeth as you stare at him, shocked.

Joel holds your gaze, lips pressed into a thin line. “That what you wanted to hear?”

It’s in that moment that the fire finally fizzles out, the dull hiss of it the only sound left in the room.

You’re quiet for a beat, stunned into silence. The heat of his anger, his frustration, it radiates off him, and you realize suddenly that this isn’t just about you.

It never was.

“Then show me,” you challenge softly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Show me that you don’t hate me.”

Joel’s eyes darken, his head cocking to the side as he searches your face for a sign. You don’t say anything, you only square your shoulders and raise your chin, your eyes just as hard as his own.

“I want you to prove it.”

The tension snaps like a rubber band stretched too far.

You shouldn’t—this shouldn’t—happen. Not like this. Not after everything that’s been said.

But when Joel’s lips crash against yours, hot and desperate and urgent, it makes everything blur into nothing.

It’s not gentle, not soft—this is anger and longing and frustration all wrapped into one. It’s messy, frantic, like a fight that’s been brewing for too long.

He grips your arm, pulling you closer, almost too roughly, but it feels like it’s everything you’ve both been avoiding.

His other hand moves to cup the back of your neck, grounding you as his lips press harder against yours, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into this single moment.

You respond just as fiercely, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders as you kiss him back with all the pent-up emotion that’s been simmering beneath the surface.

The coarse hair of his beard scrapes against the skin of your chin deliciously, the scent of blood and firewood filling your senses as his arm wraps around your waist, dragging you impossibly closer.

Close enough that you can feel the wild beat of his heart booming against your chest.

You pull away for a second, breathless, both of you looking at each other, your eyes wide and pupils blown.

“Goddamn it,” Joel mutters, his voice thick with frustration and something else you can’t place. He presses his forehead to yours, the deep brown of his eyes dark than before. “What the hell are we doing?”

You don’t have an answer. You’re not sure if you even want one.

You reach for him again, arms looping around his neck to drag his mouth back to yours.

This kiss is nothing like the first, it isn’t a clash of frustration–it’s filthier, rawer. A near feral thing, all teeth and tongue, a surge of hunger and need that borders on violence.

Joel groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that sends a shiver racing down your spine. His teeth catch your bottom lip, pulling just hard enough to make you gasp.

He takes advantage of the sound, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to slide against yours with wet, messy desperation, like he’s trying to claim every inch of you.

The taste of him—salt and iron and something distinctly Joel—makes your head spin.

Your fingers knot into the chocolaty curls at the nape of his neck, surprisingly soft to the touch. His own hands roam the soft curves of your body, rough and insistent, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.

“Joel—” His name spills from your lips like a plea, and he answers with a deep, guttural noise that sends heat pooling low in your belly. His tongue follows the path of his teeth, soothing the bites with lazy, deliberate strokes that make your knees weak.

You’re moving before you even realize it. Joel dragging you across the room and down onto the couch with him, using the strength he’s built up after all these years to manhandle you until your thighs are spread wide on either side of his lap.

“Joel,” you gasp again, rearing back enough to break the kiss. “Your stitches–”

He cuts you off with a sharp nip to the sensitive spot behind your ear, tearing a high whine from your throat. “Can hardly feel ‘em.”

You make a displeased sound, but it’s undermined by the way you tilt your head to give his wandering lips more room. His hands find a home on your hips, one slipping beneath your shirt to press against the soft skin of your stomach.

His fingers splay wide across your skin, his palm callused and rough. His pinky just barely brushes the underside of your breast, and you’re suddenly rearing back.

“Wait,” you say, your voice barely a whisper.

Joel’s hands immediately loosen their grip on your hips, his brows knitting together in concern. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, your heart pounding in your chest. “I just...I need to tell you something.”

His jaw tightens slightly, but he stays quiet, waiting for you to speak.

You take a beat, chewing at the skin of your bottom lip nervously.

“I’ve never...” You pause, swallowing hard as your cheeks heat up. “I’ve never done this before. I mean, I’ve never been with anyone like this.”

Joel pulls back slightly, his expression unreadable as he processes your words. For a moment, you think he might pull away completely, but then he exhales a long, slow breath.

“Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re tellin’ me this now?”

“I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen,” you snap back, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. “It’s not like I had the luxury of a high school sweetheart to pop my cherry out here.”

Joel’s gaze softens at your tone, and he reaches out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You glance away, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the weight of his stare. “I just...I wanted you to know. But I want this, Joel. I want you.”

His thumb stills against your cheek, and he swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he considers your words.

“I don’t...” He pauses, the most hesitant you’ve ever heard him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

It’s the most vulnerable he’s been around you, round eyes shining with something so raw and so earnest it makes your heart ache in your chest.

“You won’t,” you insist, your voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach. “I trust you.”

Joel’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue. But then he nods, his shoulders relaxing as he cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads touch again.

“At least let me do this right,” he murmurs, his voice so soft you almost don’t hear it. “Not here. Not on some goddamn couch.”

You blink up at him, surprised by the tenderness in his tone. “What?”

“Upstairs,” he says, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the side of your neck. “There’s a bed up there. It ain’t much, but it’s better than this.”

You can’t do anything but nod, your pulse racing beneath your skin fast enough to combat the cold night air seeping through the walls.

“Okay,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Upstairs.”

Joel stands, gently pulling you to feet and taking your hand in his. He leads you upstairs, each step feeling heavier with anticipation. The small bedroom is dimly lit, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through a broken blind.

The bed isn’t much—an old mattress on a worn frame, covered with a patched-up blanket—but it doesn’t matter.

Joel shuts the door behind you, the sound of the latch clicking into place sending a shiver down your spine.

“Last chance,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You say the word, and we stop. No questions asked.”

Your throat tightens at the sincerity in his tone, the way he’s giving you an out even though you can see the strain in every line of his body, the way his hands flex at his sides like he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch you.

But you don’t hesitate.

You step closer, placing your hands on his bare chest. You bite back a smile at the goosebumps that break out all along his skin at your touch.

“Jesus, Miller,” you mumble teasingly, nails lightly scratching through the salt and pepper hair scattered along his chest. “How long are you gonna drag this out before you get it through your thick skull that I want to fuck you?”

"Christ." Joel huffs, shaking his head as the corners of his lips turn up in a small grin. “Like I fuckin’ said,” he starts, big hands kneading the meat of your hips. “Pushy.”

Joel walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fall onto it with a soft gasp.

He follows you immediately, crawling over you, his body covering yours, his weight a comforting pressure. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “I’ll make it good for you, I swear.”

His fingers are everywhere, unbuttoning your shirt with a practiced ease that has your pulse racing. His lips follow the path of his hands, each touch a branding mark, each kiss leaving you wanting more.

“Pretty girl,” he mutters softly, pressing a kiss right between the valley of your breasts.

You feel his cock stirring against your stomach, and it makes the ache between your legs flare to life, the weight of it, the hardness of it, driving you crazy with need.

You want him so badly you can barely think straight, but when his lips graze over your collarbone, you can’t stop the quiet whine that escapes your throat.

Joel growls in response, a sound that resonates deep in his chest, and you know then that he’s as far gone as you are. His hands slide down to the waistband of your pants, tugging them down your legs with urgency.

As your skin is exposed to the cool air, you can feel the heat of his gaze on you, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

“You’re fuckin' perfect,” he mutters, his voice thick with desire.

Joel's hands find your thighs, parting them with a deliberate slowness that makes your breath catch in your throat. He positions himself between your legs, his body weight pressing you into the mattress, his chest rising and falling with the same frantic rhythm as yours.

The anticipation is almost unbearable as his fingers trace the line of your panties, the fabric damp with want.

“Jesus, she’s drippin’ for me already,” he mutters, voice rough, as he slides the material to the side, his thumb brushing over the sensitive swell of your clit.

Your body jerks at the contact, a desperate sound escaping your lips, but Joel doesn’t relent.

“You touch yourself down here, baby?” he asks, working tortuously slow circles over your clit.

"Please," you beg, your hands grasping at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.

He looks up at you, his gaze dark and filled with an intensity that makes your stomach tighten. “Asked you a question, honey.”

You whine, high and loud in your throat as your thighs clench desperately around his wrist. “Yes, I touch myself.”

Joel’s lips curl into a satisfied grin, sliding his thick index finger through the messy wetness to slip inside your clenching hole, making you gasp. Your hands grasp at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.

“Good girl,” he breathes, eyes darkening at the broken moan that bursts from your lips. “When’s the last time you touched yourself?”

Your brain feels hazy as you search for the answer, pleasure clouding your mind slow and sweet as molasses. “A–a few nights ago.”

Joel hums idly, slipping a second finger alongside the first. The stretch has you whining, his fingers a lot more to take than your own.

Your hands come up to claw at his shoulders, relishing in the way his broad muscle ripples and shifts beneath your greedy palms.

“Joel,” you whine, hips canting down against his hand impatiently.

He just shushes you softly, free hand brushing soothing circles along the skin of your inner thigh. “I know, honey,” he mutters, the pace fingers speeding up. “But I gotta get her nice and ready if you wanna take my cock.”

The gush of your pussy around his fingers is loud in the stillness of the room, a filthy wet noise that burns your ears each time he plunges them into your aching hole.

“I am ready.” Your breath hitches as your body begins to tremble beneath him. “Please, Joel—fuck—please, I need—”

“Need what?” His voice is thick with dark amusement, but there's a hunger in his eyes that has your stomach twisting. “Tell me, baby. What do you need?”

“I need you,” you rasp, your nails digging little crescent moons into his skin, your body pleading for release. “I need you inside me.”

Your hands grab at his hair, pulling him back up to meet your lips in a feverish kiss.

The pressure of his body on yours, the way his hard cock grinds against your trembling thigh, drives you to the brink of madness.

Your hands trail down his chest, past the waistband of his jeans, finally reaching the bulge straining against the fabric.

Joel groans when you rub him through his pants, feeling his cock twitch in response. He pulls back, breathing heavily, his lips curling into a smirk.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice thick with lust. “You want my cock in this pretty pussy? Want me to show you how good it feels to be fucked?”

“God, yes,” you answer, desperation lacing your tone as your hand moves to unbuckle his jeans. “Want it so bad.”

He lets you push his pants down just enough to free his cock, and you gasp, your eyes drawn to the way his length stands, thick and hard, just waiting for you. The tip flushed an angry red, drooling pre-come onto the scratchy sheets.

Joel pulls his fingers from you, using his hands spreading your legs wider, positioning himself between them with such careful precision that you can barely stand it.

The head of his cock drags through the mess between your legs, slipping all the way down till it catches on your soaked entrance.

Joel pauses, looking down at you, waiting for your signal, but the only answer you give is a pleading whimper, your hands pulling at his shoulders, urging him to move.

His mouth captures yours once again as he slowly slides into you, the stretch of his cock filling you steadily, making you gasp into his mouth.

The slow burn of him carving a place for himself inside of you is almost too much, your body trembling as you adjust to the feeling of him.

“Fuck, baby,” Joel mutters against your lips. “You’re so tight, so fuckin’ perfect for me.”

As he sinks deeper into you, his thick cock finally buried to the hilt inside of you, the feeling is overwhelming. You gasp, nails digging into his back as the pain slowly shifts into pleasure.

Joel groans into your mouth, his hands moving to your hips, guiding you as he rocks gently against you.

The rhythm is slow at first, deliberate, as if he's savoring every inch of you. Your body quivers beneath him, every inch of your skin tingling with sensation. You clutch at him, your legs tightening around his waist, needing more, wanting more.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Take it, baby."

You screw your eyes shut tightly, trying to steady yourself as he thrusts deeper, harder. The angle shifts just enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

Every stroke feels like it’s hitting the deepest part of you, sparking heat in places you never knew could burn so hot.

"Fuck," you gasp, the sensation too overwhelming, too much in the best way. "Joel... please..."

"Please what, sweetheart?" He pulls back slightly, teasing you with a slow roll of his hips before driving back in with a grunt.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, urging him to move faster, harder. "Don’t stop," you breathe, your voice trembling. "I need you to fuck me, Joel. Faster. Harder. Please."

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as Joel finally picks up the pace, each thrust harder and deeper than the last.

Your back arches off the bed, chest pressing flush to his as your body coils tighter and tighter, already so close to the edge.

Joel reaches up to take your wrist in his, dragging your hand down to press flat against your lower stomach.

“Feel that?” he asks breathlessly, the speed of his hips knocking the dingy bed frame into the wall with every thrust. “You feel how deep I am?”

His own hand blankets yours, pushing down so you can feel the way his cock punches up against your palm on the next thrust.

Your pussy clenches desperately around him at the feeling, your slick lips dropping open on a loud moan.

You can barely hold on. The heat in your stomach tightens, coiling painfully as your free hand scrambles to find purchase on his skin. "I can't—I'm gonna—"

He grits his teeth, his jaw clenched as he drives deeper, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "Come for me, baby," he growls, his voice dark and commanding. "Let me feel it."

With a strangled cry, you finally release, your body clenching around him, every nerve igniting in a white-hot explosion of pleasure.

You’re lost in it, your world spinning, your senses overwhelmed by the sensation of Joel’s body pounding into yours, the way his cock brushes against that sweet spot behind your clit enough to make sparks go off behind your eyelids.

Joel pulls out of your velvety warmth, hand coming up to fist his dripping length until he’s bowing over you tightly and coming with a deep groan of your name.

His release paints your stomach with milky strands of white, rope after rope of warm come claiming you in a way no one has before.

He finally collapses against you with one last shuddering breath, both of you breathing heavily, your chests rising and falling together in the quiet aftermath.

For a few moments, neither of you speaks, the only sounds are the soft creak of the bed and the quiet hum of your racing hearts.

Joel rests his head against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you can feel the tension begin to slip away, the weight of everything that’s happened between you both settling into something new—something different, but still there.

Your hand slips down the sweaty expanse of your stomach, your fingers swiping through the sticky mess of his release curiously.

“Christ, quit that,” Joel groans, tearing his eyes away from the sight to press his forehead against your shoulder.

“Why?” you hum, brow raised in amusement as you drop your hand back to the mattress. “Can you even get it up again?”

Joel pinches your side hard enough to make you squeal, your body flinching away from him as a surprised laugh bubbles from your chest.

“Watch it,” he warns, though there’s no bite to his tone. You only laugh in response.

The two of you settle into a comfortable silence, wrapped in each other as crickets chirp from outside the window.

Then Joel clears his throat, fingers idly tracing different shapes on the skin of your hip as he gathers the courage to speak.

A circle, a square, a diamond, a circle, a heart, a heart, a heart.

“I’m…” he starts, trailing off softly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a real fuckin’ prick, and you didn’t deserve it. You never did.”

You turn your own gaze to his chest, hand coming up so you can trail your fingers along the jagged scar decorating his shoulder. Your touch featherlight over the rough patch of skin.

All the anger seeps from your body, a heavy weight gone until you feel so light you could float off the mattress and into the cold night air.

“It’s okay,” you whisper softly, so soft you think it gets lost in the quiet darkness of the room. “I understand now.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you both just lay there, tangled in each other, not worrying about the world outside, about the chaos that waits.

Just you, him, and the soft glow of moonlight.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

mini nat's note: should i add joel to my taglist...i do kinda want to write more for him in the future but i'm not sure yet...lmk chickens <3 bee tee dubs sorry the ending absolutely sucks i could not for the life of me figure out how to end this LMAO

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sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

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what happens when an overworked magical girl from another anime franchise crashes into satoru gojo’s world?

a/n : consider this as a pilot or something so pleeeasee do tell if y’all see the vision hehe. i might write this either as oneshot or series, crack treated seriously, fluff and fix it :3 this is pre-hidden inventory arc.

the sky tears.

satoru doesn’t notice it at first. he’s too busy kicking the hell out of a training dummy, sweat clinging to the back of his neck as the sun swelters high above jujutsu tech’s back field. his shirt clings damply to his back, white hair tousled and sticking to his forehead in unruly, sweat-drenched clumps. every kick sends a dull echo through the otherwise quiet yard, and his brows are furrowed, teeth gritted—not out of effort, but boredom.

it’s supposed to be a solo mission—a recon exercise, or so yaga said, but more like a punishment for cutting class again. the kind that comes with no supervision, no curse threats, just him, a dummy, and the blistering heat. satoru checks his watch for the fifth time in ten minutes. detention by any other name would still be just as tedious.

then the air goes still.

the cicadas stop screaming. the clouds part with unnatural precision, like curtains pulled by unseen hands. the temperature spikes—no, drops—and something surges through the atmosphere with a pulse so loud it rattles his bones. his body stiffens, spine prickling with instinct. midnight blue eyes narrow behind tinted lenses, sensing the shift in reality before his other senses can process it.

and then you crash into the earth.

not fall. not descend. crash. like a meteor. like a magical girl-shaped missile. light explodes in a pastel burst of ribbons, iridescent butterflies, and shattering sakura petals. the air rings with the high-pitched chime of otherworldly bells, the tinkle of crystal stars, and the unmistakable sugary pop of transformation magic gone sideways. the ground trembles beneath it.

the training field goes silent except for the sound of scorched grass and the faint, whimsical hum of residual transformation magic. a stray butterfly, translucent and shimmering with cosmic dust, flutters past satoru’s ear before dissolving into sparkles.

satoru blinks behind his sunglasses, now slightly askew on his nose. he adjusts them with a slow push of his index finger, head tilting, brows raised beneath snowy bangs that flutter faintly in the shifting breeze.

“…huh.”

in the crater, you groan.

you’re face-down in a shallow pit, skirt ruffled, hair scorched at the ends, and your transformation outfit—sky-pink bodice with cream lace trim, crystalline brooch shaped like a winking star, thigh-high boots with wing-shaped heels that somehow remain pristinely white despite your crash landing—is smoking gently at the edges. your star-shaped wand lies beside you like a fallen weapon of cosmic justice, occasionally sputtering pathetic little sparks as if trying to reboot itself.

above your head, a tiny, winged creature that looks like a deranged mix between a rabbit and a plushie on its fifth espresso flutters in frantic circles, trailing stardust and anxiety in equal measure.

“you’ve breached the astral veil! the interdimensional tether’s fried! we overshot by three star realms!” it shrieks, voice unnaturally high, paws clutching at its fuzzy cheeks in distress. “this is NOT how galactic school exchanges are supposed to go! we’re so off-schedule! the stellar alignment council is going to have my tail!”

satoru approaches cautiously, one hand in his pocket, the other hovering near his weapon just in case. his steps are deliberate, almost lazy, yet somehow soundless. the breeze tugs lightly at the hem of his uniform jacket, ruffling his collar and loosening the tension in his shoulders. cursed energy flows through him, ready but controlled, his limitless technique humming just beneath his skin.

“uh,” he says, peering over the crater’s edge. “you okay down there?”

“no,” you groan, rolling onto your back. your eyes are half-lidded, voice hoarse, lashes clumped with ash and what might be leftover mascara from yesterday. there are dark circles under your eyes that no amount of magical transformation can hide. “i have two essays due, i haven’t slept in thirty-six hours, i still have cram school, i fought six darklings at dawn, had to seal a nightmare portal during lunch break, my transformation pen is running on fumes, and now i’ve apparently crash-landed in a world with no ley lines.”

you pause.

“…and mipple won’t shut up.”

“you ripped a hole in space,” mipple screeches, buzzing frantically around your head, leaving a trail of panicked sparkles. “this is not sustainable hero behavior! you need rest! regulation mana! a snack! the magical girl handbook specifically states that cosmic defenders should maintain a balanced sleep schedule and nutrient intake! page forty-seven, paragraph three!”

satoru blinks, slowly crouching beside the crater. his weight settles on the balls of his feet, elbows resting loosely on his knees. his expression is unreadable behind the glare of his glasses, but there’s a hint of genuine curiosity in the tilt of his head. “you’re not from around here, huh.”

“gee, what gave it away?” you mutter, dragging your gloved hand down your face. a heart-shaped gem on your glove catches the light, flickering weakly. “was it the interdimensional wormhole or the talking plushie?”

satoru grins. his teeth flash white in the sun, a hint of mischief curling at the edge of his lips. “the sparkles.”

mipple flits a fast, nervous circle around him, sniffing the cursed energy. its tiny nose twitches, ears flattening against its head. “her readings are flat. nothing’s reacting. it’s like this whole place runs on… rot.” mipple’s eyes widen to comical proportions. “this isn’t a darkness realm, is it? please tell me we haven’t crashed into a darkness realm. the paperwork for that is a nightmare.”

“charming,” you deadpan.

“you’re leaking glitter,” satoru says helpfully, pointing to the trail of iridescent dust that seems to be following your every movement like dejected confetti.

you sit up with a scowl, brushing at your skirt with short, angry movements. flecks of glitter and ash catch the sunlight, making you shimmer like a very irate disco ball. the ribbon in your hair droops sadly to one side, and your magical girl tiara is slightly crooked. “great. fantastic. this is exactly what i needed today. another crisis. do you people have dimensional transit hubs or are you still in the dirt age?”

“dirt age?”

“never mind,” you sigh, pushing back a strand of hair that falls immediately back into your face. “point me to your nearest leyline stabilizer and maybe i can reverse the jump. preferably before i miss another math test. i’m barely passing as it is.”

“uh,” satoru squints, pushing his glasses higher with a knuckle, fingers smudged with sweat and dust. “we’ve got vending machines? and i think i saw a fortune teller at the corner store once.” he pauses, then adds with complete seriousness, “the milk bread is pretty good.”

mipple facepalms in mid-air with an audible poof, leaving a tiny puff of glitter.

“okay,” you say, standing slowly, wobbling. your knees wobble like a newborn deer’s. “okay. it’s fine. i just need a second. maybe ten. maybe an hour. or a nap. or the sweet release of death. or caffeine. ideally all of the above.”

you stumble.

there’s a flicker of light. your form glitches slightly—one ribbon vanishing, then another, your skirt shortening then lengthening, your magical aura flickering like a dying lightbulb—and with a tired sigh and the sad deflating sound of a party balloon, your transformation dissolves into a shimmer of pale light. your star-shaped wand vanishes with a chime, and the magical embellishments melt away like soap bubbles.

you’re left in a rumpled high school uniform: blazer, skirt, tie askew, one sock missing, the other scrunched around your ankle. your hair’s a mess, sticking to your cheeks. your face is streaked with dirt and interstellar ash. your school bag materializes with a sad plop beside you, spilling out a half-finished homework assignment, three empty energy drink cans, and what appears to be emergency chocolate.

satoru catches your elbow without thinking, touch light and instinctive. “whoa there, sparkles.”

you slap his hand away with the strength of a very tired moth batting at a streetlamp. “don’t touch me, i’m radioactive with stress. also, i shock people sometimes when i’m low on magic. it’s not pretty.”

he snorts—then, belatedly, catches a proper glimpse of your face.

he goes still.

there’s ash in your lashes, a scratch on your cheek, and you look like you’ve clawed your way out of a magical apocalypse—your hair is a mess, your uniform is wrinkled in ways that defy physics, and there’s a sparkly band-aid on your knee with little moons on it—but still, for some reason, all he can think is: she’s pretty.

heat prickles across his ears. he shoves his sunglasses back up his nose, suddenly very interested in a patch of grass beside his foot. he scratches the back of his neck, pretending to study a dandelion like it’s the most complex thing he’s ever seen. like he hasn’t faced down curses ten times more dangerous than a tired high school girl who occasionally sparkles.

and for a second, everything’s quiet again. awkward. your breathing slows, the wind picks up. somewhere, a cicada remembers how to scream.

“listen,” he says, voice a little lower, a little softer. “this isn’t a leyline whatever, but we’ve got a place to crash nearby. and sugar. and air conditioning. i mean, if you don’t mind hanging out with some weirdos.” he gestures vaguely in the direction of the school building. “though, from what i’m seeing, you’d probably fit right in.”

you glare at him, narrowing your eyes like you’re trying to set him on fire with sheer willpower. you cross your arms, wobble slightly, then uncross them when you realize it’s taking too much energy to maintain the posture. mipple lands on your shoulder, tiny paws patting at your cheek in a comforting gesture.

“mipple,” you say slowly. “scan him for monster corruption.”

“he’s clean,” mipple says, whiskers twitching as it sniffs the air around satoru. “just stupid. and full of something weird. but not evil-weird. more like… chaos-weird.” it pauses, then adds helpfully, “he smells like blue raspberry slushies and bad decisions.”

“fine,” you grumble, bending down to stuff your homework back into your bag. “lead the way, mister. but if you try anything funny, i still have enough magic to turn you into something small and amphibious.”

satoru flashes a grin that tugs crooked at the corner, brushing a hand through his damp hair. it fluffs back into place, soft and silver, catching the sun in a halo-bright sheen. “that’s what i thought.”

the glitter trails behind you as you limp off the field, exhausted, annoyed, and absolutely, cosmically done with today. a butterfly manifestation charm falls from your pocket, too depleted to even flutter. your magical girl compact beeps once, twice, then falls silent, the battery icon blinking sadly in the corner.

satoru watches you from the corner of his eye, still grinning, a faint pink on his cheeks. his hand drifts briefly to the spot where your elbow had been, fingers curling slightly. the residual warmth lingers, along with the faintest trace of stardust.

he’s never met anyone like you before.

and watching you now—dragging your feet but still holding your head high—he knows he never will again. behind him, the training dummy collapses with a defeated thud, like even it can’t keep up with the kind of day you’re having.

you don’t notice.

you’re already walking off, one hand adjusting your sleeve like you didn’t just nearly destroy the field. it’s the kind of tired that comes from trying too hard, too often. but you carry it like it’s nothing.

satoru watches you go, something warm and strange curling in his chest.

yeah.

he’s definitely in trouble.

#౨ৎ — flash reports #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #jjk gojo #jujutsu kaisen #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #gojo x reader fluff #jjk x reader fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #satoru gojo x you #jjk x reader #reader insert

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halfgirl-halfdolll · 7 months ago

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Extremely self-indulgent. For the neurodivergent girlies. English isn't my first language, so my apologies for any mistake. I also have no idea how to write a Scottish accent 🧘🏻‍♀️ bear with me

You knocked on the dark hardwood door as you've had done plenty of times before.

It has been almost six months since you've signed that contract. That one, the one where you forfeited 4 years of your life in exchange for stable wages and proper housing.

For someone with no life, no family and no friends (besides the online weirdos you'd talk to from time to time), that was kinda good, if you could say so yourself.

You had stability, even though it came with the cost of being tied down to a military base chock-full of people who didn't really understand you.

That was fine though. THAT, you were used to. It comes with the neurodivergence: the side eyes, the whispers and the isolation.

What you weren't used to, however, was how your heart would race like a rabbit on a run for its life whenever you knocked on that one door. And you had to knock on it quite a lot of times.

You rapped your knuckles against the hardwood once more when you got no reply, cracking the door open just a little bit to peek inside.

"Cap?" You said, voice almost a whisper. After a few seconds, you heard an answer.

"Come in, love. Didn't know it was you." A strong, booming voice came from inside and you swallowed the lump on your throat that always formed whenever you had to go to Price's office.

Not because you were afraid of him, no. On the contrary. Maybe Price and the rest of the task force were the only ones who didn't treat you like an aberration – probably because they were aberrations of their own merit.

Maybe it was stupid of you to get giddy over being treated well by some of your coworkers, but when the bare minimum was so rare, you latched onto it like a dog with a bone.

And in spite of yourself, you couldn't control your own heart. It would be racing like a schoolgirl with a crush whenever you went to visit any of the men from the task force. You gave up on trying to tame it.

"Hi Cap" you said, with a small smile, approaching his desk. On the corner of your eyes, you saw the other three burly men that made up 141 and waved.

"Hey, lass, good ta see ya!" Soap hollered, voice loud as ever. You could probably feel it vibrating inside your bones if he spoke for a little longer and you loved it; as much as you envied it. What wouldn't you do to be just a little bit outgoing like that? Maybe things would be just a tad easier.

"How can I help my favorite secretary?" Price asked, the corner of his eyes wrinkling as he smiled, crow's feet getting a lot more pronounced in a way you probably thought of more than you should.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

"I'm your only secretary."

"Doesn't make my statement any less true."

You shook your head and placed a manila folder in front of him.

"I need your autograph, Cap."

"What for?"

"Because I'm your biggest fan and I wanna put it on my refrigerator...?" You answered humorously, and Price raised an eyebrow. You sighed. "We need to authorize the training of a few new recruits and they need your approval. So I need you to sign it."

Price huffed out a low chuckle and began leafing through the needlessly thick document. You poked your finger into the folder, fishing out the last pages, and walked towards the other men sitting on the other side of the office.

"I like today's dress, love." Gaz was manspreading on one of Price's armchairs, head resting on his palm as he gave you an once over. If it were anyone else, you'd probably hate the way you were being perceived – it usually made you feel like a bug being watched through a magnifying glass. But under his gaze, you just felt like a doll being admired.

"Do you, now? It's one of my favorites." You bowed dramatically while holding the hem of the dress. It was just another one of the black frilly dresses that you wore like a signature. It flew around you as you spun on your feet to show the black ribbon on the back.

"Adorable as always. If I wasn't selfish, I would say it's wasted inside this base, but I like to have you around way too much." His eyes gleamed with mirth and, in any other situation, you'd think he was secretly mocking you – but not Kyle. Not any one of them. You knew the compliments were genuine, even if they didn't understand why you insisted on sticking out like a sore thumb when it brought you so many problems.

You knew they would never really understand how masking could hurt you, but you were grateful they still defended your decision on just being yourself.

"Look at tha' key on yer neck." Soap pointed at your necklace. "I ken what's tha' for. It's the key to my heart, aye?" He said with an exaggerated wink and a smile that could blind you.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say." You rolled your eyes, smiling, and pushed a paper into his hand and did the same with Gaz and Ghost.

"I need your autographs as well. You heard my explanation already."

" 'm not built for a life of fame, love." Simon grunted, shifting on his seat right beside Soap.

"Too late, the spotlight already found you. Now you gotta give me your autograph or I'm gonna cancel you on social media."

He huffed.

"Don't ya think I should have been canceled a long time ago?"

"Probably." You shrugged, and handed him a pen. "I like my favorites problematic, what can I say."

Soap barked out a laugh, mindlessly scanning the document and Ghost merely shook his head.

"Do I gotta sign this? Don't really feel like training new runts." The masked man muttered and you shrugged.

"Don't shoot the messenger. I don't really want new young men around me either." You walked back towards Price's desk after collecting the documents and placed them neatly inside the folder after he was done surveying every single fine print.

"What do you guys want for lunch?" You asked as you tucked the documents under your arm. Price clicked his tongue.

"You don't have to keep bothering with making food for us, love. We can all eat at the canteen like everyone else." The older man leaned back on his chair, folding his arms.

You looked to the side, with a small pout on your lips.

"But if I make you guys' lunch, then I can emotionally blackmail you into eating with me at the kitchen." You mumbled, avoiding any and all eye contact.

"So it was all a ploy to keep us nearby? I thought you were doing that because you liked us. I'm so hurt, dear." Kyle spoke up from his seat, a dramatic hand over his chest as he leaned his head back. You put a hand over your mouth, hiding your grin.

"Maybe I'm just learning a thing or two from hanging around tacticians?"

"Aw, Captain, come on. How can we leave the poor doll hangin'? And we get ta eat actually good food, not that canteen slop! Come on!"

Price sighed, shaking his head in defeat.

"Anything you make will be great, love."

"As long as it has proteins and carbs." Ghost added from his seat and you snickered. He had already seen you eating your comfort foods before and, needless to say, he didn't approve of them.

"As long as it has proteins and carbs." Price repeated, with a nod.

"Proteins and carbs, okay, got it." You said with a fierce nod, walking back towards the door to the older man's office. "Meet you guys at the kitchen?"

"1200, sharp." Price said, with eyes as soft as the smile under his moustache. You gave him a small salute on your way out.

"Yessir."

This will probably be a little anthology of scenes I think of, involving poly!141 x neurodivergent reader who works for them as a secretary. They might not have much continuity but I'm using this as a self-healing, self-indulgent blog, separated from my main. Expect mostly fluff and angst from me.

#141 x reader #poly 141 x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #simon riley x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #john price x reader #call of duty x reader #cod fluff #call of duty fluff

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bones-of-a-rabbit · 2 years ago

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IM NORMAL ABT THEM I SWEAR I JUS WANT TO DRAW THEM BEING CUTE N HAPPY UNTIL TH END OF TIME OK

CRYING WEEPING OVER TH WAY U WRITE AND HOW U CHARACTERIZE THEMS THIS IS THE MF DREAMMMMM I LOVE U

it was yOOOUUUU WHO SENT THOSE FICS IN ANONYMOUSLY!!!!!! IVE GOT U IN MY GOTDAM SIGHTS NOW BITCH

“My Little Treasure”

Pairing - Pirate!Eclipse X SeaMonster!Reader

Word Count - 356

Oneshot is based off an AU by the lovely @bones-of-a-rabbit, who made the below art. I’m absolutely obsessed with their AUs, check them out.

PS: The Little Mermaid gets referenced in this story, I’m referring to the original story by Hans Christian Andersen since it fits the story better and also because I didn’t know how to have them watch a Disney animated movie on a Pirate Ship because I’m a fraud.

Enjoy and please send some oneshot requests so I have content to steal create :D

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Art from this post : https://www.tumblr.com/bones-of-a-rabbit/708610101895987200/being-regularly-but-unexpectedly-doused-with-sea

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“Clipse?”

“Yes, my little treasure?”

Eclipse puts down the dust-coated map he had been studying, carefully placing it on a wooden table decorated with various stolen goods and weapons.

“Can ask you a question?”

Eclipse walks over carefully, draping himself over the large armchair his darling was seated at.

“Anything, my sea star.”

“Would you love me more if I was still a Selkie?”

Eclipse froze slightly from the sudden question, he knew that his beloved was very conscious of their monstrous appearance but this was still quite out of the blue. He gently picked them off the armchair, sliding himself onto the chair with them on his lap.

“Now where would you get such a silly idea, treasure?”

“This.”

His love pointed towards a page on the book they had been reading, the Little Mermaid, as Eclipse had suggested to them earlier. Eclipse gently plucked the book out of their hands, examining the page. The page was torn and was a horrid shade of yellow, but the text was still legible.

“Mermaid is so beautiful, yet Prince does not marry her. If I am a monster, how do you like me?”

Eclipse's heart ached at the thought, bringing his precious closer to him. He put the book aside on a nearby table, holding them close.

“My treasure, I love you no matter what. I’m not like some snobbish prince, who just chooses the prettiest one. I love you for who you are.”

His beloved chuckled at the playful insult towards the prince, sending butterflies into Eclipse’s stomach. God, what he would do to see them happy. He caressed their cheek, bringing them in for a kiss.

“You’re beautiful, love.”

His darling smiled happily, leaning into his embrace. Eclipse chuckles, wrapping his arms around them as the room turned so silent, the only noise was the tides of the sea and squabbling crew members above on the deck.

“There’s still some time before we reach McDonough Island for our next plunder, you want to lie in bed with me? I can’t imagine this old chair being too comfortable.”

You’d like that.

You’d like that very much.

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#fanfic #oneshot #fanfic of a fanfic #bones of a rabbit au #writing to be adored #sea monster au #sea monster and pirate #fanfic short #fluff and angst #gotdam i love them #i am tattooing this on my face as we speak #eclipse holding sea monster in his lap in big comfy chair......... im sobbing your honor

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wonderlandwalker · 16 days ago

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Fighting Dirty

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐭𝐥𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: abby anderson x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.4k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Isaac’s golden rule: Loyalty above all. Abby’s spent years obeying it—until you, all sharp edges and I dare you eyes, make her question everything. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: porn with plot, mdni, once again I know Ellie isn't part of the Seattle crew but this is fiction and here she is because I simply can't not include her

𝐚/𝐧: I really need to stop writing when I'm ovulating but here it is anyway so yeah (might come back and edit more when I'm less horny we'll see) oh and please let me know if there's any requests i've fallen down the rabbit hole with this one

It’s common knowledge at the WLF not to fuck with you—everyone knows it, though for two very different reasons. One—you’re lethal. You move like a blade unsheathed: all controlled violence and sharp edges. The training yard is your proving ground, and the mat drinks blood more often than sweat when you’re on it. Soldiers twice your size hit the ground before they register the strike, their pride bruised worse than their ribs. Knuckles split, breath steady—you don’t hesitate. Not with cocky recruits who mistake silence for weakness, not with grizzled veterans who forget their place.

Two—Isaac Dixon owns this city, and you? You’re his. Not by blood, but by something thicker—something carved into the bones of this ruined world. The man who raised you after everything fell apart doesn’t tolerate disrespect, least of all toward you. And if some idiot is stupid enough to cross you and lives to tell the tale? They won’t for much longer, not once Isaac finds out. And he always finds out.

Abby knows this better than anyone. She’s seen it firsthand—the way his grip tightens on your shoulder when some fresh recruit lingers too long on the curve of your smile, the way his voice drops into something lethal when your name leaves someone’s lips wrong. It should terrify her.

It does.

But not enough.

Not when she’s lying awake at night, replaying the sound of your laugh—low, warm—in the hollow of her skull. Not when she catches the flex of your hands during drills and imagines them dragging her closer by the waist, fingers digging into the softness beneath her armour.

It’s treasonous.

You are treasonous.

The way your sweat-slicked skin glows under the flickering gym lights, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when you’re focused—Christ, even the way you breathe feels like a provocation. Every glance, every accidental brush of your fingers against hers, every time you smirk at something she says—it’s all a slow, sweet torture. She shouldn’t be tracing the lines of your body with her eyes in the mess hall, shouldn’t be lingering outside the showers just to hear the hitch in your voice when you hum some old song under the water. She shouldn’t be imagining what it would be like to press you against the wall of some abandoned storage room, her mouth hot on your neck, her hands slipping under your shirt while you gasp her name like a prayer.

But she does.

And it’s killing her.

Because wanting you isn’t like wanting anyone else. It’s not something she can exorcise with a rough fuck in a supply closet, not something she can walk away from with a smirk and a shrug. No, this feeling lingers. It festers. It follows her like a devil on her shoulder, whispering all the things she can’t have—

The way your breath would shudder if she bit down on your collarbone.

The way your hips would roll against hers if she pinned you beneath her.

The way you’d moan, soft and broken, if she finally, finally let herself take what she’s been craving.

It started with the glances—sharp, stolen things, like she was committing a crime just by looking at you. You’d catch them in the fractured seconds when she thought you weren’t watching: dark, assessing, lingering a second too long before she’d wrench her gaze away. Her jaw would tighten, teeth pressing into the soft flesh of her lower lip, like she was pissed at herself for looking, pissed at you for existing in her periphery like a thorn she couldn’t pluck out—or maybe more like a wound she kept pressing on, just to feel it sting.

And oh, how it stung.

Because then came the touches—small at first. The brush of her knuckles when she passed you supplies, calloused and deliberate even in its carelessness. The way her hands lingered a heartbeat too long during sparring, fingers digging into your hip to adjust your stance—her grip firm enough to brand you through your clothes. You’d smirk, and she’d snatch her hand back like you’d burnt her, muttering "Focus" like it wasn’t her own touch that unravelled you.

But the worst—the absolute worst—was the way she looked at you after. Like she was caught between wanting to wipe that smirk off your face and devouring you whole. Her jaw would clench when you smiled at her, teeth grinding like she was imagining all the ways she could shut you up. Her fist? Maybe. Her mouth? Definitely. Her thighs? God, yes. You’d seen the way her muscles flexed when she trained, sweat-slick and powerful, and you weren’t above admitting—at least to yourself—how badly you wanted her to put them to better use. Wanted her to pin you down and ruin you with them, just to see if she’d finally, finally lose that fucking control.

And then there’s right now—

The gym is a living thing around you: packed bodies and shouted bets, the air thick with sweat and the electric buzz of violence—or maybe that’s just the current arcing between the two of you, sharp enough to scorch.

Sparring matches are always prime entertainment here, but this? This is a spectacle.

Two of Seattle’s best fighters circling each other like the wolves they are, the mat a battleground of scuffed rubber and spit-shined pride. Abby shifts her weight across from you, rolling her shoulders in a way that makes her muscles flex under her sweat-damp tank top. The fabric clings to every ridge, every scar, and fuck, it should be illegal to look that good while also being fully capable of snapping you in half.

She’s stronger—all corded muscle and brutal precision, her strikes calibrated to bruise, not break. Every swing is controlled fury, like she’s holding back just enough to keep from wrecking you.

But you’re faster.

You slip past her guard like you’re floating, twisting away before she can land a hit that would leave blossoms of violet and gold under your skin. The near-misses send your pulse jackrabbiting, your body thrumming with the thrill of almost. Every block sends a jolt up your arms; every graze of her knuckles burns, lingering a second too long, like she’s savouring the contact. Like she can’t help herself.

She lunges. You dodge. The crowd erupts as you pivot, using her momentum against her—but she recovers fast, too fucking fast, her body slamming into yours with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. The mat hits your back with a dull thud, and then—

She’s there.

Thighs caging yours, her weight pinning you down like she’s been dreaming of this. The room dissolves into white noise; all you can focus on is the hot puff of her breath against your lips, the way her eyes flicker into something hungry, something desperate, just for a second—before she schools her expression back into that infuriating, ice-cold control. But you felt it. The way her pulse jumped when your hips rolled up against hers. The ragged hitch in her breathing when your mouth grazes her jaw.

"Going to admit you like having me underneath you," you murmur, "or do you want to keep playing pretend?"

Her grip tightens on your wrists, fingers digging in hard, and you watch the war in her eyes—the way her pupils swallow the colour whole, the flush creeping up her neck like a confession. The crowd is screaming, but all you hear is the sharp click of her swallow when your knee nudges between her thighs—

She knew this was a bad idea.

Knew it the second you stepped onto the mat, all cocky smirks and infuriating grace, like the fight was already yours. Knew it when the first brush of your skin against hers sent a spark down her spine, violent and bright, the kind that starts wildfires. Knew it when the crowd started chanting, their voices a distant buzz under the static in her ears—because the heat in your eyes told her you knew. Knew exactly what was going on in her head.

And now?

She’s fucking trapped.

Not by you—no, you’re the one pinned beneath her—but by the way your breath fans over her skin, by the way your voice curls around her like smoke, thick and intoxicating. By the way, your body arches into hers like you were made to fit there. By the fact that every cell in her body is screaming at her to either kiss you senseless or run.

A gasp tears itself from your throat—lost in the roar of the crowd, swallowed by the chaos. But you know she hears it, because her breath hitches, sharp and sudden, her body locking up like she’s been electrocuted. Her muscles coil so tight you can feel the tremor in her thighs where they bracket yours, her pulse kicking wildly under your fingertips. Her lips part—just to drag in air like she’s drowning. Like you’re the oxygen she’s starving for.

A ragged breath escapes her, and she swears under her breath—low, filthy, the kind of word that would’ve earned her a demerit from Isaac if he’d heard it.

Isaac.

The thought hits her like a punch to the gut.

Because you’re his. Not in the way she is—his soldier, his apprentice, his loyalty—but in the way that matters. The way that makes his voice soften when he asks if you’ve eaten. The way he barks at anyone who spars against you too hard. The way he watches you sometimes, like he’s memorising the ghost of someone he couldn’t save.

And Abby?

She owes him everything.

But then you move—twisting your hips, leveraging her distraction, and flipping her onto her back in one smooth motion. The crowd erupts—someone whoops, someone else groans—but all you see is the way Abby’s pupils blow wide, her gaze dropping helplessly to the rapid rise and fall of your chest. She stares at your lips, parted and panting, at the sweat glistening in the dip of your collarbone, a bead trailing down like an invitation, at the way your tank top has slipped just slightly, the fabric clinging to every desperate breath, and the hint of skin beneath taunting her.

You grin down at her, slow and knowing. "My eyes are up here."

Her hand snaps up, fingers curling around your wrist—too tight, too desperate—but she doesn’t shove you off. Doesn’t move. Just holds you there, her grip trembling with the effort of not pulling you closer, of not giving in to the thing clawing up her throat.

Her voice is a growl, rough with restraint. "You’re going to fucking regret—"

A particularly loud holler splits the air, reality crashes back in—and just like that, the moment shatters. Her grip slackens, fingers twitching like she’s been burnt. Her throat bobs as she swallows hard, too hard, like she’s forcing down something hungry and unfinished. With a snarl she shoves you off with enough force to send you across the mat. She's on her feet in one fluid motion, her breathing ragged.

"That's enough for today."

The words come out clipped, military-precise, but her voice cracks on the last syllable. She won't look at you. Can't. The flush creeping up her neck betrays her, turning the tips of her ears the same violent red as a fresh bruise. Every muscle in her back is corded tight as she stalks away.

The gym holds its breath. Dozens of eyes track her retreat—some amused, some confused, all riveted. The air hums with unspoken questions, the kind that'll fuel barracks gossip for weeks. Then Ellie shatters the silence like a brick through glass: "Pay up, shitheads!" Her cackle cuts through the tension like a knife. "Told you she'd fold first!”

Afterward, things get...complicated.

Abby doesn't just avoid you—she wages war against your memory. For days, she becomes a ghost in the compound, her presence evaporating the moment you enter a room. She takes the longest patrol routes, the ones that leave her boots caked in frozen mud and her fingers numb enough to forget how they once trembled against your skin. She volunteers for back-to-back overnight watches, staring into the pitch black until her vision blurs and doubles, praying for raiders or infected—anything she can justify pummelling into submission.

She runs stadium stairs until her lungs scream for mercy, until her thighs shake so violently she has to clutch the rusted railing to remain upright, sweat dripping from her nose onto concrete below. The weight room echoes with her punishment—plates clanging, her grunts sharp and guttural as she lifts until her muscles shriek in protest, until the barbell slips from her sweat-slick palms and crashes to the floor with a sound like gunfire.

Sleep is a casualty in this campaign. When exhaustion finally claims her—if you can call those fitful two-hour stretches sleep—she collapses in the barracks instead of her usual bunk. The thin mattress does nothing to cushion the distance she's trying to put between you, the space that does nothing to quiet the guilt gnawing at her ribs like a starved animal.

But it's all useless. A fool's errand.

Because when the compound falls silent and her eyes finally close—

She still sees you.

No matter how far she goes, the realization follows—if she stops—if she so much as hesitates—she’ll have to face it.

So she runs faster.

The archives are quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that presses against eardrums and makes breath feel too loud. Flickering fluorescent lights hum their death rattle overhead, casting erratic shadows that jump across Abby's hunched shoulders like spectators to her torment. Paper rustles under her restless hands—mission reports, supply manifests, anything with enough dry facts to drown out the memory of your voice, your scent, the way your body had yielded beneath hers only to flip the script and leave her gasping.

Her braid drips onto the collar of her shirt, the damp chill doing nothing to soothe the fever under her skin. Three showers today—three rounds of near-scalding water that failed to strip away the phantom sensation of your hips rolling up against hers. The soap had turned her hands raw, but she still smells you in the steam: that hint of salt and something sweeter beneath, the scent that had flooded her senses when she'd pinned you down. When your breath had caught just enough for her to hear it. When your eyes had gone dark with the same hunger currently eating her alive from the inside out.

Fuck.

Her pen snaps between her fingers. Ink bleeds across the inventory sheet like a bruise. She drags her nails down her forehead hard enough to leave red trails, as if she could physically scrape the images from her mind—Your lips parting when she leaned in too close. The way your pulse jumped under her grip. The sinful arch of your back when she—

"You avoiding me or something, Anderson?"

Your voice is a lit match tossed into a powder keg.

Abby's spine locks. Her breath stops dead in her lungs. There in the doorway, haloed by the dim hallway light, you lounge against the frame with that infuriating half-smirk—the one that lives in her dreams now, the one that makes her want to either slam you against the nearest surface or flee this godforsaken compound forever.

She hadn't heard you approach. Hadn't sensed your presence until it was too late. Too busy drowning in the kind of thoughts that would have Isaac demoting her to latrine duty for a month if he ever guessed.

The overhead light flickers again. In the strobe-like effect, she sees the knowing tilt of your head, the way your crossed arms make your tank top strain just so across your shoulders. Worst of all, she sees the way your gaze drops to her whitened knuckles, to the ruined paperwork, to the rapid rise and fall of her chest—reading her like one of these damned mission logs.

Abby goes rigid—muscles locking like she’s spotted a threat, a mistake, something she can’t afford. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A fucking mistake of nuclear proportions. She might be Isaac's apprentice, his razor-edged weapon honed to perfection, but you—

You're his pride. His joy.

The one who makes that permanent crease between his brows soften when you walk into a room. The one he looks at like you personally hung the goddamn moon and arranged the stars to match your freckles. His voice drops half an octave when he speaks to you, all rough edges sanded smooth—a tone Abby's only ever heard him use with one other person, back when there were still photos on his desk instead of empty spaces.

And her?

She's the soldier he trusts to keep her hands clean. The one he expects to be ruthless, disciplined, and unbreakable. Not the woman who fucks recruits in supply closets when the nightmares get too loud, who leaves a trail of broken hearts and rumpled sheets because it's easier than letting anyone see the cracks in her armour.

Isaac would kill her if he knew.

Not just because it's you—though that alone would be enough—but because he'd never believe this is different. That she's lying awake, aching for you in a way that terrifies her, because this isn't just hunger—it's something worse. Something that feels suspiciously like yours, like she wants to carve out a space inside her ribs just for you to ruin.

Why would he believe it?

She doesn't even let herself believe it.

"Why can't you just let this go?"

You've seen Abby angry before—fury is her native language—but this is something else entirely. This isn't the hot, reckless rage of battle; it's something slower, sharper, like a blade being drawn deliberately across skin. Her voice drops to a whisper that somehow carries more threat than a scream ever could.

"You tell me," you counter, stepping closer until your shadow swallows hers whole. "You've been staring at me for months."

She knew you’d noticed—hadn’t exactly been subtle with the way her gaze lingered a second too long when you stretched after training, muscles taut and glistening under the afternoon sun. Hadn’t hidden the way her knuckles whitened around her rifle when you laughed at one of Ellie’s stupid jokes, your head thrown back, throat bared like an invitation—like a fucking feast laid out just for her.

But she hadn’t expected you to call her out on it. To strip her bare with nothing but a challenge in your voice and that goddamn smirk that’s been haunting her dreams.

"You’re imagining things," she lies, but her pulse is a traitor, hammering where your fingers could so easily press against her throat—where they have before, in the ring, when she pretended it was just combat and not coveting. When she told herself the way her breath caught was from exertion, not the way your nails dug into her skin like you wanted to leave marks.

"Am I?" You tilt your head, eyes dark with something that makes her stomach twist, her skin too tight over the wildfire in her veins. "Then why do you look like you want to fight me?"

Abby’s breath stutters.

"Unless", you murmur, stepping closer, close enough that the heat of your body sears through the space between you, "you’d rather fuck me."

Both.

She wants both.

To break you—to pin you down and watch that smirk dissolve into gasps, to see if you’d still be so smug with her teeth at your pulse.

To bend you—to make you unravel under her hands, to hear the way your voice would crack when she finally wrings the truth out of you.

To ruin you—to leave you just as haunted as she is, just as desperate, just as hers.

To be ruined—to let you strip her bare until there’s nothing left but the truth she hasn’t dared to say.

And fuck Isaac. Fuck his expectations. Fuck the way he looks at you like something precious, because she’s not his perfect soldier right now—she’s a woman starved, and you’re the only thing she’s ever wanted to devour.

One second, there’s space. The next—

Her hand fists in your shirt, yanking you forward so hard your body slams into hers. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, but you don’t care—not when her breath is ragged against your mouth, hot and uneven, her lips so close you can taste the coffee she drank hours ago, the faint metallic tang of blood from where she’s bitten through her own restraint.

"You don’t know what you’re asking for."

Her voice is low. Dangerous. A last warning—the final chance to back away.

"Then show me."

And fuck, she does.

Her mouth crashes into yours like a gunshot—

No hesitation. No delicacy. Just hunger and heat and months of denial exploding between you in a single, devastating kiss.

Abby kisses like she fights—all teeth and dominance, her tongue sliding against yours with a greed that borders on violence. There’s no softness here, no tentative exploration—just the bruising press of her lips, the sharp bite of her canines when you gasp, and the way her fingers dig into your hips.

She pins you against the desk, the edge digging into your thighs as her body cages you in. One hand stays twisted in your shirt, crushing the fabric in her fist like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go, while the other grips your hip to haul you onto the desk—no asking, no gentleness, just taking.

And, God, you love it.

Your hands tangle in her hair, tugging hard enough to make her groan—a rough, broken sound that vibrates against your mouth.

"Fuck," she growls, tearing her lips from yours to bite down your neck, sucking dark marks into your skin like she’s claiming them. Like she wants the whole fucking base to know you’re hers.

Her knee presses between your thighs, forcing you to grind down shamelessly against the hard muscle, the friction perfect, maddening. Abby’s grip tightens—possessive—her fingers digging into your waist hard enough to leave proof, while her other hand slips into your shorts with a confidence that makes your breath stutter.

She teases you first—cruel, calculated—her fingertips tracing slow, torturous circles around your clit, just enough to make your hips jerk, your nails claw at her shoulders. Then, without warning, she slides inside with a single, ruthless thrust, her fingers curling just so against that spot that makes you see stars.

"Fuck—Abby—"

"Gotta be quiet," she murmurs, nipping at your jaw, her breath hot and uneven against your ear. "Unless you want this to be over before I’ve even really started."

You bite your lip to stifle the whimper building in your throat, but it’s useless—your body betrays you, hips rocking against her fingers, chasing the pressure as she curls them just right, her thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless strokes.

She watches you with dark, satisfied eyes, drinking in every twitch of your muscles, every hitched breath, and every desperate roll of your hips. She knows exactly what she’s doing to you. How her fingers drag against your walls, how her palm grinds against you with every shallow thrust, how your thighs tremble when she slows just to hear you plead her name.

Your back arches toward her, your thighs clamping around her wrist like you can keep her there forever. But she doesn’t let up, her fingers pumping deep and steady, her teeth scraping your pulse point as she growls.

"Such a good girl for me."

Your body locks at the praise, a silent scream caught in your throat as pleasure wrecks you, wave after wave, her fingers milking you through it until you’re gasping, squirming, her name a broken chant on your lips.

But she still doesn’t stop.

Not when you whimper, oversensitive. Not when your legs shake so badly she has to tighten her grip to keep you upright. Not until your fingers are tangled in her hair, tugging weakly, your breath coming in ragged, uneven pants.

Then—finally—she pulls back, her fingers glistening as she drags them slowly over your lower lip.

"Look at you." Her voice is rough with something between awe and hunger, the words dragging across your skin like calloused fingers. "Fucking ruined."

Her thumb presses against your bottom lip, forcing your mouth open, and you taste yourself on her skin—salt and heat and her, always her. That distinct blend of gun oil and sweat and the cheap mint toothpaste from the barracks.

When she leans in to kiss you again, it’s deep and filthy, her tongue licking into your mouth like she’s starving. Like she’s trying to consume every gasp, every whimper you’ve given her, like she wants to carve herself into the very air you breathe, and you realise with dizzying clarity:

This isn’t close to enough for her.

Not when her free hand is already sliding up your stomach, thumb brushing over the curve of your chest in a possessive sweep, as if mapping every inch of you for later.

Not when the growl in her throat vibrates against your lips, raw and unchecked, the sound of a woman who’s spent too long holding back.

She nips at your jaw, sharp enough to make you gasp, then soothes the sting with her tongue, slow and deliberate. Her breath is hot against your ear as she murmurs:

"Oh, baby…" A chuckle, dark and promising. "I’m only getting started."

There’s no hesitation in her touch now, no pretence of restraint. Just hunger, honed to a razor’s edge, and the unspoken truth between you: This was always going to happen.

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twisted-affections-for-u · 2 months ago

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Run, Rabbit, Run

Pairing: Retired!Yandere!Poly!141 x Shy!Civilian!GN!Reader (Mainly Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader, more poly!141 towards the end.)

Summary: You try to escape the isolated house the 141 keeps you in, but you don't make it far.

Trigger warnings: Kidnapped reader, Yandere 141, manipulation, obsession, failed escape attempt, mention of punishment, fear of 141, thoughts of abuse, toxic love (this is just a story, don't seek this stuff out in real life), no use of y/n, use of names: Birdie, Bonnie, and Lovie but reader is gender-neutral, bad accents, writing errors, fanon 141. Let me know if I missed anything!

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It was hard to slip past the 141 when they always had one person with you at all times. It took lots of planning and memorizing routines to time your escape perfectly. But you didn’t plan good enough. Listening to the panicked shouts from the large house, deep in the woods and far away from civilization. Perfect for keeping a little birdie caged and far from prying eyes.

How did you end up here? An innocent civilian who just happened to get four retired military men living in the flat across the hall from you. You rarely had interacted with them, not that they were looking to seek new companionship outside of their little group at the time. But Johnny seeing you struggle, trying to drag your heavy new mattress down the hall to your flat, had piqued his interest. You had just saved up enough money to replace the tattered mess of your old mattress, and didn’t have the money to pay someone to help you get the new one up to your flat.

Johnny had come over as you stopped to take some deep breaths. Offering to have him and his boyfriends help move the heavy load for you. Your eyes had lit up and you couldn’t stop mumbling weak, exhausted ‘thank you’s to him. He was only gone from sight for a moment before three other big guys came out to see what had caught his interest. Finding the sweet, shy neighbor who was too nervous to bother anyone of their neighbors for free labor.

The men made quick work of dragging out the old mattress and setting up the new one. Their eyes kept glancing to you as you anxiously watched them. You felt awful making them do all the work, but they had refused any help you tried to offer. John could see the look in his boys’ eyes. You were going to be theirs; you just weren’t aware of it yet.

Maybe that’s why you ended up here; kept like a bird in a cage. They had slowly added themselves to your life, pushing others out of it to keep your attention all to themselves. Then pressuring you to quit your job and move with them to a quiet isolated house, all under the pretense of helping you during your struggle to get a better job that didn’t work you to the bone with such little pay. You couldn’t say no to the offer, or the sweet kisses you were given to add some extra sugar to the deal.

Now, you regret ever agreeing. Kept away from friends and family, unallowed to do anything you wanted if it meant that the boys couldn’t have your attention as they pleased. You tried to argue with them about it after you had realized sometime after moving in, but you were outnumbered. Just the threat of what punishments they would give you, if you truly pushed their buttons, was enough to shut down any of your verbal complaints.

Instead, you planned this very moment. Leave everything behind and flee. If only you had planned for the issues of how quick they would react at your sudden absence. The shouts of your name, mixed with their own personal nicknames for you, ringing through the night air.

Your legs and lungs burned, not used to the strain you were pushing them through. Slowing down when your legs almost gave out on you. You weren’t far enough. They noticed your absence too quickly. Those thoughts swirling around in your head as you tried to keep moving, keep trying to struggle like an animal in a trap.

“Lovie?!” The shout of Simon’s nickname for you sending a cold bolt of fear through you. How had he gotten so close?! He was still by the house just a minute ago, you were sure of it. You try to force your legs to keep going forward but the burn of overexertion is just too much. You stumble and collapse against a nearby tree, attempting to collect your breath.

You could hear his foot falls creeping closer, his calls feeling like they were almost on top of you. Tears pricked at your eyes, the fear of being caught and dragged back to that hell was too much. A sob tore through your throat, the world going deathly silent as you tried to hold in your sniffles.

“Lovie?” Simon’s voice was nothing but calm with his usual gruffness. He knelt next to your shaking form, the sobs finally escaping passed your sealed lips to flow freely. Admitting your defeat. His hand gently brushed against your face, even as you tried to curl in on yourself.

“What happened, Lovie? Why did you run away?” Simon’s voice wasn’t accusatory as you had expected, you could hear the underly worry within them. Could feel how his hand was trying to soothe and slow the tears. “Come ‘ere, Love.”

You were scooped off the forest ground and into Simon’s strong hold. You knew it was over; there would be no second try now that you failed your escape. You would go back to just being the pretty birdie they kept to sing them sweet songs, ignoring your sad calls to be set free. Now your wings would be clipped. Any small freedom stolen away.

Simon held you close to him as he now leans against the tree, allowing you to get your emotions out before approaching the elephant in the room. Had they done something wrong? Upset you to the point you felt you needed to run away to communicate that something was wrong? Had they not been listening to you as well as they thought they had been?

Your sobs had settled into nonstop sniffles, then to heavying breaths till your breathing evened out. Exhaustion from the adrenaline rush and panic taking its toll on you. Your body slumped against Simon, unable to try and fight out of his hold. His head came to rest on yours as he finally spoke once more. “What caused this, Lovie? Did we upset you?”

You wanted to scream ‘YES!’ Let out every issue you had with them having tricked you into; only for the words to die on your tongue. Who knows what they would do to you if you told them of your wishes to return to your old life. Your wish to have never met them, for Johnny to have never offered to help with your stupid mattress.

Simon gently squeezed you, his way of prompting you to focus and answer him. You tried to keep your voice from sounding weak and shaky as you spoke, “I hate it here. I want to go home.”

“You are home. We're your home.” Simon responded without a second of hesitation, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You simply kept your mouth shut, you knew he wouldn’t take it well if you said anything to the contrary. “If the house isn’t to your liking, it can always change. All you ‘ave to do is say so, no running away to get your point across.”

You don’t fight Simon as he lifts himself and you off the ground, clearly making up his own explanation in his mind on why you believed the house was not your home. There was no point in correcting him, he wouldn’t listen. They would try to warp your explanations to fit their delusions, never truly hearing you.

You turned your eyes to look up as you heard the other’s voices when they spotted the two of you approaching the house. Feeling the three pairs of eyes looking you over for injuries before flicking to Simon for an explanation.

Johnny was quick to approach once you two were just a few steps away, cooing at you while brushing his fingers across your face. “You had us worried to death, Bonnie! You tryin’ to give us a fright?”

Even though Johnny was trying to lighten the mood like always, you could see him and the others eyeing Simon. They were looking for any sign of anger or irritation, figuring out if they should worry you would try this again or if it was a one-time event. John seemed to find what he was looking for as he claps Johnny on his good shoulder, ordering the boys like he is still their captain. “Let’s get the Birdie safely inside. Kyle, make some cuppas for everyone. Johnny, change of clothes for Birdie. I need to take care of somethin’ before I join you, muppets.”

Everyone immediately disperses as they go to complete their tasks. Simon is quick to bring you to John’s room, sitting you on the bed as Johnny is back like he never left Simon’s side. Johnny allows Simon to slip away as he helps you change, going off to see what John has gone off to do. He has his suspicions, but he needs to confirm it with his own eyes.

Simon finds John in the den, silently thinking over what has transpired as Simon approaches him. Simon leans into him, while his arm wraps around his waist. Nothing is said, the silent presence of each other enough of a grounding force for the two of them.

“What happened tonight?” John questions as he finally breaks the silence, looking deeply into Simon’s eyes.

Simon is unsure how to tell him at first, still in his own hidden shock at your words. He thought you were adjusting well. You would ask for things and be understanding of the limitations they put in place. Were you just scared to hurt their feelings?

“Think Lovie is having a hard time adjustin’. Says this place don’t feel like home.” Simon mummers to John, not wishing anyone else to hear.

John sighs, closing his eyes and leaning into Simon. They would need to fix things. See what needs improving to avoid things such as this in the future. Have a talk about why you can’t just run off into the woods when your upset.

John slips from Simon’s grasp, taking his hand to lead him back to John’s room. They can here Johnny and Kyle fussing over you, but your sweet voice isn’t heard. It causes John to frown as he peaks in. He sees the way you stare at the cup of tea in your hands, like you're not fully there. Your probably still upset and stuck in your head. You will need a bit to come back to your usual self after all the tears you’ve shed.

The two approach the bed, John gently coaxing you to drink your tea to help you relax. You do it without thinking, too used to the way John always knows what to say to make you do what he wants.

You can feel the tea taking effect as soon as you’ve drank the whole thing. Your eyes heavy, body swaying as you try to remain upright. Kyle and Johnny slip into the bed, gently guiding you to lay down between them. They wrap you in their strong arms, making it harder to fight off the fatigue. The blanket that Simon throws over you guys, before John and him join in, only seals your fate. No longer able to remain awake while the four quietly plot while cuddled around you. The drug Kyle slipped you making it, so they need not worry about you hearing them while you are dreaming deeply. They need their Birdie happy, but they can’t let you go either.

#call of duty #cod #john price #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #task force 141 #poly 141 #tf 141 #tf 141 x reader #x reader #yandere #yandere 141 #john price x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #task force 141 x reader #poly 141 x reader

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bones-of-a-rabbit · 2 months ago

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pov ur friend stumbled and almost fell on u and now they're looking at u weird and ur worried that smthn is wrong meanwhile they r having thoughts of a shameful nature (kissing u till ur breathless thoughts)

#bones of a rabbit #doodles #sketches #fnaf au #bones of a rabbit au #flipparoo au #fnaf eclipse x reader #fnaf eclipse x y/n #fnaf dca #heart eyes momence #he's a huge simp ur honor #accidentally falls on u OOPS has a gay awakening #i need to write him being a pathetic touch starved lil moron i rlly do #sigh. i love pathetic wet cat creatures full of longing

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dcxdpdabbles · 3 months ago

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More Menace!Danny please he's so funny

"What are you doing in my house?" A young voice whispers as softly as the spring rain pouring outside.

Clark screams, jumping a foot into the air. He wirls around only to come to a standstill as a young teenager, no older than fifteen, stares back at him.

His clothes hung off his body, but it looked more like that was a personal choice for baggy, checkered pajamas. His skin was pale, too pale, like he hadn't seen the sun in months. There were dark circles under the boy's eyes, as if someone had taken purple paint and rubbed it against his face until no amount of washing would get it off.

Bandages were wrapped around his arms and neck. Clark could see a few of them disappearing inside his shirt, indicating there were more treated wounds hidden away. His hair was in disarray, pointing in every direction like the top of a pineapple, but cut short enough that it almost looked like someone with scissors had gone at the strands with a personal vendetta.

In the teenager's closed fist is a chunk of hair.

Clark notices, with a growing sense of panic, that there is a breeze on the back of his head that wasn't there before. Accompanied by stinging is more proof that a good amount of his hair had been ripped out, and if he wasn't Kryptonian, then that would have been a whole lot worse.

If it wasn't for the yank on his hair, he would think he was staring at a ghost.

He gawks unattractively, feeling his heart run faster than the wild rabbits he used to chase out of the gardens with Pa. Clark hadn't heard the boy's approach at all, couldn't even pick up his breathing or his heartbeat.

Wasn't that just alarming? He had come to do an interview on Mr. Wayne's latest charity, one that would assist more than half the city get a college associate, so long as they graduated from a high school within Gotham. It was a generous offer, one the readers would adore hearing in his new Positive column.

Clark was finally catching his big break at the Daily Planet. He has been put in charge of a newspaper column of his choice, and he chose to report on all the good things that were happening. He felt that people chased tragedies too much when new worthy stories were everywhere.

Yes, his column was towards the end of the paper, near the comics, but it was his. It seemed to be doing well, too. Perry had increased his writing space as positive reviews started pouring in. Soon, Clark may even be assigned the big stories, the ones that would be put on the front page.

Mr. Wayne had made a comment about checking in on his son, who had vanished upstairs while Clark was busy setting up a recording device - with Mr. Wayne's permission, of course - when the boy had likely snuck in.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my house?" The boy repeats in a soft voice, but with the new amount of steel entering each syllable. Clark felt vulnerable as he scrambled back a few steps on instinct.

"I ugh, I'm here for Mr. Wayne-"

"If you think you can convince Bruce into your bed, you've got another thing coming," The boy hisses, lurching forward with his feet bent in two separate directions, appearing almost spider-like. Clark yelps, pressing himself against the wall, staring down in horror at what he's half convinced isn't human. "How many broken bones can a body survive before someone dies? You should know, shouldn't you, News Man."

The words are more growled out than spoken, and Clark is half convinced that he could go through with his threat even if he doesn't know Clark is Superman.

"I ugh-"

"Danny, there you are!" Mr. Wayne's cheerful voice breaks the spell as the boy straightens up, twisting his feet back in the direction they have to be and stepping away from the reporter with a nasty scowl.

Mr. Wayne walked over, throwing an arm around the boy and bringing him into an easy side hug that spoke of fatherly love, while beaming at Clark. "Mr. Kent, I've seen you've met my son Danny Fenton-Wayne. Adopted him only a month ago."

Clark stares between the two, drinking in the easy, warm disposition of Mr.Wayne by the darkness that surrounded Fenton-Wayne. If it wasn't for the slightly more effeminate features of Fenton-Wayne, which made him more tragically pretty than Mr. Wayne's classically handsome, they would have looked biologically related.

That and the fact that Mr. Wayne looked like he would cry to hurt a fly, while Fenton-Wayne would set a building on fire just to feel something.

Clark shivered but forced a strained smile on his face. "He's lovely. You must be so proud."

Fenton-Wayne's eyes narrowed in barely concealed violence while Mr. Wayne beamed brighter, "I am!"

Clark prayed he didn't have to see Fenton-Wayne often in the future. He could barely handle Batman breathing down his neck for coming to his city. The other hero didn't seem to like the idea that he was just doing his job, but thankfully, Phantom, the young sidekick of Batman, was holding him off.

Now that kid was the sweetest child he's ever had the pleasure of encountering.

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #Danny “The Menace” Fenton-Wayne #Clark meeting Danny for the first time #He ripped out his hair #He thouht it was a wig #Danny was still settling into the manor and was very potective of Bruce #He didn't like others in his space #Before Clark knew Batman's and Phantom's ID

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unholyhelbig · 2 months ago

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Hey lovely, can I request yelena x fem!reader in the shower. Nothing sexual about it, but yelena or reader (or both) come home after a rough mission and they just need help cleaning up and decompressing. Like I die helping each other wash their hair ahh. Just lots of hugs and softness and love. Ok that’s all thanks love youuuuu <3

Title: The Warmth of You

Ship: Female!Reader x Yelena Belova

Warnings: non-sexual nudity, mentions of injury, mentions of explosions, Mentions of Alien goo (?) and horrible grammar. I don't proofread!

My everything taglist 💕: @thinking1bee (Let me know if you want to be added!)

[A/n: man, I feel like I haven't nailed down Yelena's voice yet so it's making everything awkward and clunky. I'll figure out how to write her with reader one day]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

The sound of the front door slamming shut should have been enough to have you rabbiting from bed, scrambling in an attempt to peel yourself away from the clean linen. Your wife didn’t have many rules, but she was strict about keeping dirty clothes out of the bed. It made for a comfortably warm nights sleep, and you couldn’t fault her for that.

You also couldn’t fault yourself for being bone-tired after a horrible mission. Your ribs were bruised, and the taste of blood was stale on your tongue. You’d spent most of the afternoon getting shrapnel tweezered from your upper shoulder. It throbbed uncomfortably and the thought of moving in the slightest was worse than getting scolded.

Your arm was flopped over your eyes, and you considered exhaling and not pulling another breath into your lungs. Even the thought of breathing was too much. Too taxing. You hadn’t toed off your boots, nor peeled your gloves from your sweaty palms.

Yelena had the disposition of a cat. You only knew she was in the room by the way the bed dipped as she flopped onto the other end. A tired groan escaped her, pushed from the center of her chest. It gave you a gentle reminder to inhale. You eased the pain by opening your eyes at the same time. At least the assault of the low-light wouldn’t be as bad.

Your wife was face down on the perfectly made bed in her own tattered tactical suit. There was a sweet smokey scent to her, one that burned your throat. Ash smudged her cheeks and created a hard rind under her fingernails.

“You look like shit.” You said, voice scratchy with exhaustion.

“Did you stop trying to be charming when you locked me down?”

There was a groan that snagged in the back of your throat as you found enough strength to pull yourself to a sitting position at the lip of the bed. Your head was swimming, dizzy to the point of pressing your fingers to your temple. Your ears were still ringing from the earlier explosion, so you didn’t hear Yelena do the same.

She kept her palm to her side, must have tweaked the same muscle that had been bothering her for quite some time now. You laid your hand on her thigh, giving her a gentle grounding squeeze until the sharp pain ebbed away entirely and her muzzy eyes blinked clear once more.

Yelena’s eyes flicked down to your lips, back up again.

“No.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“You’re covered in alien goo and looking at me like you want to stick your tongue down my throat.”

“It is supposed to be in sickness and in health.”

You hummed, partially to mask the pain that washed over you when you stood on deer-like legs. “So funny that neither of our vows said anything about otherworldly substances. If you want a kiss, you get a shower.”

You padded into the ensuite bathroom, wincing at the click of the lights and the instant bright glow. The movements were familiar as you went about setting the temperature of the glass paneled shower. There was a heaviness to the air as steam began to collect at the corners of the mirror.

Yelena had worked up enough courage to pull herself from the bed, but took purchase on the doorframe instead. She watched you with a tepid green stare as sweat collected at your brow. The moisture was wicking through what remained of your tactical suit.

“I uh, tweaked my shoulder.” You said.

There was an uptick at her lip, the top scarred with a cotton-candy pink. You were stubborn, didn’t’ ask for help often and still couldn’t get the words to come out properly. Yelena had coexisted with you long enough to pick up on the subtle tics and the softness of your eyes.

She stepped over the threshold, boots against your own. Yelena carried an intoxicating scent of chamomile and the slightest tinge of honey. Of course, that was masked by the sticky pink goo that slicked her hair back, pungent and viscus.

Yelena made quick work of the buttons on your vest, breath warm against your collarbone. Goosebumps raised on your skin and though you hoped your wife wouldn’t notice. Of course, she did, and with a teasing lilt to her voice said “Cold, milaya devochka?”

You scoffed, but reveled in the way her fingers ghosted the bare skin of your collarbone as she peeled away the fabric of the shirt and discarded it on the tiled floor. A frown creased between her eyebrows when she saw the clinging black and blue and purple that bloomed over the expanse of your shoulder.

She let out a low hiss, nudging her nose against your own. Yelena had stripped her vest at the door but allowed you to work at the off-white of her suit. There were always too many buckles for your liking and made some intimate moments more frustrating than not. But, today you went slowly, moving the suit down to her waist.

Yelena’s muscles tensed and untensed as your fingers tickled over her biceps. There were various cuts and bruises and red marks that marred the expanse of her skin. She sighed out contentedly at your touch, hands reaching our and unclipping your bra. She let that, too, fall to the floor.

You’d been married to her for six years, and her eyes still went hazy with attraction each time she saw you. Her thumbs brushed against the sides of your hips, exhaling shakily. Your fingers moved to her belt, unlatched it with ease.

Once the both of you were stripped, standing naked and vulnerable in front of each other, you grasped her hand and pulled her into the warm stream of water. A shiver wracked your body at the quick change in temperature.

It was easy to maneuver the two of you until Yelena got the brunt of the warmth. A sigh of contentment pushed out of her lungs. You silently reached for the shampoo, meeting her eyes for confirmation.

“You do not have to.” Her whispered words blended with the falling water.

“I know, but I want to.”

Yelena gave you a slight nod and let her eyes flutter closed. Years ago, she wouldn’t turn her back to you, would track you at the corner of her eye. She knew where you were at all times. There had been a quiet glower about her, and you were convinced she despised you. That had melted gradually into mutual respect, and then something more. This.

She let out a contented whimper as you worked the suds into her hair, working the goo away with each swipe of the hand. Yelena leaned closer out of habit, her breasts pressing to your own in a familiar comfort as the floral scent of lilac filled your lungs.

You rinsed the soap away and diligently shifted her until her back was pressed to your front. You could feel the tone of muscle under your fingertips, the dirty blonde steeple of hair that dipped below her waistband.

Your chin rested on her shoulder, hugging her close, simply wanting to be near the woman that you loved. “Feeling better, baby?”

“Mm, move your hand a little lower and I’ll be back at 100%”

You were much too tired to give in to your wife’s pandering, and the way her head fell lazily against your shoulder gave away her own exhaustion. The water was running cold and her body pressed slick against your own was the only thing keeping you from shivering. You flicked the water off despite her murmurs of protests.

“Are you always this dramatic?” You asked a question you already knew the answer to.

“I have never been dramatic a day in my life. Wrap me up in a towel before I freeze to death and lose all my fingers and toes.”

“I thought Russians never got cold.”

The sharp glare she shot towards you with the precision of a drawn arrow shut you up. It had lost it’s true effect years ago, but it was still a sign that you were toeing the line. Yelena didn’t pout, but she got damn close with the jut of her bottom lip and the faux trembling she forced upon her shoulders.

Towel it is.

You draped one over her shoulders before wrapping yourself in one, thankful for the warmth yourself. When you turned to grab a third one to attend to Yelena’s dripping hair, now goo free, the air was knocked clean out of your lungs as she wrapped herself around you, cheek pressed into your side.

Having significant height over her played to your advantage in moments like this, when you both craved touch and she could tuck herself easily under your chin. She mumbled something against your bare skin, shooting affection up your spine.

“What was that?”

“I’m happy I have you to come home to,” She clung to you harder, eyes clenched shut. “We go on a lot of uncertain missions, to space, to the middle of the desert, but you are my certain. You help me wash the day away and just be.” Yelena blinked her eyes open, peered up at you. “I love you.”

You opened your mouth, closed it again, before finding yourself. Your wife, she had always been affectionate behind closed doors. It was more physical than it was verbal. She’d drape her legs over your lap, or lay her entire body on top of you. She’d watch you come out of sleep slowly while tracing patterns on your back. She showed her love plenty. She said it a little less, making something crack inside your chest now.

“I love you too, Lena. I want to come home to you every day for the rest of my life.”

She sniffed, nodded against your bare skin. “We have to change the sheets. Your outside clothes were on the bed.”

“So were yours!”

Yelena tsked, placing a fluttering kiss to the birthmark on your shoulder, her breath hot on your skin. “I do not recall this.”

#Yelena Belova #Yelena Belova x reader #Yelena Belova x you #Yelena Belova x y/n #Thunderbolts x reader #Thunderbolts x you #Thunderbolts #Marvel #Marvel Oneshot

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parfaitblogs · 3 months ago

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sleeping with the lights on ❀ s. reid x reader

in which the first time you kill an unsub hits you like a truck, and spencer reid is there to pick up you back up.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: hurt/comfort tags: comfort very little hurt. ptsd. description of someone being shot. this is my thesis for my phd in yapology. spencer reid loves you sooo much like sooo much. word count: 2k a/n: i miss posting… i miss you guys… im deeply sorry for not posting for over a month. i have so much in the works i promise i promise!! anyways yesss i read dostoevsky before writing this im sure you can tell russian novelists take over your brainnn.

"thank you for loving me when i still tasted of heartache and war." (nikita gill)

There is a certain shade of fear behind a person's eyes when they know they are about to die.

When there is a gun levelled at their heads, and the wrong thing spills past their mouth, even the most psychotic of God's men will see a second of fear before there is tranquility. Survival instincts kick in, and no narcissistic, smug facade can ever deny that specific human brain's worst fear is dying.

Is it not most?

Fear of what dying feels like. Does it hurt? When every organ in your body shuts down, is it slow, and the most agonising of feelings? Or is it quick; painless? Does your brain shut down first and therefore render you unable to actually register the agony you're in? What happens after is an entirely new rabbit hole to delve into.

Where does our conscious actually go after life? A permanent state of nothingness sounds lonely. Heaven implies there is a celestial being behind everything. Reincarnation means you have to live through this doomed from the start world all over again, and you won't even know it is your second, third, hundredth time on Earth.

Guilt.

An annoyingly human emotion that will eat at you from the inside out, chewing its way through organ and bone, consuming you so wholly you stop believing you are worth anything to anyone. You can nurse your own brain back to a faux sense of health, rocking back and forth on the cold wooden planks of apartment flooring, but you can never erase the guilt that takes over your body. For when it is this strong, it is more than just a mere pit churning in your stomach.

It's cold on your side of the bed.

He's pretty sure it's what prompts him awake at the glaring hour of two forty seven in the morning.

Rumpled sheets provide him the needed comfort that he didn't imagine you going to sleep with him only mere hours earlier, but the lack of warmth left on the fabric frightens him into thinking you've been awake for hours. He pats it down anyway, seeking any inkling of body warmth left within the fabric. Proof that you are still nearby, and haven't had enough time to run too far.

You haven't.

By the time his eyes adjust to the blackness of the room, he can see the shadowed outline of your body sitting at the end. Head just visible from your balled up position on the floor, rocking yourself as a desperate attempt to comfort whatever is going on inside your brain.

He says your name quietly, voice a barely there whisper as he shuffles across the bed to lower next to you. It sounds crackly to your ears, and he's in dire need of water if he wants to fix the hoarseness of it. But you are also as quiet as you hum in response, wiping your eyes with the backs of your hands and turning your head to look at him.

He doesn't say anything as he coaxes you into his welcoming arms, fingers brushing against your scalp, and accepting your heavy hearted emotions as they are. He lets your walls crumble, and holds on as you sob into his chest, dampening the fabric of his shirt in a way he doesn't particularly like, but he will ignore it for you.

There's a layer of distaste for the position you are in that almost wills you to rip his arms off of you. Guilt coincides with self loathing more often than not, and he is holding you as if you are soft.

You are not.

"Do you ever think about dying?" you whisper.

There is silence in his apartment that follows your question, and your eyes transfix on the glow of the moon through the sheer curtains on his windows. It blurs with the fabric, the illusion of a fuzzy circle. You wouldn't know it was the moon if you weren't holding onto its existence with a vicelike grip.

"I do," he finally provides you, predictably so. "A lot."

"I didn't," you reply, clasping your fingers with his own hand, tracing circles over his knuckles to focus your mind. "Not intensely. Did you know being shot can sometimes feel like nothing?"

"For the first few moments, yes," he nods. Of course he did. "It's due to the nerve networks being our receptors for pain, as opposed to the tactile sensors. Signals move slower between the brain and the nociceptors, which are our pain receptors."

"Do you think he felt nothing when he died?"

A question weighing tonnes. He's silent for a few crucial moments, and you slowly come to your own conclusion of what the answer would be. Probably yes, for you had located where the bullet landed after you'd fired it, and you knew whatever pain receptors he had still functioning would never get those signals to his brain. He was brain dead before he'd even hit the floor.

"I can't tell you what he felt for absolute certain," he replies, gently shaking your body out of its frozen position so he could lift your limbs atop of his own. He lets you finish the movement of climbing into his lap, face burying into his neck, his arms encircled tight around your waist. "You'll drive yourself crazy thinking about this."

"I feel crazy."

"Honey," he places his palms on either side of your head and pulls it back so he can look at you, thumbs collecting the tears that fall from the movement. "Why is this overwhelming you?"

"I killed someone, Spencer," your voice wavers as you speak, cutting in and out, and you were already so quiet.

"You killed a man who killed a lot of people," he reasons. "Do you think he sat awake each night and pondered how they felt dying?"

"No, but—"

"—Then why are you?"

You stare at him in bewilderment for a few moments. You're aware there is a point within his accusatory words, but it does not communicate entirely, and you do not like the disdain for the man in front of you that wells in your chest.

"Because I'm not a psychopath," you murmur, fingers beginning to fidget with the hem of his own shirt.

He lets out a puff of air that hits your lips signalling his slight frustration, but he nods his head.

You call him out on it anyways.

"You're angry with me."

He offers you a small smile.

"I am not angry with you," his fingers poke your sides, and you squirm. "I'm watching you disappear in front of my eyes. I'm concerned."

Reasoning with him is futile.

Reasoning with him had been futile. He had his forearm wrapped tightly around a nineteen year old girl's throat, and a gun indenting into her temple. Morgan still tried to, and you'd watched nearly helplessly as the bullet clicked into place in the chamber.

Car crashes move time slowly, it's said. Watching a girl nearly die has the same effect, you suppose. Everything was so clear. You could map out every ridge on the gun, down to its tiniest, minute details. Every engraved line, the rest for his palm roughened from excessive use and sweat eroding at the metal. He was strong enough to manage both the sobbing and writhing girl in his arms and the less than light firearm, and you knew even if you had more than half a second to stop him, you could not without your gun.

The gunshot reverberated off the concrete walls, and a loud ringing followed you weren't used to. You'd heard gunshots before. You were inured to the sound of them ricocheting around warehouses similar to this, or the safer environment of the academy's firing range.

It's a different feeling when it's your own gun.

It's an all encompassing feeling when you catch the eyes of the person you are shooting at milliseconds before the bullet hits them. Fear in the eyes of a killer about to be killed. How stupidly poetic.

Perhaps there is a universe out there where humans are able to die in blissful ignorance.

"I used to think I'd be okay with killing an UnSub if I had to," you're staring at the threads fraying from his sweater's neckline, and he makes no move to return your eyes to his. "They're bad people, right? Killed a lot more than me for much less. But I'm—I'm not. I don't know if I ever will be. Where does that leave me? An agent who can't even stop a serial killer without having a breakdown."

"Do you think you're the only one?"

That catches your attention, and you can see the small specks of light in his otherwise dark eyes even in this shadowed room when you catch them.

"No. I know I'm not," you croak. Warmth covers your hands, and it's only then you recognise the movement of your own body. Gripping petulantly onto his sweater were your hands, his own providing a comforting blanket. "You never talk about it, though."

"I can. Do you want me to?"

Hesitantly, you nod, and he settles his leaning body against the bed.

"I killed a man named Phillip Dowd when I was twenty-four," he says. "He was an L.D.S.K. Long distance serial killer. How is unimportant, but it was a hostage situation. Like yours. I felt... nothing. For weeks I continued on as if I didn't have somebody's blood on my hands."

"Must be nice," you mumble.

He chooses not to acknowledge your words. "Gideon told me on our way home from the case that this would all hit me eventually. It took longer than it's taken you, evidently, but by the time it did came around, I let it control my life. It took taping photos of his victims to my walls to let him go."

"I don't want to do that," your knuckles wipe more falling tears, and you watch his lips turn up into a gentle smile.

"You won't have to. Crying about it is actually much healthier than what I was doing."

You're not sure if he's lying to make you feel better, but you lean into it regardless.

"Guilt is normal," he adds, quietly. "You're allowed to feel whatever you want to feel about this, but know that anger with yourself is displaced. You did what you had to do, and a lot of good people are alive because of what you did."

"Are you reciting a book to me?" you ask, and there is a warmth that blossoms in your chest when he huffs out a short laugh.

"Regurgitating the very advice I got when this happened to me, actually," he tilts his head and brings it in closer to yours. "The third was, I'm proud of you."

"For killing a man?" you whisper.

"For being brave enough to do the only move you had left."

"Is there really nothing else I could've done, though?"

There probably were a thousand things you could've done. You could've ran into him earlier in life and saved him from impotency. You could've been a childhood best friend that brought him out of a shell. You could've been his first kill that set the FBI after him immediately and stopped him from hurting anyone else. But his series of life events, and your own, ran parallel to each other until you were in that room with him pulling the trigger. A frustrating realisation that you can only let life run its course the way it's been meticulously threaded out for you, and the impacts you make on people's lives will be specific and forever preplanned by the fates.

"No," Spencer tells you, anyways, and you accept his one worded answer as the summary of your own spiralling thoughts. "Let's get you back to bed, yeah?"

"Yeah," you mumble, absentmindedly.

Your consciousness is outside your body as he helps you up, and you crawl inside the covers next to him. You can barely feel the cotton of sheets against your skin, nor the ghost of his hands on your hips as he pulls you close enough to him.

Distantly, he says goodnight to you, and reminds you he loves you. He doesn't press for a response, and you don't remember to give him one.

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

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