#i have nothing to prove and if i was the only one left saying it guess I’ll be one against the mob

[mapis-putellas]

𝑱𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒔/𝑳.𝑾ä𝒍𝒕𝒊

Lia tried not to let it bother her. Really, she did. But every time she watched Grace orbit around you like a lovesick puppy, it made her jaw clench just a little tighter.

It had started innocently enough when Grace joined the team. A new centre-back to partner you in Leah’s absence, someone young, eager, and determined to prove herself. That was fine. Good, even. Lia wanted Arsenal to be strong. She wanted you to have a solid partnership at the back. But then it became obvious that Grace’s admiration for you wasn’t just about football.

It was the way she always stood a little too close. The way she laughed at things you said that weren’t even remotely funny. The way she miraculously ended up next to you at every meal, every gym session, every bus ride. The way she touched your arm during conversations, like she had any right.

And you? You didn’t even notice. Completely and utterly oblivious.

It was actually Beth who called it first, nudging Lia during training one afternoon as you and Grace ran through defensive drills together.

“Someone’s got a little crush,” Beth murmured, smirking.

Lia huffed. “Ja. I noticed.”

Beth snorted. “Reckon you should be worried?”

Lia shot her a glare. “No.”

Beth laughed. “Alright, alright. Just checking.”

Later, in the changing room, Lia let out a frustrated sigh, flopping onto the bench next to Leah. “She follows her everywhere.”

Leah, busy untying her boots, glanced up. “Grace?”

Lia rolled her eyes. “Of course, Grace.”

Leah chuckled, shaking her head. “Mate, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Beth, sitting across from them, leaned forward. “She’s right. That one only has eyes for you.”

Lia groaned. “I know, I know. But it is still annoying. She touches her all the time. And she laughs too much.”

Beth grinned. “Laughs too much?”

“Yes,” Lia huffed. “She is not that funny.” You were, but only she was allowed to laugh at your jokes.

Leah patted Lia’s knee. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

Lia scowled. “I am not jealous.”

“Of course not,” Beth said, grinning. “You’re just… passionately observant.”

Lia muttered something in German under her breath that made Beth burst out laughing.

*

Then came match day. It was a tough game, one where you’d been throwing your body into challenges left and right, unwilling to let anything past you. Lia had always admired that about you, the way you played with so much heart. But sometimes, your bravery made her stomach twist with worry.

And then it happened.

One bad landing. One sickening crack.

Lia’s heart stopped as you crumpled to the ground, clutching your ankle. She was up off the bench in an instant, watching as the medics ran onto the pitch. Your face was contorted in pain, and Lia could see the way you were trying not to cry.

“Scheisse,” Lia muttered, pressing her hands to her temples.

Beth was next to her, squeezing her arm. “She’ll be okay.”

Lia barely heard her. All she could do was watch as you were stretchered off, disappearing down the tunnel.

The rest of the match was a blur. Arsenal won, but Lia couldn’t have cared less. The second the final whistle blew, she was up, grabbing her stuff and heading straight for the hospital.

She wasn’t the only one with that idea.

When she arrived, still in her training gear, she was met with an unwelcome sight; Grace. Sitting at your bedside like she belonged there, her hand dangerously close to yours.

Lia’s hands clenched into fists. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay calm. Then she stepped into the room.

Just as she did, your eyes fluttered open, hazy from the pain meds, and Lia’s heart clenched at how small you looked in the hospital bed. But before she could say anything, your voice, slurred and dreamy, broke the silence.

“Lia?”

Grace stiffened. Lia smirked.

“Ja, schatz,” she murmured, stepping forward.

You turned your head toward the sound of her voice, your pupils blown wide. Then you grinned, reaching out clumsily. “Hi baby cakes.”

Lia’s brows shot up, and Beth would never let her live down the way her ears went pink.

Grace looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. “I-I just came to check on her.”

Lia crossed her arms. “No need. I am here now.”

Grace swallowed. “I was just-“

“You need to stop,” Lia cut in, her tone sharp. “She is taken. And you need to stop following her around like a lost puppy.”

Grace’s face went red, her mouth opening and closing like she wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words. Lia didn’t give her the chance.

“She is mine,” Lia said, her accent thick with emotion. “And she does not even see you like that.”

Grace exhaled sharply, looking away. After a long moment, she muttered, “I’m sorry,” before quickly excusing herself from the room.

Lia barely spared her a glance, already turning her attention back to you. You, meanwhile, were still grinning at her like she was the best thing you’d ever seen.

“Sexy Swiss,” you whispered, giggling.

Lia sighed, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. “How much pain medicine did they give you?”

You blinked at her. “Dunno.” Then, suddenly, your eyes filled with tears. “I missed you.”

Lia softened instantly. She reached out, brushing your hair back gently. “I am here now, liebling.”

You sniffled, reaching for her clumsily. “C’mere.”

Lia chuckled, carefully shifting and leaning down so you could wrap your arms around her. You clung to her like she was your lifeline, mumbling something about how good she smelled as you buried your face into her neck.

She pressed a soft kiss to your temple, her heart full. “Ich liebe dich,” she whispered.

You hummed, already half-asleep again. “Love you too, sexy Swiss.”

*

Tags:

@ceesimz @marysfics @girlgenius1111 @codiemarin @simp4panos @silentwolfsstuff @goldenempyrean @xxnaiaxx @liloandstitchstan @ktgoodmorning @chelseacult

[awrkive]

[TEASER] CATCH YOUR WAVE (m) — JJK.

the last thing you expected when you strolled into your new school is to become the favorite project of the 5’11” tatted-up overly enthusiastic, golden-retriever-in-human-form PE teacher, jeon jungkook. he’s all goofy grins, bad math puns, and relentless charm, while you’re busy pretending you’re immune to his antics... spoiler alert: you’re not. and that infuriates you. 

alternatively, jungkook tries to prove that opposites don’t just attract — they collide. a classic case of one plus one equals: “oh, no. i like him.”

PAIRING jeon jungkook x (female) reader

GENRE r18+ (fuff, slight angst, mature content) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

WORD COUNT ~15k (still working around the final wc)

TEASER WORD COUNT 1.8k words

WARNINGS/MISC teachers!au, pe teacher!jk, math teacher!reader, seven!jungkook, himbo!jk, coworkers!au (works in the same school), oc gets kinda mean sometimes but jungkook likes it lmfao, extremely corny pick up lines.. he tries 💔 2000s romcoms references (sorry) warnings for this teaser: nothing major. just bad math puns delivered by himbo jungkook :')

NOTES inspired by the whole “can she gaf me💔” vibes in the seven mv (by jungkook) and ultimately the click five’s song, catch your wave (hence the title�� pls listen to the song for the whole vibes hehe <3). ive been wanting to write himbo jk for awhile bcs all my jks are like … smart so far so i thought wait we need to change that. gahhhh im so so freaking excited ive been thinking about writing this ever ever since i wrote that one himbo jk drabble 💃🏼

[ CYW MOODBOARD ] • [ MAIN MASTERLIST ]

RELEASE DATE 2025, FEBRUARY 15TH | 01:00 AM KOREAN STANDARD TIME (GMT+9)

They say life is a balance of good and bad days, and you’re not a pessimistic person, but sometimes enough is enough. How is your week already this bad when it’s just barely started? 

Sunday morning, when you picked up your laundry from the shop, you were too late to realize that you mixed not just one but two white underwear with the colored loads. You’d blame it on the fact that they were too tiny, too flimsy for you to notice. But you know you should’ve double-checked before putting them in the machine. And now you have lost two panties. And in this economy? That shit cost a ton. 

When Monday came and the head of the Math Department informed you there was a sudden shift in your schedule for the semester, it meant that instead of teaching three Algebra classes for tenth graders, you’re also teaching pre-Algebra for eighth graders, meaning you’re gonna have to cross the long walk from the high school building to the middle school one, the latter being all the way to the left wing, completely the opposite side of the right wing where the faculty room and your initial classes are. 

Today, you’ve woken up with your WiFi not connected to the internet (something you have to talk to your landlord about when you come back home) and just two minutes ago, you realized you forgot to take your coffee order with you from the cafe across your school building, the sad garlic bread you bought along with it staring right at you without its beloved beverage pair. 

Truthfully, it might be your last straw. How the hell is this happening to you out of all people? The semester is just starting, for god’s sake, and you’re already hanging on by a thread. 

You take a deep breath on your seat before standing up from your cubicle, heading to the coffee machine by the snack bar.

You hate the coffee here. Whatever brand they keep on stocking the pantry with, it’s too naturally sweet – and you don’t like your coffee with sugar. 

But you have no choice but to make do. The cafe’s too far out and your first class starts in about twenty minutes. 

“Good morning, Ms. Math Genius – ready to crunch some numbers today?” 

As if this day couldn’t get any worse, you shut your eyes close for a moment when you hear the familiar voice. 

You stir your coffee with downturned lips.

“Only if you promise to flex those brain muscles—” You say, turning to look to the side. Much to your expectation, it’s Jeon Jungkook, leaning casually against the wall with that usual faux suave he keeps on around you – which you can’t take seriously because his big doe eyes tell you a completely different story. He’s wearing some Nike dri fit shirt, one that’s too tight around his chest and accentuates a comparatively tiny waist that you have to force your eyes upwards. But as they do, they land on the biceps that are straining against the poor material. It wasn’t lost on you though that one second after, they’re suddenly flexing. You arch your brow as you glance a look on his face. “—as much as you flex those biceps.” 

Jungkook’s lips curl into a huge grin, expecting the jab. 

“You know it!” He chuckles, running his fingers through his bangs. “I’m all about solving problems, and I’d say my favorite equation is you plus me equals a perfect start to the day.” 

You fight a loud groan from escaping your lips as soon as he says that, giving him a certain look before shaking your head and going back to your coffee. 

But you should’ve known better by now, because Jungkook – aside from being a PE teacher extraordinaire and every student’s favorite at that, Thee Football Coach, 5’11” tatted brunette with a long, fluffy hair paired with an objectively, annoyingly attractive face – is persistent. 

Most especially when it comes to annoying you. 

A few steps, and then you feel him getting closer to you. 

“Did you know that—” 

You roll your eyes. That’s it. If it’s another one of his corny math pick-up lines again you swear to god— 

“Jungkook, you don’t have to keep doing this everyda—” 

“—we’re like parallel lines?” 

“What.”

“Did you know that we’re like parallel lines?” Jungkook repeats earnestly, just like he always does. When he’s up in your personal space like this, it’s easy to get a waft of his cologne – and your annoyance could’ve been justified if he smelled like shit but somehow, even though he looks like he just got back from a run judging by his running shoes and gym bag, he still smells… okay. 

Just okay. As in, you don’t care how good he smells like or how he smells at all.

You make sure to keep that thought at the back of your head. 

“No.” You say, hoping to dismiss the conversation right there as you pick up the cup of coffee from the machine, ready to turn on your heel, but then Jungkook laughs ever so slightly and gives your arm a barely-there poke.

“Come on, entertain me a little.” 

You squint your eyes at him. He challenges your stare with a growing smile on his face. Scoffing, you roll your eyes again before you put the paper cup back on the table. With a sigh, you cross your arms and look at Jungkook. For a split second, his eyes cast downwards to your chest level but he quickly snaps out of it. 

“Okay… we’re like parallel lines… why? Because we’ll never meet?” You say in response to his little request, keeping your tone impassive. 

Jungkook’s eyes slowly widen at your words, smile slowly dropping – as if the logic of your words have ruined one of his million pick-up lines again. 

“I– no! What? I meant, we’re like, always running to each other! Side by side. Parallel lines.”

“Okay… so still never meeting?” You ask impatiently, brows furrowing. 

Jungkook mirrors your confusion. Then, he raises a hand, one finger up. “One second. I’ll fix this–” he takes his phone out from his pocket, types on it quickly, lip jutting out as he reads whatever he’s looking up, and then, “Ohh, I might have meant asymptote lines. We’re like asymptote lines.” 

Your face contorts into even deeper confusion. Holy shit, you’re not dealing with this very early on in the morning, especially not after the circumstances of the past hours.

“Asymptote lines are more depressing than parallel lines if we’re talking metaphorically.” 

Jungkook squints his eyes at you, suspicious. “Are you sure?”

“I would hope I know my lines, Jungkook. I teach them everyday.” 

He laughs again, eyes crinkling at the corners cutely, and you hate how that tugs something at your heartstrings. 

You catch yourself right at that moment.

Jeon Jungkook is not cute. You keep in mind. He’s not cute. 

Jungkook thinks you’re so cute. Gorgeous, most of all, and unbelievably so. You and your signature furrowed brows and pink pouty lips.

As usual, you have your hair up in a clean bun today, and Jungkook can smell the lace of sweet vanilla from you as he takes a step closer to get a cup for himself. 

He loves the coffee here. Whatever brand they keep stocking the pantry with, it’s sweet as fuck. Just like how Jungkook likes his caffeine dose. Kind of like you, he thinks. 

Jungkook casts a quick glance at you again, can't really help himself when you're so pretty, although he makes sure to be subtle about it.

You’re wearing another one of your pencil skirts, one that he has to avoid staring at for longer than three seconds lest his mind takes him too far – but the upper view is even more of a torture, unfortunaly for him. Because as much as you wear the same outfit every single day and it should mean that Jungkook should get used to it by now, he can never be immune to your silk long sleeves, where you keep the top three buttons open – and as much as Jungkook tries to pry his gaze away from the exposed skin down from your neck, it’s like there’s a strange force in the universe that keeps him on it. Doesn’t really help that you like crossing your arms under your chest, too, making his mind run a mile per minute at the thoughts that form inside his head when a very apparent cleavage shows—

Alright. Damn. It’s like 8 am. 

And you were saying something about lines…

“Yeah? I hope you can teach me too, I need to—” 

“Goodbye, Mr. Jeon.” You cut him off before he can even finish his sentence, taking your coffee with you as you head to the direction of your cubicle. 

The nickname makes Jungkook’s lips curl up. He probably shouldn’t smile, given that you only ever call him that when you want to cut the conversation with him short. But he can’t help it, it sounds sweet coming from your pretty lips. 

In an attempt to not look like a fool, Jungkook bites his lip as he watches your disappearing figure, your heels clicking on the floor as you walk away. Your legs look so long in that grey pencil skirt, and it really should be criminal how you look like that even when you’re just showing your back. 

In his trance, he forgets about the brewing coffee in his cup and absentmindedly takes it out while the machine is still running, the hot liquid pouring from the nozzle quickly burning the skin on his finger. 

“Oh, shit!” He hisses, jumping from the shock, almost knocking his coffee out but thankfully he manages to catch it on time, just as when another member of the faculty walks by the snack bar. 

With an awkward smile, Jungkook raises a thumbs up to Mrs. Lee. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Lee. Looking rad as always.” He cheerfully greets, and Mrs. Lee’s confusion from seeing him fumble with his cup earlier quickly turns into a coo. 

“Oh, Mr. Jeon, you charming kid. I was just gonna get my cup of coffee.” She says, walking towards his direction. 

Jungkook adjusts the strap of his gym bag to his shoulder and takes a cup for Mrs. Lee with a grin, making her smile. 

She thanks him and with a playful salute, Jungkook goes toward the general direction of his cubicle, and because the PE department and Math department are just across from each other, he walks past you, typing something on your iPad before you look around and catch his gaze.

Jungkook automatically waves, smiling brightly, but you only frown, shutting your iPad close and ignoring him.

Amused, Jungkook tries to fight off a huge grin, taking a few long strides to get to his own cubicle. 

His day is already off to a good start.

© 𝐀𝐖𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐕𝐄 2025. all rights reserved. copying, editing, reposting and/or translating any of my works are not allowed.

[honeyedfate]

kiss her you fool | 심재윤

pairing. jake sim x idol!gf!reader

as if accidentally convincing both of your fans on several occasions that you two hate each other wasn’t enough, jake had to go ahead and mumble some sleepily ambiguous words on a weverse live and involve the whole internet. to salvage whatever shreds are left of the plan, you are to attend a baseball game together.

genre. fluff

a/n. the third & last part to loverboy is here!! sorry for the wait i wrote 4 different drafts until i settled on this one lol enjoy!! xx

[ › first part ] [ › second part ]

jake is a chill guy. he’s cool-headed, efficient, steady under pressure, always on the side of healthy optimism. that’s the story he sells to others—and to himself. but deep down, he knows he might be a bit of a fraud. worse, he can feel it.

his hands are drenched in sweat as they clench and unclench inside his pockets, chasing an old gum wrapper around to distract himself. the tag of his shirt pokes at his neck, making him want to barbarically tear off his clothes in front of thousands of baseball fans.

but instead, he dutifully follows you through row upon row of seats and keeps his gaze on the back of your head.

so, yes. jake is a very chill guy.

you keep glancing back at him, the lower half of your face obscured by a black mask. still, he knows you’re flashing him reassuring smiles, and he feels bad for how nervous he is. if he’s not staring at you, his eyes are darting around, scanning his surroundings like one of the baseball players warming up in the field might suddenly climb the walls and come for him.

“i think these are it,” you say, glancing at your tickets before sliding them into your back pocket.

jake wordlessly takes the seat next to you, adjusting his cap to shield as much of his face as possible. he knows it’s futile—staying hidden is the exact opposite of why he’s here, but habits die screaming, or something like that.

his shoulders tense for a split second at the touch of your hand on his thigh, and guilt gnaws at him when you pull away almost instantly. he meets your eyes and musters a smile. not that you can see it beneath his matching mask.

“we can leave any time,” you say in a soft tone, looking at him from under your lashes. “i don’t care what the plan is. if you’re uncomfortable, we can ditch this whole thing and get ramen at cu.”

jake’s heart swells, wanting nothing more than to do exactly that, but he knows it’s his fault you’re in this situation in the first place. well, for the most part. he can’t tell you that, though. he knows you will just dispute it until he starts believing it himself, and that would only prove to him once again that his backbone inevitably snaps in the face of a pretty girl.

no matter that it’s his pretty girl, and he’d do anything for you anyway. breaking his spine included. the fact remains—he ran his mouth on live, so now he’s got to face the consequences. 

swallowing the lump in his throat, he shakes his head and threads his fingers through yours, tucking both hands into the pocket of his jacket.

jake grins. “no, this is fun.” you send him a flat look, but he just nods towards the field. “i’ve never been to a baseball game. now we can take it off our bucket list.”

“sure,” you say, sounding wryly amused. “we don’t have a bucket list but at least now we’ve got something to cross off. i’ve also always wanted to be on the kiss cam. guess it’s our lucky day.”

“lucky us,” jake says, his lips curling as he feels your hand squeeze his. he casts a glance around, then leans forward, swiftly pulling both of your masks down with one hand. it’s a brief kiss, just a soft peck that’s a bit inconvenient since both of you are wearing hats, forcing him to tilt his head. but when he pulls back, he sees the way you’re chasing after his lips, eyes still closed, and goes just a little insane.

you look entirely too pretty to leave it at just one kiss. you deserve all the kisses in the world, actually, so he captures your lips again, tasting the cherry gloss he bought you last week because he likes it a little too much. it’s the same one you wore on your first date together.

jake’s lips brush against yours once more, deeper and a bit slower this time as if savouring the moment. you sigh into the kiss and pull back to catch your breath, your lips lingering just above his. your eyes are still closed, but jake doesn’t mind one bit, taking the moment to let his gaze wander over every single feature of yours that he knows by heart. and would you look at that? suddenly, he couldn’t care less that he’s sitting in a huge stadium.

you tear your gaze away from his lopsided grin. “let’s save some of this for later, yeah?” you say, and jake is not ashamed of the groan rumbling in the back of his throat as he hides his face in the crook of your shoulder. how else is a man supposed to act when your lips look so plumb and kissable, and your voice sounds like that? hopeless.

you’re looking at him, a smile tugging at your lips when you notice an older lady a few rows down elbowing the person next to her, gesturing not-so-subtly at the two of you. under your breath, you mumble, “the ahjummas down there are looking at us.” 

jake leans back, glancing at them from the corner of his eye before lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. “can you blame them? we’re not exactly hard to look at.”

“your modesty astonishes me,” you say, sounding unimpressed.

jake raises an eyebrow and leans forward on his knees, a smirk tugging at his lips. “we’d make beautiful babies, and you know it.”

you snort, shaking your head. “that’s what ni-ki said this morning. something about sacrificing himself for his future nephews and nieces because at least he knows they’ll be cute. i’m still not sure what he meant by that.”

jake cocks his head and pokes your side when you playfully mirror him. “he came down this morning when yuki was talking to us in the kitchen,” jake says, shifting in his seat.

he grimaces as he remembers the conversation with jungwon who was basically a zombie at that hour after having to stay up late as a consequence of jake’s faux pas on weverse. “ni-ki said he was going to take care of this for us. i didn’t know what he meant at first, but then sunghoon sent me a screenshot of what ni-ki posted on weverse. it was a selfie of him, facing the other way so his left side was showing.”

“wait, seriously?” your eyebrows shoot up, and jake nods, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

“yep. he called himself a martyr in the group chat. said he was taking one for the team.”

you gasp dramatically, holding a hand to your chest. “a martyr? for us? what’s next, a shrine in the dorm?”

jake laughs, clearly entertained by your idea. “i mean, we could probably arrange one. heeseung’s room is big enough to fit ten.”

you let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “that’s… actually true. but did it work?”

jake bites his lip, glancing at his phone. “i haven’t checked yet, but sunoo sent me a text earlier. apparently, engenes are seeing right through it.”

“what are they saying?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“they’re saying belift gave up ni-ki for damage control,” jake chuckles.

before you can say anything in response, your phone vibrates, the sudden buzz pulling your attention away. you reach for it, ignoring jake’s whiny protests as you untangle your hand from his. “hello?”

jake pouts and scoots closer, pressing his ear against the backside of your phone. you roll your eyes and click the side button to turn the volume up, letting him hear the voice on the other end, your manager’s. “…are you in your seats?”

you hum and nod, nearly knocking jake’s hat off with the movement. “yea, we’re here. we got here a bit early, so there are still a few empty seats. but the game should be starting soon. what’s up? did something happen?”

“well,” your manager says, her tone uncertain, and jake’s heart drops. “about half an hour ago, minjun posted the dance challenge you and jake filmed for their tiktok. it…er, seemed to stir up a bit more of a reaction than we expected…again.”

you exchange a confused glance with jake. nothing about the videos seemed off—he’d double-checked, paranoid he might’ve accidentally done something ridiculous again, like giving you a lap dance or declaring his undying love on camera.

filming those two dance challenges had already been an ordeal. the pr team was relentless, adamant on pushing you and jake to drop as many microscopic hints as possible to suggest something was going on between you two, but it was so painfully awkward that you ended up with enough unusable footage to last a month.

jake had been a giggling mess the entire time, finding it all so silly, like he was on some overly scripted dating show. you, on the other hand, couldn’t stop tripping over your own feet, bumping into him more times than he could count. at least you managed to do it on beat.

regardless, even though filming the final video had been a struggle, it was ready to go. jake had made sure of that.

it was just another dance challenge, he thinks to himself, trying to push aside the unease creeping up. whatever’s going on now, it’s gotta be grey sweater guy’s fault.

“what do you mean?” your voice brings him back, your curiosity clear. “we didn’t do anything…right?”

“well,” your manager says again, clearing her throat. “since we couldn’t really get any dance footage of you acting like, you know, an actual couple—” 

jake snorts.

“—minjun ended up keeping the last few seconds of a video when he posted it to the enhypen tiktok page. he didn’t give us a heads-up before doing it.”

your eyes widen as you send a quick look in jake’s way. “is he going to get in trouble?” you say into the phone, and jake pulls a funny face. is that what he was supposed to feel? concern? apparently, he likes the guy even less than he thought.

“that’s the thing,” your manager goes on. “everyone seems to like it?” she sounds quite surprised about it herself, and jake has to strain his neck to make sure he heard correctly. 

“everyone?” he echoes in disbelief, and you nudge him when he inches impossibly closer, practically climbing onto your lap.

“what do you mean everyone?” you ask as jake moves back a little. “what were we doing?”

your manager lets out a long sigh, as if hoping you wouldn’t ask. “after you left for the game, minju and some of the others decided to go through the videos again, hoping to find something a bit more exciting. they ended up finding one where you two were dancing really well—everything was clean, no one was falling or laughing, and the chemistry wasn’t too forced.”

she pauses, and you can hear her shifting slightly. “but then, right at the end, you trip over your feet and… well, you kind of just leave the frame.”

jake frowns, meeting your puzzled gaze. you had filmed so many different versions, they have all blended into a nightmarish concoction of blurred memories, making it hard to recall which one she means. “i leave the frame and then what?”

the silence stretches on for a beat, and jake feels a spark of irritation bubbling up at the theatrics. horrified, he starts to wonder if he’s accidentally flashed the whole world and didn’t even realise.

“the entire thing only lasts two seconds, but you stumble, jake rushes after you, and you both end up out of frame—but we can still see part of it because of the mirrors. jake has his arms around you as you both tumble to the floor, laughing.” she says in a matter-of-fact tone, then adds quietly, “minjun removed the music at the end, so you can hear the laughter.”

jake doesn’t even know how to respond. sure, the company can post whatever they want of him, but they usually don’t. there’s an unspoken rule of decency and respect among the team, and he’s at least asked before anything goes up. this? this is just wrong.

he doesn’t realise that you’re voicing his exact thoughts into the phone until a loud cheer ripples through the crowd. a woman he’s seen on tv before appears on the big screen over the baseball field. she’s offering some welcoming words, and jake figures the match must be starting soon.

“—he’s lucky people are receiving it well, but he has to know that it’s not okay to just post that without our knowledge or consent,” you say, your voice tinged with more disappointment than frustration.

“i know, trust me. yuki and i made sure any future genius moves from him go through us—and you two—first. i know you're not mad, just…" she sighs, papers shuffling. “look, almost 80% of the comments are positive, calling you a cute, good-looking couple and all that. the rest are either in denial or upset, but it doesn’t matter. more people are for it than against it, so just enjoy the game. you don’t have to go through with what we discussed if you don’t want to. things are looking good, y/n.”

jake doesn’t pay attention to the rest of the conversation, having heard enough. he leans back, resting a hand on the back of your seat and absentmindedly draws circles onto your skin.

you mutter something into the phone and end the call, melting into jake’s side with a sigh. he coos, pulling you closer, and presses a kiss to the top of your hat while humming. “you know what?” he says quietly.

“what?” your voice is muffled as you rub a hand over your face, looking up at him.

he grins. "at least they’re also calling us a cute and good-looking couple. ni-ki will be a proud uncle to our gorgeous kids.”

you can’t help but laugh, hiding your face in his chest and, at once, jake finds it hard to be bothered by anything happening on the internet or even outside this stadium. he has you in his arms and the rest of the afternoon off to enjoy a baseball game. what concerns could he possibly have?

soon after, the players file out onto the field, and the match begins. both of you end up having a lot more fun than expected, and jake briefly leaves to go grab some food and drinks.

he’s walking back up the stairs, looking for you and not even avoiding eye contact with people around like he did before. right now, he’s just a guy hugging two cups of soda and a pile of snacks to his chest, wandering the rows in search of his girlfriend. 

he must look as lost as he feels because someone suddenly taps him on the arm. looking down, he sees the two older women from before. they’re grinning up at him, and jake hesitantly returns the smile, realising a moment too late that they can’t see it due to his mask. 

“you’re three rows up, darling,” the woman on the left with the big, blue-framed glasses says, nodding over her shoulder and vaguely gesturing to where you’re sitting. his face lights up when your eyes meet, and you raise a hand to wave at him. he thanks them and makes to walk up the stairs when she stops him, placing a hand on his arm.

a small voice in the back of his head screams ‘stranger danger’ in capital letters at him, but he brushes it aside, trying to figure out what she could possibly want and whether that might be his kidney or one of the napkins he’s holding.

“you have a very beautiful girlfriend,” she says in that ambiguous, sage voice that the elderly have, and he’s caught off guard. not due to the voice, of course, but the mention of you. jake blinks, processing her words before nodding slowly.

“she’s not, erm, i mean, of course, she’s—”

the woman in the green cardigan laughs delightfully, eyes twinkling with amusement. “sweetie, breathe. we’re not the cia. you can talk about your girlfriend. in fact, you should. it keeps you both young.”

jake is too stunned to muster a reply. he eyes them carefully, wondering if this is a weird interaction or if he’s just never talked about you to anyone before. a second later, he realises—he really hasn’t. not to a stranger, not to anyone.

the thought repeats in his head, looping like a broken record. he’s never talked about you to anyone. and yet, it feels like praises about you live right on the tip of his tongue, like they’ve always been there, just waiting for an opening. so he tries it out. “her heart is even more beautiful,” he says shyly, testing the words, rolling them over like he’s trying to get a feel for them. “which is near impossible but she somehow makes it work.”

it feels weird, to be honest. like he’s revealing a well-buried national secret and endangering the country. the two women share a meaningful glance that doesn’t go unnoticed by him. his stomach twists. jake’s gaze flickers toward you, and an overwhelming wave of emotions crashes over him.

it’s more obvious now than ever. jake is stupidly in love with you. so much so that he has made an utter fool of himself time and time again in the name of keeping you a secret. like love could be something silent, something that exists in the shadows without growing restless. like it wouldn’t claw at the walls of his chest, begging to be let out.

he truly did think loving you quietly would make him feel better about everything. safer. less exposed. but now, faced with the weight of his own realisation, he sees how wrong he’d been. what was the point of all that caution if it only made him feel like this—like he’s been holding his breath for months, maybe even years?

now, he’s given the chance to do the complete opposite. and for the first time, he wants to take it. he wants to love you loudly, unapologetically. because it’s what you deserve. because it’s what he wants.

he exhales, glancing back at you. you’re focused on your phone, scrolling through something with a tiny crease between your brows. probably checking the responses to the tiktok, probably making sure minjun hasn’t ruined both your careers. always so careful, so thoughtful.

“she’s… incredible,” he says, the words tumbling out before he can second-guess them. but they feel right, sitting on his tongue like they belong there. he doesn’t need to say more than that. doesn’t need to explain how you always make people feel comfortable, how you remember the smallest details about everyone you meet, how you laugh with your whole body like it’s the first time you’ve ever found something funny.

the women smile knowingly, and jake lets out a soft breath, something inside him settling.

“i’m very lucky.”

“she’s lucky, too,” the green cardigan woman says, her voice warm. “treat each other well, yes? a love like yours is rare. don’t do it the dishonour of keeping it in the shadows.”

jake lets out a small, breathy laugh, caught somewhere between flustered and amused. he ducks his head, rubbing the back of his neck, then nods—not just out of politeness, but because he hears her. really hears her.

the woman gives his arm a gentle pat before turning back to her friend, their conversation shifting elsewhere. jake exhales, then moves, crossing the distance between you in quick strides, taking the steps two at a time.

“should i be jealous?” you greet him with a teasing smile, taking the snacks from his arms.

he snorts. “they were just being nice. said you’re beautiful, by the way, and something about…” he hesitates, eyes flicking toward the field. “well, just… nice things.”

you watch him for a second, noticing the shift in his expression. but you don’t press, just shrugging it off and pulling down one side of your mask to take a bite of your corndog. your gaze drifts back to the cheer team as they work the crowd, the energy in the stadium picking up.

jake tries to focus, eyes darting to the blur of blue as cheerleaders and fans break into coordinated moves. but his mind keeps wandering back to what he’d just been told. normally, he’s not one to easily take anyone’s word as gospel, but this time, he can’t help it. it’s not just that he agrees—it’s the fact that he’s surprised by how much he does.

didn’t he spend all week trying to wrestle with this? he doesn’t want to put his relationship on display for everyone to pick apart—that’s the last thing he wants. but now, sitting here with you by his side in jamsil baseball stadium, he can’t shake the feeling that it doesn’t matter.

he glances at you, completely unaware of his thoughts, and all he sees is his person. someone he never doubts. someone who loves him, and someone he loves in return. does anything else even matter?

occupied by his thoughts, jake doesn’t realise what’s happening around him until the clapping starts. he blinks, surprised, as you turn to face him, bright-eyed and joining in with the crowd. he looks around, confused for a moment, until his gaze lands on the jumbotron. instead of the game, it now shows a couple in the stands, both wearing the rival team’s merch. the man leans in and gives the woman a sweet kiss on the lips. her face turns red, and the crowd erupts in cheers.

it’s the kiss cam, jake realises, and reflexively claps with everyone else as the woman shyly hides her face behind his shoulder. the excitement echoes through the stadium, the chant growing louder.

he can’t help but smile as he watches them, their laughter infectious. “they’re adorable,” you comment, gaze still fixed ahead, oblivious to his smile. jake’s chest tightens, but the feeling isn’t quite discomfort. more like the recognition of something he hadn’t known he’d been longing for. something he now sees clearly.

your mask is hanging off your ear as you absentmindedly sip on your drink, and jake is so glad to see your lips again. it’s like running into an old friend he’s missed. sometimes, it feels like he spends more time missing them than actually getting to kiss them.

he’s about to reply when you suddenly choke, your back straightening in surprise. out of the corner of his eye, he sees people turning their heads, and even though the music is still blasting through the speakers, he’s sure he hears gasps rippling through the crowd.

without thinking, he shifts his attention away from you and glances up at the jumbotron for confirmation—and there it is. the two of you, front and centre, framed in a pink, sparkling heart.

his eyes flick to you as you glance around, your expression a mix of confusion and discomfort. it’s strange to see you so flustered when you’re usually the calm, collected one, especially in situations like this. but here you are, shifting awkwardly under the attention.

a voice from the crowd calls out, “kiss her, you fool!” followed by the sound of cameras clicking as everyone starts pulling out their phones. more voices join in, chanting in unison, and jake can see the tension in your body. you look uncomfortable, clearly not used to this sort of attention, and it’s hard to ignore.

he feels a wave of protectiveness, wanting to ease the situation and make you feel comfortable. seeing you out of your element like this—normally the one who knows how to handle everything—hits him differently. he’s already made up his mind, though.

this whole thing had been part of the plan from the start, and he’s not going to let it stress you out any longer. he wants to kiss you, right here, right now, because it feels right. it’s not about the spectacle, it’s about showing you how much he’s proud to have you by his side.

plus, you have quite literally already told him three times how being on the kiss cam was something you’ve always wanted to do before the game had even begun.

jake huffs a quiet laugh, his body moving on its own as he shifts in his seat. his gaze locks with yours, and he can’t help but grin at the sight of your panicked smile.

“guess we’re famous now?” you quip nervously, trying to make light of the situation. jake tries hard not to laugh, but the sound of it escapes before he can stop it.

he pulls down his mask, the crowd’s excitement swelling around you both.

he leans in, lowering his voice so only you can hear him. “what do you say?” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly. “can i kiss you?”

he can see you thinking it over, your brows furrowing as nervousness peels away and you weigh your options. he already knows what you’ll say, but he still gives you the space to respond.

“we don’t have to do this, jake,” you whisper, the soft tone in your voice trying to make sure he’s comfortable too, even with thousands of eyes on you.

he smiles, the tenderness in your voice unfailingly melting him even more. “we don’t,” he agrees with a small shake of his head. “but i’ve never not wanted to kiss you, and i’m not starting now.”

your lips part slightly, eyes flickering up to his. the shift is almost imperceptible, but you feel it—his sudden insistence, the way he’s making this moment so much more than just a joke. the kiss cam, the crowd, all of it suddenly feels like less of a spectacle and more like something personal. something you didn’t expect but, deep down, have always wanted.

it’s strange, this feeling, and for a second, you almost don’t know what to do with it. the uncertainty that used to cling to you in moments like this is fading, replaced by something that feels surprisingly soft, sure. jake’s not just trying to make a spectacle of you; he’s actually trying to share this with you, to let you know that this is something he wants too.

your heart skips a beat. there’s no need for words, but you’re caught in the moment. a quiet nod is all you can muster, small but certain. “okay.”

his smile spreads before he even realises it. jake leans in, movements slow but purposeful, drawing it out just a moment longer. the kiss is tender, soft at first—he feels your breath mingle with his, the warmth of you close, the way you fit against him. it’s not rushed, not for the camera. it’s real. it’s something he’s wanted to do for so long, but this—this feels more like an act of love than just a kiss on a jumbotron.

you smile into it, and jake can’t help but grin too, the way your happiness settles deep in his chest. he knows the crowd is cheering, but all he can hear is the soft, breathy sound you make, the one that means you’re happy. the one that makes everything inside him flutter.

when he pulls away, the roar of the stadium hits him like a wave, but it feels distant, almost muted. you tuck yourself into his side, the sound of your laugh soft and light. there’s no turning back now. the world can know, and in this moment, jake couldn’t care less.

‘operation: no hate, just date’ has done its job.

he presses a quick, sneaky kiss to your temple, his grin still lingering, all warmth and love. he wraps his arm around you, pulling you just a little closer, the moment between the two of you nothing but pure joy.

alright. maybe jake is not the chill guy he thought he was. but in this moment, he doesn’t need to be.

all he’s ever wanted to be was a lover boy, and now it feels like he’s finally on the right track.

taglist: @jakeslvt @username-111222333444555 @pjselee

[transformers-spike]

You put Breakdown with a gutbuster in my head, and now I need. For him to use it. On me. (Aka reader)

Bonus points if it's disgustingly cute and sweet and BD gets lots of love and praise. 🥹🥺

I overdid it. Again. Thank you @drunkeninlovesailor for beta-reading this fic and smacking some sense into me when self-doubt reared its ugly head. And I will go on to say @ss-shitstorm made me adore Breakdown so much more through Breaking Bread. I look up pictures of him and cry And yes, this is a sequel to Visitors - so back to the heatverse

Knock Out always goes first. Breakdown doesn’t mind it. At least he shouldn’t. He knows he’ll have his turn with you. Everyone does.

Second or seventh place, it doesn’t matter. He should be grateful to have a chance. Just like he should be grateful he didn’t lose more than one optic. Or the feeling in his left arm. Or his honor.

Again, it doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. It’s his turn. No superior waiting at your habsuite, no humiliating dismissal (obviously, they don’t mean for it to seem humiliating – they’re his superiors after all, and he has to obey them) – only you in the midst of your heat cycle.

The “breeding room”, as you jokingly call it, is actually Knock Out’s old habsuite. Repurposed, yeah, but he’s been here enough times to recognize it. Any Con worth their ball-bearings can upgrade after reaching third class. Knock Out used to be a first class. Then he was promoted to Chief Medical Officer and skipped a rank. Breakdown is stuck in second class. Better than first. Better than being a vehicon. He should be satisfied.

You’re curled up in your oversized berth on top of the heating pad. “Hey, squishy,” he whispers, taking his usual place next to you. “Don’t tell me Knock Out tired you out.” Your answer is a snort. You stretch, flesh poking out from under your frame coverings. A common sight by now, but his cooling fans didn’t get the memo. His frame vibrates with their familiar hum.

“Like what you see handsome?” you ask and scuttle up to him, wearing that precious spark-warming smile. He returns it full force.

“What can I say? Even a one-opticced oaf can recognize true beauty.” “Careful, partner. There’s only so much I can take before jumping on your spike.” He barks a laugh. “It may come sooner than you think.” “Bring it. I’m ready to deepthroat until your system reboots. But first -” you huff as you climb into his lap, waving away the servo he’s offering. Once comfortably seated in his lap, you cheekily rub your aft against his interface panel.

“Spill the tea, sis.”

“Hmph…” He drums his digits over his thigh. “We’ve had a record break in the mines! I haven’t seen them this happy in quartexes. There was a small party at homebase, squad’s been celebrating with engex.”

“Homemade?”

“Nah – I’ve checked. I won’t let them pull that stunt again.” He winces at the memory. B15F. Poor scrapper’s been euthanized well before his time. There wasn’t much left to save. The engex melted right through his fuel tanks. Breakdown didn’t pride himself on morality anymore – none of them did. But it was the right call – even if the uncertainty is tearing through his circuitry like a horde of scraplets. Could Knock Out have fixed B15F? Or maybe it would’ve just dragged out his suffering for a chance at nothing. His conjunx had studied at a bigshot academy – Breakdown’s knowledge’s based around rushed medical training. “You okay, big guy?” He snaps out of it. “Yeah! Everything’s good.” You can’t see his reassuring smile with his massive chassis in the way. But maybe if he keeps it up he’ll really mean it.

“You sure? You’ve been doing that a lot lately.” His smile falters. If a human has noticed it… who else has? Is this why Dreadwing’s been especially tolerant of his mistakes? Scrap, Breakdown almost misses his commanding officer’s reproaches. Could he get any more pitiful for frag’s sake? Proving himself after losing an optic to fleshies is bad enough. He’s not an invalid – he won’t be demoted to janitorial duties after working his aft off to make it this far.

“Workload’s been pretty intense. Been on my mind a lot.” He adds a chuckle to convince you – but he can’t see your expression with his chassis in the way.

“Bad enough for the vehicons to get blackout drunk again?”

“Found them recharging in mine carts.”

“Just like a college frat party, huh?” He has no idea what that means. Doesn’t stop him from laughing, though. “You should’ve seen them getting out! The sight brought lubricant to my optic.” “Scrambling like turtles stuck on their backs?” Oh – those, he definitely remembers. “Better. Remember that video you sent of the cat-looking thing surrounded by fermented fruits?” “The raccoon?” “Yeah! Struggling to sit up, then falling back in again!” You snort louder. “Ah. An absolute classic. You should totally film it next time, I would kill to see it.” “Oof. I’d love to, but I’m not sure I can do that while on shift. Ask Soundwave. Nothing escapes him.” Especially any contamination of the medbay – his processor shudders at the memory. At least it wasn’t Commander Starscream. Fooling around’s been kept to Knock Out’s habsuite ever since. And outside the ship, but that’s not the Intelligence Officer’s business.

“More than you know…” you say. Your tiny digits sneakily stroke the protomatter between his hip and thigh. The touch isn’t sensual. At least he doesn’t think it’s supposed to be. You’re not shy about squeezing, biting or running your glossa over it. This feels different. Hesitant.

“You know… you rarely visit first.” He sputters. “It’s not that I don’t want to or anything!” He shifts his frame and cranes his neck to take a good look at you. No success. “It’s that… I’m still a soldier, and they’re my superiors.” “I know that, silly. I’m talking about how you always let Knock Out have the first go at me before either of your shifts start. Why is that?” “I…” He shakes his helm. “Come on, second place doesn’t make any difference. As long as I get to pay you a visit, I’m happy!” His vox is strained. He meant to sound cheerful. What came out felt like rust being scraped off mesh.

You sink your digits into his thigh. Not enough to hurt. Never enough to hurt. A single fleshie can’t hurt a Cybertronian. But it’s clearly meant as a warning. Even he can tell that.

“Dude, just ask to go first. Knock Out is lovely and all, but you shouldn’t neglect yourself for his sake. I want you to come around and let loose before anyone else. Hell, you deserve it. Do you want me to ask Megatron personally? I can do that, no prob-” “No!” It comes out too desperate. “No,” he repeats. Softer. “The others don’t do well with favorites. Uh… except maybe Soundwave, but he doesn’t count.” Breakdown cringes. He wants no part in their power struggles, especially Commander Starscream’s. Else he’d end up at the barrel of his Master’s cannon.

“Okay… but my point still stands. Ask Knock Out to reschedule next time orr I’m bringing Megatron into this.” His vents huff, servos drawn into fists.

“Got it,” he relents. “I’ll talk to him, but if he refuses-” “He won’t refuse,” you say none-too-softly. “We’ve had a chat post-coitus.” He blinks. “You cannot be serious.” “Low and behold, I am. What? Did you expect me not to address it?” “He’s going to be furious at me.” “Like hell . If he so much as lifts a digit, I’ll be happy to inform Megatron and get him put in his place. He’s your superior in the medbay, not outside of it last I checked. And trust me, I’ve been checking.” He clenches his jaw and offlines his optic. “We’re not…” he starts gently, leveling his words carefully. “We’re not Newsparks. There’s a balance we’ve established on the Nemesis. All of us. Bringing Lord Megatron into this won’t offset the balance. It’ll destroy it. What we have here,” he gestures at the small habsuite. “Is thanks to his generosity. I don’t want to lose this because of some petty interface stuff. If he intervenes… I doubt we’ll still be able to visit.” There’s a long pause. He gives you the time to mull it over. An apology already on his glossa. “I understand. I know it’s not my place to call the shots. Part of me wishes that…” You swallow. “Part of me wishes that I could make things easier for you guys. You’ve all been through so much, and I know I’m only the ship’s resident pet or whatever, but I can throw my weight around a bit. You know, use my position for good?” “For good? Primus, you’re already doing us enough good!” “Hm, not exactly. You’re the ones helping me with my heat when he’s not around. Ugh – I would be suffering without you guys.” You squeeze his thigh. “Man-” you laugh nervously. “I hope I’m not getting too sappy. You’re, like, the only one I can have these conversations with.” His fans stutter. “Really? Not even Lord-” “Not even,” you repeat with finality. There’s a comfortable silence. Breakdown is smiling to himself.

“Hey, big guy.” “Yeah, squishy?” “Wanna kiss?” “Is that even a question?” he asks as he picks you up from his lap, servos cradling your fragile human frame. “Mmm, you know the answer.” You touch the sides of his face. His cooling fans flip to the second setting. Your hands are soft. Incredibly soft. His vents cease functioning entirely as you kiss him. Your glossa is warm and wet. His circuits crackle with charge. How could something so small push his systems into overdrive? When you pull away, he’s left cold and yearning. You don’t waste a klik undressing yourself, tossing your frame coverings over his servos and onto the berth. His lips find yours again. You devour his intake like your fuel tanks are empty.

Knock Out satiated you groons ago, but you’re already running hot with want. His heavy engine purrs. “Someone’s eager to get spiked,” he mutters against your intake. You ex-vent sharply and kiss again, grinning against his lips. He slides a digit between your legs, which you immediately part. There’s still feeling in this one, taking in the heat of your slick valve. There’s no trace of your last interface, only a craving for more. A hiss escapes you as he rubs the digit over your minuscule anterior node. Your hips buck into him, teeth grazing his lip.

“Please, stop teasing already. You know I can’t take it.” “I’m not a tease - that’s Knock Out’s job.” He swipes his glossa over your intake. “I’m the total opposite. So, what do you say? Is your little valve ready to take my spike?” Your optics widen, lubricating in excitement. “Oh finally!” You press your helm against his. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this! I’m so glad the recent energon haul got you enough to mass displace.” “Actually, I’ve been rationing my energon for a deca-cycle!” You step away from his helm and look at him in… strange horror. “You what?” There’s pity in your optics and disappointment furrowing your optical ridge.

Oh frag him! Why did he have to open his intake? “It’s nothing to worry about, I swear! I’ve done this plenty of times in the past – there was this time my unit was stranded in the Sea of Rust and there was no energon for almost a whole deca-cycle! Impressive, right? You don’t see any seekers surviving that!” Your horrified expression worsens. “What do you mean you’ve been starving yourself for weeks just to mass displace and fuck me?”

“Come on, it’s not really starving! We bots can deal with it better than you humans!” he stammers, engine revving in panic. “It’s not about that – it’s about sacrificing yourself for… for this!” you gesture at your body. “Fuck’s sake, you could have told me! I was waiting for you to ask! I could have gotten you the energon ages ago!” “Then why didn’t you?” The words smash through his intake before he can stop them, leaving him to clean up the mess.

His spark tightens when you flinch. It’s the first time he’s startled you. The first time he’s seen you scared. “I… I didn’t…” Your gaze falls. “Scrap, I’m so sorry! It’s not my place to say it, I didn’t mean-” “It’s fine,” you gently stop him. He immediately yields. “You don’t have to apologize. I just… didn’t expect it to be this bad.” A sigh leaves your intake. “I still want to help, though. If Knock Out can mass displace almost every time he visits, isn’t there plenty of energon to go around? Don’t you also work in the medbay on top of everything? You deserve at least the same amount of rations.” “It’s more complicated than that,” he mutters. “Knock Out outranks me.” “So? You’re just one bot, it won’t drain the reserves.” He presses a servo to his helm. “My frame type’s the issue. Us warrior class bots need far more energon than the average vehicon.” “Yes, and? You’re still just one more war frame. Who else is there? Megatron, Dreadwing – that makes three.” You bite your lip when you meet his optic. “Let me give you a hand. I’ll leave the whole thing with Knock Out alone if you let me help with this.” “I…” His vents huff. “Okay. I’ll let you take care of it. But, please tell him not to summon me. Else it’ll seem suspicious.” A smile tugs at the corner of your intake. “Got it. Easier done than said.” Hesitating, you reach out to touch his cheekplate. He leans in. You take a deep in-vent. “I’m sorry for blowing up like that. I’ve been so worried about everyone lately, I’ve overstepped so many boundaries. The energon thing just… drove me off the edge.” “It’s okay,” he says, unsure of his own words. “It happens to the best of us. If it’s any comfort,” he grimaces, “Knock Out’s been riding my tailpipe about my energon intake for the whole deca-cycle. That’s why I… tried to keep it a secret. Until now.” “Did it work on him?”

“Frag no!” He laughs. “For all his drawbacks, he’s the closest thing to a doctor on this ship. Noticing something’s wrong’s part of his primary code!” His laughter dies down. “Sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I definitely ruined the mood.” “Not at all.” You press your cheek against his. “If it’s any comfort on my part, I’ve been called someone else’s name during interface.” His optic buzzes in its socket. “Who?” he demands without meaning to. “Who?” He repeats, far softer – now a polite question. “No one in High Command, sadly,” you say like you’ve read his mind, adding an apologetic shrug. “Another human before the alien shebang happened.” “Ah.” He averts his optic to hide his disappointment. “Come on, man. You know I would have immediately rung you up if Starscream had been moaning Megatron’s name during overload.” He cracks a smile. “I guess you’re right.” “Gossip girls forever?” You offer your fist. “Gossip girls forever,” he agrees, tapping it with his digit. You both mimic an explosion and draw your servos away in slow motion. “Still not sure what explosive punches have to do with gossip.” “Shhh - it’s a human bestie thing.” You kiss him again. Gently at first, then harsher with his wordless encouragement – your hunger makes his engine rev. “Want to start with valve to glossa action? How about we keep mass-displacement for the final course?” “Like I’ll ever refuse a free refueling.” You snicker. The noise is so precious it makes his joints weak. Lying on his abdomen with you in his servos, you writhe as he presses his glossa to your valve. “Fuck,” you hiss. “You okay?” he’s unable to hide the smugness in his tone. “I thought Knock Out had the first taste.” “ Fuck , Knock Out. I need your glossa right now. No one else’s.” His fans shudder. Once, handling someone so small was circuit-frying. He’d been with plenty of minicons, but never an organic. Those bots could take a good pounding. Fleshies? Not so much.

“Fuck.” You shiver as his glossa rubs up and down your pretty valve. Your hips buck into it. He grins between your legs and licks again. And again. And again. Until he feels your servos on his crest. “I need to ride your face,” you say – more declaration than request. He blinks, grin widening. “That desperate, huh?” “Shut up,” you growl – too adorable for your own good. How he wants to squeeze and smother you against his face. Your legs are soft on either side of his cheeks, servos gripping onto his crest with impressive strength for a creature so small and frail. He holds his glossa out for you to use as you please, two digits holding your hips in case you tumble off. “How…” You pant. “How are you this good?” He shrugs with his free arm. His vents blast harder. “I’m not even doing anything,” he mumbles with his glossa out. “Of course you are. You’re being your sweet himbo self,” your words falter as you keep riding. 

His cheekplates heat up. “Uh, a what now?”

There’s no answer, only your legs shaking as you furiously grind against his intake. You grip onto his crest, your entire frame shaking. “Breakdown!” you call out, vox breaking. A sudden burst of charge travels down his interface array. His pressurized spike clanks against his panel. “Frag,” he groans. His spike’s throbbing, Ugh, it hurts like he swung it against a wall.

At least you’re oblivious to his, uh, mishap – twitching against his glossa while trying to slow your ventilation. The plating of hips shifts and his panels release his array. His valve is soaking with transfluid, steam almost emanating off of it after overheating for half a groon. The cold air makes his spike twitch. “Is it… is it time?” you ask weakly, turning around to look at his lap. “Oh hey, so that’s where the noise came from.” He cringes, but still helps you get down. You scurry towards the middle of the berth and cheer out “Show me the goods, big boy!” Mass displacement is something he’d done in the past – back on Cybertron when there was plenty of energon to go by. Now it’s just a waste. Not for you, obviously! Primus, you’re worth every last drop. His working receptors buzz with sensation. System diagnostics appear at the corner of his vision. Mass conversion: successful

Warning:

Minimum energon required: 70%

Current level: 93% His joints are calibrated, there’s no ache in his processor, subspace feels fine – everything’s in working order. He can rest easy and focus on the important stuff. “Woah.” you beam at him. It’s uncanny to see you… so much bigger than he’s used to.

The hug is sudden but not unwelcome. Your helm comes up to his chassis, but only barely. It doesn’t take long for you to pull him on top (the close view is to offline for), and drag him into a kiss. His spark pulsates like never before.

“Please, spike me,” you beg. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this.” He looks down at his spike. Then back at you. There are many things he’s learned as a nurse, one of which being: pick the smallest pair of forceps when operating on minicons. Sadly, he cannot replace his spike with a smaller one. But he can prepare you for the operation. “Hey, how about I get you started with something else before you get the hammer?” He lifts up the servo with functioning receptors and flexes his digits. “Promise you’ll rail me afterwards.” “Promise.” He grins.

He’s a denter first and all, but he’s always been careful with his servos back when brushing debris off his comrades after a busted demolition job. It felt like second nature to him. They were at the bottom of the scrapheap. Caring for others, even in small ways, made their plight bearable. His own at least. He pushes in, chuckling as you furrow your optical ridge, intake slightly agape. “Does it sting?” “No.” Another digit is carefully added. You whimper and grit your dentae. One digit and a half then. “What about now? How do you rate your pain on a scale of 1 to 10?” “Oh shut up…” Your tiny valve is absolutely soaked, slick with human lubricant, struggling to accommodate him. If you’ve taken the entire High Command, you can take him. Sure, he’s been told his spike is a “weapon forged by Solus herself”, but Megatron’s definitely bigger. And you’ve fragged him. Everyone knows that. Your valve’s more durable than it seems.

You clench around his digits, expression so lovely it’s clear you’re about to overload. He cautiously curls a digit inside of you. The gentle pressure’s an easy way to make your valve calipers clam down on him. Another whimper escapes you as he rubs at the spot. Your pedes push against his thighs, a desperate plea to stop. But he knows better. “Cute,” he thinks as your sweet noises intensify. He never expected fleshies to be so adorable – but then again, you’re not like the other squishies. Lord Megatron picked the best one. “Please,” you whisper. “This is torture.” “Aw, I thought you wanted to overload.” “You and I…” You swallow. “We both know damn well you’re teasing me. I need your spike, not… not this .”

He laughs. “I keep my promises, don’t worry about it.” He pulls you flush against him, legs over his hips. Bracing himself on one servo, he’s got an arm cautiously wrapped around your waist. “Comfortable? How do you rate your position on a scale from 1 to-” “Breakdown, I swear to fu-” “Got it. It’s hammer time.” He grins. You grip onto his digits and offline your optics. He pushes in. You suck in a sharp in-vent. He pauses.

“Go on,” you say after a moment. “I can take it. I guess I didn’t expect it to be so big.” “Big?” He blinks at you. “You’re the one taking Lord Megatron. He’s larger than me.” “Not his spike.” You chuckle. He looks up at the ceiling in wonder. “Wow.” “Wow indeed. Now please put that spike to good use.” Like a good soldier and seasoned interface partner, he follows your orders. Ridge by ridge, you take him, grip tightening and dentae gritting until he reaches your limit. He shudders. You’re clenching around him like a cold press, crushing his spike harder than any minicon valve. You seem on the verge of shutting down. “You okay?” “...yeah.” “Do you want me to stop?” “Don’t you dare.” “Got it.” His smile widens.

The pace is incredibly slow. Yeah, Knock Out likes having his circuits rearranged – and yeah, most vehicons he’s been with want to get railed into oblivion. But taking his time with you feels just as good. Charge is building along his array. He wants to tell you so many things – how you’re so beautiful holding onto him like he’s the center of your universe, whimpering and repeating his name listlessly – or how he wishes this could last forever, that he can forget the war when your arms are wrapped around his frame, no matter how small.

Your optics come back online and meet his. Wordlessly, you beckon him closer. He leans down, now bracing himself on his arm. Your servos find his face. “Have I ever told you how handsome you are?” you ask, nuzzling his cheekplate. It’s not the first time you’ve done so. But at this moment, either from mass displacement or the sight of you sprawled out before him (or both), his spark throbs in his chassis. His array is pulsating with charge. He presses his forehelm against yours. “Yeah. You always do.” “Good. Because I love you.” Your lips meet his. The charge explodes. Your valve clamps down on his spike. Sparks shoot through his sensors – his engine roars. The world stands still.

Then, he breaks the silence. “By…” his vox crackles with static. He recalibrates his vocalizer. “By Alchemist Prime…” there’s still a buzz to his words. “What was that?” “You tell me,” you answer shakily. Neither of you move for a while. Diagnostics report: Energon level: 87% He pulls out of you, earning a wince. You loosen your grip on his neck and fall back. His optics widen at the load of transfluid trickling out, valve still twitching. He feels equal parts pride and wonder something so small took his spike. Should he tell you about it? You appreciate greatly when he says what’s on his processor. Not everyone does. “Good job,” he tells you, petting your helm like the human he saw congratulating its furry companion. Your expression spells confusion. Then, you grin wider than he’s ever seen and pet him back. His engine rumbles in content. “I would die for you,” you declare without a hint of sarcasm in your vox. He laughs nervously. “Please don’t, Lord Megatron would kill me.” “Then I’d kill him first.” “But you’d already be dead.” “I’d come back as a ghost.” He laughs again, twice as nervous. “Anyway, was it… good?” “You blew my back out.” “I – what ?” “You rearranged my guts.” “Wait, are you about to offline-” “Human euphemisms.” “Oh.” “It means it was the best frag of my life.” “I… oh wow.” He allows you to pull him back on top. “You’re the best I could have asked for.” His cooling fans are blasting. “Um…” “You’re my favorite blueberry popsicle.” “Uh, thanks?” “I love it when you’re blue in the face.” More energon rushes to his cheeks.

“Oh, um – you too!” Frag - that didn’t sound smooth. He hasn’t been this bad since he was newly forged. “Raspberry and blueberry,” you press your helm against his. “My favorite mix.” You kiss him again, less desperately – finally satiated for the next cycle. Or at least a few groons. “Can you cuddle in this form?” Or…do you have to turn back?” He hits his chassis with pride. “Another groon won’t hurt me – I’ll do just fine..” “Aw hell yeah!” He lies down and you quickly take your place at his side, burying your face in the crook between his neck and his chassis. You let out a hum when his digits stroke your back. He can sense the minuscule hairs on your plating. They tickle.

A klik passes by, but you can’t seem to sit still. You push his arm away, readjust yourself, then pull it back in, only to start again a nanoklik later. “Everything ok?” You make a noise of frustration – so adorable it makes his spark ache.

“Give me a sec,” you mutter.

He watches as you get up to fetch your blanket and pillows. “Uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I barely managed to clean up before coming over.” “Don’t matter.” You cover his side in them. “I just want to cuddle you.” He bites his glossa. You’re too sweet for your own good. Once comfortable, his servo comes back to stroke your skin. You shiver. “Are you cold? Do you want me to get the heating pad?” “No. You’re warm enough. It just… feels nice to be with you this way. I meant what I said. I do love you. Maybe not on Knock Out’s level – he’s known you before my great grandparents were even born.” He affectionately taps your helm. “I mean, yeah – but what does that have to do with us? Do you humans have a monogamous contract or something?” Your expression says it all. “Oh,” he drawls. “Uh – it doesn’t mean that you can’t be with us, it’s that-” “I’m Megatron’s first and foremost,” you say, looking away from him and straight at the wall. “I… yes. But I mean that-” “I’m together with everyone. I know that.” You turn your attention back to him. “And no, it doesn’t bother me. I simply want to give you the praise you deserve. And the energon. Man, you need that so badly.” Resting your helm atop his chassis, you flash him a warm smile. “I love you. Don’t you ever forget that.”

[sailordraftss]

Forever, no more. - Sae Itoshi ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

summary : When Sae Itoshi left for Spain, he hurt Rin the most but he also managed to hurt his girlfriend, you.

warning(s) : not edited, angst?, out of character?, use of (Y/N)

The airport terminal buzzed with the sounds of departing flights, the announcements, and the soft shuffle of people walking to and from their gates. But for you, it felt like everything had slowed down. Your heart was caught in the whirlwind of emotions, stuck between wanting to run to him and the painful understanding that this moment had been inevitable.

Sae stood in front of you, his bag slung over his shoulder, eyes slightly downcast. His signature smile towards you was missing, replaced with a shadow of guilt and uncertainty.

“(Y/N) …” His voice broke through the noise, quieter than usual. He wasn’t looking at you, and that made your chest tighten.

“Don’t say it,” you whispered, shaking your head, your throat constricting as tears welled in your eyes. “Don’t say you have to leave. I… I can’t hear it again. I love you, Sae.”

You had heard this before. He had been telling you for months now—how his dreams were pulling him away, how the invitation from Spain was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, how the pressure to be the best, to prove himself, was too much to ignore.

But knowing it didn’t make it any easier.

His gaze lifted, meeting yours, and for a split second, you saw it—the conflict in his eyes, the silent apology. But it was too late for apologies. The reality was here. He was leaving, and nothing you said could change that.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, stepping closer but not quite reaching her. “I… I never wanted to hurt you, (Y/N). You know that, right?”

Your breath hitched as you nodded, forcing back the flood of tears. Don’t cry, don’t cry, you kept telling yourself, but the weight of the situation crushed your will. How many times had you tried to convince yourself this was okay? That you understood? But now that he was standing there, so close yet so far, it felt like the earth beneath your feet was shifting, pulling you into a pit of despair.

“You’ll come back,” You said, your voice cracking. It wasn’t a question, but a desperate plea.

Sae’s lips pressed into a thin line. He reached out, almost touching her cheek, but pulled his hand back as if the distance between them was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I don’t know, (Y/N). I don’t know what’s going to happen. This... this is my chance to make it. To be who I’ve always wanted to be. I have to take it.”

You nodded slowly, the words tearing you apart as they left his mouth. This is his dream, you told herself. This is what he’s worked for.

But it didn’t make the pain go away.

“I understand,” you whispered, looking away as the tears finally slipped down your cheeks. “I know you have to go. I just… I wish there was another way.”

Sae’s face softened, and for a moment, he looked at you as though he didn’t want to leave. Like he could change everything if he just stayed. But he didn’t say it. He didn’t make any promises, because he couldn’t. And that truth hurt more than any goodbye.

“I’ll never forget you,” he said, almost too softly to hear. His voice wavered, and your heart shattered at the sound of it.

Your chest tightened, and you took a step back, trying to hold onto the last moments of the life they shared. “You don’t need to promise me that,” you said with a quiet sob, shaking your head. “I just want you to be happy, Sae. No matter what happens.”

Sae’s face crumpled, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he took one final, lingering look at her before turning to walk toward the gate. The world around you seemed to blur, your vision fogged by tears you couldn’t stop.

“Goodbye, (Y/N),” he said without looking back.

And with that, he disappeared into the crowd, into the path that would take him away from you, away from everything you had been with him.

She stood there, frozen, as the sound of his departure echoed in you mind. Goodbye, you thought. Goodbye, Sae… I hope you find everything you’re looking for.

[azacat-alias-lost]

I'm a silly little guy and have nothing better to do, so have a crossover au that I may turn into a fic, or another thing. POLL AT THE BOTTOM

~~~~~~~~~~

Picture this.

Jonathan Sims, just after the end of S2 of the Magnus Archives. He's been freshly framed for murder by his evil boss, and now the London police force is after him. Daisy Tonner is hunting him down, and she's got the whole force on her side. But get this. Another officer catches him and throws him in jail. Daisy, wanting him dead, is trying to convince people he doesn't deserve a trial. He gets one anyway, because, well, he kind of has to.

Jon, in the detention center. He's adamant that he did not kill that old man. No one can figure out who that old man is, and the fact that Jon seems to know something makes him way more suspicious. Martin visits him every day, and Jon's starting to realize that maybe, if he cares so much, he's not so bad. That's not going to do him much good, though, he's still in jail.

Jon, panicking. His trial is getting closer; only a few days left before he's assigned a lawyer, and if Daisy has anything to say about it, he'll get the shittiest one the city has. He knows he's as good as dead. He knows he'll lose. But he waits anyway. No one has given him any resources, but he waits anyway, one last spark of hope left in him, hope that maybe, because he knows he didn't do it, that will count for something.

Now, I want you to picture something else.

A young lawyer in a nice blue suit has just heard about a case that, for some reason or another (Eye influence), has made international news. He watches the segment, which features a sad, pathetic looking man who looks much older than he is. That guy couldn't have killed somebody, he thinks to himself, there's no way. And he gets a feeling in his gut that the only one who can prove the guy innocent is him.

Pan back to the jail cell. Jon is called out for a visit from Martin, and they get to discussing what he's going to do. Martin is apologizing, saying that he couldn't find a lawyer to take the case, saying that he wishes he could have done more. Jon is resigned to defeat at this point, and is thinking about pleading guilty, just to see if he can get a lesser sentence.

That is, until no-loss-recorded, young and hopeful, Mr. Missed Connections extraordinaire walks through the door.

Phoenix Wright, before anyone has the chance to ask him why he's there, says one thing.

"I'll take your case."

~~~~~~~~~~

Anyway, what do y'all think? I could either write a fic (less engaging but still fun and would take a lot less time) or make an objection.lol video case with custom sprites (much more time consuming but would be a really cool finished product). If I do the fic, I may do the video afterwards.

Which should I do first?

I'm very curious as to what gets chosen

[darlingdaisyfarm]

I want to hold Stanford's hand so much, when I am sad, happy, joyous, love, sorrow, I want him to know how much it would mean to hold his hand. Do you think he would love someone needing him so much because of -pardon- a kink, or the fact a six fingered hand can fully encompass ones own?

ohhh sweetheart this is such an interesting question because it’s really about Ford’s relationship with intimacy and self-worth, i love it!

sorry again for long text, i feel lonely and wanna talk

anyways Ford's six fingers, his intelligence and his social struggles made him feel different so he believes that he is fundamentally not like other people. and this only got worse after the portal, Bill and thirty years spent in dimensions. so touch, closeness and physical connection were lost to him for decades

Ford is someone who doesn’t really know how to process love. like... he’s always been the kind of person who thinks with his brain first and feels with his heart second, which means when it comes to affection or closeness, he doesn’t exactly reach out first. he’s the kind of person who would need reassurance that it’s okay to need and want someone

so when someone wants to hold his hand, in every emotion, in every state of being, it overwhelms him because listen, Ford is not used to being wanted in that... simple way. sure he’s been admired, respected, envied mb, Bill was obsessed with him too. but loved in a way that asks for nothing except to be close to him? no

Ford doesn’t know how to accept it. physical affection that isn’t just practical or necessary? affection for the sake of affection? it’s foreign to him

his whole life, he has thought of his body as smth wrong (he still remembers the name of his bully from his childhood so bullying/outsider trauma never left him), six fingers and hands meant for equations and inventions, for gripping the handle of a gun or the edge of a dimension where he doesn’t belong

but ohh damn ur hands? at first, he wouldn’t know what to do with it. you reach for him in sadness, in happiness, in boredom, in comfort. you reach for him. him, the man who spent decades convinced that he was untouchable so maybe that’s the first thing that stuns him about it. how, despite the years he has spent thinking of his hands as too much, they feel RIGHT when wrapped around yours

you’re reaching for that extra finger and for Ford it's a reassurance that his imperfections are not just accepted, but desired

because he realises, like yeah this is real. you mean it. he has spent his whole life fighting to prove his worth, to be enough in the eyes of the world, but with you, he doesn’t have to prove anything. he just is. and that’s enough for you

soooo yes. yes, he would love it. holding hands does smth to him. smth he would never admit out loud. he wouldn’t always know how to say it, wouldn’t always know how to ask for it, but if you reached for his hand, he would always give it

and if he ever caught himself missing the weight of your hand in his, he would reach first

[bougiebutchbinch]

STILL ROTATING. horrid little xiao jiu is a) horrid little xiao jiu and b) fiercely pretending to not be a slave (but still very much thinks of himself as such and is just waiting to be discovered and punished) and c) wants something to hold over bingge to ensure that he will have at least one ally.

obviously the answer is to steal Luo Bingge's jade guanyin (why does he even carry it around? it's obviously fake!) and hide it somewhere, telling bingge he can have it back if he helps him find blackmail material on shen yuan and luo bingmei.

It's genius! If they get caught, he can blame everything on Bingge, and Bingge can't defend himself or he won't get his guanyin. And if they get away with it... even when Shen Yuan and Luon Bingmei find out that Xiao Jiu is a nasty fraud and a slave and a rotten thing who ruins everything he touches (which they will find out!! everyone finds out eventually.) they still won't be able to throw him off the Cang Qiong peaks!! Because he'll be able to threaten them!

Xiao Jiu won't be safe. He's never safe. But this is the closest to 'safe' he's ever known, and he'll fight like a cornered rat to keep it.

He fully expects Luo Bingge to beat him up. That's how his fellow disciple deals with most of his problems, it seems (and no, Xiao Jiu isn't jealous that Luo Bingge is so powerful, even though he's a year Xiao Jiu's junior). It's okay. Xiao Jiu's taken plenty of beatings before. He can handle it.

Just... when Luo Bingge has realised that Xiao Jiu can take all his punches and will still stare up at him from the floor, face bloody, with that same infuriatingly cold, aloof stare...

Xiao Jiu doesn't expect Luo Bingge to start crying and pleading for him to give the guanyin back, instead.

Xiao Jiu inches up, wincing, to sit. He stares at Luo Bingge, who prostrates himself in the bare dirt before him.

Shameless, is his first thought.

Ridiculous, his second.

How stupid is this kid? You only cry in front of pampered rich masters with the softest of hearts. In front of anyone else - especially a vicious little beast like Xiao Jiu... showing a creature like that your tears does nothing but paint a big bullseye around your weaknesses.

When Luo Bingge, tearful, exclaims 'I thought we were gonna be friends!' it just further proves that he's an idiot.

But perhaps, if he's such an idiot...

'If we're friends,' says Xiao Jiu slowly, 'then you'd help me find my... insurance on Shen-gege and Luo-gege without being forced. Wouldn't you?'

Luo Bingge pops up from his bow. He nods a million times, until Xiao Jiu thinks his head might come off.

Xiao Jiu contemplates his options. The guanyin clearly has sentimental value to Bingge; it's a trump card Xiao Jiu is loathe to give up. But this brainless promise of devotion... Well, Xiao Jiu can't help but be reminded of another boy. A boy would do anything Xiao Jiu said, let him get away with any lie or misdeed, so long as Xiao Jiu called him friend.

Of course, that boy got wise, in the end. He realised that Xiao Jiu was worth even less than that stupid fake jade, and left him.

One day, Luo Bingge will do the same. But until then... Xiao Jiu might as well capitalise on Bingge's stupidity.

'I'll think about it,' he says, just to keep Bingge guessing, and - ignoring the pull of fresh bruises and contusions under his robes - sweeps gracefully away. 'Feel free to keep looking by yourself,' he calls over his shoulder. 'But you'll never find it.'

Sure enough, though Luo Bingge scours the whole grove with increasing desperation, Xiao Jiu's words ring true. As it turns out though, Luo Bingge doesn't need to find his guanyin - because he awakens that night, in the little room he and Xiao Jiu share off the side of Shen-shizun and Luo-shifu's bamboo house, to quiet footsteps. He pretends to be asleep as the jade guanyin is softly placed on his pillow, right by his head.

'Idiot,' mutters Xiao Jiu, under his breath. The night is sleepy and silken, rippling with the sounds of their teachers' sleeping breaths from next door and the gentle rustle of wind through the bamboo. Everything smells of fresh linen and tea leaves. 'I better not regret this.'

Luo Bingge listens to him shuffle about on his own little pallet bed like he always does, turning around five times like a cat before he can be comfortable. And, clutching his mother's jade - the gift his new 'friend' stole then returned - he allows himself to smile.

Xiao Jiu is mean and cruel and Luo Bingge doesn't trust him in the slightest. But if he let Bingge's tears and trembling lips sway him to mercy... maybe he does have a heart, after all.

Bingge can work with that.

also DESPERATELY need something where, in the world of PIDW, original!Shen Jiu dies and original!Luo Binghe is Not Normal about it so he pulls off some ridiculous spell to give him and shizun a better chance at life -

and, in the alternate reality, shen yuan and luo bingge wake up one morning to find two very familiar dirty little gremlin children fighting viciously outside their house. Shen Yuan gains two new disciples, Luo Bingmei is his usual weird jealous self (affectionate and loving) and very suspicious of Luo Bingge (but gradually warms to him and maybe deals with some deep-seated self-loathing issues on the way?) and Luo Bingge and Shen Jiu have literally no idea what the fuck are going on -

But they know that 1) they don't trust this weird, nice new 'shizun' of theirs in the slightest (or his big scary boyfriend who may or may not but Luo Bingge's dad???)

and 2) they fucking hate each other

so why does the System keep insisting that Shen Yuan take on the role of Quest Giving NPC and send them off together on wife-plots????

[mxtxfanatic]

I’m gonna say it once real clear so I have a post to refer back to the moment it happens again (cause it will). I don’t give a fuck about any other reader on a personal level when I am reading a book. I don’t care who you are, where you’re from, the people who claim you, the degrees you hold and in what subject. Not a damn. When I’m discussing the book, I am discussing the things the author wrote in the book. When I am discussing characters, your personal life experiences or cultural “expertise” factor 0% into my analyses except as an addendum to my thoughts if it matches what the novel or author has already said. That means that I will not automatically bow to a reader just because they claim to be Asian in general or Chinese specifically (cause I’ve had people try to flex with both, before). I am just as capable of reading and thinking on my own, and mxtx is just as capable of conveying what she wants us to understand from her story without the “cultural translators” acting as the unwanted, unasked for middleman. Especially when that middleman is directly arguing against what the book tells me. Heritage isn’t a “get out of jail free” card for intentionally shitty analysis and willful illiteracy.

So no, I’m not entertaining your argument that a child abusing character is just fine and dandy cause “I’m Chinese, my parents beat first and ask questions later and that’s called love 🤪” You’re Asian? You’re Chinese? So what? The author is also Chinese and disagrees with you. I also have Chinese friends who’d disagree with you. Are they less Asian than you? Do they not count because they don’t confirm your self-interested generalizations? Newsflash: Chinese people are not a monolith, and the continent of Asia definitely isn’t. Unlike in this cursed fandom, most people irl can think for themselves.

I can tell you one thing, though: mxtx damn sure didn’t write any of her novels so that a particular group of Asian diaspora readers can run to a majority-white fandom to play “cultural translator” about how “inherently abusive” Chinese culture is to a round of hehe hahas at their own expense. And for what? White validation? Western approval? Over a web novel??? Does that not sound demented to you? Is that not the definition of self-hate?

[pastel-rights]

Sweet prince(ss) this, belladonna that, miss journalist here, my beloved there… do you even KNOW my name???

[just-some-random-blogger]

omg this is crazyyyyy

Daemon couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off you, which is odd because it used to be Rhaenyra who drew his attention like a moth to a flame.

Ok perv 🙄🤚🤪

"Tubī Velario Lentro Ābrāzme Laene iēdrarta mōrqittot, māzīlarē tubirri Elēdrion ziry umīsilza luo dāriot, hannagon Embrurliot gierūlti.” We join today at the Seat of the Sea to commit the Lady Laena of House Velaryon to the eternal waters, the dominion of the Merling King, where He will guard her for all days to come.

OK PURRRRR LINES FROM THE SHOW GOES CRAZY I COULD NEVER

You took her from the only home she's ever known, Rhaenyra thought bitterly, her throat tightened. You took her away from everyone, From Daemon, From Corlys, from Laenor... from me. But I won't let you deprive us of her like you did before. Not if I have anything to say about it.

Damn ok big sister

Alicent, however, curled her fists into a ball. How dare Viserys call her by his late wife's name? She was a living girl, and the king was still in love with a dead one! She was not going to forget such an insult.

💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔 my poor Alicent they could never make me hate you

“Why is she here? Take her back to Oldtown, i dont want her here.”

Thx mum xxx

"That was NOTHING compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups and lusting after the serving girls AGAIN, you bloody fool!"

My poor fucked up targtowers sorrows alicent sorrows aegon

You, having heard what he said, turned your glare to aemond. Bloody fool you thought. You felt daemon near you, his breath hitting your neck and his hand on your back, using the moment to be near you.

snksksksnsjisjHIM BREATHING DOWN YIUR NECK IS CRAZYYYYY SIRRR???

HAHAHHAH

"Entertaining his young squires, I would venture," Alicent snidely remarked. "That's enough out of you," Rhaenys warned harshly. Corlys glared at the queen as well over this insult. Criston smirked but ceased when he noticed Harrold staring at him.

Endidnsnksksksnksksj messy HEY RHAENYRS I MISS YOU SO MUCH

You hated this, seeing your ailing father like this, hoping for an answer. "I... can't deny i’ve heard the rumors as well, father," you spoke slowly. "It's not uncommon for Targaryens to not share our physical traits. Take, for example, Princess Rhaenys's mother, Lady Jocelyn, who was born a Baratheon. Despite not resembling us at first glance, your cousin proved herself once she reached adulthood. So is it fair to discriminate against a family based solely on their appearance, trueborn or no?"

OK PURR BOOK ACCURATE RHAENYS SHE SAID SLAYYYY

As Alicent’s blood-curdling scream flooded the room, before she could reach them, You moved as fast as you could to block her. However, Alicent had gotten too close by then and stabbed you in the left shoulder with the dagger.

I hate this for them so much mother on daughter crime is crazy

Daemon asked. "You are a fool, Ser Crispin."

BRO CALLED HIM CRISPIN CRAZY

You suddenly gripped tighter. Slowly turning her head to meet Alicent’s gaze, the Young Dragon's pale lilac eyes burned with the fireplace's illuminating hue. You slowly raised Alicent’s hand, holding the Valyrian steel dagger out of your shoulder, the blade covered in your blood to the hilt. "Let them see you for who and what you are," you pushed against her. "An insignificant, disloyal, power-hungry wretch with no shame or guilt." Then, once you felt the dagger removed from your shoulder, you began twisting alicent’s wrist. "I bet that felt good, keeping up the facade hmm? Not so confident now, are you? The only loyalty you have is to yourself.”

I hate this for them so much 💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔 naurrrrrr anger towards you mother is gut wrenching fucking hell

This was a lot and clear labor of love my LOVE YOU ATE THAT

“We were always meant to burn together.”

Summary: Daemon hasn’t seen his niece in a decade, and drama unfolds on driftmark.

Includes/warnings: hightower!reader, aegons twin. this is probably horribly written so thats a warning in itself, not proof read but i believe Y/N has been used on multiple occasions. Did not give reader a description other than female & lilac eyes. There is an age gap in this (reader is 15 and daemon is whatever his canon age was in that time. My memory is awful) like i said, not proof read, if you see any spelling errors feel free to point them out! If i missed any warnings, please lmk :)

🪐notes: its been a while since i’ve seen season 1 so please ignore any timeline mistakes. Daemyra does not exist in this. :)

Daemon hadn’t seen you in ten years, ten whole years. In his mind you were still that five years old little princess, cheerful and trusting, unlike your mother. Alicent Hightower. Daemon hated that entire Hightower-Targaryen bunch, but never you, he could see you weren’t like them. But he never spent much time with you, opting to steer clear of you so your mother wouldn’t rotten your mind like she did the rest. But now, you were five and ten. Standing next to your uncle, Gwayne Hightower, whom you had spent all those years with in Oldtown.

Daemon couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off you, which is odd because it used to be Rhaenyra who drew his attention like a moth to a flame. The first time he’s seen you in ten years, and its at his late wife’s funeral, lady Laena Velaryon. He wondered about you, did you know valyrian? Did your dragon egg hatch? Were you still that same girl?

You avoided his gaze, but it made you nervous nonetheless. You weren’t close with Laena, but it still saddened when you heard of her death. As boring as Oldtown was, it meant you didn’t have to be wed to anyone. After hearing of the late Queen Aemma, and now Laena, you hoped you’d never have to experience childbirth. It deeply frightened you.

Shaking off your thoughts and daemons lingering gaze, you decided to focus back on Ser Vaemond, Laena's uncle and Lord Corlys's brother, as he spoke.

"Tubī Velario Lentro Ābrāzme Laene iēdrarta mōrqittot, māzīlarē tubirri Elēdrion ziry umīsilza luo dāriot, hannagon Embrurliot gierūlti.” We join today at the Seat of the Sea to commit the Lady Laena of House Velaryon to the eternal waters, the dominion of the Merling King, where He will guard her for all days to come.

Among the other mourners, your family also sailed to driftmark to attend the funeral. You allowed your gaze to shift to them for a moment, your eyes landing on your father, King Viserys Targaryen, next your mother, Queen Alicent Hightower, and then your siblings. Your younger sister, Helaena. Your younger brother Aemond, who like you, was without dragon. And your twin brother, who couldn’t be more different from you, Aegon. When you noticed Aegon snap his gaze towards you, you quickly looked away, focusing on someone else. Your half-sister, Rhaenyra.

You kept the most contact with her, unlike your mother, Rhaenyra always answered your letters. Updating you on everything that happened in the red keep, and on her family. But Rhaenyra’s gaze wasn’t on you, it was on Alicent.

You took her from the only home she's ever known, Rhaenyra thought bitterly, her throat tightened. You took her away from everyone, From Daemon, From Corlys, from Laenor... from me. But I won't let you deprive us of her like you did before. Not if I have anything to say about it.

Vaemond, while delivering the eulogy, could not resist looking at Rhaenyra's alleged sons with Laena's brother Laenor – Prince Jacaerys, Prince Lucerys, and the baby Prince Joffrey. The elder Velaryon knight felt his blood boil and his face twisted in a scowling disgust at the lack of resemblance to Laenor, they looked nothing like him. "Velario ānogro rȳ lopor ojāris.” Salt courses through Velaryon blood. he continues. "Īlvo qumblī iāris. Īlvo drējī iāris. Se dōrī vajiñagon īlvo bēvilis.” Ours runs thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin.

While Daemon is somewhat somber at his late wife's death, he cannot help but start giggling at Vaemond's pettiness in bringing this up now of all times. You, meanwhile, glanced briefly at your uncle, hearing his giggle. Corlys and Rhaenys also noticed the apparent disrespectful behavior during their daughter's funeral.

"Talus mandus ñuhus. Inkoso kostōbāpis aōhis jelmīs sagon, gīso lykāpas aōhas embis, se prūmȳsa lēdāpas aōhas manengīs. Hen embār masti. Va embrot āmāzīli.” My gentle niece. May your winds be as strong as your back, your seas be as calm as your spirit, and your nets be as full as your heart. From the sea we came. To the sea we shall return.

Gripping the ropes tightly, the Velaryon men-at-arms began gently pulling backward to slide Laena's stone coffin closer to the edge of Driftmark's coastal cliff before dropping into the sea, to rest beside her ancestors. Before long, the services slowly began to die down.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Following the funeral, the mourners solemnly make their way to the cliffside courtyard of High Tide castle for the wake. Despite the atmosphere being predominantly filled with awkward silences and strained conversations, the presence of seven Targaryen dragons currently bonded to their riders soared overhead, including the likes of Rhaenyra's Syrax, Daemon's Caraxes, Rhaenys's Meleys, Laenor's Seasmoke, Aegon’s Sunfyre, Helaena's Dreamfyre, and Baela's Moondancer. The gathering is a significant event, one that has earned Driftmark the nickname "New Valyria" among observers.

The only one that was not present now was Vhagar, the Queen of All Dragons. Many speculated the ancient dragon was not in attendance because of the emotional grief over outliving another rider; others suggest that Vhagar had returned to one of her nesting grounds in the Narrow Sea to live out the remainder of her life as a wild dragon. However, there were sights of Vhagar apparently bereaved near the dunes of Driftmark's sandy beaches.

Rhaenyra looked amongst the gathering before finding one of her sons, Lucerys

"Have you seen your father?" she asked.

Lucerys shook his head. "He said he wanted some alone time," he answered.

"Your little cousins have lost their mother. They could use a kind word. Go comfort them?" And without further words, the boy went over to his nieces.

Meanwhile Rhaenyra found you, alone staring out at the sea. “Sister.”, you could hear the smile in her voice, and sure enough, you looked over and she had half a smile on her face. “Rhaenyra” you acknowledged her softly, your voice gentle as always.

As you two caught up, Ser Criston spoke to Alicent. "Lyonel Strong's son's been staring at you since the moment we arrived, Your Grace. Unabashedly," Criston informed her.

"It is only a look of pride, Ser Criston," Alicent remarked coolly. "Larys is the new Lord of Harrenhal."

Viserys, on the other hand, glanced at his estranged younger brother Prince Daemon whom he hadn't seen in over a decade. There were so many things he wanted to say to him. They did not part ways on good terms when it became known that Daemon escorted Rhaenyra to a brothel – little did he know it was not the case. He took Rhaenyra to a brothel, yes, but he did not have sex with her.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

As the skies began to darken with the arrival of dusk, King Viserys, like everyone else, began to retire for the evening. Ever exhausted with each step he took and Laena's death in childbirth clearly reminding him of his first wife's similar death years before, Viserys couldn't help but think of Aemma Arryn again. Oh, by the Gods, the king missed her so much. "I'm going to bed, Aemma," he accidentally said to his second wife.

Alicent looked quietly unnerved. "What did you just call me?" she said offended. Ser Harrold intervened. "Shall I send after Queen Alicent, Your Grace?" he gently corrected.

Viserys now realized who he was talking to. Trading glances between his second wife and Ser Harrold, he swears he was losing his mind. "No, Ser Harrold," the king declined and returned to the castle for a night's rest. "Very well, Your Grace," Harrold acknowledged. "You have the night's watch, Ser Criston," he instructed his subordinate.

Criston noticed the awkwardness as well. "Lord Commander," he acknowledged.

Alicent, however, curled her fists into a ball. How dare Viserys call her by his late wife's name? She was a living girl, and the king was still in love with a dead one! She was not going to forget such an insult.

Gwayne walked over to Alicent, guiding you along with him with a hand on your back. “Dear siste-“

“Why is she here? Take her back to Oldtown, i dont want her here.”

Your heart broke at Alicent’s words, you’d think she’d be happy to be reunited with her daughter after ten years, but alas.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

From a distance, Aemond observed his surroundings. Qarl brought Laenor back to the courtyard, but the heir to Driftmark broke free from his lover's embrace and entered the castle alone, still grieving for Laena. As he watched them, Aemond heard a dragon's faint but mournful roar nearby - Vhagar, the Queen of All Dragons, the oldest and largest in Westeros. As per the stories, her flames were so intense that they could melt a knight's armor and cook him inside, she could devour a whole horse in one gulp, and her mighty roar could shake the very foundation of Storm's End.

« There are other options in case an egg doesn't hatch. You need to know where to look. »

Aemond, being a Targaryen without a dragon, recalled his fathers advice. Heeding Viserys’ words, Aemond realized that there were alternative means to become a dragonrider in the event of an unhatched dragon egg.

After ensuring that no one was around, the young prince took the opportunity to secretly trail Vhagar's outline as it flew close to one of Driftmark's sandbanks. Little did Aemond anticipate the consequences of his actions, which would go down in history as a controversial political scandal.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

You were seated by the fireplace of your guest chambers when Ser Criston bursted into your chambers, “your mother has requested your presence in the hall, an incident has happened.”

Quickly pulling your nightly robes shut to make yourself decent, you follow Criston’s fast paces to the hall.

Upon entry, you see the hall divided, Rhaenyra, Daemon, both their children, Rhaenys and Lord Corlys on one side, your siblings, mother and the hightide maester, on the other. “What happene-“ you stop speaking when your eyes land on Aemond, one eye having just been sowed up by the maester. Your hand covers your mouth in shock as your eyes scan the room, wondering what the hell happened here. The room quickly went into disarray, everyone shouting at someone.

King Viserys rushed to the Hall of Nine upon receiving a warning from his grandchildren, but unfortunately, he arrived too late. The damage has already been done. He used his cane to demand silence and restore order. "How could you allow such a thing to happen? I will have answers!" he insisted, furious with the Kingsguard for not protecting princes of royal blood.

"The princes were supposed to be in bed, my king," Harrold informed. "That was until a certain dragon woke everybody up in Driftmark," Arryk mentioned. "Who had the night's watch?"

"Ser Criston did, Your Grace," Erryk answered. "The young prince was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace," Criston protested.

"You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!"

"I'm very sorry, Your Grace," Harrold apologized. "The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes, Your Grace―" Criston tried protesting again. "THAT IS NO ANSWER!!" Viserys shouted angrily.

Alicent looked at her son. "It will heal, will it not, maester?" she inquired.

Maester Kevlyn shook his head. "The flesh will heal. But the eye is lost forever, Your Grace," he replied. "You," the queen turned to her firstborn son, your twin brother. "Where were you?!"

"Me?" Aegon answered obliviously. But he was soon slapped across the face. "Ow! What was that for?!" he complained.

"That was NOTHING compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups and lusting after the serving girls AGAIN, you bloody fool!"

“This is not the time to turn against each other” you warned your mother, stepping up for your twin, not that he deserved it.

"They attacked me!" Aemond shouted.

"You attacked Baela!" Jacaerys shouted back.

"He broke Luke's nose!" Baela chimed in. "He stole my mother's dragon!"

"He was going to kill Jace and Luke!" Rhaena accused. "IT SHOULD BE MY SON TELLING THE TALE!!" Alicent shouted.

All the children began talking over each other; Aemond claimed the other children attacked him, and the other children said they were only defending themselves. Otto stood in cold silence, while Daemon leaned against the wall with his arms crossed; although the Rogue Prince did not express himself, he was furious when he found out what his nephew had done to his daughters. Both parties kept going at it until King Viserys felt a headache coming.

"Enough... Enough!" King Viserys ordered.

"He called us―" Jacaerys tried to speak.

"Be quiet," Rhaenyra instructed silently. Then, when nobody went silent, Otto raised his voice. "HOLD YOUR TONGUES!!"

"SILENCE!!" King Viserys shouted.

The room went quiet as both voices boomed with firm, authoritative tones. "He called us bastards," Jacaerys whispered to his mother.

You, having heard what he said, turned your glare to aemond. Bloody fool you thought. You felt daemon near you, his breath hitting your neck and his hand on your back, using the moment to be near you.

"Aemond," Viserys limped over to his youngest son, "I will have the truth of what happened. Now."

"What else is there to hear?" Alicent angrily interjected. "Your son has been maimed. Their sons are responsible. Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son!"

"It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves! Vile insults were levied against them," she defended.

"What insults?" King Viserys inquired.

"The legitimacy of my sons' birth was put loudly into question. To question their birth is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders."

"Over an insult?" Alicent questioned. "My son LOST AN EYE!"

Now that he has been made aware of the rumors surrounding Jace, Luke, and Joffrey from his grandchildren, the king redirected his attention toward his wounded son. "You tell me, boy. Where did you hear this lie?" he asked.

"The insult was training yard bluster. The lot of boys. It was nothing," Alicent said. Viserys ignored her. "Aemond... I asked you a question," he reiterated. "Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? The boys' father? Perhaps he might have something to say in the matter."

"Yes. Where is Ser Laenor?"

Rhaenyra felt the eyes drawn on her. "I do not know, Your Grace. I... could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk," she feigned ignorance.

"Entertaining his young squires, I would venture," Alicent snidely remarked. "That's enough out of you," Rhaenys warned harshly. Corlys glared at the queen as well over this insult. Criston smirked but ceased when he noticed Harrold staring at him.

"Aemond... look at me. Your king demands an answer. Who told these lies to you?" The king asked for the third time. “Aemond," you stared at him, "your king is speaking to you. Answer him."

Aemond, with only one eye remaining, felt his breathing tremble. Both his father and eldest sister were pressuring him. But after a tense moment looking towards his mother, he decided to speak. "It was Aegon," he answered.

"Me?" Your twin asked with disbelief at the insinuation that his brother used him as a scapegoat.

King Viserys turned to his second son and approached him. "And you, boy?" he said to his face. "Where did you hear such calumnies?" he asked. No answer. "AEGON!" he shouted again. "Tell me the truth of it!"

"We know, father. Everyone knows. Just look at them. They don't look anything like us."

"Doesn't mean you can insult them like that!" You shouted at your twin. "hush," Alicent said to you firmly. “Do you believe such lies?” Viserys now turned to you, his eldest daughter.

You hated this, seeing your ailing father like this, hoping for an answer. "I... can't deny i’ve heard the rumors as well, father," you spoke slowly. "It's not uncommon for Targaryens to not share our physical traits. Take, for example, Princess Rhaenys's mother, Lady Jocelyn, who was born a Baratheon. Despite not resembling us at first glance, your cousin proved herself once she reached adulthood. So is it fair to discriminate against a family based solely on their appearance, trueborn or no?"

Jacaerys and Lucerys both looked at their aunt, who spoke up in defense on their behalf. Meanwhile alicent glared, how dare her daughter speak up in defense of rhaenyra’s family.

Viserys was beside himself. How could things deteriorate so badly with his family? He turned to Rhaenyra, his only surviving child from his first marriage. His daughter shielded her sons, but kept a stoic expression at him. The king then turned to his second wife. "This interminable infighting must cease!" he shouted, distraught. "All of you! Now make your apologies and show goodwill to one another. Your father, your grandfather, your king demands it!"

"Aemond has been damaged permanently, my king. 'Goodwill' cannot make him whole." Alicent hisses, making you clench your jaw. Let it rest mother, please, you pleaded with your eyes. “I cannot restore his eye” Viserys spoke.

"No, because it's been TAKEN!"

"What would you have me do then?"

"There is a debt that needs to be paid." Alicent turned to Rhaenyra and her sons. "I shall have one of her son's eyes in return." Rhaenyra immediately moved her sons Jacaerys and Lucerys behind her. "Alicent, stop! Enough! Do not... allow your temper to guide your judgment," viserys yelled.

"Your Grace," you addressed your father disappointingly, "I fear the queen is not in the right state of mind." Not that she ever was in the beginning, of course. Viserys knew there was no going back.

Alicent, upon regaining her composure, saw red hearing her daughter speak about her in such a way. "So be it. If the king will not seek justice, the queen will. Ser Criston... bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon," she ordered. "Mother!" Lucerys screamed. "He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son."

"You will do no such thing," Rhaenyra warned.

Viserys turned to Criston. "Stay your hand!" he commanded.

"No, you are sworn to me!" Alicent yelled. "As your sworn protector, my queen," Ser Criston said.

"This matter... is finished. Do you both understand?" Viserys turned to face the gathered assembly. "And let it be known, anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra's sons should have it removed."

"Thank you, father," Rhaenyra sighed.

Alicent, still shaking with fury that Viserys had apparently once again chosen his children's side over hers, refused to accept this. When the king's back was turned, the queen quickly snatched the Valyrian steel dagger from his belt and rushed across the room toward the ones responsible for maiming her son. "Your Grace! Stay with the king," Harrold beckoned.

"Alicent!" Viserys shouted.

"Hold your approach!"

"Sister, look out!" You warned, while moving forward to get in between your mother, who was charging to your sister, or lucerys. Or both.

As Alicent’s blood-curdling scream flooded the room, before she could reach them, You moved as fast as you could to block her. However, Alicent had gotten too close by then and stabbed you in the left shoulder with the dagger.

You growled in pain. But held on firmly by grabbing Alicents shoulder with your right hand and her wrist with the left. No matter the momentum, you forcibly stopped Alicent in her tracks and restrained her.

“Sister!” Rhaenyra yelled in shock.

Criston moved to Alicent but was held back.

"Do not, Ser Criston!" Harrold warned.

Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister and pointed it at the Kingsguard knight. Soon enough, the Rogue Prince and Lord Commander prevented Criston from helping the queen as more Kingsguard moved to restrain him. "Stay your hand, Cole!" Harrold reiterated. "Now, do you see what your queen has done?" Daemon asked. "You are a fool, Ser Crispin."

You suddenly gripped tighter. Slowly turning her head to meet Alicent’s gaze, the Young Dragon's pale lilac eyes burned with the fireplace's illuminating hue. You slowly raised Alicent’s hand, holding the Valyrian steel dagger out of your shoulder, the blade covered in your blood to the hilt. "Let them see you for who and what you are," you pushed against her. "An insignificant, disloyal, power-hungry wretch with no shame or guilt." Then, once you felt the dagger removed from your shoulder, you began twisting alicent’s wrist. "I bet that felt good, keeping up the facade hmm? Not so confident now, are you? The only loyalty you have is to yourself.”

Viserys limped closer, stunned by what he had seen: his second wife tried to go after his daughter, and grandchildren, but it was his second eldest daughter who withstood the worst of it with her blood. You coldly stared at your father, disappointed in him. Your blood stained your outer gown, and dripping blood trickled on the floor. Daemon, Rhaenyra, Rhaenys and Corys were quick to surround you. Daemon holding you softly, already looking at the wound you suffered.

The room falls silent; then everyone leaves for the night.

Aemond steps forward and, despite the grievous injury to his face, shows no ounce of remorse for what he did. “Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye... but I gained a dragon.”

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The next morning daemon sat across from you, as the maester sowed your shoulder and tried his hardest to mend the wound. Daemon was furious at you, for putting yourself in harms way. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“And then what? Let alicent hurt sweet luke? Let her cut out his eye?”

“You got hurt!”

You scoff, “i’ll live.”

Daemon sighs, “Come back to dragonstone with us, with me, Kostilus.” Please.

@just-some-random-blogger LOOK HANNAH, I DID ITTT 🫂

it is open to a part 2 if people want it (i didnt realize til now that theres barely any daemon x reader moments)

explore post. masterlist.

please comment and reblog if you enjoyed. <3

© mrscarpenter, 2025.

[inkskinned]

i got rickrolled today but it didn't work because i have adblocker installed, so youtube just told me i violated the terms of service. yesterday i was trying to edit a picture as a joke for my girlfriend, and google made me check a box to prove i'm human because i wasn't "searching normally".

it isn't just that capitalism is killing fun and whimsy, it is that any element of entertainment or joy is being fed upon by this mosquito body, one that will suck you dry at any vulnerability.

do you want to meet new friends in your city? download this app, visit our website, sign up for our email list. pay for this class on making a terrarium, on candlemaking, on cooking. it will be 90 dollars a session. you can go to group fitness, but only under our specific gym membership. solve the puzzle, sign up for our puzzle-of-the-month-club. what is a club if not just a paid opportunity - you are all paying for the same thing, which makes you a community.

but you're like me, i know it - you're careful, you try the library meetings and the stuff at the local school and all of that. the problem is that you kind of want really specific opportunities that used to exist. you are so grateful for libraries and the publicly-funded things: they are, however, an exception - and everything they have, they've fought tooth-and-nail to protect. you read a headline about how in many other states, libraries have virtually nothing left.

do you want to meet up with your friends afterwards? gift your friends the discord app. you can choose to go to a cafe (buy a coffee, at least), a bar (money, alcohol) or you can all stay in and catch a movie (streaming) or you can all stay in bed (rent. don't get me started) and scream (noise complaint. ticket at least).

you want to read a new book, but the book has to have 124 buzzwords from tiktok readers that are, like, weirdly horny. you can purchase this audiobook on audible! your podcast isn't on spotify, it's on its own server, pay for a different site. fuck, at least you're supporting artists you like. the art museum just raised their ticket price. once, they had a temporary exhibit that acknowledged that ~85% of their permanent art galleries were from cis white men, and that they had thousands of works by women (even famous women, like frida! georgia o'keefe!) just rotting in their basement. that exhibit lasted for 3 months and then they put everything away again.

walmart proudly supports this strip of land by the street! here are some flowers with wilting leaves. its employees have to pay out-of-pocket for their uniforms. my friend once got fined by the city because she organized a community pick-up of the riverfront, which was technically private property.

no, you cannot afford to take that dance class, neither can i. by the way - i'm a teacher. i'm absolutely not saying "educators shouldn't be paid fairly." i'm saying that when i taught classes, renting a studio went from 20 bucks an hour to 180 in the span of 6 months. no significant changes to the studio were made, except they now list the place as updated and friendly. the heat still doesn't work in the building. i have literally never seen the landlord who ignores my emails. recently they've been renting it out at night as an "unusual nightclub; a once-in-a-lifetime close-knit party." they spent some of those 180 dollars on LEDs and called it renovating. the high heels they invite in have been ruining the marley.

do you want to experience the old internet? do you want to play flash games or get back the temporary joy of club penguin? you can, you just need to pay for it. i have a weird, neurodivergent obsession with occasionally checking in to watch the downfall and NFT-ification of neopets. if i'm honest with you all - i never got into webkins, my family didn't have the money to buy me a pointless elephant. people forget that "being poor" can mean literally "if i buy you that toy, i can't afford rent."

you and i don't have time to make good food, and we don't have the budget for it. we are not gonna be able to host dinner parties, we're not made of money, kid. do you want some kind of 3rd space? a space that isn't home or work or school? you could try being online, but - what places actually exist for you? tiktok counts as social media because you see other people on it, not because they actually talk to you.

there was a local winter tradition of sledding down the hill at my school. kids would use pizza boxes and jackets and whatever worked, howling and laughing. back in september, they made a big announcement that this time, rules were changing, and everyone must pay 10 dollars to participate. when im not scared shitless, i kind of appreciate the environmental irony - it hasn't gone below 40. so much for snow & joyriding.

i saw a bulletin for a local dogwalking group and, nervous about making a good first impression, showed up early. the first guy there grimaced at me. "sorry," he said. "there's a 30-dollar buy-in fee." i thought he was joking. wait. for what? the group doesn't offer anything except friendship and people with whom to walk around the city.

he didn't know the answer. just shrugged at me. "you know," he said. "these days, everything costs money."

[sleepyangelkami]

more vi plss!! (and reader is a pillow princess)

SAY IT .vi

𝜗𝜚 WORD COUNT - 1.5K

VI (ARCANE) X FEM!READER

𝜗𝜚 SUMMARY - vi calls you exactly what you are, a pillow princess and in efforts to prove her wrong, you only end up proving her right. but that's fine, because that was all she wanted.

𝜗𝜚 WARNINGS - smut, dom!vi, sub!reader, pillow princess!reader, fingering (r.receiving), praise kink, dumbification, dirty talk, alternate universe, petnames, intended lower case, nothing i write is ever proofread 🩷

it started off as a joke.

a simple joke that left your girlfriends lips. you'd been laying on your stomach across the sitting room sofa, words mindlessly falling from both your lips as you flipped through a magazine. she sat man-spreading across the arm chair, controller in hand. you always said she loved her video games more than you, but she'd always deny.

then you heard it, the joke spewing from her lips with a smirk on her face. "yeah, okay, pillow princess."

instantly, your head snapped up from your magazine. your glittery pen that you'd been circling clothing with dropped from your pretty fingers. "i'm not a pillow princess."

vi seemed to sense your distress. she set the controller down as the game conveniently ended. "well, i'm not saying there's anything wrong with it." she leaned back against the armchair, resting her hands behind her head. "i love that you're a pillow princess, believe me."

you wouldn't believe how many times she'd gotten off just by thinking about it. you were so good for her, so responsive. she hardly had to touch you and you were falling apart. sure, she loved watching your head between her thighs as you whimpered into her but there was nothing more she loved than watching you, hearing you. all of it.

you seemed butt hurt by the joke.

but vi swiftly changed the conversation, noticing the furrow of your brow.

vi knew how sensitive you were, how easily you took everything to heart and she didn't want you over thinking this. and her tactics proved right, by five minutes later you were showing her a pretty top you'd spotted on the coloured pages.

you didn't think much of it at first. in fact, for the next while, you didn't think of it at all.

perhaps you had too much in your head to contain so much information, you told vi that was why you talked so much.

it wasn't until vi had you pinned down against the bed, making out with you, that the moment popped into your head again.

you almost shut it out on accident, then it clicked. vi was kissing you deeply, her hands dragged at your hips, pulling and kneading the skin while you passed heavy breaths through your lips, kissing her back just as hard.

and suddenly, you had this urge to prove her wrong.

vi felt you shift, letting you take the lead.

she felt you turn you both over, you landed in her lap and suddenly, she was the one against the bed. her brows shifted in amusement. "what's this, baby?"

you shifted your hair to one side of your head so it didn't get in the way, you weren't really used to things like this. "jus' trying to prove something." you mumbled before reaching down and kissing her lips.

don't get me wrong, vi loved the feeling of you kissing her, whatever way you sat, laid or stood, on top or not. but she couldn't seem to shake the amusement as your mouth left hers, leaving a trail of kisses against her neck. "this have something to do with that joke i made before?"

your lips stopped momentarily at her neck, eyes gazing up. "'m not a pillow princess."

vi didn't understand why you were so adamant about it.

there was no shame in it. on the contrary, she adored it.

"yeah?" her brow cocked and she was looking at you this way that had you nodding, suddenly unable to speak. "y'sure, sweetheart? cause if i remember correctly..." suddenly, you were being flipped over again, beneath her all over again. "you quite like sitting there all pretty 'n taking it."

you could feel her hands trail down past your waist, kneading your thighs in her hands. "v-vi, 'm trying to―" you were cut off by the breath being caught in your throat.

vi's hand had trailed up your skirt, her fingers dancing over your panties. "you're trying to what, sweet girl?" you felt her fingers rub against your clothed clit. "c'mon, use your words f'me."

"vi!" you whined, feeling her fingers against you. she wasn't being fair, you were supposed to take charge but how could you think about anything when she was touching you like that?

a soft laugh left the girls lips as she pushed your panties aside, fingers gentle against your swollen bud. "love it when you whine like that."

you could only look up at her with your tinted hot cheeks.

she began to press gentle kisses against the nape of your neck, fingers trailing down to your hole, she rounded her fingers against you, collecting the trail of your slick across her digits. she made a fake gasp noise. "'n look how wet you are already." she couldn't help but smirk. "good girl."

two single words that set you off every time.

a gasp left your lips as she slipped her two fingers inside you at once. you suddenly moaned with pleasure.

vi was like a drug. every time she touched you, you found yourself addicted, begging and chasing for her to praise you. you'd do anything to please her but luckily for you, that meant just sitting there and taking it. you truly did wish you could be less 'responsive' but vi wouldn't take it any other way. her favourite thing to do was turn you dumb with her mere fingers, maybe even her strap.

your eyes fluttered shut in pleasure, feeling her fingers pound against your sopping cunt. "please, vi." you moaned out. "please don't stop."

"yeah? wanna be my good girl again, huh?" nudging your face with her nose, littering kisses on your cheek.

you could only whimper out with a nod. vi had this way of making you feel like you were high on magic. you couldn't help but want her in every way.

"then say it, angel." fingers pumping in and out, embarrassing squelching sounds bounced off each wall of the bedroom. "say you're my pillow princess."

she was met with a mere whine of dissatisfaction from you.

she feigned sympathy with a coo. "awh, i know, baby. my poor girl, jus' so mean, aren't I?" but the girl didn't care much for your whining and whimpering, she'd get you to say it before you came. "but you gotta say it, yeah? don't want me to stop do you?"

you pursed your lips closed. "mm-mm. please don't stop." you practically panted out, you could almost feel frustration build in your water line. "nnghh― please, vi!"

"four words." is all she whispered back, her palm grazed against your clit every time her fingers pounded into your entrance. "know you can say it, pretty girl. jus' need me to make you all dumb, don't you, baby?"

a whimper of her name was the only thing that left your lips, eyes screwing shut.

"close, sweetheart? 's now or never, baby. say it or i'll stop."

the feeling was knotting in your stomach, ready to unravel. you didn't want to but you knew better than to cum without following orders.

so you forced the damned sentence to pass your lips. "'m your pillow princess."

and a coo only fell from the magenta haired girl. "awh, know you are, sweet girl. see? my good girl always listens, doesn't she? huh?" vi tended to ask you questions while knuckles deep in your pussy, she knew you couldn't utter a single word. "you jus' need me to make your poor pussy feel all good, don't you?"

a breathless, "uh-huh." was her answer. "'m close!"

"yeah? gonna be good f'me 'n say please?" of course, vi had to make you beg for it.

"please!" you practically squeaked out as your back arched against the bed.

a chuckle left her lips. "you can do better than that."

and you really, definitely could. but vi had made you all dumb, exactly her plan. "please let me cum, vi. please, need it so bad. please." you repeated the word please in little whispers, unable to hold back the knot in your stomach.

"you're such a good girl, 'course you can cum, baby." she felt your spongy walls suddenly tighten around her fingers. "that's it, sweetheart, cum all over vi's fingers, 's a good girl."

vi pumped her fingers in and out of you, letting you ride out your high like she always did until you were squirming away from her.

she leaned against the bed with a self-loving smirk on her face, hardly glancing your way. you laid next to her, chest falling and rising as you panted out breaths. a beat of silence passed until you spoke up. "vi?" turning your head to her.

"yes, my pillow princess?" she teased.

instantly, a frown fell on your face as you crossed your arms over your chest. she wasn't being fair. "i was gonna say something, now i'm not speaking to you."

"oh, come on." she lifted your face by her thumb to make you look at her again. "no pouting or else i'll have to shut you up all over again."

an idea suddenly fell flat on your head.

your pout deepened.

vi only climbed over you with the smuggest of smirks on her face. "you dirty little slut."

main masterlist/vi's masterlist

[prionsis]

“There you go again, coddling him when it is most convenient. One moment and he is a strong, wise and capable young man ready to be king- but soon after he is just but a boy in desperate need of guidance, just a child. I have never volunteered to care for Lambert’s spawn, hire him a nanny if you must.” It wasn’t his son, therefore not his responsibility. Why even help when the beast would never be able to truly process any feeling of gratitude towards him? Why risk himself even further, with his neck not only within Dimitri’s range, but also within reach of those four lackeys he surrounds himself with?

Gautier, Fraldarius, Galatea and that stray. One worse than the other, but under Dimitri’s command- all dogs ready to kill whatever crosses their path. Rufus knew better than to potentially involve himself with creatures unable to think for themselves.

But Matthias truly was a wicked man, his words sending ice through his veins as the regent found himself a deer frozen before a wolf’s hungry glare. None of them knew, he was sure of that- the margrave was simply saying this for the sake of bothering him, but there was this tiny part of his mind that wondered if they had figured it out after all, and were simply taking it nice and slow.

"You-” With cobalts framed by irritation, Rufus shot Matthias a glare. “You are playing with fire through those words, margrave. Baseless accusations such as these could land you a hefty punishment, I am sure you are aware of that. Were I a more impatient man, you would not have gotten away with this.” Because in the end it was just a matter of time, as the regent managed whatever he could to ensure his own safety in a world where all desired his head hanging from the gates of Fhirdiad.

Even with Cornelia by his side, he was still surrounded. The palace was not and has never truly been his turf, as he was quite sure not even his bribes would be able to keep the already delicate peace stable for much longer. His only means to prevail were long gone now, as the prince proved to be far too cunning to kill, and sooner or later the boy’s influence would continue to grow and grow, Rufus ultimately finding himself trapped in a lion’s den with no way out.

A fate that a small, insignificant yet very much present part of him, was disturbingly okay with.

“Bah, spare me from your harping regarding your land’s misery and low reputation. You forget that the territory is in your hands, and it is up to you to give it the change it needs- but this conversation has only shown me that Lambert has ruled this country like a teacher handles a kindergarten. Spoiling lords by doing their jobs for them, leaving them entirely helpless as soon as he is out of the picture. Masterfully manipulative, painfully pathetic.” Finding himself tired of this useless banter, Rufus turned away from the Margrave- but not completely, he wasn’t stupid enough to not keep a glance on Matthias.

“This discussion bores me so, and I am far too busy to spare you any more of my time. You speak much of what is best for Faerghus, but the ideas you continue to nurture in regards to my person are nothing but poison for the country you claim to love. If you wish to go down the path of ruin, go on. But keep me out of your filthy games.”

With that, Rufus finally left- his steps at a quicker pace as he went straight for his quarters. That was enough being outside for the day.

-end.

old men bickering

continued from here | @cielenruine

[f4y3w00d5]

This case is making me so fucking angry. theyre using common transphobic language, and also theyre not even HIDING their BLATANT FUCKING TRANSPHOBIA-

Wanna see the poster that made me aware of this current bullshit going on?

The second paragraph. 'Roxy Tickle is a man that wants to be a woman.' Okay, well a simple google search says shes transgender. Going a bit more in depth? She has done Three years of hormone therapy and gender reaffirmation surgery. Like this isnt a transgender woman who has done nothing to change her identity, she's got surgery and 3 years of hormone therapy! And looking more into it? She has said;

"I am now legally a woman.

“I am already allowed to have a female gendered passport thanks to the letter from my GP confirming that they are treating me.

“I only have one step left - to update my birth certificate to say that I’m female.

“I needed two medical specialists saying they have seen my genitals and they both needed to sign a form in the presence of a JP.

"These are the most extreme levels of identity proof I’ve ever come across – to have to show your genitals to an MD is embarrassing to prove who you are. The documentation has all now been completed and I will mail it this weekend."

That was all 4 years ago. 7 years of this shit now. (as of today, april 11th, 2024)

And the poster still refers to her as a he?

And thats the picture they use. Now heres a better one.

That was deliberate. They used an unflattering photo of her, and a very flattering one of Sall, just to try and tip people to Salls side. Common marketing ploy.

More research shows that she now has her birth certificate identifying her as female.

And this isnt enough?

By her logic, shouldnt a trans man be allowed on giggle, no matter how far through transitioning they are, purely because they were born female? I get the feeling that she would say no. This is simply blatant transphobia. Personally, I cant do anything, being a minor. I'm not sure how far this case is along, seeing as it started 2 days ago.

But I simply cant let this slide. When I saw it this afternoon it made me so fucking angry.

This case could change a lot of things. Make a lot of changes that make everything far worse for non cis gendered people, potentially influencing things world wide

[sceletaflores]

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

pair: joel miller x fem!reader

wc: 8.6k

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

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

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

joel found a lodge house…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You learned how to be ruthless because of it.

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

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

And then you found yourself with Joel.

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t know what to do with that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel. Of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re on your feet in an instant.

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

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

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

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

His stubbornness finally meeting its match in your own. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The smell of blood hits you immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this time feels different, more intimate somehow.

You’re staring, and you know it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel snorts, a rare sound. “Figures.”

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

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

He’s too damn proud for that.

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

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

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

“Who taught you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It never was.

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

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

“I want you to prove it.”

The tension snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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