#fucking helllll

[powerfulkicks]

fuck my gay ass i need to join some sort of fucking club

[brionysea]

i went back to the scene where el finds barb and starts panicking and oh my god. the wheeler sibling angst with the knowledge i have now oh my godddd

nancy: what's going on?

mike, for some reason: i don't know

and then nancy finds out that barb is dead. a few scenes ago mike and nancy were saying no more secrets and acting like they were gonna start being real siblings after this. and then the thing that makes nancy unable to even be in the same room as mike while he's happy with his returned best friend because hers is dead. oh my god. it's all downhill from here

[thedndgoblinwholivesinyourwalls]

brain this is not the time to get over your dndads artblock

[rainia]

i did it i fucking responded oh my godddd no help from any of yall either i WILL add 😭😭😭😭😭😭

[god-has-entered-my-body]

@anon hi still not posting that uhm. you say danny is a perv for writing fic from the perspective of a woman which is inherently false but i digress that is not my point though. I've written fic from a male perspective but not posted it. does your opinion apply to me? or is it just because he happens to be trans. If you're going to chat shit at least have the human fucking decency to use his pronouns instead of being an absolute tit and not arguing your point like an educated individual thanks.

[rafasbiscuits]

Everyone hold hands, form a circle, light up candles and shit.

Pray.

Stefanos. Stefanos Tsitsipas, our Greek god. Whatever you call yourself. It's time for you to shine. Beat Novak.

Ain't no way I'm gonna sit down knowing Novak might possibly equalize Rafa's 22 grand slams. Some of the Novak fans won't shut up about it I hate seeing the toxic ones happy like ew no.

[takethebodymarc]

no way my wifi decided to drop when something big happened all i could see was cellbits chat screaming🛌🏽

does anybody have a clip?

[cerundolo]

the absolute disappointment i feel in my body since fran lost i might not watch any more tenis for today [lies. juanma playing a game that he's for sure gonna lose? i'll be watching that]

[http-bisexually-active]

‘please what? use your words’ oh my GODDDD ahdjslfjjfmrbgbkxjnfnfngldnnbneneksjfnnd

[phagodyke]

ok I left the house for like an hour 👍

[cameronmitchelljohn]

I NEED TO STOP VENTING AND RANTING ON TUMBLR CUZ WHY TF AM I ON SHBLR WTF WTF BRO

[noahlivingston]

goes to the subreddit where ppl say things that make me mad -> gets mad -> surprised about getting mad

[hier--soir]

oh yeah this is for sure gonna unlock something in me

Honey, Stomach, Mine ; 1. Genus: Tragedy

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Existence is a needful thing. Choice is fickle, nature inescapable. Run to the end of the world, Joel, all those things will still find you. 

She'll still come for you. 

-OR-

the A/B/O outbreak AU 

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Light Angst; Slow Burn; Shocking Considering the Implications of Me and This Trope but Alas; Biologically Assigned Soulmates; Power Dynamics; Topping From the Bottom; Government Controlled Reproduction; Segregation of the Designations; Institutionalized Sexism; Vaguely Handmaidien Undertones; Incredibly Soft Despite the Tags; Be Not Afraid, Dear Reader!; Yearning; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Competence Kink; Alpha Joel; Omega MC; Very Soft Joel; Older and Jaded Alpha; Young and Needy Omega; Age Gap; Size Difference; Size Kink

A/N: I've found there is an absolutely shocking lack of A/B/O in this fandom, and this is my contribution to begin rectifying that. I swear that despite the way the tags read, this is entirely and sickeningly sweet soft, comfort, caretaking fic.

Share thoughts, please. It's sort of a different one.

Word Count: 6.3K

Read on AO3

Tip Jar

Genus : Tragedy

To a one Mr. Joel Miller,

500 Sheahan Road

Clallam Bay, WA 98326

United States 

We are writing to inform you that as of January 8th, 2015 there remain two weeks until your designated omega’s twenty second birthday, and a year since she has come of age. We have made several attempts to contact you with no response. As mandated by the federal government, you must collect her by January 22nd, 2015 or she will be distributed to another individual of the designation alpha who would be willing to accommodate her. 

The omega’s evaluations are all up to date, and she has displayed pristine results in both health and behavioral tests. It is estimated that her first heat will occur soon, and we strongly encourage you to collect before the fever starts and our facility is forced to place her with another willing alpha that may see the process through. As she is part of the Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program, and is biologically paired to an alpha already, that being you, if not collected she would be placed in the bidding pool and distributed to the highest offer. 

Again, we strongly encourage you to contact our facility with a response on your decision as soon as possible so that we may prepare the omega. We would like to remind you that these creatures are delicate, and unexpected changes to their habitats and surroundings cause high levels of distress. It is of the utmost importance that we proceed in accordance with the omega’s nature. 

Enclosed is a brief note from your omega that she has requested to attach:

Dear sir,

I hope that you are well. I have been told that you have not decided if you will come for me, but I ask that you please do. I have been waiting, but they have told me I cannot wait anymore, and I do not know what will happen to me if you don’t come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do. 

And at the bottom, in a pristine and swirly pen, and kindly, her signature, there for him to see. The name of the woman, or girl, who seems to have taken all of Joel’s choices from him. He follows the letters with the nail of his thumb, scratching at the ink as if he could make it disappear, make the reality of this poor thing out there in the world waiting for him, disappear. 

At the outbreak of the designations, twelve years ago, there had been mass hysteria, mass chaos, a terrible uncertainty of how the world could continue on, segregated into biological designations as it had suddenly become. Thought to be a product of the dwindling population rates, some whispered a government experiment gone awry, a freak genetic mutation had begun to appear within the biological markers of certain people. 

Designations: Alpha, Beta, Omega. 

It was not that society had unfolded, lost sight of itself, it was more so that from one day to the next, a new and unknown sort of hierarchy had been established, those that were, those that were not. Those that could live their lives as they’d always done, unruled by their biological urges, and those now marked as something new and different and set by a different sort of mandates. 

Joel had been one of these people. 

The designations had become controlled, weaponized, systemized, almost immediately. Almost. Before the government had mobilized and taken stock and hold of the situation, there had been a momentary lapse of order. Chaos wearing the names and faces of the people he’d once known, people that should have been safe or protected, protective. The true nature of the dynamics were quickly revealed. Obvious: an unmated alpha in need of an omega was a volatile thing, quick to aggression, hungry for violence. Less so: an omega, once thought self sufficient, independent, autonomous, was found to be at times fragile, vulnerable, full of necessity. Both connected by that string of desperation that could only be soothed in a pairing of the two. The desperate drama of being no longer only yourself.

It should have been an obvious thing, the mutation, a byproduct of the dwindling population levels, reproduction rates, was in service of something that would correct this misdirection of nature. Alphas and omegas were, are, idealized pairings for one another in terms of reproduction, in terms of biological pairings. It should have been obvious that this would be wielded as a means of control. It should have been obvious that this was an untenable situation that would cast people into roles that left no choice for autonomy, for freedom. 

It should have been obvious to Joel, who almost immediately, and even though he had been well into adulthood, a father to a young daughter, presented as an alpha, growing pains once again this late into his life. It should have been obvious that this was a situation that should have necessitated greater care, vigilance, protection. After all, this was the role of an alpha. He should have listened to this new nature of his that was suddenly, demandingly, presenting itself, acted quicker, stronger, with more wisdom. But he’d failed, he’d continued to fail for years to come after that terrible night when the world had turned back to its base nature in a hedonistic attempt for the preservation of humanity. 

Alphas were immediately feared, ostracized, and above all else, obvious. A designation was not a thing a person could hide, especially not an alpha, the truth of their nature. Many were gunned down in the streets at the start, imprisoned, experimented on and sold, debased and tortured. They’d been caught, him and Sarah, separated from Tommy trying to escape the madness. She had, in her innocence and without designation, still only herself, still only his little girl, been caught in the crossfire of a world's desire to tame or trap something it could not understand. 

Joel had, in many and the worst of ways, been caught in the crossfire too. 

With time, years and the sort of suffering that can only be forced upon anything that is different or out of the norm, a system had been created. Government mandated programs, laws, registries that kept track of the designations. A hierarchy in which those that were essentially and biologically considered stronger than what a normal human should be, were ostracized, exiled, denigrated, muzzled, and those that would be considered weakest, left without any voice at all, without freedom either. 

The Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program had been established for the continued preservation and furthering of reproductive rates. A registry was created in which all those with the designation either alpha or omega had to present themselves on, biological markers determined, all choices stripped. The program served as a match making machine, when two biological markers presented themselves as compatible, as mates of one another, an omega was assigned to an alpha for keeping. To do with as they’d see fit. 

He had gotten word of her only last year. Twelve years of solitude, of nothing, of running from a girl with green eyes he’d not been able to protect and the reality of himself he detested, the what and why of who he was. He’d left Austin, wandered and hidden and groveled in the dirt like a worm until he’d finally found a quiet place to settle. A place alone, undisturbed. And for so long, he’d not been happy, surely, but he had been. Joel had been.

He looks down at the letter in his hand, dragging his thumbnail over the swoop and slope of her signature once again. This was a person who, as mandated by law or biology or fucking whatever, had been deemed as his. His other half, mate, ball and chain. The terrible reminder of what he really was and could not escape, in the form and shape of his perfect opposite. 

Last year, when he’d gotten word of her existence, that she’d reached the age of twenty one and was now ready and available for his retrieving, he’d balled up the letter and thrown it with such weightless force into the fireplace in his living room that the air filled wad of paper had fallen limp and nothingful just shy of the flames, rolling in the ashes and dust, coating the reality of this imposed, undesired fate in dark soot. He’d been so angry he’d gone out and howled at the moon like the beast the world would have themselves believe he truly was. 

He did not want to be an alpha. He did not want an omega. He did not want to live off the coast of Clallam Bay alone in this house he’d built with his bare hands because he had no other use of them now, no other function or purpose or meaning. He did not want it to be now, he wanted it to be twelve years ago. He wanted to still be a father. 

He did not want to be an alpha. 

He did not want an omega.

He crumples the letter in his fist, looking out at the bay over the edge of the cliffs from where the cabin is perched. From his spot on the deck he can see as far out as the sea allows, sight stopping suddenly as if the edge of the world had dropped off a ledge. Sometimes he longed, so, so badly, to go find that edge, to drop off it as well. He had only tried once. Never again. The grizzle of scar tissue at his temple, a testament to yet another one of his failures. 

The first summons had come two weeks before her twenty-first birthday, and he’d laughed, after the anger, he’d laughed. A girl-woman of only twenty one years, deemed of age, for the role the government or God had deemed her ready for, served up on a platter to him for his own ravaging. For the correction of what nature told was an anomaly that only their coming together could solve. It was sick, disgusting. He wanted no part of it. And so, despite the knowledge that this poor thing was out there, in some government facility, places they took omegas, many orphans, but also, oftentimes separating them from their families for so called safe keeping, just another word for kidnapping. Rearing and breeding and no choices, no choices for any of them ever. 

He’d ignored it, turned a blind eye and a revolted heart away from it all, and shirked the supposed responsibilities he owed this omega who he knew nothing about, who knew nothing about him. But nature is, after all, a terrible and inescapable thing. And not even so much the nature of his designation, although that did, unfailingly, play a part in his demise, surely, but the nature of his character, of Joel’s heart, that was the true heavy player. He was not the sort of man who could turn away from someone who’d rely on him, who’d need him. A responsibility. That was, he convinced himself, all he should or could see her as. And for a year there’d been a sort of tugging of a string from behind his navel, an umbilical cord connecting him to his ignored fate. He hated it all. He wanted nothing to do with any of it. He wanted to rot in his aloneness and misery and bitterness, fester in the fear that lived around him from the world. It’s why he’d come here, it’s why he’d exiled himself. Balanced on the tightrope border between the Salish Sea and the Makah Reservation on this high and pristine cliffside cut from the crust of the earth; he was left entirely alone, at peace with only his own chaotic demons to torment him. He wanted it this way, he wanted this; please, please, he’d already given away so much, lost so much of himself. Should he also be forced into this too? To sacrifice the terrible peace of his solitude to save this poor creature that was being forced on him. He wanted to say no, that he didn’t give a fuck, that what would happen to her could, it was no business of his. But those words… another willing alpha, bidding pool, highest offer… they made him see, not even red, black, black and devastating anger or rage or something horrible and base, and what could only be a product of mother nature railing against him for ignoring what he truly was. Something that whispered terrible words of mine, mine, fucking mine. A hiss he did not recognize, did not want to admit he recognized. 

He was old, weathered and beaten and past his prime. Unmated. At the end of his line and unmated and purposeless, and his bones were tired, but itching and clamoring within the confines of his skin that this was wrong, that he was wrong, and that he needed to right this immediately. 

That she’s waiting, and dear sir, I do not know what will become of me if you do not come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do. 

And so Joel goes to her because he knows she is waiting, because fate or purpose or nature is not a thing to be ignored forever. 

-

“It’s her birthday today,” the caretaker says, voice ascetic and cold and direct. Not a voice, Joel thinks, for soft things; cadence that has his teeth on edge, hackles raised. “You’ve arrived just in time. She’s been asking for you, and we’d just set her name in the pool, ready to release for auction tomorrow.” That black rage muddies the corners of his vision, and he focuses on the cold shock of the blank white hallway they’re making their way down. Hospital-like, barren and hard, this place, facility, prison, they keep them in, the omegas in the program. He feels slightly sick, uninhibitedly angry as if his teeth would fall out of his skull, as if he could throw himself to the ground as a child throws a fit, spew his anger for the world to see how much he does not want this, how vehemently he’s opposed to it all. 

“She may seem young and small, but she’s twenty two now. She’s ready, and she’ll take it as you wish. It’s what she was made for.” 

Joel seriously considers, just for a moment, killing the cretinous little man beside him. Take it, he says as if he has any right to speak of you taking anything that Joel would give you, as if it’s any of his business, anything he could ever understand if the beta stench oozing off of him is any indication. He hums nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement. If he parts his teeth he’ll take out a chunk of flesh. He should behave, there are easily frightened things nearby. 

White doors with a small circular window at the center line the hall on either side, endlessly down the length of the seemingly endless corridor. The caretaker, white scrubs, pristine like the rest of everything here, and Joel feels suddenly huge and bestial and brutish, marring and dirtying this place that is supposed to be of peace and quiet for the fragile things locked inside. 

A terrible place that makes him desolately depressed. You’ve been here so long, and he had not come, and it’s all just one more tally of failure on his rap sheet. 

When they finally stop before a singular door, the number fourteen emblazoned in large black, bold print just beneath the small viewing window, Joel suddenly feels– he can’t say for certain, he doesn’t know, or doesn't want to acknowledge the truth of the voices and sounds ringing in his ears, but he knows, recognizes it for the sound of the moment Sarah died all those years ago. His past and present suddenly clashing to meet here in this antiseptic white void, before the door to this fate that’s clamored in quiet waiting for exactly a year today. The sound of her voice, calling his name, saying it hurts, Tommy, his shouts ringing loud and then ebbing soft and as lifeless as she was while the reality of what they were living came to pass before Joel too, could realize. He’d left too, his brother, ran from the truth of Joel at the first easy opportunity. And she’s just there, her voice and her eyes and the feel of her is just there in his mind, on the tip of the tongue of his memory, and then the man opens the door and then there you are. 

He feels worse now, hulking, deformed, malformed like he was born wrong. “I’ll give you a moment,” the man says low, that cold voice monotone and almost too quiet to bear now. Joel feels he needs something loud and shocking. He fears he won’t fit through the door. “It’s better if you meet for the first time without distractions. She knows you’re coming.”

He thinks he asks if you’re sleeping, he can’t be sure, but he feels the vibrations of his throat work, his jaw move as if it’d come unhinged, his tongue swollen in his mouth, gums fat and painful, full of bile and terrible memories, and he is a badly made thing in need of some goodness in this moment. And then a shift of the small lump beneath the blankets, the reality of the moment snaps into focus, he steps inside the white box cage you’re kept in. The door shuts behind him, and then it is only him, the thing he would not be, and you, the thing he would not want. 

He doesn’t decide it until he finally peers into your eyes, that he can’t, will not, keep you. 

Wide, luminous and wet, but not afraid, wholly curious, peering up at him from above the edge of a thick wool blanket. Something drab and gray and stiff looking that immediately sets him on edge, brings that anger back, just the simple sight of the blanket. The two of you stare at each other in silence, the weight of that thing that tells of what you are, sitting heavy between the two of you as he looks down at you from his great height, presence that should be intimidating and cowing, looming over your prone and small form on the bed. But despite his stance, something swelling within him causing him to puff up like an angry dog and want to bear his teeth at you, despite the curtain of tears in your eyes, there’s nothing of the stench of fear. 

He shuts his eyes to the sight of you, huffing long and bullish through his nose, mistake, the scent of you, God, help me, and he listens to the rustle and shift of the blankets, opens his eyes to see a little nose peeking out from beneath the gray, drab thing to sniff primly at the air he’s now filling with his presence. 

Soft and warm and woman, the smell of a cunt that belongs to him. That’s what it is at its basest. More complexly: vanilla, bergamot, juniper berries, sweat and fever and salt. Taking a plunge off the cliffside, bypassing the sharp teeth of rocks that would kill you, waiting for the dark ice shock of sea and finding nothing but molten life. This is what you smell like. 

Worst of all, there is something in you that smells of him. His, yes, but not what he means, not his, him. Something that smells of recognition, like the two of you are the same. 

Something chained inside of him rattles at the bars of its cage, desperate to be let out and quenched. 

He steps back, frightened at your movement, at the reality of what the two of you are, so obvious here in this cage, at your perking up, your recognition of who and what he is, what he’s come for. You don’t speak, but you tell him. You wriggle beneath the covers, shimmying to turn and face him more fully, still clutching the blanket up high over your mouth, still covering half of your face, and he wants to bark at you to let him see, that he needs to see, but he grinds his teeth together. Molars going to dust down his throat, muscle wrapped around his mandible strung so tight he fears the fibers of it might burst and pop. 

You settle on your side facing him now, and then something to beguile him, to bring him to his knees muzzled and obedient and calm, the sweetest, sultry little crooning cry. Something provoking, alluring, something to beckon him to you in surrender and acceptance and welcome, come from your chest up your throat to his ears. He jerks back at the sound, your big eyes still expectant and wet but demanding now. I am here waiting for you. I have been here waiting for you. Come now. He steps back to your bedside, a too small, too stiff metal railed cot he’s going to wrap around that fucking guard, caretaker, idiot, whatever he is when he comes back, falls to his knees, and your little fingers peek out and up and over the edge of the blanket now. And you surprise him doubly, tenfold, more than he can comprehend – but he already decided he will not keep you, he already made up his mind – when you say: “You came. You remembered me.”

He could never have forgotten.

A low hum, a sound to make your eyelids flutter and your legs shift beneath the heavily draped blankets. “Today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? Would you like to come home with me as your gift?” 

He could never have forgotten.

-

The house that the large man who you’d waited your whole life and then a year for, brings you to – and you can’t be entirely sure, for you’ve so little experience or knowledge – but from what you can think you’re feeling now, from what you can decide, is lovely. 

He had taken you in a car, a truck, you like the sound of the word, —ck, —ck, —ck, and driven a long while, through the big city which you’d seen little of, between forest and beside sea, and then finally up a long and winding road and more forest, more trees and green than you’d ever seen in your entire life, until you’d come to a cliffside, the backyard a drop off of air and rock and endless dark water, and a small house perched just there at the edge. Wooden slats, weather beaten and salt lashed, a copper sloped roof, and two pert chimneys, despite the not large area of the house, cabin. It looks, very much, as if it had grown straight from the cliff rock, sprouted by the forest, strong bones that spoke resolutely of remaining where they were no matter how hard the wind howled. 

“How did it get here?” You ask the man, alpha, who’s name is Joel who has finally come for you after a life and a year of waiting. 

“I made it,” and his voice is rough and demanding of attention, demanding of you, even if you don’t know, although, you do understand, what it is he’s demanding. 

And you think, yes, of course. It looks a little, a lot, like him. Obvious, that it came from him. 

It would be easy to think that you’re nothing but young and stupid and untried. Just a little omega kept in a cage. But you feel, after this life, not life, of being you and the thing you are, that you’re none of those things despite it all. You had lived, you had been out in the world at one time, even if briefly, even if only as a child, green and inexperienced and innocent, and although you still remain all those things, you had been out there at one point. You had never had a mother or a father, dead when you were an infant, killed in the outbreak, but you had lived with your aunt, your mother’s, many years older,  sister, until you’d been ten years old. So you see, and he should see too, this man now before you, this alpha, that you were untried and inexperienced and young compared to him, but you’d had a decade of real life, even if it was the life of a child, even if afterwards it was a not life, but the before, that counted very, very much to you and so deserved respect and acknowledgement. And he should see that, although you do not know, you do understand.

After your aunt had died, and they’d taken you, first to the orphanage, and then to the place for omegas, after you’d started to mature and develop, perhaps that real life had ended. Or been put on hold, waiting for him, this alpha who seems, for all intents and purposes and from what you can gather from his sullen silence and dark looks, nothing like pleased at your presence here now. But then there was the: today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? And yes, yes it is your birthday. 

It’s your birthday, and you’re free. And yes, you’d lived the not life in the white box for so long, and yes, you are, in fractions, so afraid and knowing so little of the world, but you do know that you want to live and to see the sky. 

You want to see the sky every single day. 

His big clunking truck rolls to a slow stop before the house, a wide deck wrapping around the entire boxed thing of it, and he starts to move, unclipping his belt, grabbing the bag he’d brought with him stuffed with his clothes he’d promptly tucked and folded you into when he’d shuffled you into the cabin of his truck, and you’d been all thank you, sir, to which he’d given a shake of his head, only Joel. Only Joel. No other words, no other directions, only his hands pulling your strings like a puppet. You had accepted it for the chance to feel his touch, to familiarize yourself with the closeness of him. 

You want to know things. You want to know him. 

He’d barely said a word the entire drive here, but you could be patient, and they’d prepared you for this, after all. They’d prepared you long and well and told you all they thought you’d need to know. So you find yourself, and not at all shockingly, as you’d waited so long for this, for him, for freedom and the sky, and look, now there’s even sea too, not even a little bit afraid, only anticipatory in bated breath, stuttering heart, excitement. 

You had never seen the sea before, and you want to know things. You want to know him. 

He jumps heavy and thudding form the truck, and you start to shift, something suddenly frantic and clawing rolling in your chest when you realize he’s leaving the confines of the small space the two of you had found yourselves encased in together, the warm heat from the vents blowing his smell, his smell, all around you. You’d never encountered anything like it before. Salted vetiver and warm cardamom, something sweet and musked and heavy like what your fingers taste like after you’ve pet long and needy at that soft wet place between your legs when the hurt was so tight you felt nothing would sate it. It’s a scent that you think would devastate to have taken away now that you’ve tasted it. And it’s everywhere as the two of you’d sat in his staunchly imposed silence on the truck ride to this place he was bringing you to, his home at what seems like the end of the world. It’s in your nose and down your throat, heavy and cloying and sweet on your tongue, wrapping around your waist and covering your skin and your hands so that you’d even pressed your palms entirely over your face and rubbed yourself like a cat, coating yourself in him. 

The door slams, bringing you out of his scent induced reverie and back to the present, and you scramble to undo your buckle too, even though when he’d clipped it for you he’d very sternly said to not take it off, desperate to follow him wherever he’d go. But you realize quickly he’s coming around the front of the truck to your door, and then he’s there pulling it open and letting in a biting gust of wind come off the sea and up the cliffside to slash you across the face with its icy rancor. You shiver, teeth clattering and chattering in your mouth, trying to gather the blankets he’d cocooned you in, his too big, so soft clothes, more tightly around yourself, and find your feet. 

He gives a rough but soothing noise, and easy as anything, plucks you up and out of the seat and into his arms, kicking the door closed behind him as he goes. Into his arms. You hold yourself stiff and wide eyed, chewing on the tips of your frozen cold fingers, and staring at him this closely, it’s shocking. Large, had been the first thing. Tall and broad and thick the way they’d said alphas are. This you had expected. The rest, you had not. The eyes, you think, more than anything. His eyes, a strange mix of hazel and brown, but dark. Eyes, that even in your greenness, you can recognize as sad and angry. And the creases at the corners, between his brows, the gray threaded through the lush, dark curls and at the corners of the hair along his jaw. He looks like he would be someone’s father. The patch of bare skin, heart shaped, amongst the whiskers. He’s beautiful, and unthinkingly, or perhaps entirely intentional, you stick out one of your saliva soaked fingers and poke him gently there, only a small prod, to feel what the heart feels like. His gait stops instantly, that permanent frown he’d worn since you’d first laid eyes on him, deepening. “Don’t do that,” he gruffs, continuing his steps up the porch now, the dark, heavy boots you’d noted as he’d taken you from the facility falling thunk, thunk on the wooden boards beneath. He’d not given you shoes of your own. And at his tone, the grumpy look, you have the inexplicable urge to laugh. To laugh at him. Surly, you want to tease, but swallow it, itchy fingertips back into the warmth of your mouth to stop yourself from touching again.

Another gust blows against the two of you as he somehow transfers you, cradled into only one arm, to pull the jingle of keys from his pocket, and you’re jarred with painful shivers, huddling closer into the unbelievably broad expanse of his chest, the unbelievably steaming warm slab. At the touch of your cheek against his collarbone you realize all he’s wearing is a simple, green flannel, no coat, nothing warm. “Aren’t you cold?” It seems suddenly, supremely important you ask, head shooting back up. He peers down his nose at you, finally getting the door open, and his eyes are a very peculiar sort of dark, you cock your head at him, a very strange sort of creature this man is, who’s come to collect you, who you’d waited all your life and a year for. 

“I’m fine,” he says. 

You don’t believe him.

He sets you down on a large, dark leather sofa, chocolate, the hide smooth and worn and lived in. The rest of the house, not only a house, also a home, for it’s obvious in the way of his things, the way they’re arranged and fixed and the way they too live here, not only exist here. I’ll be like that too, you think. It’s all comfortable, it’s all warm, like a den and a place to relax and be protected, juxtaposed by the sight beyond the large windows, nothing but dark, violent sea as you’ve never before seen. 

He really had found a perch at the edge of the world, brought you here to perch as well. 

There’s a large fireplace, inlaid with large slabs of dark stone and thick beams of wood, and yes, this too is also obvious in a peculiar and particular way. The house very much looks like it was made by the hands of a single man in some way that you cannot specifically say, but can obviously see the truth of. He made this house, and then he came for you and now he’s brought you here, and you feel, suddenly, so pleased and warm and right. Everything feels so, so right. You sigh dreamily, suffused at once with a tight, deep heat at the pit of your belly, the scent of him everywhere, bubbles floating up from the bottom of you and seeming to pop out your ears. You lean back into the deep couch, wiggling this way and that, rubbing your bottom into the soft cushions to snuggle up, bringing the neck of his sweater he’d put you in up to your nose to breathe deep and long. 

He’s moving around, arranging things this way and that, a thick log in the slumbering coals, a pillow here, another blanket atop you, not looking at you, setting a wide berth once he’s settled the throw, not talking to you. It’s fine, let him do as he pleases and needs, you’ll sit here and watch. You can tell he doesn’t like to talk, that words cost him something, and you know so little, but you understand this. Words do cost something, truths, the truth of your before life and your not life. The truth of those realities cost. So, yes, you understand, and he doesn’t have to talk if he doesn’t want to yet. And looking at him, you realize that everything inside of you feels soft and bruised and little. And yet, despite all that, ready, in want and need of him. Ready to be big. 

Joel.

You must say the word out loud, his name, for he stops and finally turns to face you. There is something vibrational within him. Different. You’ve never seen a creature as such. You’d never seen an alpha before, not since you’d presented, you’ve never been around one. The caretakers were all always betas, people who would not be affected by the omega’s presence and fluctuations. 

He swallows once, twice, twitches and jerks and heaves a big sigh. He’s so full of energy as you, suddenly, in opposition, feel so sleepy and drowsy and ready to close your eyes and only feel warm and relaxed. You like his house, you might love it, even. 

Your eyelids droop low, slow blinks, and you watch his face fold into a frown. You want to laugh, he does that so much. They’d said that alphas could have big tempers, that they could be brash and aggressive and loud, but that the omega would naturally temper that. You think it may be true because as you watch him through the weave of your lashes, his frown deepening the longer he stares at you slowly drowsing on his couch which you hope he’ll never make you move from, the jitters and the shakes and the trembling that he’d seemed, just a moment ago, to be so full of, begin to quietly abate. 

He takes a step toward you, another and another until his shins meet the edge of the sofa, and you snuggle deeper into the cushions, making yourself into as little a ball as possible, so full of sleepiness. 

“How do you feel?”

“I like your house so much,” you slur, head drooping, lashes drooping. 

He clicks his tongue, makes that rumbly noise you think is an alpha thing because it has your eyes suddenly clicking open, sleep haze clearing momentarily so that you can look up at him again, and he’s looking at you so peculiarly. You scrunch your nose up at him, there’s no need to look at you so, you’re only an omega, only a little tired, nothing to stare at so strangely. 

“I’m–” he clears his throat, makes that rumble, growl, huff sound again, “I’m glad you like it. I wanted you to be comfortable while you’re here.”

And oh, he’s so nice, you tell him, and, “I am. I’m so comfortable.” You melt further into the couch, and he crouches down to peer at you more directly, pulling a soft pillow from the opposite end and tucking it under your head, the large, rough cup of his paw cradling your skull, big fingers weaving through your hair. He arranges you so gently, like he’d take care of you. Like you’re here, finally, finally, you’re here to be taken care of. 

It’s what they’d said would happen, and you’d waited so long. You’d waited too long to be let out of the white box, for him to come, to see the sky. And now there was so much; of him, of the house, of the sky, of your whole life and the sea.

You nuzzle your head into his big hand, the heat of it searing your scalp, your ear tucked into his palm. “Brave girl,” he hums. He has such a deep voice, a good voice for an alpha, you think, a very good voice. You feel it vibrating in your toes and in your eyelashes and in your belly. “You’ve been through a great deal, haven’t you?” You want to say yes, you want to remind him that you’d waited for him for so very long, and that when you woke up, if you remembered, you’d be very cross with him for taking so long to come for you. 

“You rest now,” he says. “It’s all alright now.” Yes, a very good voice.

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was not expecting this

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THAT STUPID FUCKING 🦷🦷🦷 you know who I’m talking about Ffuuuuuuck

[satoruoo]

RIKO WHAT THE FUCK HOW DID I NEVER SEE THIS.

santa claus and his treats | satoru gojo x f!reader pt.1 of christmas event! wc: 3.4k oops i went overboard | cw: petnames, literally j pure fluff ur both STUPID in love, he’s the cutest! happy birthday pretty boy 🧸

"'toru?" you called, voice filling the dimly lit room as you peeked your head in through the door. the curtains were drawn, the iridescent green tinsel dotted with soft yellow lights framing the doorway of your bedroom scratching your neck as you spotted the white-haired boy sitting on your shared bed, picking at something on his lower lip.

you took a moment to drink in the sight— his soft white hair that fell over dazzling sky-blue eyes, the color of the lake dotted with fragile crystalline snowflakes that melted into fresh spring streams that fed nature with new growth and fresh flower buds, a tangible warmth when his gaze fell on you and an easy smile stretched across his pink lips. a little too easy, you think. easy enough for you to miss the way he swipes a coffee brown crumb from his cheek; the smile has too much sugar and cream for you to buy it.

your eyes slowly drift from his charming grin to the rest of the room. there's a forest green tuft of leaves hanging from the ceiling on a thin golden string; you recognize the crimson red berries and waxed leaves with spots of pearl dotting as a bunch of mistletoe, hanging right over the mattress. clearly, he thought ahead.

you snuff the flush from your cheeks as he perks up at the sight of you, straightening his back. "hey, baby! you must be my present from santa this year," he laughs, holding his arms out, an invitation for you to crawl into his arms and curl up on his lap like two warm cats by the fireplace. you almost gave in— until you remembered why you were looking for him.

"you're getting coal this time, satoru." you said, huffing as you walked over to the mattress and put your hands on your hips, attempting to come off as intimidating in front of your boyfriend as you leaned over and stared down at him. he just giggled that sweet, boyish laughter of his, scooting closer and capturing you between two strong arms to tug you onto the bed with him. the sheets were soft, and they smelled like him as he pulled you onto his lap and cuddled you like a life-sized plushie, all warmth and soft comfort that he craved so much.

"aww, really? but it's my birthday today," he sighed loudly, shaking his head as he firmly planted his hands on either side of your head to prevent you from worming away and planting a loud smooch on the top of your hair, before laughing as you pulled away from his grasp and gave him a glare. “besides, you’re anything but a bad gift.” he smiles.

“don’t sweet talk me, ‘toru. you’ve been naughty this year.” he wiggles his eyebrows at that, and you shoot him a sharp glare which just earns you a light scoff, but there’s a smile mirrored on both of your lips.

(maybe they’ve met so many times in the past that they know how to copy the other flawlessly.)

"but you're already here, my love. lookin' all pretty like the angel on top of our tree." he hums, crossing his legs and holding his ankles as he rocks back and forth; the teddy bear he won you from the arcade on your first date is face planted into the pillows by his side, donning a festive red santa hat. the white fluffy pom pom looks like satoru's hair, and you stifle a laugh at the thought.

"how kind of you, satoru." and you mean it— he looks like his own christmas angel; snowy hair and pretty blue eyes clad in a loose black tee with cheap printed red and green christmas lights over his chest. he looks unfairly attractive with those gray sweatpants on, too. you wouldn't mind wrapping him up in yellow ribbon and presenting him to your parents this year as your holiday present from santa, and then having your own fun with him later. you suppose you must've been perfectly good to land him; so pretty and fun, bubbling laughter that speaks of his care in volumes. and he’s their soon-to-be son-in-law, after all. and he’s a golden catch.

but it’s time for this white betta to be put in his place; he’s gone snooping where he shouldn’t have— or rather, scavenging would be the more appropriate choice. and he’s about to be skinned for entering the lion(fish)'s den. your matching red-green plaid pajama pants won't save him this time.

"sorry, baby, but you can't talk yourself out of this one." you said firmly, scooting closer to him as you sat back on your knees and gave him a look as pointed and narrow as the icicles melting on the frosted awnings. to anyone else, you might look like a wet, angry cat— but to satoru, it was enough to strike fear straight into the center of his heart. his fight-or-flight response kicked in (it only ever did with you)— and it was as if you could see the change in his demeanor. his eyes voluntarily softened, lids drooping as a lazy smile drifted over his lips like fluffy white clouds over a pale sun on a winter's morning.

"aww, don't be like that. my princess looks so much prettier when she's happy," he coos, all milk and honey as he reaches out and catches your wrist, rubbing his thumb over your pulse beating beneath your soft skin as he brings it to his lips and kisses your knuckles. so he chooses to fight, and you almost fold— almost.

you twist your arm in his grasp, eliciting a whiny yelp of pain; getting him to let go of you as you quickly flick his forehead. even so, he lets you-- he never turns infinity on around you, even at the price of his own sanctity.

you sighed when he gave you a dramatic pout, sticking out his bottom lip as he hung his head low in defeat like a golden retriever being scolded by his owner, soft hair falling over his pretty blues. his hands come up to cradle his head, rubbing the spot where you'd knicked him. "don't play around, satoru. where are the cookies i baked last night?" you asked, reflecting his frown with a pointed glare. if looks could cut, he'd be a red christmas on the cloudlike sheets. you were tired of beating around the bush, especially when satoru had a knack for making it utterly exhausting. nevertheless, it went on.

"maybe santa came early," he quipped, giggling at his own joke. "you never know, huh? he's an unpredictable old geezer. likes his milk and cookies, or so i heard."

"didn't know santa claus had the six eyes." you deadpanned, crossing your arms over your chest and looking him square in the eyes. "and he shaved his beard off, apparently." he feigns hurt, holding a hand over his heart in mock anguish.

"i'm no thief! it hurts me to know you think of me so low, sweetheart." he sighs dramatically, shaking his head. outside, the snowy wind howls in agreement. "besides, it's my birthday. you're suffocating the spirit, honey." he drawls.

you just roll your eyes at that, crossing your arms and shifting to sit closer to him. you will your irritated expression to soften, and it's reflected in the way satoru immediately relaxes, shoulders sagging as the anxious look in his eyes vanishes like the wilting ghost of fall on a christmas eve, leaving behind the scent of bluebells and frost on the wind. he thinks you've forgiven him.

that's just what you need. for him to let his guard down so you can spring the trap on him. santa may be able to get away with his yearly trespassing, but satoru's entered the property of more than your heart this time, and it's time for his holiday retribution.

"give me your hand, satoru." you said softly, voice barely a breath above a whisper. he obliges almost immediately, scooting closer on the bed so that his knees graze against yours, and you hear him suck in a little breath at the contact as your hand finds his.

you take his palm in your own; his hands are considerably bigger than yours, but you still manage to run a thumb over the ridges of his knuckles, gently massaging the soft skin over weary bones. a sweet little noise leaves his breathless lips; it's almost like a purr, and when you glance up at him he's almost as red as the glittering velvet bulbs dangling from the primmed branches of your christmas tree. he looks away, a subtle pout weighing down on his lips as he coughs loudly, as if the amber sap of a pine tree has caught in his throat, scratchy like tree bark.

"what are you doing?" he whispers, voice rough and hoarse, like someone took a fireplace stoker and poked his throat. almost a protest.

but you can feel him melting into you, and soon enough, he’s sandwiched you between his warmth and the fluffy blankets, the scent of apples and cinnamon weaved between the strands of his soft white hair as they tickle your flushed skin. his lips are soft and pliant and warm against your own; he's all over you, hands finding your wrists to trace tender, wobbly circles over your thrumming pulse with his thumb. he's robbing your lungs of air, needy in the way he cages you between his lanky limbs, lock and key with his free hand threading through your hair. he can never get enough of you, and he throws his inhibitions to the frostbitten wind if they mean learning to resist you.

it's spread around you like ripples on the surface of a misty lake, and when he draws away to stare down at you, eyes blown wide with a certain shine in his eye that reminds you of glowing embers, jumping from the lively blossom of fire on the grated dark metal of a hearth, there's a cheeky lopsided grin on his glossy lips. his fingers are slender, pale and callused, a gentle flushed at the tips.

"there was a mistletoe," he says breathlessly, as if that'll excuse him. as if he needs an excuse to kiss you. you just laugh, reaching up to trace his jaw with a finger, and he shudders despite the heater inside your room. the bunch of green leaves and red berries hanging above you sways in agreement.

but you can't focus on the dreamy look on his face; that lazy smile that dances over his lips and illuminates his features like twinkling christmas lights catching on each edge of a carefully cut snowflake, the sky's jewels. every time he looks at you as if you've crafted each intricacy of his world; patched the colors together and taught the light to reflect, you feel as though there are bubbles in your throat, and you have to cough them away when they're accompanied by a familiar rush of heat to your face.

it's all overpowered. strongly, by the rich taste of cinnamon. rich, sweet, distinctly festive, mixed with brown sugar and cookie batter; flour on the matching aprons satoru bought for the two of you, except the 'he' on 'he cooks' has been messily crossed out and replaced with a scribble that says 'she', and vice versa. it's on his tongue, his lips, the little dips on the corner of his mouth that makes him look like a kitten every time he grins. it tastes like wearing matching christmas sweaters, sampling sweet treats fresh out of the oven and laughing cheerily in your little cozy kitchen of warmth when he burns his tongue, a sour look on his face that wrinkles his nosebridge.

but, most importantly, it tastes like condemnation.

you sit up, briefly (and painfully) knocking foreheads with him when he's too slow to mirror your actions, but the complaint that's ready to stain the air like chimney soot dies on his tongue when he sees the look on your face. you look the same as you did the first time you found out he'd forgotten to pick up megumi and tsumiki from school. in other words, pissed.

"hey, pretty girl. you should smile; you look less like an ogre when you do—" he hastily starts, laughing nervously as he runs his hands through his messy hair. you've noticed that whenever you neglect to toy with the silky soft strands when you're tangled with him, whether it be kissing, cuddling, or... something else, he'll do it afterward as if to emulate the feeling of your fingers in his hair, even if it 'screws it up'. apparently, his skyscraper ego is too fragile to ask for headscratches.

"just a minute, satoru." you cut him off through gritted teeth, lips that should be stretched in a wide smile pressed together in frustration. your eyes narrow as you straighten up, sitting back on your ankles. "you ate them, didn't you?" your fingers dig into his skin, pinching his cheek. if his skin wasn't already stained crimson with boyish excitement, it would be an angry red now. you give killer pinches; he knows firsthand.

which is why he should've thought ahead and listened to the angel on his shoulder when you were knocked out earlier, curled up in a fluffy blanket on the couch, snoozing away. what was he to do? the cookies you'd made were calling his name. and it was for his birthday, and they were made for him. so why couldn't he indulge?

this was why.

and you know you've pinned him with your accusation like a throwing dart on a cork board; the way his gaze bounces around the room and his smile turns a hint sheepish and a handful guilty speaks volumes enough before he can even protest. but he can feel your wrath like an entire mine's worth of coal in his stockings, so he quickly throws his hands up, shimmying away from your angry pinch. the sheets bunch beneath him.

"listen, sweets, i just thought that— well, i'm sorry, baby, they just looked so good. and i only ate a few! i swear." satoru says solemnly, getting on his knees and throwing himself before you. he knows you're unamused— sitting there, crosslegged, looking down at him as if he's some chewed up gum you found on the bottom of your shoe. he might as well be. blueberry flavored, maybe? or mint, he's fine with that too—

"so you did." you just sigh, flicking his hunched shoulders, before you go soft again, and he sees pink. you reach forward, fingers creeping beneath his chin to tilt his face up. his skin is soft and warm beneath your skin, thrumming with a life and heat the poor overworked radiator in your room could never measure up to. and when he does look up, his starstruck gaze meets your own; you look ethereal in the warm light, and he wonders why he hasn't put a ring on your finger or started a family with you yet. maybe that can be the last gift to top off the cake of your overflowing knitted stocking, hanging from the kitchen counter; a mahogany box with golden hinges who's shine pales in comparison to the diamond ring in the center of the velvet.

he tucks the idea into his mental notes and grins, a cheeky flash of teeth. "so you forgive me, right?"

wrong. he should know better than to push his luck. especially when it comes to you.

the hand beneath his chin creeps up his face to squeeze his cheeks together, forcing his lips to pucker like a fish out of water as he tries to escape to no avail. you glare down at him, all needles. not at all in the holiday spirit, if you ask him. his face is squishy as a pillow beneath your fingers, and a smile resurfaces on your lips after a long struggle to keep it submerged.

he opens his mouth, no doubt to wail like a newborn, and you quickly withdraw, knowing better than to continue your assault. "geez! okay, fine. sorry. i ate them, you grinch." he grumbles, rubbing his squished cheek as he pouts and looks away, shrinking in on himself. his shirt is bundled beneath his arms, slipping off one of his shoulders to expose a pleasant flush on his neck. "seriously! you're such a killjoy. there's no fun in waiting," he smiles mischievously, wiggling his toes and nudging you with his foot. the fabric of his fuzzy reindeer socks bumps against your thigh, and you make another face at the red pom poms on the crudely-knit rudolph face.

"apologize." you emphasize each syllable, letting them fall off your tongue. they jut into his side like blows to his ribs; he falls back onto the bed for extra dramatics, letting it squeak beneath his weight.

"oh, the horror! to think that i'd be reduced to such a state—"

"satoru."

"—that i, head of the gojo clan, the honored one—”

"satoru gojo."

"should be forced to bow to such pious customs at the foot of scrooge—"

"gojo!"

you reach over to threateningly pinch him again, and he rolls away, tossing a fuzzy pillow into the air and kicking it at you like he's playing some cursed form of tennis. you scowl, catching the cushion and tossing it back at him. it lands square on his face, and he whines, crying about how you've ruined his beautiful, youthfully full, gorgeous face; how is he ever going to pretend to be santa and let pretty girls sit on his lap now? —and that one earns him another pinch to his arm.

"okay, okay! i'm sorry, my love. you're not the grinch, or scrooge, and i shouldn'tve eaten the cookies." he sighs, excruciatingly slow as he inches towards you again, wary of but wanting your warmth all the same. it's too cold to be alone this morning, anyway.

"without me." you corrected, unable to wipe the light grin from your face, and you watch as his face lights up, like a kid seeing his dream christmas present in the window display of a bright shop, hidden behind frosted glass and cold air.

he sits up again, scooting close and opening his arms once more. this time, you oblige, throwing yourself onto him and wrapping your arms around his neck. now he’s the one with his back flush against the mattress, soft as a cloud of cotton candy. he laughs, and it rumbles through his chest when his hands find the back of your head and he tucks your head beneath his chin, cradling your neck.

"without—" punctuated with a kiss to the top of your head, "you." satoru finishes, and you can hear the grin in his voice, cheery as a christmas carole. his arms snake around your waist, squeezing lightly as one hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt to gently rub your back. his fingers against your skin feels like the touch of a butterfly, wings like stained glass.

"how about this, pretty? we can make more together." he suggests, resting his chin on top of your head. you're smushed into his chest, the printed material of his christmas light t-shirt scratching your face, and the only thing you can manage to breathe is the cheap cologne you bought him (you don't understand why he uses it when he could afford the best of his own), but suddenly you can't bring yourself to mind. so you nod, and he chuckles.

"d'ya still wanna do cinnamon?" he asks softly, slipping his free hand into your hair to play with the strands, holding you close and cozy in his embrace. the burning heat of friction between your numb hands or a roaring fireplace don't compare to the warmth he brings you, soft and sweet and painfully human. and you can't really make yourself feel upset at the pretty boy with snow-white hair holding you anymore.

"nah. let's do peanut butter chocolate chip." you hum, muffled, and he laughs, hearty and full, the kind that makes his entire body tremble a little. and you can feel it, so you tilt your head up to peer up at him. there's a stray pine needle in his hair; must've been from your hazardously decorated christmas tree. he looks down at you and smiles, brushing your hair from your eyes and leaning in to kiss your forehead. it’s like a crimson wax stamp sealing his love letter to you.

he cuddles you close, tufts of his soft hair tickling your face like a tacky christmas sweater. "sounds unhealthy. but whatever you want, baby. santa's gonna give you all you ask this year." and this time, he doesn't use the mistletoe as an excuse to brush his lips against yours when you move to pick the pine needle from his hair. he smells like vanilla, swirled like espresso with a hint of cinnamon.

he may have enjoyed his cookies and milk without you, but there's nowhere else he’d rather be— no one else he'd rather share the rest of his time with, be it baking, decorating, or lazy naps in each other’s arms. after all, half the jolliness of the holiday season comes from being with you.

fish analogies went crazy… happy bday gojo !!! my (riaki) stuff. don't repost and/or plagiarize !