#gray does spring cleaning

[hoseoksluna]

ROSÉ | jjk

pairing: boyfriend!jungkook x wine!oc

genre: smut

word count: 5.7k

summary: on your first dinner date, your boyfriend brings you a small gift—too bad you're too horny to appreciate it.

pinterest board: wine

warnings: a bit of drunkenness, a mention of inner child healing, oc teases jungkook and oc is horny as fuck, dom/sub dynamics, wine!jk, provider jk..., daddy issues, punishment, spanking, food used during intercourse, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), dirty talk, a mention of a sex toy & a mention of a plushie in a sexual context, raw sex, brattiness, jk and oc smoke together

note: OH GOD—IT'S FINALLY HERE. SLFJSLDFJS. A REQUESTED DRABBLE about wine!oc and jungkook. this was so fucking fun to write and i was so hot and bothered from this that i had to take a break............ yeah uhm anyways, I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS. ENJOY READING AND LEMME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK ANONYMOUSLY IN MY INBOX. I NEED YOUR THOUGHTS. PLS AND THANK YOU. ₊˚⊹♡

side note: jk in the first pic made me fucking die. and other things....

The rosy pink nectar has, undeniably, gone to your head. 

Your empty wine glass is illuminated by the setting sunlight spilling past your shoulder, reaching its yellow, warm fingers to the tips of your boyfriend’s that rest lazily on the white cloth of the table. You’re woozy, in a lighthearted mood—so much that even the world has lost its heft and all you can sense is the sluggish process of your absorption. You’re engrossed in the way the spring coalesces with the beginning of summer—in the warm evening wind ruffling your curls, tickling your bare shoulders, in the darkening hues of the sky, pinks and violets, in the gray smoke of Jungkook’s cigarette interlacing with the slightly sultry air. You can see it in his eyes, the unfolding of it all. And perhaps you’re tipsy or perhaps you’re just brazenly and foolishly falling in love, because you’re aware that if the man weren’t sitting in front of you, none of these things wouldn’t have caught your attention in such a devastatingly profound way. 

He has made you feel so safe. By simply and beautifully laying his feelings bare. To you and for you. Created a haven for you to dwell in, for you to grow in and explore all the dark and light corners of you that have merely seldom seen the face of the sun. How could you not indulge in a little bit of alcohol, when you’re protected in that place of security? Let your girlishness swim a little, refresh herself, enjoy herself?

You’re glowing. You always had been, but your shimmers have gained a new intensity to their twinkles, keeping Jungkook’s liquid stars warm and taken care of inside of you. Their blunt points have carved you into someone else entirely, too. Joyous, cool-headed and absolutely and irrevocably self-assured. Fearless. And his hands have reached deep within and caressed the head of your inner child, healing her and washing her clean, giving her everything she ever lacked. Love, attention, care and validation. Whenever you remember that you never wanted him to get a glimpse of your soul, bile rises in your throat and your stomach hurts.

He saved you. Healed you. Through and through. Gave you his control.

It stirs your never-ending awe that he has managed to do this in a month, and you want to celebrate it. You think now is quite the perfect occasion for it as it’s your first dinner date since you’ve become exclusive. Having spent most of your time at each other’s places fucking, partying and fucking some more, it’s nice to be out, alone with him, that is—and it’s nice as fuck to be out with your boyfriend. The sex has become so different with the label and the rawness of his feelings. And the thing about Jungkook that gets you the most, that strengthens the realm he invented for you, is that once his emotions overflow, the stream of its wine doesn’t stop pouring. The moment he confessed his love for you, ever since then you sense it expressed in everything he does—in the way he greets you in the day, in his tight, burning embrace, in the tenderness with which he holds your hand or kisses it, the relentless, great thought and consideration he puts in the choices he makes for you on the daily. Whether it’s the fatuous things he buys you that mean the world to you, the way he never neglects bunny and incorporates her in everything you do together or… the sex. 

Fuck, the sex alone has taken over your life so vividly and drastically that it consumes your brain. There, in that environment, is where the wine of his emotions is the raciest. He’s not ashamed to cry, letting those liquid pearls trickle down your collarbones, quenching the thirst of his liquid stars as he fucks you dumb and enjoys every second of it. He’s not afraid to be loud either. To talk you through your orgasm with even more care and detail than you were accustomed to in the past. 

He’s become boundless. And it’s the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen in your life. 

God, you’d be crazy not to let yourself fall for him—

“I got you dessert,” Jungkook husks, digging his fingers into the pocket of his pants while his other digits draw close to his mouth. He takes a drag of his cigarette, crinkling his eyes so the smoke wouldn’t get into them and you beam at him with a fire that’s more scorching than the sun’s ever been in centuries, heart doing somersaults at the thought of him thinking of you and spending money on you again. And, also, at how hot he looks while he smokes.

Your love language must be gift-giving. You don’t know what else to connect it to, the joy that envelops your entire being whenever he gives you something. It doesn’t even have to be expensive, nor does he have to pay for it at all. Drawings have become your favorite keepsakes—drawings of his Miffy bunny, drawings of flowers, of you. You’ve hidden them away in a box along with everything he’s ever brought you, except the white bunny ring because you wear it daily and one small, particular drawing that you’ve put inside your glittery phone case. 

A cutesy marker sketch of him and you. His arm around your shoulders. Bunny sitting on your laps in the middle, as if she were your own child. Cheeks big and bubbly, pink and twinkling. Your curls the way you wear them; his mullet. A perfect depiction of the pair of you. You gaze at it every single day—prefer to now put your phone face down because of it. 

You’re tracing it now with the pad of your finger as you wait for him to reveal your mystery gift to you. The bulby heads, the cheeks, Miffy’s ears. Jungkook puts out his cigarette, puffing out the smoke, away from you, and once he’s done, he taps the back of your hand. Turns it over and spreads out your fingers, inserting, at a snail's pace, something round but slender at the same time, smiling adoringly at you. 

What a sight to behold. It steals, fleetingly, your attention away from his hand. 

Slicked back mullet, twinkles taking laps in his soft eyes, blushed cheekbones and stretched, pouty mouth, shiny with his liquid love. Long neck that you’d like to devour now, the broadness of his shoulders and chest that could come second as a plain, dark beige shirt accentuates his hard work at the gym. 

Oh, fuck. Your nipples pebble against your carmine tube top. 

Jungkook withdraws his hand and with blurry eyes, you look at the thing he placed in your palm. 

Chupa Chups. Strawberry and cream. 

Your mouth parts and it’s a concoction of a gasp and a sound of endearment when the realization that he got you a lollipop sinks in. Your heart flips and does a head stand. Lips round into a pout, drunk eyes softening, its twinkles growing in size and light. It’s like he gave you something golden, when in fact it costs a few wons, but to you it’s exactly that. Something so precious. 

You give him an air kiss, bouncing in your seat in joy, fingers already destroying the wrapper. “Thank you so…”

Your brows furrow as the wrapper remains intact. You do a bad, bad job of picking at the tape around the slender stick, your long manicured hands absolutely useless—and the cause of your frustration. You puff out an angry gust of breath, trying harder to get to the sweet delight and it’s at that moment that your boyfriend takes it from your hands with a deep chuckle. 

“You silly boo, this is how you do it.” Jungkook pinches the wrapper around the stick and he merely, in a few swift motions, twists the ball until it lets go. He scrunches it in his fists and throws it away in the ashtray. Smirks smugly, leans his elbows on the table, draws close to you. You mirror his position, get to him almost nose to nose, and his smirk deepens, tongue darting out to lick across his lips. You do the same, eyeing the round pinkness in his hand, the sexual attraction and its tension soaring high between you.

Without your hands, you could put it in your mouth, mimic the way you do it on his own tip and make him lose his mind a little bit. It’s right here, an inch away and you dip your head towards it, a magnetic pulling drawing you naturally to it. Sense his gaze on you, sense his delight, sense the flashback glimmering across the wholeness of him. But before you could wrap your lips around it, he moves it out of your reach. 

“No,” Jungkook murmurs, breath slightly ragged, holds it up in front of your face, watches as you go cross-eyed a little bit. Hums at the sight, quietly enough for only you to hear. “If you want it, ask for it nicely.” 

His puffy lips being so close to you, you desire to kiss him—cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink, his oh-so-loved dominance fucking with your drunkenness and your brain, body altogether. You tip your head to the side, flutter your lashes, make your eyes big and smile at him as sweetly as you can. 

He coos, validating you, and it is a force that makes you feel safe enough to submit to him like a small animal to its father. Safe enough to want to get under the table and make him feel really, really good, too. 

“Can I have the lollipop, please?” 

He groans, still quietly, and your panties drench immediately. You widen your eyes at him, feeling your slick, pursing your lips to scold him silently. He just laughs, amused by it all, and the sound of his joy fills you with elation.

One that darkens, when he asks, “Where?” 

You lick your lips, taking in the question, struck by it. Letting your mind wander, the places where you want it, except your mouth, is on your nipples and your clit. Nicely sweet and sticky—for him to clean up, for him to enjoy. Your dewiness soaks the material of your panties and your body begins to yearn for any kind of friction. You’re not sure whether you’re able to stick around in your chair, acting as if nothing’s wrong—acting as if you’re not stupendously horny. 

“In my mouth.” 

Jungkook makes a noise of appreciation and you’re so frustrated by all those sounds he makes that you want to dig your nails in his arms and make him pay for it. Even more so, when he plunges the lollipop into his mouth and his lips pucker around it, inciting the butterflies in your tummy to go absolutely fucking berserk. You place your hand on his bicep, nails ready to attack, but then he pulls out the treat with a pop, angling it at your mouth. 

“Open.” 

You thought he stole it from you, but he did no such thing. He wetted it for you, like a father for its child. You’re stupefied to the point that you don't even realize that you’re leaving a mark on the linen material of your seat. 

You do open your mouth for him, however. 

He twists the ball on your tongue, expecting you to close your mouth around the stick, but you don’t. No, you swirl that muscle around the candy, deepening your gaze, smirking. Jungkook stills, clenches his strong jaw. Darkness flicks across his eyes and he narrows them. First warning. 

You pretend you don’t see it. 

Closing your mouth and encasing your hand around his, you move the lollipop to the side of your cheek, acting as if it were his dick. And when you bob your head once, Jungkook tugs on the stick, wanting to pull it out, but you don’t let him, keeping it caged between your teeth. It only drives you to bob your head again.  

“Stop,” he says, voice calm, deep and serious—terribly deadly. Withdraws his hand and leans back, watching you with a predatory gaze, one that makes you even wetter. “Or we’re going home.” 

That’s exactly what you want. Instructions clear. 

You open your mouth and do a show of swirling your tongue around the ball, only this time you flick the muscle against it. Jungkook grips the table, knuckles white, and you laugh, which you soon realize was a grave mistake. 

“You think it’s funny?” he questions you, staring you down with a look that should frighten you, but it merely turns you on. You suck on the lollipop, the dulciness of strawberries suffusing your senses. “I’ll bend you over this fucking table, lift up that slutty little skirt and spank you in front of everyone.” 

You pull out the candy with an exaggerated pop. Scowl at him. As though his words didn’t affect you the way that they did—as though you’re not squeezing your thighs together, trying to gain that friction you so desperately need. “Why are you so angry?” 

He looks away for a moment, laughing silently. Nods his head at your wine glass. “You finished with your wine, baby?” 

It’s this pleasantness that you hear in this voice that spreads goosebumps across your skin. Feigned sugariness—the sunlight right before the clouds come in and thunder strikes; the calm before the storm. 

Good thing you’re dressed for the rain and ready to sing in it. 

You nod your head and Jungkook clicks his tongue, grabs you by your hand whilst he pulls out his wallet. You accompany him as he walks over to the bar, black card ready between his fingers. Waits to be noticed. Gives you a look over and fixes your skirt, pulling the hem down. 

Pays for you. Smiles down at you as he pockets his wallet. 

And then, he drags you to his car. 

Perhaps it’s the fresh air, perhaps it’s the briskness in his walk and the tight hold around your hand, but all intoxication evaporates from your body, leaving only your stained elation and neediness. You can’t help your smile. Think it must be sewn in at this point. By his own diligent fingers. 

A wind blows in, pulling your hair to your front and Jungkook pins you against his car. Tits squished against the passenger side, elbows pressed together. Eyes wide, you check your surroundings and find no one in sight. Only swaying trees, buildings of apartments, lamps illuminating the dark street. You relax right away, trusting Jungkook that he’s on the lookout and knows what he’s doing. 

He grinds his hips against your backside and you moan at the feeling of his hard length. With his free hand, he brushes your hair to one side and begins to pepper kisses along the curve of your neck, nuzzling his face in. Hovers his lips above your ear when he says, “You feel how hard you made me with your little show?” You nod, quickly, wanting more of him, wanting him inside of you. Push your hips back; twirl them in slow circles. Jungkook hisses. “I guess you really do want that spanking. Where’s your lollipop?” You show him your hand, where your treat remains uneaten and dry. He takes it from you and you turn your head in time to see him sink it into his mouth, placing it on the side of his mouth like you did. “Get inside the car.” 

Jungkook opens the door for you and forces you in, closing it with a harsh thud. As he rounds the vehicle, he makes eye contact with you and your tummy flips in response. 

Fuck. 

Nothing happens in a millisecond once he’s seated, but then he grabs your cheeks, squishing them in the way he likes, and kisses you hard, lollipop in hand. Moving his mouth against yours, his tongue only briefly greets you before he pulls away. “Naughty fucking girl. You’re lucky that I love you because otherwise…” He doesn’t finish his sentence with words, but with another kiss, breathing against you, grunting when it’s you this time that slips the tongue inside, playing with him the same way you played with the dessert he got you. “Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me. I’m gonna put you in your fucking place, make you remember how to behave in public. You’ve forgotten, haven't you?” 

You don’t have time to react, you merely bite your lip so hard that it aches. Jungkook pushes you back and yanks your leg between his, lifting your skirt. Then, he hovers his palm above your ass, the other forearm resting on the top of the seat, lollipop dangling near your head. He hides his smirk behind his effort to flatten his lips. 

And when he spanks you, you don’t roll your eyes back and rasp like your body naturally wants you to. No, you hold the eye contact and you take the pain, letting it course through your body, reveling in it. He doesn’t say anything as he keeps going, alternating between slapping your now reddened cheeks and the back of your thigh. Doesn’t even stroke the skin to alleviate the burn. He solely bores his gaze into yours, his cock rock hard against your leg. Another set of words are exchanged, silently, deeply, teaching you your lesson in tandem with the hits, burying it to a great depth inside you. 

And then he finishes with a nasty kiss, but his hand resumes causing you pain. You’ve lost count of how many spanks you’ve taken. 

It’s like you’ve woken up from a trance. It reverberates throughout your entire body and it’s now that you allow your body to vocally react. You whine, rounding your mouth in a pout, so different from the one on the dinner date. And you remember your manners—perceive how wrong it was to tease him, even though a good half of you still takes delight in it. 

“It hurts,” you whisper, nudging your lips against him and he gives you your last spank—the hardest of them all. The infliction makes you flutter your eyes shut and Jungkook brings them back to him by caressing his knuckles down your flushed cheek. 

“Good, you remember how to behave now?” he asks, halting his movement, such piercing intensity in his irises that drive you to nod your head. “That’s my good little girl.” Taps the side of your thigh. “Let Daddy make it better now.” 

You open your legs for him and Jungkook pushes your soaked panties to the side, revealing your little bedewed seashell. He hums at the sight of her, pops the lollipop back inside his mouth. Collects your arousal by swirling the pads of his middle and ring finger around your hole, eyes flicking from your pussy to your own, groaning when he comes into contact with your swollen clit, rubbing slow circles. You whimper, bucking your hips, needing him to go faster, needing to come. 

Jungkook shakes his head, disapproving. “You take what I give you or I’ll stop.” Lifts his hand to express the gravity of his threat and you help, wrapping both hands around his and putting it back on your bundle of nerves. He chuckles at your desperation, giving you the same circles, though now firmer. 

Waves the lollipop near your lips. You open your mouth, instinctively, and he plunges it into your mouth for a mere second before he pulls away, growling at the sound that comes out. He does it again, fucking you with it in a way, just to hear that pop and he’s so pleased with it that he sinks those two fingers inside your heat, fully, in one ego. Keeps them there. Teases you. Hovers the lollipop out of your reach and you decide to fuck with him back. Darting out your tongue, you whirl it around the flat side and he swears, moaning, giving to you at last. 

He latches his mouth onto your neck, starting the drill of his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so hot.” 

He picks up the speed so rapidly that you scream, squeezing your eyes shut, the pleasure permeating your body so vastly that you quiver all over. Grab a hold of his hair, pulling on it and then—

Then, he withdraws his fingers. Ruins your orgasm. 

You pant, trying to catch your breath. “Please, Jungkook, please—”

He nudges his nose against yours. “What, baby?” 

“I need to come, please.” 

Jungkook tuts, kissing you once. “I thought we could play.” Plunges the lollipop into your mouth to wet it. Shows it to you, just to see you go cross-eyed again. Moans. “Where do you want it, hm?” 

Ever the angel that makes your fantasies come to life. You wrap your fingers around his hand, butterflies swarming in your tummy. Lead him towards your still clothed breasts. “Here.” Take him to your drooling pussy. “And here.” 

Jungkook makes a sound of approval. Descends his fingers a little lower, to your other hole, circles it. “What about here?” 

You giggle, but you shake your head. The idea may be intoxicating, however reality is much different. There’s a risk to putting any sweetened food inside, one you don’t want to deal with. 

Jungkook smiles at you, pushes your seat back and slides it in the same direction. Crawls over you and you feel so feminine, so sexy underneath him. Nipples perked under your top, breasts full and spilling. You arch your back towards him and Jungkook drags his thumb from your bottom lip, to your chin, neck, the dip of your collarbones until he reaches the hem of your Tom and he tugs it down so harshly that you can’t contain your very own concoction of a gasp and moan. 

Lollipop in mouth, one hand propped by your head, the other squeezes your breast hard, nearing it, fingers pinching your nipple. Makes the flesh as red as your ass. You can tell he likes the view by the way he coos, but then he wipes all your thoughts away, when he sucks hard on the candy and swirls it around your stiffened nub, gaze flicked to yours to watch your reaction. 

The pleasure is so vivid, so dizzying—and for him, you let it paint your face in all its colors. Brows scrunched, bedroom eyes, mouth parted, puffing out desperate breaths. Jungkook sucks it again and smears his saliva around your other nipple, taking his time, slapping the ball once against it, making you hiss. 

“It feels so good,” you murmur, sinking your fingers into the longer length on the back of his hair, bringing his mouth to yours. You kiss him with a verve that causes him to groan. You swallow that sound, satisfied. 

He grins at you. “I bet.” 

Dips his head and envelops that sugar-coated nub with his warm lips, sucking it hard. His groan spreads there, deepens there and you arch your back even more, pulling his head to your other nipple so he can do the same thing. Join your other hand to his hair and do whatever you please—turn his head side to side, from one nub to the other—and he lets you, giving you, momentarily, his control. You feel your essence soaking the seat beneath you and you thank the heavens that the fabric is one of leather. You lift his head and try to push it down, but he won’t budge. Stares you down instead, lustfully. 

“Where do you want me?” he asks, a wrinkle between brows. “Be a good girl and tell me.” Pops the lollipop back in his mouth.

You sigh, kissing him once on the side of his neck, using your tongue. Make sure you’re looking at him as you reply, “On my clit.” 

He moans, eyes woozy, finger on the stick as he sucks the candy, clefts of dimples on either side of his cheeks. You palm his length, your own digits rounding across his tight balls and he whisks his irises back, grinding into your hand. “You want a lickie?” 

“Yes, so bad, please.” 

He hums and kneels before you, kissing your clit once in greeting. Then, he flattens his tongue and licks a fat stripe across your whole femininity—from your slit, to your swollenness. Hands on your hips, index curled around the lollipop, he holds you steady, prevents you from meeting him, as he stimulates you like this. Up and down, tongue rolling, eyes fixed on you, devouring you. And when he stops to suck your clit, he taps your mouth once with the ball of the lollipop. The act of sucking on something while you’re getting pleasured like this almost throws you over the edge, your body coated in a layer of sweat, but Jungkook withdraws in time. Presses the delight in the middle and rubs small circles, just to prepare you for the big thing. You become so whiny, so loud that his eyes grow in size, watching you in awe. 

To reward you for such beauty, he rapidly strums it from side to side, causing you to nearly levitate, but he pins you down. Wetting it and placing it back down, grunting at the aftertaste of you mixed with the sweetness. 

And he can’t resist. Can’t hold back. The wrinkle between his brows deepens when he tastes you, licking you all over, tongue stopping occasionally its feast to flick at your clit before he swallows you whole. Grunts, sucks, licks. Eyes closed to savor the taste. The pressure in your core heightens, even more so when he lifts your legs, greedy for the side dish in the form of your other hole. You’re so close that you might burst. 

“You taste so fucking good, baby. So sweet. Come on my tongue, please, I want more of you.” 

He wants more of your taste. 

You come so hard that your orgasm takes you to an open sea, your body floating on calm waves, to and fro, eyes rolled to the sky—to the sunroof—seeing nothing but the elegance of the twinkling stars and deep purple clouds. 

“That’s it, baby, so good. That’s my little girl.” He slaps the side of your thigh, bringing you back to him. “Listening so well, learning her lesson, coming so hard. I’m proud.” 

His words alone could make you come again, but you’re distracted.

Jungkook unbuttons his pants and pulls out his manhood. Stroking himself, he lines his tip at your mouth. He doesn’t even have to tell you to open up—you do it yourself. Holding it at the base, he stuffs your throat right away, a guttural chuckle emitting out of his mouth when you gag. He pulls out to where you’re comfortable having him and you begin to bob your head, like you did with the lollipop. 

“Yes, suck it like that, my love. Daddy loves it when you do that.” 

His precum on your tongue, the way he’s holding himself, the position and his words—you moan around him, so out of your mind, so fucked out. And when he fucks your mouth, it turns you on so much that you go cross-eyed. 

Jungkook pulls out quickly, as if the sight of it alone was about to make him come. A string of your saliva from his tip drips onto your chest and he slides into your mouth again just to poke your cheek, just to mimic what you did with the lollipop. You whine, liking it so much, to the point that he drills this tender place of yours until he can’t take it enough. 

“Turn around.” You try to, but your legs are jelly. He manhandles you to the position he wants—on your knees, tits against the leather, arms around the headrest, the formerly abused cheek against it. “Hold onto it. Too bad we left bunny at home, huh?” 

Jungkook runs his cock across your pussy and you grind against it, needing the friction after the way he used you. You whimper for him. “She’s probably wondering where we are right now and why we’re taking so long.” 

“I’ll make it up to her.” He presses his length against your clit, encouraging you to use him back. “Rub your pussy like that on me, fuck.” He moves so it’s his tip that stimulates you. You ride him harder, moaning loudly against the leather. “You can make it up to her, too. Can ride her like I know you can. With a vibrator between your legs and hers, hm? How you like the sound of that?” 

You’re so close you could come in a second, but you don’t want it like this. You need him inside of you. “Shut up, I’m literally gonna come like this. Fuck me.” 

He fists your hair. Pain shoots up your scalp and he ruts into your heat. Fully. Until his pelvis collides with your ass. You scream. 

Lips by your ear. “Is this how you talk to your Daddy?” He begins to pump into your little tight hole. Mercilessly. The leather squeaks, a horrible, rapid sound that you can only faintly hear because all that your senses can focus on is his cock. “Your Daddy that loves you so much?” 

You come, pathetically. Sea and waves, palm trees that sway. Your legs tremble, but he keeps going, mouthing the shape of your ear. 

He tsks. “I’m gonna tell bunny on you. Maybe I’ll be the one who gets to fuck her while you watch.” He gives you a hard stroke, one that is followed by rapid thrusts that scramble your brain. “She’ll be so disappointed to hear how bad you’ve been, but I’ll make sure to tell her how hard I fucked it out of you.” 

Lifting you from the leather, he kneads your breasts, placing the lollipop in between and holding it up by squishing them. 

“Come on, get your lollipop.” He bounces your tits in his hands, signalizing you that he wants you to do it with your mouth. 

But you can’t do it. You come, majestically, your senses leaving you and wafting in the stuffed air of the car. Boneless, you sag in his arms. 

Jungkook coos. “You come so well around me that I’ll be good to you. You’re just a cockslut, aren’t you, baby? You just can’t help it, hm?” He puts the lollipop inside your mouth, chasing his so-needed release. 

It doesn’t take long for him to find the footsteps into that bliss that you left in your wake. He holds you like this, against him, tits spilling over his forearms as he jackhammers into you so hard that your whole body bounces, shakes and reacts to each grunt, to each whimper, to each kiss he presses onto your skin. 

With the little of the brain you have left, you decide to talk him through it—because he fucks you so good. 

“Come for me, Daddy, yes, please, fuck. Fill me up with your cum. I want it so bad, I want to feel you—” His cock twitches in you, but he continues, sloppily. “Yes, so good. That’s it. Come for your little girl, Jungkook.” A loud groan. A tight hold. A spurt of his cum inside your walls. You whimper and he fucks it deeper into you, giving you more of his liquid stars. “Jungkook, oh fuck, Jungkook, oh yes.” 

And it’s that never-ending litany of his name that helps him chase his high to the fullest. He kisses your neck hard in gratitude for helping him come, marking you, marking this memory. 

You stay like this for a little while. Sweaty, sticky, spent, breathing hard—lungs synced. 

A warm announcement sneaks to your heart, one that screams it into the drowsy skies once Jungkook pulls out of you, turns you around and, stealing your candy, kisses you. 

An announcement that you’re deeply and irrevocably in love with him. 

“You sounded just like me.” He finishes your lollipop for you, chewing the small bulby head as he dresses you and his cum spills onto your panties. 

Your smile is dopey, satisfied and you’re ready for sleep to take you, but Jungkook gets out of the car for a smoke. You think you need one, too, after what you’ve experienced together, and so you follow him out into the night on wobbly legs. 

He leans against his car, a cigarette in his mouth, one hand cupping the fire as he flicks his lighter to life. You wait until he puffs out the smoke into the air before you fold into the side of his body, stealing his cigarette and inhaling it, giving it back to him. 

Jungkook pats your head, rubbing your scalp, chin propped on it. “I didn’t mean what I said. You were perfect. I’m not telling shit to bunny, I promise.” 

You smile, fondly. Didn’t take his words seriously, not at all, but you’re grateful for the reassurement regardless. It’s just role-play, nothing else. 

“I know, baby,” you say, softly, massaging his stomach, going as far as under his shirt to feel his bare skin—ever so innocently. 

“I wanted to fuck you the moment you sat down. You’re just my little helper and because of that I’m glad we’re going home with my cum in your panties,” he whispers, placing the cigarette on your lips, so you can take a drag. “You deserve every drop.” 

You feel that familiar ache rooting in your core again, but you don’t think you can take another round. Jungkook lifts your chin, making you look at him. Twinkles, bigger than the ones of the stars up above, living in his soft eyes. That cute nose. Those pouty lips. His silky, dreamy heart that looks out for you and puts you first. 

The three words that you’ve never told him before rise up your body and you think now is the perfect occasion to say them. 

“I love you.” 

Wetness coats his eyes and the twinkles broaden, saturating them with an unfathomable, fulging light. He flicks his cigarette away, presses you closer to him and with his now free hand, he cups your face. Kisses you. For a long, long time. 

“I love you.” 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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[j-k-writes]

The Bronze Targaryen

Summary - After his mother's death in 115 AC Y/N Targaryen is summoned by his father Daemon to King's Landing in the hopes of forming a betrothal between the new heir to Runstone and Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Warnings - General HOTD warnings, Canon character death, grief and mourning (if I miss any let me know)

I tried my best with the timelines and research but between the books and show it's so convoluted so forgive me for any mistakes

A fifth arrow hit the target with a soft ‘thump’ as the sky transformed the already slick training ground further and further into mud. (Y/N) pulled a sixth arrow from his quiver, wiping the metal tip clean of any rain, before notching it and drawing the bow string back. 

“I think you’ve proved your mettle M’lord.” Called a voice from behind the young heir. 

(Y/N) turned his head, making eye contact with Osric Stone, “Leave me Osric.” 

The (H/C) teen returned to his target, drawing the string back again. He loosed the arrow and smiled to himself when he heard soft clapping from behind him. Tearing his eyes away from the target once more, (Y/N) faced the stable boy. 

“Very impressive, M’lord.” Osric smiled at him, “Now, will you please come inside?” 

“Has my mother returned from her hunt?” 

“No M’lord-” 

(Y/N) turned from the bastard boy, pulling another arrow, “Then I shall wait here until she does.” 

“You will be ill if you stay out here any longer M’lord.” 

“It’s a spring rain Osric I will survive.” He released his arrow, smirking as it pierced another down the middle. “I will remain until my mother arrives, it shall not be long now.” 

He heard Osric sigh behind him, “‘M’lord I beg you.” 

“Osric,” (Y/N) turned to face the stable boy, temper rising. He yearned to be left alone, his mother had promised she would not be gone more than a few days and yet it had been a full week since (Y/N) had last heard from her. He knew his grandfather was not worried, but (Y/N) could not help the shivers that raced down his spine when he thought of his mother’s tardiness. “I like you, but remember that I am your lord not your friend.” 

Osric straightened, “I will leave you M’lord.” 

(Y/N) sighed as he watched the stable boy retreat. He had not meant to snap at Osric, who was, no matter what he said, his friend- perhaps his closest one. But he often said things he did not mean in fits of anger, his mother did not comment on the trait, but he knew she saw him behind (Y/N)’s violet eyes when his words burned poor lords who had the misfortune of catching her heir at the wrong moment. 

He rolled his shoulder’s back, wincing at the pain of stretching the taught muscles, and pulled another arrow out of his quiver. Banishing his thoughts of worry he continued his shooting. 

“My lord,” (Y/N) tore his eyes away from his blade, setting the sharpening block down on his table. “Your grandsire requests your presence in his chambers. He claims it’s urgent.” 

(Y/N) shot up from his seat, dread coiling deep in his gut. As he strode through the halls of Runestone he already knew what news would await him when he reached his grandsire. He’d known the news was coming for days since they sent a party after his mother on the fifth day she failed to return. 

His hand shook as he brought his fist up to knock upon the door to his grandsire’s chambers. Maester Pate opened the door, his face conveying the grim news to (Y/N) before his grandsire even had the chance to speak. 

“They have found her.” (Y/N) spoke, stepping into his room and coming face to face with his grandsire. 

Yorbert sighed, rubbing his gray brows, “Yes.” 

“Is she-” (Y/N)’s voice trembled, not daring to speak his worst fear aloud. Yorbert motioned for his grandson to sit. When (Y/N) complied, he spoke. 

“She is alive but not well.” His grandsire paused, throat working as he struggled to speak, “It is said she fell from her horse and suffered a grave injury. Maester Pate-” 

“I want to see her.” (Y/N) stood, the force of his movement causing his chair to fall back against the floor. He whipped around to face the maester, who took a step back from the heir. “Where is she? Take me to her.” 

“(Y/N) please,” His grandsire said, “You must listen. You are now the heir to Runestone-” 

“You said she lived.” His grandsire paused at his interruption. 

“What?” 

“You said she lived, I cannot be heir to Runestone unless my mother has passed.” 

“(Y/N) please, sit back down.” 

Against his wishes (Y/N) complied, picking his chair up from where it had fallen and retaking his seat. When his grandsire spoke again (Y/N) seethed, there was no doubt among the Vale that the Lady Rhea was one of the best hunters in the Vale, for her to fall off her horse bad enough to be on her death bed seemed folly to her son. His hands shook as he reached past Yorbert and grabbed the pitcher of wine filling the cup placed in front of him to the brim. His grandsire sighed as he watched (Y/N) tip the cup back before standing once again. 

“I will see her.” (Y/N) steadied his voice as he spoke, “I would say my goodbyes before she passes.” 

His grandsire nodded, granting (Y/N) his leave. 

He almost returned to his grandsire when he saw what had become of his lady mother. 

She lay pale and gaunt amongst the white sheets of her bed. Her eyes were shut, and the bandage that covered her wound, brown and red with blood, messed her already tangled hair further. 

(Y/N) took his place by her side, reaching out to grasp her frail hand. “Do not let anyone in without my grandsire’s leave or mine.” 

Maester Pate nodded, closing the door behind him on his way out of the room. As the door shut with a soft click, (Y/N) returned to his mother, his tears finally coming as he watched her chest move silently. He wiped furiously at the tears spilling down his cheeks. He placed his mother’s hand on his cheek, shivering at its chill. 

“Mother,” He whispered, “They say you fell, but- but I do not believe it. Tell me what happened mother, please.” 

His mother stayed silent, eyes still closed. He doubted she was awake to hear him, but he kept speaking. He begged her to wake, to live, to speak to him, to do anything but lay there like she was already dead. He spoke about how he waited for days for her return, how he’d snapped at Osric, and how he’d apologized later. He prayed to the old gods for her recovery, and cursed his mother for refusing his wish to join her on her hunt. 

He was half-asleep in his chair when she finally woke. 

“(Y/N).” 

He opened his eyes and sat at alert at the sound of her raspy voice. 

“Mother.” 

She smiled at him, “My boy.” 

“Mother what happened.” 

Rhea paused, and (Y/N) feared she’d slipped into unconsciousness once again. She licked her lips, giving him a faint apologetic smile, “I fell from my horse.” 

“No.” (Y/N) shook his head, “Mother you would not-” 

She shushed him and he quieted, “Listen to me, do not look for vengeance where there is none. It was an accident, nothing more.” She paused before continuing, “I am sorry. You are so young, too young.” 

“I am ten and seven mother.” 

She laughed softly, wincing at the pain it brought her. “Again, too young. But you will be a good heir, as I always knew you would be.” She intertwined her fingers with his, face turning serious, “Do not let your father’s rot reach you, you will be safe from it here, but here alone.” 

“Mother what-” 

A haze covered her gaze and her coughing interrupted his question, causing him to yell for Maester Pate. He was pushed out of the way by his grandsire as Maester Pate rushed to his mother offering her milk of the poppy. She refused him, asking for (Y/N) but as (Y/N) attempted to approach her his grandsire held him back. 

“She is not right of mind, boy.” 

She shook with pain as she cried for him, and (Y/N) had to turn his face into his fist to muffle his sobs. Maester Pate soothed her and offered her milk and poppy once again, which she accepted. Minutes later she slipped into unconsciousness, and later that night as (Y/N) sat vigil by her bedside she took her final breath.

The letter came three weeks after his mother’s death. 

(Y/N) had been unconsolable the days following his mother's death. Confining himself to his chambers he left the plates of food left by his bedside virtually untouched, only exiting his bed to empty the pitchers of wine left by servants until his grandsire ordered them to leave no more. He lay unwashed in his bed, ignoring the pleas by both his grandsire and maester to eat and bathe. On the fifth day of his grief-stricken haze, his cousin dragged him from the bed, easily fighting off his weak attempts at breaking free. 

“Let go of me!” 

His cousin held him tighter, dragging him toward the bath, “You cannot let yourself rot any longer, (Y/N). It’s been almost a week, I understand your grief but we must bury your mother and your grandsire will only do so with your presence.” 

(Y/N) yelped as he hit the water, still fully clothed. He thrashed harder, only causing Gerold to hold him tighter. 

“I am sorry, but we cannot delay any longer.” Gerold gave him a pitiful look as he shivered at the cold water, the fight leaving him as exhaustion and hunger finally caught up with the young heir. “Bathe, and then eat. After the funeral I will let you get your revenge against me, but you must gain your strength back, cousin. Weakness is not a good look on you.” 

“Leave me.” (Y/N) slumped into the water, shaky hands coming to unlace his tunic. His cousin nodded, leaving him with a soft pat on his shoulder. 

(Y/N) tossed his soaked underclothes onto the floor, mentally apologizing to the poor servants sent to clean the chamber. He washed quickly, wishing the water was at least tepid instead of frigid, but he supposed it would’ve been warmer if he’d bathed when he was first asked to. Servants came in silently as he bathed, leaving fresh clothes by his bed and a plate of food by the bath. 

He ate and dressed, grimacing at the dark bruises under his violet eyes and the (H/C) stubble littering his face. He left his weapons in his chambers, and headed to meet his grandsire. His grandsire looked relieved at the sight of him, greeting him at the door to his chambers. 

“I am glad to see you out of bed, (Y/N).” His grandsire smiled at him, placing his hand on his grandson's cheek. 

(Y/N) looked to his cousin Ser Gerold, giving him a small nod before speaking, “I did not have much choice in the matter, but I apologize for my absence.” 

“Nonsense,” His grandsire shook his head, “We all grieve in our own ways.” 

His grandsire brought him close, allowing him to rest his head atop his shoulder. He whispered comforting words to his heir, sitting (Y/N) down gently by his side as he explained the funeral rites prepared for his mother and his new responsibilities as the sole heir to Runestone. 

He stood by his grandsire and cousin's side as his mother was buried, staring at the crypt in silence hours after the funeral was over. It was only when his cousin came to retrieve him for supper that he finally moved from his spot. 

The weeks after his mother’s burial passed (Y/N) by in a haze. His new responsibilities as heir of Runestone left him too preoccupied to wallow in his grief. He spent his days by his grandsire's side helping him run Runestone, and in the training yard training with the Master-at-arms and defeating the poor squires and knights who reluctantly took up arms against him. 

He was with his grandsire when the raven arrived. 

“Prince Daemon summons his son Prince (Y/N) Targaryen to Kingslanding to join him at court.” Maester Pate read from the parchment, and (Y/N) scoffed pacing around the room. 

“To what end?” (Y/N) questioned, he’d never stepped foot in Kingslanding, and his father had not spoken to him in years. Maester Pate swallowed, shooting a nervous look to Lord Yorbert, revealing to the young heir that his grandsire already knew of his father’s plans. “What.” 

“Your father hopes to secure a betrothal.” 

(Y/N) paused his pacing, “A betrothal? Daemon has not spoken to me in years and he hopes to be in charge of my marriage?” 

“I do not like your father any more than you (Y/N)-” 

“And yet you have hidden this from me!” (Y/N) seethed, “How long have you known of my father’s wishes? How long have you kept me in the dark?” 

His grandsire sighed, “I do not plot against you (Y/N), you must understand that.” 

“How long?” 

“Since the prince returned from his campaign in the stepstones.” 

(Y/N)’S face blanched, stuttering over his words as he spoke again, “Did my mother know about this? Or did you plot with her husband to steal her son away from behind her back?” 

“(Y/N) how dare-” Yorbert cut himself off, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know your relationship with your father is strained but he is still your father.” 

“I am your heir not Daemon’s!” 

Yorbert sighed once more, visibly frustrated with (Y/N), “Your mother did not wish for anyone but you to have a say in your marriage, but this is a royal summons-” 

“It’s my choice?” 

“Yes (Y/N) but-” 

(Y/N) ignored his grandsire, turning to the maester. “Maester Pate write back to Kingslanding and let them know that I will not be answering their summons.” 

“(Y/N)-” 

“It is my choice grandsire. That was my mother’s wish was it not?” 

His grandsire nodded letting the argument die out, his defeated stance making him look more than his age. As (Y/N) turned to leave the room Maester Pate spoke. 

“What would you have me write to your father, my prince?”

“Write any words you must Pate but do inform the prince that Lord (Y/N) will not be coming.”

[pedrospatch]

stay

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Reader

summary: You’re in Jackson with Joel and Ellie after Salt Lake City and the loss of somebody you failed to protect haunts you and leaves you wondering if the wound will ever heal—and how you’ll ever go on if it never does.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. JACKSON ERA. child death, reader takes the life of a child. (TW) implied panic attack, implied SI, reader has a moment where she contemplates taking her own life, NO ACTUAL ATTEMPT. angst, soft, caring Joel. no age specified for reader, no physical descriptions of reader.

word count: 3.7k

2024

Late Spring

Jackson, Wyoming

You’d woken up early that morning, right before sunrise.

Eyes fluttering open, you blinked furiously into the darkness of the bedroom. Your bedroom.

Your bedroom in an actual house. One that didn’t have crumbling, dusty walls.

One that was an actual, real place to call home.

As you tried to move, the strong arm around your waist tightened and held you firmly in place.

Turning your head, you saw Joel’s face just inches away from yours. He was still fast asleep, his bare chest slowly rising and falling with each and every peaceful, tranquil breath he inhaled and exhaled through slightly parted lips. He’d finally stopped mumbling in his sleep.

You’d been in Jackson with him and Ellie for just about a week or so now, and you still hadn’t quite gotten used to it—waking up in a soft, warm bed with his arms around you.

Maybe you would never get used to it.

Being careful not to wake Joel, you slipped out of his grasp and sat up. Swinging your legs over the side of your shared bed, you planted your two feet on the cold, hardwood floors and stood up, doing your best to move around without having to turn the lights on so as not to disturb his slumber. You quickly but quietly searched around, using both of your hands to feel for the thin, cotton white tank top and dark gray pajama bottoms that had been discarded, strewn somewhere across the master bedroom the previous night by none other than Joel Miller himself. He had gotten rid of them as he’d hovered over you, tossing them carelessly over his shoulder so that he could spend the next several hours learning every single part of your body, almost as if he’d been getting to know it for the very first time.

It took you a minute, but you’d finally found your clothes, tugging them on before padding your way into the bathroom where you flipped on the lights and began running the water in the sink to brush your teeth—hell, even having a clean toothbrush and real toothpaste were sweet little luxuries that were also taking some getting used to.

You finished washing your mouth and splashed a bit of cool water onto your face, drying it off with a hand towel before turning off the sink as well as the lights. Leaving yours and Joel’s bedroom, you made your way downstairs into the kitchen. Joel and Ellie were also early risers, and they would be up within the hour. Since you were up, you figured it would be nice to have a hot breakfast ready and waiting for them.

First thing was first, you started an instant pot of coffee for yourself and for Joel, although truth be told it was mostly for Joel, as the man refused to drink anything else in the mornings. As it brewed and the dark brown liquid dripped slowly into the glass pot, you moved over to the refrigerator and pulled open the door. The sight of a fridge stocked with real, proper food was almost like a fucking dream. You reached for the small basket of farm fresh chicken eggs that you’d picked up from the community’s market earlier that week when you and Ellie had gone food shopping. You set it down on the counter and looked through the wooden cabinets, grabbing a large, white porcelain bowl to scramble up the eggs in. You held it in your hands, an odd feeling washing over you.

Oh yes, this would all certainly taking some getting used to, all of it of it would take some getting used to—having shelter, running water, food and clean clothes. Not spending every goddamn fucking day fighting just to survive.

You glanced down at the bowl you gripped in your two hands, and felt your heart squeeze painfully inside of your chest.

Any normal person would have been relieved to be in this safe haven. Happy, even.

But not you, because all that you could think about was Lily, and how she wasn’t here.

2023

Early Fall

Midwest United States

The bite mark was on her shoulder.

It was still fresh, but the clock was already ticking like a time bomb.

You knew that. She knew that.

Everyone in that fucking basement knew that.

“Please,” Lily begged you, clutching fistfuls of your jacket. “Please.”

“No,” You choked out, feeling like someone had just punched you in the gut, knocking all the wind out out of your lungs. You turned back and looked over your shoulder at Joel, who stood there with his jaw clenched tightly, his dark brown eyes fixed on the dirty floor. Beside him, Ellie was wringing her hands together, fighting back her tears. You turned back to Lily, somehow finding your voice again. “No. I can’t do it. I won’t fucking do it.”

You blamed yourself for this.

The house the four of you had chosen to occupy for the night hadn’t been completely cleared out. You should have known better than to even think about cutting corners, you should have checked every goddamn room from the ground up, twice. If you had been more thorough, you would have realized that there had been a clicker down in the basement, silent and still, that is until Ellie and Lily had gone off exploring the entire house in such of possible supplies and garnered its attention, riling it up. It had gone after the girls while you and Joel were upstairs, and although Ellie had managed to shoot it dead in seconds, the damage had been done—the clicker managed to sink its teeth into your twelve year old sister, infecting her.

“Please, please don’t let me turn into one of those things,” Lily sank down, falling onto her knees in front of you. Letting go of your jacket, she clasped her hands together in a pleading motion. “Please! I don’t want to turn, not like mom and dad did. Not like Sam did. I need you to end it here, right now before it’s too late.”

“No!” You bit out the word once again through gritted teeth, white hot tears burning your eyes. “I won’t do that.”

Joel stood there, not knowing what to say or what to do.

Hell, there was really nothing he could say or do, was there?

Lily was infected—it was already a fucking death sentence.

And while he understood that she wanted to go out her way, he also understood that you couldn’t even fathom having to do the unthinkable. That you couldn’t even think about putting a bullet in your kid sister.

“I don’t have the guts to do it myself,” Lily said, her voice trembling. “I barely know how to use a gun. Please, you have to do it for me.”

You stared at her desperate face, the first of every single fucking tear that you would ever cry for the rest of your life finally slipping out of the corner of your eye and trickling its way down your cheek.

It was what Lily truly wanted, but how could you take her life?

The child that you’d raised yourself for the last ten years. Life could be so fucking cruel in a world like this one, but this, this was something else.

Still, what other choice was there?

It was either end it now, or abandon her in this old, crumbling house, leaving her all by herself to lose her mind.

Lily didn’t want that, and if her one final wish was to die on her terms, then you had no other choice but to fucking grant it for her. It didn’t matter how hard it was going to break you.

She didn’t have another option, and neither did you.

“Okay.” The agreement finally left your lips shakily. Your heart slammed hard against your chest wall, and your entire body had gone ice cold. “Okay.”

“No!” Ellie screamed, shoving you out of the way so roughly that she almost knocked you over. She grabbed Lily and hoisted her to her feet, wrapping her arms around her. Ellie held Lily protectively against her side, eyeing the spot where she knew you kept your gun tucked in the waistband of your jeans. “No, please, there has to be something we can fucking do!” She thought back to Sam and how what she’d done with her blood and his bite wound hadn’t worked to save his life. She held Lily tighter, knowing nothing else could be done and that her name would only be added to the growing list of people that she’d lost.

“Ellie,” Joel said her name softly, the softest that anyone had heard him say it since she’d come into your lives.

Her brown eyes met his and a tear escaped her.

“Fuck,” she whispered, devastated.

“It’s okay, Ellie. It’ll be okay.” Lily placed a hand on her arm. As she did so, everyone caught a glimpse of the way it’d twitched. “I don’t have much time left,” she said, nudging Ellie. She turned to face her, and offered her an encouraging smile. “Keep on going, okay? Do it for Tess. Do it for Sam. Do it for me. Do it for the whole world. Promise me that you’re gonna make it to the Fireflies. Promise me that you’re gonna make it to the very end. Please.”

“I promise I’ll make it to the end,” Ellie whispered, pulling her into her arms one last time.

Joel looked at you as you took out your pistol with a trembling hand.

“M’so sorry,” he whispered, gently touching your shoulder. He then turned to Ellie and beckoned for her with his hand. As much as Joel didn’t want to leave you to do this alone, he knew he had to get Ellie out of there and out of the house. “C’mon.”

Helpless, Ellie meekly nodded her head without protest.

“Joel, be sure to cover her ears,” You instructed him quietly. “Even outside she might still be able to hear it.”

Joel gave a small, tight nod of his head. He walked over and gingerly touched Lily’s cheek in his silent goodbye to her before taking Ellie’s arm. “Let’s go,” he murmured, pulling her over towards the stairs. A few seconds later, the two of them were gone and the door of the basement shut closed with a loud, aggressive slam that you knew had to have come from Ellie.

Swallowing harshly, you went up to Lily. Taking her into your arms, you pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. It felt abnormally warm, a sure fire sign that the infection was running rampant inside of her—that she was running out of time.

“I’m sorry ,” Your voice broke in the middle of your apology. You held her close, your hand cradling the back of her head as she nuzzled her face into your neck, inhaling your scent deeply for the very last time. “I’m so sorry that I couldn’t keep you safe and sound like I promised I would.”

“Look at it this way.” Lily’s arms tightened around your waist. “Nothing or no one will ever be able to hurt me ever again. I’m gonna be safe up there in heaven with mom and dad and the three of us are gonna be watching over you. And Ellie and Joel, too.”

It was unbelievable. Here she was, fucking twelve years old and about to die, and she was trying to comfort you.

You held her even closer, nearly smothering her as the two of you began to cry in each other’s arms.

After a few minutes, Lily pulled away from you.

Her twitches were becoming more frequent with each second that ticked by.

“Please, let’s just do this before it’s too late,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her jerking hand.

You rigidly nodded your head, your legs feeling like jello as you took several steps backwards, leaving about six feet of distance between the both of you.

You lifted your arm, aiming the barrel of the gun at your little sister.

“I love you,” Lily offered you a feeble, watery smile.

“I love you too,” You whispered back to her before your finger finally pulled the trigger.

You closed your eyes, your heart sinking deeply as you tried to forget the way that she’d been gone before her body had even hit the cold, hard ground of that basement.

Instead, you tried to think of something else. But you just couldn’t.

Lily should have been here with you. With Joel, with Ellie. Her family.

Not dead, buried in a shallow grave somewhere in the middle of fucking nowhere.

She would have been so happy here in Jackson.

Safe.

She would have been safe.

“She’s gone,” You told yourself, willing the fact to get through your thick skull once and for all.

As the image of your sister’s sweet smile came into your mind again, something in you finally snapped, like a rubber band that had been pulled too tight for far too long.

“She’s gone!” Your scream tore itself from the back of your throat. “She’s gone! She’s fucking gone and she’s not coming back!”

Taking the bowl in your hands, you flung it across the kitchen with all your might, watching it as it hit the wall and shattered into pieces. You turned back towards the cabinet, both hands reaching for anything and everything you could get your hands on—plates, bowls, glasses. Once the cabinet had been emptied out, you went for all of the dishes and appliances on the counter, throwing and breaking everything in sight. When you’d finally run out of items to destroy, you sank down to your knees right onto a pile of broken glass. As you did so, you noticed one particularly large shard of glass with a pointed, jagged edge.

Picking it up, you grasped it so tightly in your trembling hand that you began to bleed as it sliced into your palm.

Was it even fucking worth it?

Being alive without her?

What was the fucking point?

The guilt of what happened to Lily would eat you alive for the rest of your life, especially here in Jackson, where you were living the very same life that you had wanted to provide for your sister for so many fucking years but never could.

Your eyes glazed over the sharp point of the glass, and then flickered to the thin, delicate flesh of the lower portion of your forearm—a gun would be so much quicker, less messy. It would be painless, and a hell of a lot better than nicking a vein and letting yourself bleed out on the kitchen floor.

But if the opportunity presented itself, why not take it regardless of the method?

Still clutching the glass, images of Joel and Ellie suddenly flashed in your mind.

They were family.

Your family.

As much as you wanted to put an end to the pain, you knew with every fiber of your being that Lily would want you to stay. If not for yourself, then for them. Because that was the kind of girl she was.

So good, so sweet. Full of hope.

Everything had blurred and your mind was lost in such a thick haze that it took you a minute to realize that Joel was shouting your name—the sounds of your screaming, of glass and porcelain breaking, it had woken both him and Ellie and they had ran down the stairs in a panic.

Ellie gasped your name and started towards you, but Joel grabbed her and held her back when he realized she was barefoot. “Careful, the glass!”

“Joel, fucking do something!” Ellie demanded, her eyes widening in horror when she saw the glass in your hand and the way that you’d been looking at your wrist in something of a trance.

Joel hadn’t been wearing any shoes either, hell, he’d barely managed to tug a shirt on over his head and it was inside out, but he quickly and carefully made is his way over to you. He crouched down beside you and immediately took your arm, giving it a shake so you would drop the shard of glass.

His warm touch brought you back to earth.

“Joel?” You squeaked out his name, your heart pounding.

You felt tears prickling at your eyes, and you opened your mouth to let out a sob, but nothing came out. Your cries were lodged in the back of your throat and you felt stuck in your lungs. You suddenly felt like you couldn’t take a breath and started to hyperventilate.

“Hey, hey, hey. Breathe. Look at me,” he said. He palmed the side of your face and gently, but firmly forced you to meet his gaze. Your eyes were wide, pupils dilated. “Look at me, I’m here. We’re both here, me and Ellie. We’re right here. Breathe for me darlin,’ just breathe.”

You frantically nodded, as if to tell him, I’m trying.

It took a minute or two until finally, your gasps for air slowed down.

When they finally did, you began sobbing uncontrollably.

“Oh baby. C’mere,” Joel murmured. He pulled you up to your feet and moved you to a spot that wasn’t covered in broken dishware. He held you against his chest, stroking your hair.

Ellie joined in, and they both just held you in silence until your wails of agony subsided several minutes later.

“I’m sorry,” You apologized through little hiccups. “I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t fucking be sorry,” Ellie immediately stopped you, her hand rubbing at your back. She pulled back and looked at the blood stain on Joel’s light gray t-shirt. “Oh shit, Joel. Her hand, look at her hand.”

Joel looked down, alarmed, but he remained calm. “Ellie, go upstairs into our bathroom. There’s a first aid kid under the sink.”

She nodded and whirled around, bolting out of the kitchen.

In the blink of an eye, she’d returned with a small white tin box with a red cross etched onto the lid. She handed it to him. “Here.”

Taking it in one hand, Joel used his other hand to guide you over to the kitchen table. He sat you down and then pulled a chair out for himself, taking a seat across from you.

“She going to be okay?” Ellie asked, worriedly.

“Doesn’t look too deep, at least not deep enough to need stitches. It should be okay,” Joel stated as he opened up the first aid kit. “Ellie, mind if I have a minute alone with her?” He saw her open her mouth to protest and gave her a look. “Please.”

She huffed, but nodded. She touched your shoulder lightly and left the room, though both you and Joel were positive she’d stick around out in the hallway to eavesdrop.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered hoarsely, breaking a silence that had fallen over the two of you. “I’ll clean this mess up—”

“You think that’s what I’m worried about?” Joel asked, placing your hand in his lap as he poured hydrogen peroxide onto a wad of cotton. He picked it up and gingerly started cleaning your wound. He sighed, shaking his head. “Funny thing is, I knew you’d snap sooner or later. But truth be told, darlin’ I didn’t think this would be the way you’d let it all out.”

You stared at him. “What do you mean you knew I’d snap?”

Joel looked up from your cut, his gaze meeting yours. “I know you like I know the back of my own fuckin’ hand,” he reminded you. “And I know what you’ve been carryin’ around after what happened with Lily. That feelin’ you’ve been bottlin’ up for months now. I know what it’s like to carry that kinda burden on your shoulders. It’s heavy, and at some point, you ain’t got no choice but to put it down.” He paused. “Only, I was hopin’ you would do so by talkin’ to me, not destroyin’ the kitchen of this house.”

“I don’t know what happened,” You admitted, softly. “One minute I was down here getting ready to make us all breakfast, and the next, I just fucking lost it.” You chewed anxiously on your bottom lip. “I just kept thinking about how Lily should be here with us. And how she would be, if I hadn’t failed her.”

Joel frowned. “You didn’t—”

“I fucking did, Joel. I failed at protecting my sister. I failed at keeping her safe, alive.”

Letting out another sigh, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against your forehead. He spoke, his lips ghosting over your skin. “Baby, you can’t keep blamin’ yourself for somethin’ that was out of your control.”

“But it was in my control, Joel. I should have checked every goddamn crevice of that fucking house, because if I had, Lily would still be alive. She would be here in Jackson with us, living the life that she always deserved to live.”

Joel leaned his forehead against yours. “Look, I know that nothin’ I say is goin’ to make it better. Nothin’ I say is goin’ to bring her back and m’sorry,” he said. “But you need to know that it wasn’t your fault. You did the best you could. I know that her bein’ gone hurts. Trust me I know that feelin’ all too well.”

Another tear slipped down the side of your face and he reached up, lightly brushing it away with his thumb.

Of course he knew the feeling.

The scar on his temple was a testament of how well he knew that feeling, of how he knew exactly what it felt like to want to end it all after losing someone so precious.

Only, he had actually tried to end it all.

Joel’s voice broke into your thoughts. “I need you to know that you’re not alone, baby. You ain’t gotta carry your grief alone. You’ve got Ellie, and you sure as hell got me. We’re both here to help you through anythin’ that you need, alright? We’ve got you—I’ve got you.”

“I know you do.” Your voice broke once more and you swallowed back another sob.

Joel brushed his lips against yours. Sitting back into his chair he lifted your hand and inspected it thoroughly. “Don’t think there’s any glass in it,” he observed. He started bandaging your hand with a roll of gauze from the first aid kit.

“Thank you, Joel,” You murmured as soon as he had finished patching you up. “And I’m sorry. Not about the mess, but about what I thought about doing.”

Joel reached out, cradling the side of your face. His thumb grazed the soft skin of your cheek. “I need you to stay, baby,” he whispered, his own voice thickening with emotion. “Me and Ellie, we both need you to stay. You understand me?”

You placed your hand on top of his, nodding as your eyes met his once more.

“I’ll stay,” You promised him.

[loserlvrss]

𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐓 k. younghoon ( 김영훈 )

synopsis | you were scared your boyfriend would be like the others, except he shows you the complete opposite when you bleed on his bed during the night.

pairing : kim younghoon x fem!reader genre : drabble, fluff warnings : tiny angst, language, period / blood mentioned a lot word count : 0.7k authors note : your man should not care, and if he does, then that’s not a man :/

panic set in. your lungs tightening as you lifted the blanket slightly and just saw red. 

“fuck,” you groaned quietly—so very quiet as to not wake your boyfriend sleeping next to you. “are you joking?” 

it wasn’t supposed to come for two more days. you’d barely ever been early nowadays, a much higher chance of being late. it just had to happen on the night you’d slept over at his place, didn’t it? 

what was this, a cruel joke on you? maybe it was all the stress finally catching up to you.

you quickly shifted out of the gray sheets, thanking god that he didn’t have white ones—you somehow thought that that would make you feel worse. but now the question was, how would you clean this up before he woke up? 

more panic, mixed with embarrassment clouded your brain. would he think you were nasty for staining his bed like this? would he make you feel terrible for bleeding, all while you cleaned it up yourself? this had never happened to you, unless you were sleeping alone, so you had no expectations really. 

you could wake him up and tell him to immediately close his eyes, but that would be a dead giveaway; and if you know anything about your boyfriend, it’s that he wouldn’t listen to you anyways. maybe you could convince him that you cut yourself in your sleep, like that would make it any better. 

“babe?” oh, but that made it worse, tears instantly springing to your eyes. “good mor—what’s up?”

“n-nothing!” you tried to play it off, unfolding the blanket frantically to cover the spot back up. “nothing’s wrong, good morning!” 

he studied your movements, looking you up and down, and then huffing. he got from the sheets, strategically keeping the comforter down for your peace of mind. he made his way around the bed, your body stiffening when he walked beside you and pressed a kiss to your temple. 

“it’s okay, you know.” and suddenly you were hyper aware of the sticky feeling coating your thighs and lower abdomen. “let’s just—”

“i’m sorry!” you blurted, a loud—rather dramatic—sob ripping past your lips after. “i-i’ll buy you new ones, i swear. i thought it was supposed to come in two days, i-i didn’t know. i’m so sorry, younghoon, plea—”

“hey,” he cut your rant off, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder, letting it travel down your arm, finally intertwining fingers. he brought your hand to his lips, kissing it gently before going on. “i’m not upset, at all.” 

through tear-filled eyes, you replied, “are you sure?” 

he smiles softly, “of course,” and if you knew anything about him, it was that he was always a million-percent genuine when it came to you. “go take a shower, and i’ll put some clean clothes on the sink, okay?” 

“b-but the sheets,” 

“i’ll take care of it, stop worrying and go.” 

and he did take care of everything, bringing you your purse, a hoodie of his and some sweatpants; he knew where you kept extra pairs of various clothing items in his dresser. he changed the sheets while you cleaned off, putting them in the washer. he then scoured his apartment until he found a heating pad he’d forgotten that he bought, hoping it still worked (it did, he tried it) and setting it on your side of the bed. he turned your favorite show on, prepared to binge it with you for the rest of the day. 

you came out of the bathroom, fighting back another couple apologies. well, that was until you saw him sat on his freshly-changed bedding, seemingly so nonchalant and careless. you could spend your whole life with him if this is how he was going to act around something your exes would’ve grimaced away from. 

“oh, hi!” he said as you finally caught his attention, “i made you some hot chocolate, because i know you don’t like tea.” you stared wide-eyed as he further explained, getting up and walking towards you. “i found this heating pad too, i don’t know where it came from, to be honest, it was probably an old injury of mine or something—c’mere, let’s watch a show for a bit and then have breakfast, okay?” 

“i think i…” he stopped in front of you as you tried to gather the right words. piecing together every feeling he’s already given you and every feeling you know he will. 

in the meantime, he took your hand within his, ready to drag you over to his bed and press play. then he stopped when you finally finished the sentence. “love you.” 

he pulled you into a hug, taken aback, but not enough to back down. his feelings were evidently the same. 

“i know i love you.” 

please reblog and like <3 comments are appreciated ! thank you 4 reading © loserlvrss 2024 all rights reserved. 

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back to masterlist !

[goodlucktai]

gently in the cold dark earth

scum villain's self saving system word count: 2k canon divergent / no system au; sy transmigrates into an empty npc role; gray lotus binghe loves his shixiong more than life and he's ready to make it everyone's problem

title borrowed from work song by hozier

read on ao3

x

The first thing Luo Binghe does when he escapes the Abyss is return to Cang Qiong Mountain. 

With Xin Mo secured to his back, the way could be instant if he so chose—the journey of a thousand miles reduced to a single step—but he unsheathes the elegant jian at his hip instead.

Yong Liang sings sweetly for him, the snow white blade still shining and untainted even after years of helping Luo Binghe carve his way through hell. It has never once failed him, soulbound to the one person still on this earth who has never failed him. 

“Take it,” his shixiong insisted, low and urgent. The Abyss was behind them, an even deadlier threat was ahead, and Without A Cure clogging his meridians made Luo Binghe the best choice to wield the only unshattered spirit sword they had between them. “Binghe, take it.”

He pressed until Luo Binghe’s grip curled tight around the hilt, not hesitating to put his soul in Luo Binghe’s hands even with the rosy glow of an unsealed demon mark shining on his face. 

Luo Binghe flies at a pace best described as dangerously reckless, hardly smelling the fragrant spring air or feeling the sun on his face. His robes are a disgrace, his hair a tangled, matted mess, and it occurs to him that he could stop somewhere and clean himself up, make himself presentable, but it’s a brief, fleeting thought. 

Shen Yuan would be furious to find out that Luo Binghe wasted even a single second returning to his side. 

——

He passes through the ancient wards effortlessly, feeling them fall away from him like water. It’s a simple thing to tamp down on his demonic qi, to disguise the parts of him that those so-called righteous cultivators would scorn. He ghosts through the familiar grounds as eagerly as a starving animal bolting down a fresh game trail, but one by one, all of their familiar haunts come up empty, without even a lingering trace of Shen Yuan’s spiritual energy left behind.   

The head disciple’s room is dusted and undisturbed, as if its occupant might walk through the door at any moment, but the lack of clutter and the empty book shelf makes it very clear to Luo Binghe what the truth must be.

If Shen Yuan returned to the peak after the Conference, he didn’t stay. 

All at once, images crowd the front of his mind—his shixiong grieving, pulling away, turning his back on those responsible for his heartache. 

Yue Qingyuan, always only a step behind wherever his precious Xiu Ya sword went, promised that no one wanted to hurt them. They only wanted to help.

He looked so solemn and righteous that Shen Yuan reluctantly allowed himself to be convinced. Luo Binghe, who had gone to the man for help after a bloody whipping when he was a child, only to be given a walnut cake and turned away at the door, knew better. 

He wasn’t surprised when Shen Yuan was wrenched away from him, and shizun sent him staggering off the cliff with a spiritual dagger buried to the hilt in his chest, all of it happening within a matter of seconds—but it still hurt. 

Shen Yuan’s scream followed him all the way down. 

I’m alive, Luo Binghe thinks, with no one there to tell it to. I came back to you. Let me come back to you. 

——

Including time spent in the abyss, it’s three years before they meet again. 

Luo Binghe’s revenge is his second priority at best, but he is nothing if not efficient and knows how to kill two birds with the same stone. Huan Hua affords him ample resources and opportunities to scour the world for his missing shixiong while playing the role of earnest and diligent new disciple. He snatches up each mission that comes along as though  eager to prove his worth to the sect that so graciously took him in, but he takes every excuse to wander, to search, to make conversation with vendors and innkeepers and passing strangers. 

Have you seen my heart? It lives outside of me in the form of a beautiful young man and tends to wander. Very contrary, likes to fuss over people, could argue the stripes off a lushu just for fun. You’d know it if you met it. You’d never forget. 

The days blur together, meaningless and gray, but he doesn’t stop looking. Shen Yuan still exists somewhere in this world, because otherwise Luo Binghe wouldn’t. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. 

And then, finally—an afternoon in Jinlan City, when Luo Binghe arrives in a throng of incompetent gold-clad Huan Hua disciples, to investigate a plague of all things—

He’s there. 

In dark, neutral colors and plain clothes, a traveling cloak with its hood resting down around his shoulders, as if his beauty could possibly be lessened by cheap, shapeless fabrics rather than effortlessly enhanced. His hair falls from its half-tail in glorious waves—he never did have the patience for anything elaborate, only wearing braids when one of his sticky shidimei cajoled and convinced him. Traveling alone, who could he possibly have to roll his eyes at and complain about and sit patiently still for?

A pale green ribbon is all that decorates his hair. Luo Binghe recognizes it instantly. 

“You should spend your allowance on yourself, Binghe,” Shen Yuan scolded him, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. 

“But I did,” Luo Binghe protested, widening his eyes and clasping his hands earnestly, the way he knew worked best. “I wanted it! And now that I have it, I want to give it to you.”

Shen Yuan was too clever by half to be truly fooled by the innocent act, but he always folded like paper anyway. He spoiled all of his shidimei but Luo Binghe most of all. Anyone on Qing Jing Peak would be hard-pressed to think of a single example of Shen Yuan telling Luo Binghe ‘no.’ 

Sure enough, after a second spent visibly wrestling with himself, he blurted, “Oh, fine! Hand it over.” 

He wore it every day since. He’s wearing it now. The wind catches the ends of it, sending it streaming behind him like the tails of a paradise flycatcher. Lovely. 

For a brief moment, Luo Binghe is frozen where he stands, finally faced with the very thing that he’s been missing for years, that he’s been living a miserable half-life without. 

And then he remembers himself and lurches forward. His voice is a tangle in his throat but he manages to choke out, “Shixiong!”

A strike of lightning couldn’t have jolted Shen Yuan into more perfect stillness. He stops mid-step, every inch of him as good as carved from precious jade. He doesn’t turn his head, and the sliver of his face visible from where Luo Binghe stands is very pale. 

Luo Binghe wonders suddenly if this has happened to him before—if Shen Yuan has heard a voice on the road or in the market that was almost familiar, that was almost the one he was hoping for, only to be disappointed when he turned to follow it and found a stranger. 

Luo Binghe shortens the distance between them with a few anxious steps and tries again. 

“Shixiong.”

The older boy whirls around abruptly, as if to get it over with. He’s bracing himself, but Luo Binghe barely has a second to absorb Shen Yuan’s painful-looking anticipation before it bleeds out of his face in favor of something else entirely. 

He looks like the earth has fallen out from beneath his feet, like he hardly dares to believe his eyes. Zheng Yang gleams golden at Shen Yuan’s hip, reforged and whole again.

“Binghe?”  

“It’s me,” Luo Binghe says softly. 

There’s a tableau he’s afraid to break, as if they’re in a delicate dreamscape and a move too sudden or loud might dissolve it. He wants to say I’ve missed you the way lungs miss air, immediately and needfully, I haven’t breathed at all since we’ve been apart. He wants to say you’re my light in the dark, I can only stand in front of you now because I love you too much to ever truly leave you. 

Instead, he tells his dearest friend, “This one made you wait. But your Binghe is here.”

Shen Yuan sprints the rest of the way to meet him, almost before he’s even finished talking, and they collide in a solid embrace that knocks the air from them both. 

His arms wind around Luo Binghe’s waist like steel bands, fingers digging into the back of his robes, precious face pressed into the crook of his neck and shoulder. Luo Binghe doesn’t hesitate to gather him up close, holding him as tightly and securely as he knows how, burying his nose in his shixiong’s hair and breathing in the familiar, beloved smell of him.  

Shen Yuan is a few inches shorter than he remembers. All the better to tuck him beneath Luo Binghe’s chin, to cover and surround him so completely that not even the heavens above can get a decent eyeful. 

He wants to grab and bite and pin Shen Yuan beneath him and never let go. His jaw aches with wanting it. 

“I’ve been looking for you,” Luo Binghe says, eyes wet. “I went home first.” Unsaid goes the obvious but you weren’t there. 

“How could I stay?” Shen Yuan bites out, managing to sound all at once strangled and bewildered and—charmingly—offended. He shakes his head without lifting it, an aggressive nuzzle against Binghe’s shoulder. “After what they did to you, I’d rather die than represent their stupid sect another minute.”

“Step away from it, Shen Yuan,” shizun said coldly. “I’ll put that beast back where it belongs.”

“No,” shixiong said in a voice that was smaller than usual, one that shook. He was frightened, clearly overwhelmed, but he didn’t budge from where he was plastered in front of Luo Binghe like a breathing shield. 

“Now.” 

“No, shizun.”

“Shizhi,” Yue Qingyuan said gently, offering his hand. “Come here. It will be alright.”

Shen Yuan said, “No. You can’t hurt Binghe. He’s not bad just because of who his parents are. He’s as good as he was yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. He’s hardworking and loyal and a sweetheart to anybody who gives him half a chance. He’s so good.”

Liu Qingge was behind the sect leader, sword drawn. Shen Qingqiu was quickly losing what little patience he had, face twisted into a sneer, dark eyes stabbing hatefully at Luo Binghe from over his head disciple’s shoulder. There were more figures rapidly drawing closer, the other peak lords following the flare of Yue Qingyuan’s qi. The standoff was becoming more and more untenable, and Shen Yuan was too smart not to see that, shrinking back against Luo Binghe as much as he could without crowding him closer to the edge. 

“You can’t hurt him,” he said again, the closest Luo Binghe had ever heard him come to tears, “he’s my shidi.”

Luo Binghe is unsurprised by his shixiong’s loyalty, because it’s already been proven to him over and over. It’s unremarkable at this point, which is an absolutely remarkable thing in itself. It makes him feel warm with gratitude and affection and ownership. 

Shen Yuan is clever and quick on his feet and always three steps ahead, more knowledgeable about flora and fauna than anyone else Binghe has ever known combined, and probably a force to be reckoned with as a rogue cultivator, where the only rules of conduct he has to adhere to are his own. 

But Luo Binghe hates to think of him on the road alone, without the little martial siblings who follow him like ducklings, without his Binghe there to make sure he remembers to eat all his meals and comb out his hair before bed. He’s a creature of comfort, made for airy rooms with too many cushions and an abundance of sweets and books to read. 

Luo Binghe has fantasized more than once about building a home for Shen Yuan to lounge prettily in. It was, in fact, his favorite flavor of daydream since he was about thirteen. 

If Shen Yuan wants to rogue cultivate, then that’s what they’ll do. But Luo Binghe thinks, if he constructs a palace that’s as comfortable as it is grand, and fills it with trashy romance novels and obscure beasts and his own hand-made meals, he can convince his friend to live in it with him.

Shen Yuan needs to be taken care of. Luo Binghe needs to be the one taking care of him. They’re together now and they’ll never be apart again and those needs can both be met. 

That possessive, proprietary feeling coils dark and deep inside him, undulating lazily like a serpent who’s fed enough for days, reminding him over and over what he already knows:

Mine. 

[sexsylexi]

Unusual confession

Joel Miller x Reader

The old world was gone, replaced by something dark and twisted. Cities were now ruins, and the silence in the streets was only broken by the occasional echo of a distant clicker or the rustle of wind through abandoned buildings.

Joel Miller had seen a lot in these past years, too much, really. His heart had hardened, calcifying over years of loss and struggle. That’s why, when he heard the door to their hideout creak open and saw you stumble in, blood soaking through your jacket, he felt something that wasn’t just anger—it was fear.

“Goddamn it,” Joel cursed under his breath as he rushed to your side, catching you before you could collapse onto the dirty floor. His hands were rough but gentle as they steadied you, his eyes scanning the wound on your side. “What the hell were you thinkin’, going out there alone?”

You winced, more from the frustration in his voice than the pain. “We needed supplies… I couldn’t wait.”

Joel practically growled as he helped you over to a dusty, torn-up couch that had seen better days. “Couldn’t wait, huh? And now look at you. Bleeding all over the damn place.”

The room was dim, the only light coming from a small lantern in the corner. It flickered, casting long shadows on Joel’s face, making him look older than he was. His jaw was set tight, and you could see the muscles in his neck straining as he fought to keep his emotions in check. But you knew Joel well enough by now to see the storm brewing behind his eyes.

He grabbed the med kit from a nearby shelf, yanking it open with a little more force than necessary. The sound of bandages unrolling and the clink of a needle filled the tense silence. You knew you had messed up, but you also knew why you had gone out. Supplies were running low, and you couldn’t stand the thought of being helpless. Not again.

“Joel, I—” you started, but he cut you off, pressing a clean cloth against your wound with a firm hand.

“Save it,” he muttered, his voice gruff. “This is gonna hurt.”

And it did. You hissed in pain as he cleaned the wound, his hands steady even as you saw the anger flicker in his eyes. He worked quickly, methodically, the way only someone who had done this too many times could. But you could feel the tension radiating off him in waves. It was like a coiled spring, ready to snap.

When he finally finished, he sat back on his heels, running a hand through his graying hair. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air thick with unspoken words. But Joel’s silence was louder than anything, and it pressed down on you, making it hard to breathe.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice shaky from pain and something else—something raw. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to what?” Joel cut in, his voice low and dangerous. “Didn’t mean to get yourself nearly killed? Or didn’t mean to make me care?”

Your heart skipped a beat at the last part, his words hanging in the air like a dagger poised to strike. You looked up at him, searching his face, trying to understand.

Joel was staring at the floor, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles jumping. When he finally looked at you, his eyes were hard, but beneath the anger, there was something else—something that made your chest tighten.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asked, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. “Every damn time you go off like that, thinkin’ you can handle it all on your own… Do you know what that does to me?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. You had always known Joel was protective—almost to a fault. But this was different. This was raw, unfiltered, and it scared you almost as much as it did him.

“I can’t—” Joel’s voice cracked, and he looked away, his hands trembling slightly. “I can’t lose you too.”

The confession hung between you like a weight, heavy and suffocating. You’d seen Joel in all kinds of states—angry, cold, even broken. But this… this vulnerability was something else entirely.

You reached out, your hand shaky, and touched his arm. “Joel, I’m sorry,” you said again, your voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t realize…”

He pulled away, standing up abruptly, pacing the small room like a caged animal. “That’s just it,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. “You never realize. You think you’re invincible, that you can handle anything on your own. But you can’t. And it’s gonna get you killed one day.”

The thought of losing you—another person he cared about—was too much. It was a wound that hadn’t healed, that had only been covered up with layers of anger and denial. And now, with you lying there, hurt because of your damn stubbornness, all those layers were peeling back, leaving him exposed.

“Joel, I’m not trying to…” Your voice trailed off, unsure of what to say. How could you explain that you didn’t want to be a burden, that you wanted to pull your weight? But you realized now that in trying to protect him, you’d only hurt him more.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” he finally said, his voice strained. “I need you to stay alive. And I need you to stop makin’ me care so damn much.”

It wasn’t fair, you thought. Not to him, and not to you. But nothing about this world was fair. And maybe that’s why it hurt so much, why the stakes felt so high. Because in a world where everything was falling apart, the last thing either of you wanted was to lose the one thing that still mattered.

Joel stopped pacing and looked at you, his eyes softer now, but still filled with that intensity that made your heart ache. “I can’t do this without you,” he admitted quietly, almost like it was a sin to say it out loud. “I don’t want to.”

The words hung in the air, a confession that neither of you had been ready for, but that had been building for a long time. You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, swallowing hard.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, your voice trembling. “Not without you.”

Joel closed his eyes for a moment, as if letting your words sink in, before nodding slowly. “Good,” he said, his voice gruff again. “Because I ain’t letting you.”

He moved back toward you, sitting down on the edge of the couch, his fingers brushing against yours. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but it was enough. Enough to let you know that despite all the anger, all the frustration, there was something else—something deeper that neither of you could ignore anymore.

In that moment, in the silence of the broken world around you, there was a fragile understanding. You weren’t just surviving for yourselves anymore. You were surviving for each other.

[swee7dream]

could u do a cg!jisung w a nonverbal!fem!reader? idm the agere range for yn, maybe 1-3

nagging cg!park jisung x f!little!reader

genre agere content, slice of life, domestic warnings none dni if you sexualize age regression wc 733 a/n sorry i took so long to put this out ! regression block sucks ! ദ്ദി ꒦ິ꒳꒦ິ )✧

synopsis all you wanted was a nice late breakfast ! why does your cg have to be so . . . cg-y ?

Little men in uniforms ran along Jisung’s phone screen. They chased after the itty bitty ball rolling across the artificially green field. Soccer is always a lot more intense than you think it should be but that hasn't ever stopped Jisung from watching it, today included. Jisung sat on the couch with his thighs to his chest and his phone two inches from his face, not wanting to miss a second of the highlights of last night's game. His gaze was dark and focused, but it broke when he heard the stairs behind him creak, eyes trailing off to see a familiar silhouette standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hi.”

You swayed side to side in your nightdress, barefoot on the floor. You held your gray rabbit plushie’s arm with one hand while the other was up to your mouth. Your nail slid out from in between your teeth so your lips could press into a line.

“Hi,” Jisung tried again, softer. His finger tapped the screen, freezing the whistleblowing and cheering. The living room went quiet, only the hum of the fridge and the breeze outside gently brushing by trees heard by the open windows. “Good morning.”

It only took a couple of waddles to get from where you stood to where Jisung sat. You gave a weak salute.

Hello.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” You scrunched your face up when Jisung’s cold hand held your cheek, his finger carefully getting the sleep stuck in the corner of your eyes. “Sleep well?”

You nodded with a sigh, bringing your bunny to your chest in a hug. With an almost pained expression, you made a ‘c’ shape with one of your hands and slid it down slowly, slowly, slowly.

Hungry. So hungry.

“I’m sure you are.” Jisung clicked his tongue. “You slept for, like, 12 hours. I thought you started hibernation in spring.”

You brought your eyebrows down to a ‘v,’ staring up at your caregiver very much unamused. You were tired, sure, but that didn’t mean you turned into a bear. You were still very much a human.

The balls of your feet took little steps backward as you pulled on Jisung’s shirt. With your bunny tucked under your arm, you signed out your cry of hunger once more.

“Okay- hey! Hold on. You’re gonna stretch it out.” He placed his hand over yours, carefully undoing your fingers' tight grip around the sweatshirt and giving you his hand instead to pull him into the kitchen. His other hand brushed off invisible dust off the dark material and he looked down for any damage with a face that would usually make you laugh if not for the fact that you were about to die if you didn’t get food in your stomach in the next few minutes.

“Sit your bunny down at the table and go wash your hands. I’ll make you your breakfast,” Jisung said as he rolled up his sleeves. He left no room for you to argue, his back already turned toward you as he led by example at the kitchen sink. “Did you use the restroom before you woke up?”

Why does it matter? You just need food. You wished you had socks on so you could have dragged your feet as you walked but you didn’t so you opted on just sighing dramatically on your way to sit your rabbit on the chair next to your usual seat. You brushed the fur out of his eyes. Now he could see again.

“Bathroom.”

Bathroom, bathroom, bathroom, you mocked him as you made your way over to the restroom. So bossy. Jiji’s always so naggy during mealtimes.

“All good? Hands clean?” Jisung asked, holding his hands up and wiggling his fingers. You just nodded. So maybe you did have to go. Big deal. Your eyes just looked beyond him over to the table.

Cereal! Your eyes sparkled. In your favorite bowl! With the matching spoon and everything… this guy isn’t so bad after all, you didn’t think.

“Go eat.” He pointed over at your seat with his nose right before being tackled off his footing.

Your arms slid around his torso and you squeeze with all your might. You’re the best! Thank you.

“You’re welcome.” You felt his lips press against the crown of your head. “Remember to drink your two cups of water. You can’t get up before those are finished.”

Ugh.

[tosuckmyweenis]

A man and his dog

I saw this post about Leon loving nintendogs, and my mind was melting. 

What would it be like to introduce him to it and go through the entire tutorial.

bonus pics of doggy at the end

Spring cleaning started, and it was one of the very few things Leon took seriously, going through every nook and cranny to see what he could get rid of and compress down; he liked living light and says it's because he doesn't want to trip on things when he comes home after a few too many, but you highly doubt that the only reason.

Sitting curled up on the couch corner, sipping your drink and watching whatever was on to pass the time before bed

"Hey, I found this in an old box that was falling apart in the closet; I thought you might want it" he held up the bright pink purse bag and wiggled the destroyed box in the other as proof before tossing it to the side.

"Oh hey! I wondered where it went; hand it over." you stuck your hands out for your treasured possession.

"What is it?" 

"It's my old DS; I used to play this all the time. My favourite game was Nintendogs." 

Opening the case, you pulled out the gray charger, inspecting it to ensure no exposed wires before holding it out to Leon.

"What do you do in it?"

"You take care of dogs, of course," Pulling out the pink device next, opening it until you heard the satisfying click, the memories it held bringing a smile to your face.

 He takes the cord from you and leans over the small table to plug it in, handing the end to you.

Saying a silent prayer before plugging in, letting out the breath you were holding when the orange glow hit your eyes

"And she charges still!"  

Setting it down on the side table and digging through the rest of the bag, you pull out the cartridges, looking for the one you're hoping is still there. Purrpals, catz, petz, all close, but not what you’re searching for. Leon takes his seat next to you, plopping down with a little too much force, jostling you into him. throwing his arm on the back of the couch behind you and leg crossed in his typical fashion, he observes you turning each cartridge before dropping them into your lap. “What are you rooting around for?”  “Nun ya.” snorting at your own joke “Haha, very funny.” the lighthearted tone in his voice made it clear he knew you were joking “Found it!” exclaiming excitedly, grabbing the ds and inserting the cart before powering it on to the familiar jingle, you select the game and hand it to him expectantly.

"I never started this one, so how about you give it a try?"

"I guess I could take a break; I have been cleaning all day" he wasn't too hard to convince; after all, he'd move the world if you asked him to.

"Please knock?"

"Yeah, take the stylus here and tap the door gently. " pointing to the side, making him tilt the system and slide the stylus out

the door swinging open when he taps has him fascinated

"This is kind of cool. I never had one of these growing up."

Leaning over to watch him, practically narrating the tutorial for him.

"You can go straight to buying your puppy or play with the kennel dogs."

"Of course, I'm going to the kennel; those puppies deserve love too" he sounded offended at the thought of just going straight to the buying.

The screen flashes white and the top screen switches to a dog view of a golden retriever digging on the ground.

"There's 3 of them! Look at this one; she's digging."

"You can have multiple dogs if you want." 

"What does this do?" he questions himself while pressing the button; a whistle is heard along with the pattering sounds of puppy feet and barks.

"It calls them to you," you say matter of factly 

"Thanks, genius," a small smile tugging at his lips

 He takes the stylus and begins petting the closest dog on the screen, which happens to be a tiny white chihuahua. After petting him for a few seconds, he rolls over, and you swore you can hear Leon gasp.

He takes his time petting each dog, ensuring they all get a turn before leaving the kennel.

"Alright, now we look at my options" Once the menu pops up, you can see his eyebrows wrinkle and nose scrunch.

"I didn't think I'd have this many options."

"It is called Dalmation and friends; it's not just one breed."

"Alright, the first option is a Yorkie; Pros: go."

It's not like any of these matter, but you play along anyway; brainstorming never hurt anyone.

"Pro: they are small, they are built for city life, and they bark at everything so no one will ever be able to break in." your reasonings were solid

"Cons: If they're too small, I'd probably step on them; barking at everything is a con if we live in an apartment, noise complaints and we don't want evictions."

Scrolling to the second one 

"Beagle, pros: Low maintenance, so if we go away, it'll be easier to find a sitter; if we ever get stranded in the woods, he could help us hunt rabbits for food, and they have floppy ears," he finished his list and looked over to you

"Cons: House training can be harder than other breeds; they are also very vocal, so no apartment life either." you countered

"Good points. Golden retriever, All pros and no cons, Next."

"Wait for a second; you can't just skip an entire br-"

"Boxers, Affectionate, could be box a pro and a con, watchdog which makes me feel better if you're home alone or I'm busy, and they are super smart. Your turn"

"Uh, well, They shed more, so extra cleaning would need to be done; they don't do well left alone, and with our schedules, it just wouldn't work."

"Sad but true. German shepherds, Loyal and love the outdoors, we could take him on our hiking trips."

"We could; that would be pretty fun; you know I always pictured you as a cat kind of person."

"I also like cats; I had one growing up and named him Peaches because there was a patch of fur in the shape of a peach. Loved him to death," Leon recalled with a sorrowful smile.

"Enough of that, though. Now for the start of the show, Dalmations.......I got nothing." he quickly changes the subject

"They make really cute firefighters?"

"Well, I guess we could put him to work, make him earn his keep" Leon chuckles at his joke

"Alright there, Come on. we know which one you're going to choose." 

Leaning your head on his shoulder, you slink your arm around his, cuddling into him

"Was it that obvious?" clicking the little golden retriever tab brought up another set of options

he stared at the screen showing 3 little puppies, two girls and a boy, all a different shade.

"So you can click one, and it'll bring up a little bit of info about them."

Clicking the first picture

"She has a very laid-back attitude, won't bark much and loves to sleep...Sounds a little like someone I know." 

The arm you're holding moves to nudge you in the ribs slightly, causing a small laugh to escape

"All reasons you love me, I hope."

"That and so much more." leaning over to kiss the top of your head lovingly before clicking the next one 

"The male puppy is full of love; he can get lonely at times but is still the perfect pup for family life."

Now that sounded like someone you knew, but you'd keep that to yourself for now.

"He's very charming" You look at the top screen, showing him scratching his ear before being barreled over, a toothy smile tugging at Leon’s lips

"And last but certainly not least, this little lady. She has a bright personality and is recommended for first-time owners."

The camera zooms in on the girl, you could see him staring fondly at the animation of her pawing and playing with the boy.

"So, what do you think?" you inquire, his eyes staying focused on the screen of the puppies

He didn’t even miss a beat, he already decided the minute he seen him "I'm picking the boy...Can't have him be lonely."

Your new life with your new puppy is about to begin He looks a little nervous, being in a new surrounding

"Aw, don't be nervous little guy."

Spend some time with your puppy to help him feel more comfortable

Touch the whistle icon to interact with him

Following the instructions, he presses the icon and watches the puppy run up to him, placing his paws on the screen while Leon pets his head

"He's very cute, and he loves head pets."

He seems to have calmed down quite a bit; Surely you must have an idea of what you want to call this puppy, don't you?

"Uh oh." 

"Can’t think of a name, what about meatball?"

"Meatball is a cat's name."  “What about someone important?”  It was like a lightbulb went off in his head after that, his eyes lit up to match “I know what I’m going to name him”

hearing him repeat the name over and over, it tugged at your heart, he had told you the story of that night and how he wished he could have done more to help

He seems quite happy you've given him a name. Keep calling his name so he can get used to the sound of it. 

"Marvin huh, That's a wonderful name." “Yeah, I think so too”

Watching him roll around on the screen and respond to the name, petting him every time for positive reinforcement

This is a good time to teach him how to sit. Gently pet the top of Marvin's head, then slide the stylus down his head to make him sit

"Already learning tricks, I knew my Marvin was a smart dog!"

"You can feed him the lightbulb!" He was ecstatic about that and fed him each one, not missing a single one

Now you need to make sure he can perform the trick you just taught him

"Marvin, Sit down"

the dog just looks at him

"Marvin, Sit down"

He sat.

"Yeah! Let's go, Buddy!"

 It looks like he responds to your voice and commands. You can now begin your life with Marvin

The pure joy radiating off of him infiltrated your soul; seeing him content with something small that brings him peace from the horrors he had to face day in and day out. 

You woke up to Leon shuffling next to you, trying to move as little as possible, you look over at the clock, and it read 3:48 am.  You think he is having one of those nights and is just settling down, so you decide to wait a few seconds before turning towards him or saying anything until you hear the tell-tale click and the beginning of the opening chime before it is cut off abruptly, Leon let out a hushed 'shit' before all movement halted, you could practically hear his heartbeat hammering in his chest. You felt his eye burning into your back, checking to see if he woke you; you pretended to be asleep. After a moment, you heard the light tapping of the stylus and a very, very faint bark.

[desertdollranch]

Kirsten's bedroom renovation

It's a sunny spring day in Minnesota Territory, and Kirsten is stuck indoors, helping with the spring cleaning. Her first task is to sweep the upstairs bedrooms--she shares one with her three siblings, and so it gets messy very quickly. But Kirsten doesn't complain--she remembers her previous home, a one-room log cabin on her aunt and uncle's farm. That was easier to clean, but it was hard sharing such a small place with six people. After a fire burned that cabin down, the Larsons bought a much larger house, the beautiful home they dreamed they'd have when they left Sweden two years ago.

As for my part in this, I created a bedroom for my Kirsten doll a few years ago, but I recently renovated it to make it look more like the illustrations in Kirsten's sixth book, Changes for Kirsten.

The walls in this illustration look like they've been finished with plaster, which was common in houses at the time. The light color would have come from local sources of limestone.

So most of the changes I made were to the walls and windows. I used printed photographs for the windows, and added the twelve-pane window frames over the images before printing. For the walls, I took down the boring white wood paneling. I imitated that plastered look using tissue paper stuck to the first layer of pale yellow paint, and then I painted another layer over the tissue paper.

The furnishings are basically the same, except for the trunk on the right side of this photo. She used to store her clothes in the top half of Felicity's clothes press, which I mentioned in my recent post about moving the clothes press into the parlor for Caroline to use. After I did that, I knew Kirsten would need a place to store her clothes, and what better piece than a smaller version of her trunk?

Most of the things in the above picture are not from Kirsten's collection. The bed was made by my grandpa when I was eight and first got my Kirsten doll. My mom made the quilt on the bed and the one on the rocking chair, the pillow and mattress on the bed, and the two darker gray cats. The foot stove next to the bed is Pleasant Company, and so are the shoes (including snow shoes) lined up next to the trunk. The rocking chair came from an antique store. I made everything else: both rugs, the cradle, the nightstand, the candle and book and stuffed cat on the nightstand, the cross stitch hanging on the wall, the shelves and everything on them, the painted round boxes at the foot of the bed, baby Britta's dress, and Kirsten's quilt square in the embroidery hoop.

This is a little wooden trunk I found at a craft store. I painted it blue and then painted on the decorative designs using stencils.

That's Kirsten's straw hat hanging on the wall, from her collection. My mom made the two sunbonnets.

I gave it a weathered look by lightly brushing on white and red paint.

The trunk can hold all of Kirsten's clothes. It has room for a few more dresses too. I have almost all of Kirsten's clothes; I'm only missing her baking outfit, skating coat, and promise dress.

I also made the gingham curtains for the windows. There's a lot of blue and white going on in here, so I wanted them to match the color themes.

Next to Britta's cradle are the round boxes I made to hold Kirsten's socks and ribbons, which are all Pleasant Company things. Her lunch box and bucket are from craft stores.

I remade her honey crate and the jars of honey. They now contain clear glue dyed with food coloring. I made her little gnomes too.

The rocking chair was an antique store find. It's perfect for her to sit with her baby sister Britta.

I also painted a little flourish on the end of her bed.

This definitely isn't all of Kirsten's collection--I have a few pieces hidden away underneath her room that won't fit here. That includes her actual big trunk that my grandpa made, her Saint Lucia wreath and tray that I made, her dishes set from her official collection, and some other small things that she doesn't need in her room.

[cecilysass]

Shine On (14/16)

Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic

Chapter 14: Rotten Wood

Farrs Corner, Virginia February 25, 2015 Two days later

The house is silent when Mulder steps through the kitchen door. At first he thinks no one is there, and he has a little corresponding stab of anxiety.

Then there’s a screech as Scully pushes her chair away from the kitchen table and stands to face him. He sees she’s set herself up there to work, her laptop nearly buried by drifts of paperwork.

He’s been having trouble interpreting Scully. Yesterday morning she drove off in his car with cryptic explanations, then reappeared an hour later with her laptop, a rolling suitcase full of clothes, and no further comment. Mulder assumes that means she’s planning on staying around a while. He hopes it does. He’s been superstitious about asking too many questions.

���Mulder,” she calls out, taking an awkward step towards him. He’s only been gone forty minutes to the hardware store, but her expression suggests she’s relieved to see him, like he’s been gone for months.

“Hey,” he says casually. “I think I found everything I need.” He holds up the two bags in his hands as evidence, kicking the door shut behind him. “Where are…”

He doesn’t finish, suddenly self-conscious about his choice of words. He’d almost said “the kids.” Way, way too strange.

“They went for a run.” A hint of a crease in her forehead. She pushes some errant strands of hair back behind her ears. Then she repeats the gesture, once, twice, three times as she walks distractedly to the front window. He gets it now: she’s anxious, she can barely keep herself still. “It’s been about twenty minutes since they left.”

Mulder follows her across the room, setting his hardware store bags down next to the boarded-up door frame, his project for the afternoon. He begins to pull the items he purchased out of the bag, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She’s wearing some soft gray sweater and tightly cut jeans that cling to her figure, making her look girlish. She leans against the window, her eyes scanning the road.

“Twenty minutes isn’t that long,” he comments, pulling some caulk out of the bag. “I ran with Jackson yesterday. He knows the route.”

She nods absently, still peering outside, her eyes searching up and down the road.

He stops what he’s doing, setting his repair supplies on the floor, and walks over to stand behind her, placing his hands on her small shoulders. Her sweater is so soft it melts under his fingers.

“You know,” he says gently, “you should probably worry more about us elderly mortals than about those superhero youngsters. They can take care of themselves.”

“I know,” she says, twisting her head around to flash him a smile that evaporates quickly.

“They’re what you might call resilient,” he says. “They’ve literally survived death, Scully.”

“You’ve survived death, too,” she says, her shoulders rising and falling under his hands. “And I still worry about you.”

“Do you?” he says in a low voice. His hands slide possessively from her shoulders to circle carefully around her waist, drawing her firmly against him.

She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t relax into his embrace either. She turns to him, as tense as a coiled spring. “I worry about everything,” she admits. Her voice drops to a choked whisper. “Mulder. Didn’t you say you wanted us to be sure…?”

I’m always sure, he thinks. “Yeah,” he says, letting his arms release from her waist gently and reluctantly. “I did say that.” Be sensible here. Wait for more direct signs. He runs his fingers through his hair, breathing through his anxiety. “I need to get to work anyway, and I bet you have things to finish up, too.”

She watches him as he returns to his new supplies from the hardware store, seemingly hesitant to go back to her work.

“What did you get at the store?”

“Oh, I’m getting rid of rot,” Mulder says blithely. “Cleaning house. Same old, same old. I hope I’m more successful than I used to be.”

She frowns, crossing to stare at the damaged door up close. “Rot?” She folds her arms over her chest. “That’s not good in a wooden house, Mulder.”

“I noticed it around the cracked jamb,” Mulder says. “Just a little. I think it’s because there wasn’t a good seal and some moisture’s been getting in. So I can clean it out and fix it now before any more damage is done.”

“How lucky hybrid assassins decided to kick your door down. Or you would have missed it.”

There’s a certain snap to her comment that takes him back, makes him think of earlier iterations of their relationship. And she’s not walking back to her laptop. She’s staring at the door frame with crossed arms, idly shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“So are you going to help me?” he asks casually. “Or just sit around and make smartass comments?”

She turns her head to regard him. “Let me consider my answer.”

“Come on, Scully,” he says with a hopeful chuckle and a sideways glance.

***

She mostly watches him work, even though he knows she’s handy herself, probably more than him. He’s taught himself a lot about maintaining a house since moving here, but she grew up knowing how to use a wrench. Her father raised a daughter who knew her way around a toolbox, she always said. When they first moved in, they’d fixed up a lot of this house together, taking breaks to make love in any room they were in.

“You should probably get this whole place inspected,” she comments, sitting on the floor with her knees hugged to her chest. “Rot can be insidious.” He’s using a crowbar to pry the rotted wood from the frame, and she’s wrinkling her nose when he’s successful.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I should. I will. Especially if I put the place on the market soon.”

“The market?” she says sharply. “You’re selling the house?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

She sits up straighter, dropping her knees, taken aback. “But you love this house, Mulder.”

Mulder digs his crowbar in deeper. “I did love this house,” he corrects her carefully. “I’m not sure I love it in the same way I used to.”

She seems to digest this a moment, looking around the room as though seeing it anew. “But where… where would you move?”

“Somewhere closer to work, I thought,” he says. “More intown. If we’re going to be back in the Hoover building. Maybe Arlington? I don’t know. And, uh—” He successfully ejects several shards of wood onto the floor. “I’d like a bigger place, maybe.”

“A bigger place?” Scully shepherds the discarded wooden shards into a pile with the inside of her foot.

“Yeah,” he says, feeling a flush of embarrassment. “So that, you know—maybe these new family members could all stay over. Have their own rooms. No more couches and air mattresses. Big old Mulder family holiday or whatever.”

She stops pushing the shards with her foot, her eyes on him. “You’re assuming Rose and Jackson are going to remain in our lives.”

“Yeah,” he admits simply. “I’m assuming that.”

He doesn’t say what they’re both thinking: that Jackson’s criminal charges are still unresolved, and that even if they were resolved, the two of them have no legal standing in his life at all.

“You’re … considering Rose your family member, too?”

He gives her a look. “She’s Jackson’s sister, isn’t she? Also, I think I might know her mom from somewhere.”

The corners of Scully’s lips lift, but she doesn’t say anything right away. “We’ve barely talked, Rose and me,” she says in a monotone voice. “She seems a little … distant.”

Mulder digs the crowbar in again. “She probably has understandable reasons for that, huh?”

“Yes.” Scully’s voice doesn’t waver. “I know she does.”

“But acting distant doesn’t necessarily mean you don’t care,” he says, pushing on the crowbar’s handle. He gives her a sly look. “Right, Scully?”

Her expression doesn’t change, but her eyebrow twitches. “Right.”

He manages to catapult another cascade of rotten wood chips onto the floor, and Scully watches him silently.

“You’re sweet, Mulder. To think about Rose and Jackson staying at your new house. To … plan around it.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sweet.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “Truthfully, I was also thinking you might be there.”

“Oh yeah? Do I get my own bedroom, too?”

He stops working and turns to look at her. “God,” he says. “I hope not.”

Her return gaze burns into him. With painstaking slowness she licks the rim of her bottom lip. He knows he needs to find this out.

“If I could shine into your head,” Mulder asks, “and see what you wanted, Scully … would I see you living with me again? All the time? Or is that just something I want?”

She doesn’t answer right away, pushing herself up from the floor, brushing herself off. “Mulder, I’m very grateful you can’t shine me,” she comments. Her hands, rapidly smoothing down her sweater, begin to slow down, and her tone softens. “But I think you would see … that. Us living together again. Yes.”

His heart rate picks up. Good, but this isn’t all he needs to hear. “And … this Mulder who you’d want to live with.” He leans his head back, feeling at a rare loss for the right words. “Who is he, exactly?” She reacts to his question, obviously puzzled. “William’s dad? Agent Mulder? The guy who runs errands to the hardware store?”

“Aren’t you … all of those?”

“I don’t know,” he replies shortly, and he’s surprised that there is such a crackle of resentment in his words. “I know that I’m the man you left. The one you could have moved back in with at any point in time. Anything that’s changed recently, to make this situation different—that doesn’t have anything fundamentally to do with me. I’m the same guy.”

“I don’t think you’re the same Mulder as when I left,” she replies. “I don’t believe you really think that either.”

He doesn’t, as a matter of fact. He turns away from her, setting his crowbar down meticulously, and he walks to look out the window.

“And I didn’t leave you, Mulder. I left a situation,” she adds to his turned back. She seems to search for her next words. “Something was destroying both of us, and we couldn’t help one another.”

Mulder turns around again, scratching his face. “I was the one having mental health problems though.”

She huffs, then smiles sadly. “Your perception of that says a lot,” Scully says. “We could barely see what the other was going through.”

He says nothing, considering her words.

“Losing William was something we never dealt with,” she continues. “We let our guilt and our pain sit with us for too long. We told ourselves we could handle it…”

“And we couldn’t.”

“And we couldn’t,” agrees Scully. “And it got worse. Until you couldn’t leave the couch, and I couldn’t stop working, and we couldn’t listen to each other or give one another what we needed.” She kicks idly at the wood pieces on the floor. “That’s why I had to leave.”

Mulder nods stonily, gazing up and down the door frame. He can see that she’s right. He can even see that she’s been saying this, in some form, all along, but he hasn’t been able to hear her.

“So maybe,” he ventures, gesturing broadly to the door, “we had to, you know, pry out all of the rot so the frame could survive.”

“Wow,” she says, “there’s a tortured metaphor.”

“You have no poetry in your soul, Scully.”

“All the great poetry being about fungal growth, of course.”

“The frame is … surviving, right?” Mulder says, his voice turning vulnerable.

Her eyes lock on his instantly. “You’re the one who turned me down,” Scully reminds him.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know. I … wasn’t sure if… I could…”

She walks over to him, cradling his cheek in her hand. Her fingers brush against the light stubble there. His breathing steadies.

“Tell me why you did that,” she whispers.

He stares back at her, his mouth cracking open in hesitation for a moment.

“I wanted you to want me again,” he confesses to her. “Not the family, not the job–although I want those things, too, of course. But I miss when you wanted me. Just me. Like you did in the old days.” He studies her face: smooth, unruffled. “At least I think you did.”

She says nothing, then slowly lifts her mouth into her closed-lip smile.

“What?” he says querulously.

Her smile evolves into a full-on, throaty laugh.

“Jesus, Scully, you’re laughing at me now? Really?”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “But you are being a little ridiculous.”

Her fingers move up to ruffle his hair, and it reminds him of when she used to pretend to check him for head injuries for a transparent excuse to touch him. He permits himself to close his eyes and enjoy her touch.

“Don’t you have any idea how much I want you? How much I have always wanted you?” she asks, in the most sexy voice he’s ever heard. “If you could shine me, Mulder, it would only be you. Always.”

It’s such a silly and obvious statement, but it’s such a relief he could sob, he could sink to his knees and collapse. Instead, he retreats to familiar territory and makes a joke.

“Oh yeah? All Mulder, all the time? It sounds like it might be fun to shine you, Scully.”

“You did shine me once. Remember?” He cracks his eyes to stare at her and she’s smiling, Sphinx-like, continuing to run her fingers through his hair and down his neck. He realizes he is subconsciously leaning towards her, drawn in. Always drawn in, since day one.

“Yeah, but your thoughts were much more chaste then,” he sighs. “You hadn’t been ruined by my perversions yet.”

She snorts, which might be unattractive coming from anyone on earth besides Scully. “My thoughts about you, Mulder,” she whispers, her fingers lightly skimming down his jaw, “were never what I would call chaste.”

He slides his hands around the back of that sumptuous gray sweater. He draws himself into the familiar aura of her body heat, and he kisses her, unable to keep the reflexive smile off of his lips.

It feels so good to kiss her again that he thinks he could never stop.

His palms sculpt her silhouette, the curve of her waist and the line of her rib cage. She’s so soft, so touchable everywhere. She smells like Scully, like something sweet and sharply herbal, like coffee beans and clean sheets. He feels like he could sink into her forever.

He takes eager nips at her pillowy lips, and in response, Scully hums: a relieved, tension-releasing sound.

His mouth pushes in, tasting her again and again. His hands rest on her rib cage, his thumbs tracing the curved underside of her breasts. As soft as heaven. What a very good sweater. He’s going to ask her to wear this sweater everyday.

He breaks the kiss to walk her backwards, pinning her against the wall between the door and the window.

Then he stares down at her, amazed, and she stares back at him with a smile in her eyes. His beautiful Scully. He loves her looking like this: lips kissed hard, hair mussed, neckline of her sweater akimbo. It reminds him of their early days making out when they were still partners in the Hoover Building the first time.

He’s filled with the heady idea that this could be them for decades. That they could have this forever. Something ebullient fills his chest.

Taking hold of her waist, he leans down to bury his face in her neck. She makes a muted sound when his tongue meets her skin, something between a laugh and a gasp. And that sound, from her, causes his mind to leap to a hundred memories—his mouth nuzzling her collarbone, his mouth lapping at her nipple, his mouth buried between her thighs. His whole body begins to vibrate; he hardens fast. He pushes against her like an eager teenager, seizing her wrists.

“Mulder,” she sighs, not sounding exactly disapproving.

He pushes his nose past her hair and lets his mouth trail adoringly around her ear, suddenly wondering if this should continue right now. Because his mind races with possibilities. He could slide his hands underneath the sweater and avail her of it, or maybe cop a good old-fashioned feel over her bra. Or his hands could slide around and cup her ass—Jesus, he loves her ass—and hoist her up further on the wall, lift a leg, unbutton those jeans.

There’s no time to decide on any of these appealing options when other thoughts interrupt his.

Minor child returning to the house.

As before, the words come into Mulder’s head unbidden. Young innocent boy returning to your house in five minutes. Please, please be prepared.

Mulder closes his eyes, releases her wrists, and presses his forehead to Scully’s.

“We gotta stop right now,” he breathes.

“What’s wrong?” she whispers, her own breaths still coming heavy.

“Jackson and Rose are on their way back,” Mulder says. “I, uh, got a warning just now.”

“A … warning?”

“Uh huh.” He chuckles sheepishly.

He feels her muscles tense in his arms as she realizes. “Oh my god.” Scully slips her face down and buries it in his chest. Her words are muffled. “If he knew to send a warning… that means he knew there was a reason to warn you.”

“He’s thirteen, Scully,” Mulder says, arms encircling her. “He knows how babies are made. He’s been reading adult minds his whole life. I think he’s not going to be shocked or traumatized to know we might—”

“No, Mulder. Don’t even say it. It’s absolutely mortifying,” she moans. “We have some ... logistical problems to solve.”

“Sure,” he says warmly. “A few.” He pulls her even closer, rocking her back and forth, her head pressed against his heart. He’d never tell her, but he fucking loves these logistical problems. They are the best problems he can imagine.

For so long he couldn’t see anything to look forward to. Right now he can’t stop himself from looking forward to everything.

***

[jordanching-blog]

Living lighter

I've been consciously trying to figure out ways to leave less of an imprint on the earth... here are a few things that I've implemented:

Reducing plastic use:

Water delivery in glass jars (spring water AND no plastic!)

Laundry pods instead of plastic containers

Refillable deodorant

Reusable jars for when I go to the herb store

I buy compostable garbage bags and reuse the produce ones for daily trash (would like to eliminate those though)

Reducing paper waste:

Using towels instead of paper towels and napkins

Using canvas totes when grocery shopping

Shopping local:

I stopped shopping at huge corporate owned grocery stores like Whole Foods and shop at my local neighborhood places

Curbed my Amazon addiction (still definitely use it, but try my best to reduce as much as possible)

Diet:

Eating mostly plant based (but some wings and fish here and there)

Things that weren't so great that were reusable:

Menstruation cup (super messy and not for me)

Q-tips (I bought this off a kickstarter and didn't feel like it was cleaning anything)

If I owned my own place, things I'd implement:

Bidet (use way less toilet paper and everything is so much cleaner)

Solar panels

Ways to reuse gray water

Compost (you'd think LA apartments would have this but nope)

It might not seem like much listed out, but it does make me feel better that I'm actively trying to reduce my imprint. If everyone did something small, it'd add up to something big! A book that I just finished, Braiding Sweet Grass, really made me think about our relationship with the Earth and how we can make it more reciprocal.

I'm always looking for more ways to improve, so if anyone has any suggestions, would love to learn!

[thedgeoftheuniverse]

Spring Breeze

joel miller x reader

word count: >1k

a/n: to whoever requested this i am SOOO sorry i lost ur request pls pls find this i am so sorry also tumblr stop fucking up my formatting

He is hesitant, you can feel it in the stiffness of the joints—he does not want to accept the comfort of being cared for, he does not know how; he has spent a lifetime as a protector, never accepting that he deserves to be treated with the same devotion.

He has been gone for what seemed to be ages. Time passes relentlessly, each second gone reminding you that he was not beside you, each minute taunting you with a very plausible reality that he never will be again. Patrol should not take so long. It never takes this long and you cannot smother the worry erupting from your chest. You did not know how to occupy your time.

You have been a long-time resident of Jackson, having been rescued by Maria from borderline starvation. You were welcomed to the commune with open arms, shown luxuries you thought would never again exist, and given opportunities to taste a semblance of life from before—what little you could remember of it. You became reacquainted with your love of baking as well as members of the community who craved the loaves of bread you sat out every morning. It was how you met him—he came to you with wringing hands and an empty stomach, he could not withstand the temptation of the warm dough in front of him. He came nearly every day, giving you shy smiles and kind words, but rarely left with your offerings. He seemed to only want the sweetness of your voice and the smell of the pastries.

It is in this moment, in the space between your bodies, that you realize the comfort of Jackson is nothing in comparison to Joel Miller. 

It is not until dusk that he returns. His feet carry him to your home (he cannot understand why, but he knows you smell like a spring breeze and summer has been brutal) and his heart seeks solace in the embrace of your arms. 

“What happened?” You ask him as you take in the sight of his mangled body—blood covers his clothes, his knuckles bruised and busted, hair matted and body trembling, You have never seen him in such a state—you did not believe he had the ability to feel fear, but he wears it brazenly.

“People.” He did not need to say anymore for you to understand.

“Come on, cowboy. Let’s get you cleaned up.” You lead him into your kitchen, where you pull a chair up to the sink and instruct him to sit.

“You don’t ha—” “I know. Just let someone take care of you.” You interrupt as you fill one side of the sink with lukewarm water and retrieve a rag from the drawer below.

You start with his hands. He is hesitant, you can feel it in the stiffness of the joints—he does not want to accept the comfort of being cared for, he does not know how; he has spent a lifetime as a protector, never accepting that he deserves to be treated with the same devotion. You take special care at his split knuckles, applying a featherlight pressure as you begin rinsing the blood. He will never show it to you, but you know that he is in pain.

It is when you move to his arms that you notice the slowness of his blinks—his eyes are staying closed just a moment longer than necessary—and the stiffness fading from his body. His breath, one jagged and heavy, slows down to a steady rhythm. You are humming a song that you cannot remember the name of as you wash away the physical evidence of the violence that lays inside of him, allowing the softness you are familiar with to shine through once again. And it is when you gently lean his head back into the sink, running warm water and your nimble fingers through the grayed strands that he begins leaning into your touch. You are gentle and warm and the embodiment of everything he feels he no longer deserves, but you give it so willingly that he is unable to refuse. Sighs and hums of content leave his lips as his entire being is consumed by you—a spring breeze that he will never stop longing for.

You are turning the water off when he bashfully whispers: “Can you do that just a little longer?”

“I’ve got a better idea.” You reply. You towel dry his hair with the same kindness you used to wash it before you lead him to your couch. As you sit, he goes to position himself upwards beside you—you can feel the disappointment radiating from his skin (or maybe he is always this warm and you have never noticed) and you realize he does not understand your intentions: “Lay down.” You instruct.

He is unsure at first; he has not been in such an innocently intimate position in many years, but the softness in your expression tells him your intentions are true. He does not need to try to relax when your nails begin to scratch at his scalp and your free hand rubs up and down his bicep. He thinks this form of intimacy is the most terrifying thing he has experienced—he is still learning how to accept being cared for but when you whisper, “You’re okay,” he is wrapped in a silk blanket by your words and transported to a time where he was whole. His hair is softer than you had thought it to be; this is just as therapeutic for you as it is for him.

There is no longer empty space between you. There is only silent air and nimble fingers as Joel sleeps in your lap, arms curled into his chest and his shoes still on. It was the first night he fell asleep in peace.

[everydayautism]

Clothing Sorting Guide (how to clean/purge your closet)

subtitle: as a person with autism, ADHD, or similar executive function struggles.

For my first guide, in the spirit of spring cleaning, I’d like to offer a streamlined way to sort clothes into 2 piles for purging: keep it or toss it. 

I have struggled with knowing which clothes I want and which I want to get rid of. This leads to a big pileup of clothes that I don’t want or need anymore, but I have trouble parsing which ones are keepable and which aren’t if I don’t have a clear thinking process in it. These questions help me get my head in the game. 

If you're in a similar predicament with a closet overflowing w/ clothes that you don't actually wear, give this a try, and let me know if it helped you.

Here’s how it works: 

Make sure you dedicate enough time to this exercise, because it might be hard to start again once you take a break.

There will be 2 piles of clothes. One will be keep, and one toss. (You can also just leave your ‘keep’ clothes hanging up, if you want to. Will probably save a lot of mess, but won’t be so visually clear/divisive). 

Based on the prompts below, you’ll sort the clothes into the 2 piles. Of course, it’s always ok to re-sort clothes or realize ‘you know what, maybe I do want to keep this’ regardless of the guide. This is just a simple “get you started” type of deal.

And when you're done, consider donating your clothes to your local Goodwill or homeless shelter. You can de-clutter and make a good change in the world simultaneously.

Here we go!

---

Have you worn it in the last year? > If no, TOSS IT.

Do you feel ugly in this article of clothing? > If yes, TOSS IT. 

Do you feel uncomfortable in this article of clothing due to sensory reasons? > If yes, TOSS IT.

Did you buy this, but never wear it? Does it still have the tag on it? > If yes, TOSS IT.

Do you associate this piece of clothing will bad memories, and thus aren't getting any use out of it? > If yes, TOSS IT.

Do you only still own this because it's associated with good memories, but you don't wear it/like it? > If yes, TOSS IT.

Does this item fit you? > If no, TOSS IT.

Does it have large stains, visible holes, or other damage? > If yes, TOSS IT.

Has your personal style changed? If it has, does this item still fit into your style? > If no, TOSS IT.

---

Those are our tosses; how do we know if we really want to keep it?

Once you've ran through these options in your mind, consider those pieces who have not yet met the 'toss it' criteria. These may be definitive items that you're set on keeping, or they may be a gray area, where you're not sure if you want them gone or not.

Tips for determining if you really want to keep them, or are just delaying the inevitable:

1. try them on. Are you comfortable? Do you feel confident wearing this? Does it fit you properly, with no excessive cutting or squeezing? Do you feel the need to suck your stomach in while wearing this?

2. look back on times you wore this item. What did you pair it with? Were you confident wearing this, or did you feel insecure for one reason or another? How did you feel wearing this?

3. ignore the sunken cost fallacy. If this an expensive item, don't consider its monetary value in the elimination process--if you haven't worn it, chances are you won't again. Resell it, if you want to earn some money back from an expensive purchase. Otherwise, donate it.

4. consider the opportunities you will have to wear this item. Is it a daring shirt perfect for a party? Is it formalwear? If you can think of times it would be appropriate to wear, perfect. If you can't, reevaluate keeping it. (for example, if you previously worked as a clown but don't anymore, don't keep your clown suit for shits and giggles).

I hope this helps, and feel free to submit asks or comments to this blog for other autism accommodation tips that anyone can make happen in their daily life.

[jealousveronya]

Would've, could've, should've - Chapter 4

Summary:

Everyone at the Spring Court always talked about how menacing and ruthless the High Lords were, especially the strongest High Lord, the High Lord of the Night Court. And Feyre did fear him, but when the entire world seemed set on reminding her how she needed to be protected, something even her husband couldn't accomplish without her sacrificing her freedom, she couldn't help but imagine a reality where he wasn't a threat, but the one she clung to breathlessly every night.

After all, if she needed to be protected, the company of the strongest should suffice.

However, that was just a fantasy Feyre created to escape to when she couldn't get out of bed. It meant nothing. She hadn't even met the lord of the night.

But what happens when she does and can't stop a blush from creeping onto her face as she finally puts a face to all her sensual fantasies?

Read Chapter 4 on: AO3 or continue reading

As the morning came and its light graced Feyre’s room, the guilt pulsing through her veins seemed to ease into a whisper. Or perhaps it was the overdosing on faebane and its lingering effects that allowed her to feel a little better about herself.

She had slept for an entire day and would have slept longer if Alis hadn’t entered her room to help her prepare for the funeral of the poor male.

The moment she opened her eyes and recognized that the softness underneath her belonged to her bed, she realized someone—probably Tamlin—had carried her back to her room after she collapsed. 

As she tried to get up, every single movement sent jagged flashes of pain through her; this was the worst she’d ever felt. Her face burned with a feverish heat, urging her eyes to close, while her body pleaded for just one more moment of rest. In the pit of her stomach, a fire smoldered, resembling hunger, but the idea of food turned her stomach, leaving a vile taste in her mouth.

She flexed her fingers as she examined the bandages over her hand where the glass had sliced into her skin.

Why did she make herself go through that? For what?

She hadn’t done anything. Those fantasies were just that—fantasies. Not real. She would never do that in real life - and it’s not like she would have a chance to. The High Lord of the Night Court was a vile menace and yesterday proved that. He beheaded a member of her court and carved his symbol in his flesh—branding him like cattle.

Tamlin didn't brand cattle, let alone fae.

But still, she vowed to stop indulging in her foolish fantasies. They were an insult to her court and Rhysand wasn’t someone to be trifled with, even as a mere flicker in her imagination.

She watched as Alis ran around her room to prepare everything that was needed for Feyre - dress, hairbrushes, makeup, jewelry. 

She did not know that Feyre was using faebane to suppress her powers or that she had powers.

When Feyre came to the Spring Manor and started flaunting her powers left and right, Tamlin was quick to dismiss the entire court. Sure, the dust may have started to collect on every surface since neither she nor Tamlin were interested in cleaning, but they were happy enough not to care. The day she started hiding her magic, the members of the court were invited back.

Alis had, thankfully, never questioned Feyre’s lack of energy, instead opting to help her lady as often as possible.

She dressed Feyre in a sleek black gown, the hem of its skirt adorned with delicate silver-beaded flowers. Afterwards, she guided Feyre to a chair in front of a mirror, skillfully arranging her hair into a bun. To hide the bandages, again without question, Alis slipped on a pair of short black gloves. And with that, Feyre was ready.

As Alis opened the door to her room, Feyre saw Tamlin waiting outside, arms crossed over his chest. He wore a black tunic which had threads that shimmered green in the sunlight. She had never seen him in anything other than green. He looked tired—his skin pale, almost gray, despite his tan and his eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

Without hesitation, Feyre leapt into his arms, tears welling up as he enveloped her in his strong embrace. His scent—roses and lavender—filled her senses, offering a bittersweet comfort. This is what she should fantasize about.

Tamlin pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, murmuring soothingly, “It’s okay,” into her hair, trying to calm her with his presence.

They descended the stairs slowly, Feyre clinging to his arm, her steps slow and painful. Outside the manor, a line of carriages waited, their own among them. Once inside, the horses began their brisk trot toward the Spring Court Lake. They sat in silence, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on Feyre.

Though the silence was fitting, Feyre longed to hear his voice, to break the stillness. Finally, unable to hold back any longer, she ventured a question that had been nagging at her mind.

“Why did they kill him?” Feyre asked, her voice tinged with desperation.

Tamlin stared at her for a moment before his gaze dropped to his boots. “Because they’re evil bastards; it’s what they do.”

“But why him? What did he do?”

“He was a member of my court.”

There had to be more to it, didn’t there?

“So they just came to the Spring Court and killed him because he was part of your court?”

Tamlin remained silent, and Feyre’s irritation grew at his evasiveness. “You have many fae in your court. Why him? Please, Tamlin, I want to understand. I am the Lady of Spring.” Her hand reached for his, their fingers intertwining.

He squeezed her hand tightly. “Feyre,” he sighed, “there’s no reason for you to worry about this. Please.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, and Feyre decided against pressing the matter further, knowing they were moments away from arriving at the Spring Court Lake.

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

The members of the court, including the family of the deceased male, whose name was Karr, lined up in front of the lake. Following fae tradition, a cauldron was brought forth. The size, material, and adornments of the cauldron were in accordance to the wealth and the status of the family. Before Feyre’s family lost their fortune, they had owned a silver cauldron adorned with sapphires. After their downfall, they had to sell it, resorting to a simple metal bowl from the kitchen when her mother passed away.

Given the circumstances of Karr's death, Tamlin permitted the use of his family’s cauldron, the one used for his father, the previous High Lord.

It was a magnificent golden vessel, intricately engraved with roses, their petals emphasized by rubies and their leaves depicted with emeralds.

A carriage with flowers arrived and everyone present took one flowers. As the Lady of Spring, Feyre took a crown of flowers, of roses and tulips, and placed it on her head.

Tamlin led the ritual, lighting his rose on fire before tossing it into the cauldron. The others followed suit, each throwing their burning roses into the flames. When Feyre's turn came, she placed the crown into the fire as a sign of respect.

“I am sorry,” she murmured softly, watching the crown catch fire before retreating to stand beside Karr’s wife, a lovely woman, also dressed in black dress.

Tamlin and his court members lit their arrows with the fire from the cauldron, preparing to shoot them at the raft that now carried Karr’s flower-covered body across the lake.

Feyre extended her hand to Karr’s wife, who accepted it. “I am sorry,” Feyre whispered again.

The wife squeezed her hand gently. “He knew what he was getting into.”

Feyre was about to ask more, but the words caught in her throat when the raft burst into flames, the fire consuming the flowers and Karr’s body as it drifted away.

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

Days passed, and Karr’s murder still cast a shadow over the Spring Court manor, lingering like a bitter taste in the air. Each night, candles were lit throughout the manor, as if protesting the night.

Tamlin withdrew more often, retreating into meetings with his court members, leaving Feyre feeling the absence of his presence.

She hadn’t yet found the courage to broach the subject of training. Fearful that his sour mood might lead him to dismiss her request out of hand, she hesitated, waiting for the right moment to bring it up.

However, The Cauldron had other plans.

Soon, a letter from Beron arrived—a summons for yet another meeting. This time, however, something was different. After reading the letter, Tamlin’s gaze lifted, finding Feyre’s eyes across the long dining table. “We’re going together,” he declared.

Feyre’s fork clattered onto her silver plate, her face a mask of shock and disbelief. All the horrible things Tamlin and Ianthe said about other High Lords came swirling in her mind.

Tamlin crossed the length of the table in quick strides and crouched in front of her. “You’ll be alright,” he reassured her, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Your magic is well-hidden, and I don’t like the thought of leaving you behind.” Not with the risk of Rhysand easily breaching the manor’s defenses and causing more havoc.

"But Rhysand's a daemati. He can read minds. If he-"

"He wasn't there the last time. I doubt Beron would invite him. His presence wounds his pride." A flicker of a smile appeared on his face. 

Tamlin's hands settled on her slender waist, pulling her close. She relaxed into his embrace, and without hesitation, he moved them to her bedroom. It was fast - perhaps too fast. He ripped her bodice open, another destroyed dress. Skin met skin, and the heat of their bodies melded together, each thrust of his hips a silent vow of protection as Feyre's gasps filled the room. 

“How the other High Lords would rage,” he murmured, his fingers tracing her abdomen with possessive pride. “If they knew about the future High King.” His green eyes burned with a fierce pride, and she felt like he could devour her with his gaze.

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

Tamlin winnowed them to the Dawn Court on the day of the meeting. Although Beron had called for it, he refused to host, leaving the responsibility to the High Lord of the Dawn Court, who could have declined but, for some reason, never did.

Feyre was glad the meeting was scheduled for the morning, before she had to take the faebane, making it easier to deal with the discomfort of standing in heels—or standing in general.

Having never stepped foot outside of the Spring Court, Feyre found herself completely enamored when she first laid eyes on the Dawn Court. The manor—or rather, the castle—appeared to be centuries older than the Spring Manor, with its ancient architecture standing as a testament to time, yet still perfectly preserved. It boasted countless windows, open spaces, and balconies, all deliberately designed to embrace the dawn. There were no curtains or blinds, nothing to obscure the beauty of the sunrise. The manor faced east by design, with most windows oriented in that direction, allowing anyone to witness the sunrise from nearly any vantage point. Smaller windows faced other directions, serving mostly to fill in empty spaces.

When they had arrived, they appeared in front of the gates, which were immediately opened as the guards, probably recognizing Tamlin, announced their arrival. The gates, crafted out of gold, glimmered as the sunlight of the dawn reflected on them.

Inside the manor, there were already a few waiting. There were groups of fae, and they were keeping their distance from each other. They also had their colors. Tamlin and she were dressed in the brightest green she had ever seen. It was so bright, it was almost yellow. The members of the Dawn Court were dressed in a gradient from light orange to pink. The group she assumed was High Lord of the Autumn Court, his sons, and his wife were dressed in fiery orange.

Feyre found it somewhat amusing how the courts had their colors.

It made sense, but it was also funny to imagine these powerful High Lords picking clothes only in certain colors so no one would mistake who they were and what they represented.

She clung to Tamlin’s arm with all her strength. Although he had convinced her that she would be safe, that none of them would be able to sense her power, part of her still worried. There was also the weakness that faebane caused, and Feyre worried she might collapse.

“You should try these,” Tamlin said, pointing to a dessert with nuts set up on a table with other refreshments.

“Oh, maybe later.” Since she started drinking faebane, her throat was bruised, and swallowing something with rough edges was painful.

“Come on.” Tamlin brought the dessert to her face. His eyes looked like those of a child as he smiled, and Feyre didn’t want to disappoint him.

She took a bite from his hand and chewed as much as possible. As she swallowed, sharp edges of nuts scratched her throat, and pain struck her—although it was somewhat bearable. Without the nuts, the dessert was rather nice.

She smiled in return and hummed in delight, “It’s really delicious.”

His smile grew and Feyre almost melted on the spot from his sincerity.

He handed her the dessert to continue eating and turned his head around, as if looking for somebody. Feyre took this opportunity to place the dessert back on the table, hiding it in the shadows of the fruit bowl.

“There they are.” Tamlin took steps to the right, and she followed. Instantly, she saw a couple with white hair dressed in white furs and deep blue fabric. If Feyre had to guess, this was the High Lord of the Winter Court and his wife.

“Kallias, Viviane. I want to introduce you to my wife, the Lady of the Spring Court, Feyre.” As Tamlin greeted them, Feyre and Viviane both bowed to each other. “Feyre, this is the High Lord of the Winter Court and his mate.”

Feyre mentally applauded herself for guessing.

“I didn’t know you got married,” Kallias said, confusion evident in his tone. “When did this happen?”

“Recently. We didn’t hold a big ceremony, just my court.”

Kallias hummed. “I didn’t expect you to break tradition, but it was about time someone did.”

Tamlin had told her before they got married that it was customary for all High Lords to attend each other’s weddings, but due to obvious circumstances—Feyre needing to stay hidden—Tamlin had chosen not to follow tradition.

A sound of trumpets rang throughout the hall. Feyre gripped Tamlin’s strong bicep, confused. Tamlin looked at her and separated her hand from his, bringing it to his lips to kiss. “We have to go. It’s time for the meeting.”

Viviane, seemingly understanding why Tamlin stopped her and her mate, grabbed Feyre’s other hand. “Come on, Feyre, I’ll show you what ladies of the court do while the High Lords have their boring talks that never fix anything.” She rolled her eyes, and a smile appeared on Feyre’s lips.

Feyre dropped her hand from Tamlin’s hold and followed Viviane. The two High Lords turned to walk in the other direction, where the trumpets were heard from.

Feyre and Viviane took a few steps, their heels clicking against the stone. Then something akin to thunder roared in the hall, toward its center. Feyre jerked her head to see.

A male clothed in black materialized out of thin air.

Then, behind him, a female with short black hair winnowed in as well.

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

Feyre’s heart raced, her eyes widening as she took in the figure before her.

The male stood with his hands casually in his pockets, clad in a black jacket with silver trim that accentuated his strong shoulders. His head was tilted back, his expression a mix of boredom and arrogance. His short blue-black hair, like raven's feathers, gleamed in the dawn's light, perfectly complementing his brown skin. He was dressed entirely in black—from the jacket to the pants and leather boots.

There was no doubt who he was. Darkness seemed to leak from him in swirling patterns, caressing Feyre's senses like a whispered secret in the night, his power echoing against the walls.

Feyre had never encountered such raw power; even Tamlin paled in comparison. No, this was definitely him—every part of her screamed his name.

This was the High Lord of the Night Court, Rhysand.

And he was the most handsome male she had ever seen.

“If a kiss is what you want,” his voice, smooth and velvety, murmured seductively, “then I’ll happily oblige.”

Her fantasies surged back. The shadow cloth that made the figure in her fantasies dissipated to reveal the striking male who now stood before her. She could see it so clearly. Him. Them. Pressed against each other as sultry words escape his lips and his strong arms explore every inch of her.

Her gaze traced his black pants and leather boots.

She climbed onto his lap, feeling the firm strength of his muscles as he groaned in pleasure—a sound so primal it sent shivers down her spine.

She forgot how to breathe as her heart threatened to burst from her chest. Warmth flooded her cheeks - from the embarrassment of her thoughts, but also from the undeniable pull of what she found herself wanting.

But before she could fully grasp the scene, his lips crashed against hers—hard, demanding.

The tips of her pointed ears felt like they were candles engulfed in flames.

"Who's your High Lord?"

She couldn’t look away from him.

Despite knowing she should stop, she felt as though she were under a spell. As she watched him, the world seemed to tilt sideways, and Feyre feared she might collapse.

“Who's your High Lord?” he repeated, kissing her until she was on the verge of collapsing.

The High Lord of the Night Court suddenly turned his face, his eyes locking onto Feyre’s with a click.

"You, Rhysand."

Feyre inhaled a sharp breath and she could swear everyone in the hall could hear her heart beating. 

She felt her knees tremble as she held the gaze of the strongest male in Prythian. His violet eyes bore into hers with an intensity she couldn’t quite place. Her cheeks grew impossibly hot, as if she were overcome with fever.

Knowing he was a daemati, she got scared he might be delving into her thoughts.

Fortunately, she felt no intrusion within her mind.

What would his reaction be if he knew what she was thinking about? 

Excitement that shouldn't be there pulsed through her veins. 

It felt as though his gaze—so blue it bordered on purple—was singling her out, making her feel as if she were doing something wrong.

She prayed to the Cauldron that her cheeks weren’t too red. What did the others think? What did Tamlin think? And what about Rhysand—what did he make of her flushed face?

She couldn’t tell what made her cheeks burn more: the intensity of his gaze or the shame of being so visibly affected by it.

She needed to look away—to fight the effects of her fantasies and preserve her honor as the Lady of Spring. She vowed she'd stop this nonsense.

But how could she look away now? It felt as though his eyes were pulling her closer, compelling her to move towards him.

And she would have - for once since she started drinking faebane - her legs felt light.

Faebane.

The reason she started fantasizing about him was faebane. She wanted an escape from her cruel fate and his title as the strongest provided that. 

And now that he stood in front of her, she wanted to believe that if she took a step toward him, he’d wrap his arms around her, and she’d never have to touch faebane again. She yearned for him to confess that he had fantasies of her too, even though she knew it was impossible. She just wanted the pain to stop, and her soul seemed to pull her toward him as if he truly were her salvation.

But he couldn’t be.

He was cruel—she had seen what he did to Karr. This pull she felt was just a product of her foolish fantasies.

Their gaze might have remained locked if Tamlin’s broad back hadn’t appeared in front of her, blocking her view. Feyre let out a breath, she could swear the color of his eyes was burned on the back of her eyelids.

“What are you doing here?” Tamlin growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“Well, isn’t this a meeting for High Lords?” Though Rhysand's expression was hidden, Feyre could almost sense his smugness.

“I invited him,” Beron emerged from the shadows. “He apprehended our spies, so there’s not much for us to do now. Besides, I need my spy fixed. He thinks he’s a duck—keeps quacking and falling into lakes.”

“Mine thinks he’s a dog,” Kallias added.

“Mine is dead,” Tamlin barked.

“I ran out of ideas,” Rhysand smirked at Tamlin.

“Let us head inside,” Beron continued walking toward the meeting hall.

“You first,” Tamlin roared at Rhysand, his voice carrying a note of finality.

Rhysand shrugged and sauntered inside. Tamlin watched him for a moment, his gaze fixed on Rhysand’s retreating figure. Once Rhysand was far way, Tamlin followed, not sparing Feyre a single glance.

[smallgodseries]

[image description: Against the Klieg lights of a dark city, the glowing bright eyes of this sneering night stalker are in direct contrast to his extravagantly silly, er… ‘eccentric’ rubber (or is it leatherette?) headgear. Text reads, “64, The Scowl ~ The Small God: Vigilante Headgear”]

It’s raining in Dark City. 

It’s always raining in Dark City. Urban legend says the clouds cleared once and the sun broke through, on a Thursday afternoon in the middle of July. Men vomited, women wept, non-binary people fled shrieking from the light, and a surprising (not surprising) percentage of the city’s population was revealed to be vampires looking for a safe refuge. 

The streets are silver in the moonlight, barely brightened by the glow of street lamps that haven’t been cleaned since the industrial revolution. People hurry, their coat collars popped high, their hats drawn low, their hands oddly empty of umbrellas. There’s no point in Dark City. Umbrella or no, you always wind up getting wet. 

The sound of screams splits the night, shrill and insistent, and what seemed to be a gargoyle on a nearby rooftop straightens and springs into action, revealing itself to be a lithe, long-limbed man who is inexplicably wearing skin tight gray spandex while he does his evening parkour. No one who sees him bats an eye. He is justice. He is the law. 

He is a private citizen with no legal authority or training in conflict de-escalation. Dark City has never had a police shooting. The police are too busy helping the criminals—many of whom had to be bussed in from other communities; the people of Dark City are smart enough to choose safer professions, like lion-taming or shark-fluffing—through their recovery and rehab. 

Somehow, they never seem to catch The Scowl. Even though he seems like he’d be fairly easy to find, they’re all too scared to put the hours in. Last year he paralyzed a man for tax evasion, and broke another’s legs because he’d been seen jaywalking. 

The people of Dark City are afraid. But when asked why they don’t leave, they shrug and ask, “Have you seen his hat? Cool hat like that, he must be a good guy. 

“He must be on our side.” 

He’s not.

[thisisallthehattersfault]

I'm so intrigued by ritual behavior in animals. Many animals practice what we can only describe as funerary rights and veneration of the dead, while certain species of ape and elephant have displayed behaviors not unlike sun-worship, being aware of and showing some kind of reverence for celestial bodies.

I like to think, if the Straw Hats were ever to worship Luffy, Chopper would be the first to do it. It would be an instinctive thing, and maybe worship wouldn't be the right word for it. Reverence doesn't fit -- he has been elbow-deep in his captain's chest, he has seen Luffy (seen all his crew-mates) reduced to sweat and blood and vomit. He has washed the filth of survival from their faces and tipped water to their lips and held death at bay with sutures and splints and antidotes. The flesh is not a holy thing; the body is not be sanctified (except of course that it is, it is, and no one knows that better than a doctor.)

Chopper is less animal now than he was before he ate his fruit, but he is nature’s creature still. He can feel the seasonal climate of a new island in his bones as they approach. His fur prickles when danger is near. When his crew forage for supplies in strange new places, Chopper follows the scent of clean water and green, growing things until it leads him to resources he can bring back to the herd.

And when the sun rises, he tips his face into its light and feels the warmth seep into him.

There is a profound gratitude winter creatures feel towards the sun. Nights on Drum were always so very long, and the snow so thick. In deep winter even the evergreens had a hard time catching enough of the gray, watery light to keep themselves alive. It wasn’t uncommon for Chopper’s original herd to spend hours or days foraging and only find barely enough to eat. When the sun emerged enough to melt the snow and pull tender, edible shoots up from the earth, coax sweet green leaves to bud on the tips of barren branches, it always felt like a gift to be cherished.

After he ate the fruit and became something that is neither reindeer nor human and not quite a proper mix of the two, something that is maybe not only difficult to classify but downright incorrect — when he became whatever he now is, and gained the ability to perceive a world so much greater than himself, he felt that was exactly what the sun was: something greater than himself. Something greater than his herd, or the human settlements, or either of the good Doctors that raised him. Something greater than the evergreen forests or the snowy fields. Greater even than the long, dark winter. Doctor Hiriluk taught him, of course, what the sun is made of, but that didn’t make it seem any less like magic to Chopper. This huge, burning thing, so far away and unimaginably powerful and yet it reaches its fingers down and down and down into the snow and tugs up plants for the reindeer to eat. Ancient and unreachable and unapproachable, but still it warms his fur. Still it melts the snow caps into streams of clean, clear water that teem with life in the summertime.

Right from the beginning, Luffy does for Chopper what the sun does for the snow fields. He gives warmth and persistent, blinding light until the icy top-layer has gone to slush and everything beneath sprouts anew, growing strong and reaching up towards the sun. Chopper boards the Going Merry for the first time and his bones ache like spring has come, and under Luffy Chopper does as all green things do in the sunlight: he grows. He learns and trains and overcomes, until he feels less like those tender spring shoots and more like the evergreens, standing tall, unbowed by the winter.

It makes sense to me for Chopper to be the first of the crew to look at Luffy and understand that he is something else. Something more. Something greater than himself. Maybe not consciously, but instinctively, not in mind but in gut and marrow. If Luffy is to Chopper what sunlight is to the snowfields then it’s only right the rest of the world, too, should get to tilt their faces to the light of the sun and feel it’s warmth seep into them. The crew learns about Nika and Joyboy and ancient prophecies and Sun Gods given form, that Luffy is something that is neither human nor god and not quite a proper mix of the two, and Chopper tucks his nose into Luffy’s hip and digs his horns into Luffy's belly until Luffy reaches down to pat him, and thinks, I could have told you that.