#i see a man with long hair and i HAVE to put him in a bun ASAP

[madamechrissy]

Stripper! Satoru

Pairings- Stripper! Satoru x Bride! reader

Summary- You've been promised your entire life to Naoya Zenin, and now there's just one night left. Never having a choice, or any freedom, raised to be his perfect bride- your friends throw a party with the hottest male revue show there is, and that's where you meet him - Satoru.

Warnings - MDNI- Satoru is basically Magic Mike, angstyyy, explicit sex, loss of virginity, oral ( f receiving) sweet/whipped Satoru, sheltered reader, kissing, drinking, reader is engaged (arranged marriage) so morally gray but it's Naoya so fuck him, emotional asff , open end for now! (story will wrap it up) <3

This will be a FULL length multichapter fic after I finish a cpl wips, it's been eating me up to write so I want to show you at least a preview of it! tag list open for when it's released, drop a comment if you wanna get added! it's a long one <3

Stripper! Satoru who is the star of the biggest male revue in the nation, he's always showing off his well oiled, defined abs, and making every girl there feel so good. He loves watching how they tremble as they touch his abdomen, loves the way they giggle when he dances, straddling them in their chair, brushing their cheeks with his fingers, a wink that makes them melt.

Stripper! Satoru oils his toned, muscular body before each show until it's gleaming under the lights, hips undulating as he tossed that cowboy hat into the air, clad in assless chaps and a thin tie, with some black silk on his cock that shows his entire outline. And God was he packing, the other dancers of the review get the oohs and ahs, but he is always center stage and thrives in it, in the looks of everyone dying to bring him home.

Stripper! Satoru and his crew have an exclusive party tonight, for a bride to be - and she must be wealthy, because they're walking right into a mansion, dressed up as cops tonight, Satoru loves to put on a good show for these women, his white hair tucked under a police cap, as he rings the doorbell, which opens with what he assumes are the bride's friends. They're already giggling and rushing the men in, one pulls Gojo aside, whispering in his ear - 'please, make her smile tonight... she's really...' he doesn't need the rest of the answer when he sees your face, so lost and broken, and it makes him falter.

Stripper! Satoru has never seen a bride not giggling and excited, once or twice he absolutely saw them nervous or worried, some of them would want to sleep with him or the crew as their 'last night' of freedom, and most of them were usually fine giving it to them. Not Satoru however, although he has hooked up with his fair share of women, he does not sleep with brides to be, as much as they have tried, he does have a couple small boundaries and that is one.

Stripper! Satoru still gave them a good show, he still licked across their skin and let them touch his body, he put a smile on their faces, made them blush, he made them all soaking wet. But he's never encountered the sad eyes that meet his now, the nervous biting of your lower lip as you look around in utter confusion. Your friend sighs, tugging Satoru down now. 'Arranged marriage, and he's... fucking horrible. Please, help her forget for one night?' he sees now why they paid so much, it's clear your friends love you, as the lights turn off and the LEDs turn on, your face is illuminated with red light, haunting him as he almost forgets the routine.

Stripper! Satoru and the crew begin to 'pretend' to arrest you and the girls, fake handcuffs on their wrists while the men press the girls down on the chairs, beginning their 'pat down'. But as Satoru approaches you, and touches your skin with the toy, fake metal of the cuffs, you just sigh, making him pause. The music continues, but he instead gently presses you on the seat, getting on his knees now, as your eyes drink the prettiest man you've seen once he takes off those dark shades. Your breath catches when he gently brushes your hair off your shoulder, and asks - 'Are you even okay with this, sweetheart?'

Stripper! Satoru doesn't realize, you've never been asked if you're okay with anything, your whole life was just made so you can marry the leader of the Zenin clan, so that you were a pristine, perfect and untouched wife. You take a shaky breath, easing in his presence, finally having someone ask if you were okay was something you didn't even have growing up. To come from a stripper dressed like a cop was surprising, but you instantly relax, thighs spreading just a bit, which his insane blue eyes dart to. 'I'm sorry, yes, I want to, please...'

Stripper! Satoru has never felt whatever the fuck it was when he touches your skin, the sensations shooting through him, he watches goosebumps rise on your skin when his crew grabs his attention. He smiles, looking at you once more. 'I'll give you the funnest night, I promise' you giggle, you don't think you've ever giggled, nodding as he steps back, and the men play that music and rip off the fake outfits bit by bit. That's when your tummy clenches, heat pooling, watching Satoru's body revealed as he rolls his hips, and your friends all smile at you, seeing you actually happy for the first time since you heard the wedding was impending.

Stripper! Satoru is insanely talented, not just his ripped, perfect body, but how he moves it, so clearly the leader of them all, surely they all had gorgeous bodies, but something about him drew your avid attention. You get flustered and shift as you study his movements, and his eyes just won't leave yours, they kept glancing at you, a smile on plump lips while they all strip down, and then step close to each of you, you're the only one without the cuffs, they sit on your lap instead. Satoru braces his arms on either side of you, breath trailing across your neck when he dances between your thighs, abs flexing right in front of your face. Your breath dances on his skin as you nervously exhale, feeling your heart pounding in your chest.

Stripper! Satoru runs the most famous male revue for a reason, he's about as charming and confident as it gets, it's enigmatic his pull, but mostly you keep looking at those eyes, getting lost in them - for a moment forgetting your wedding to Naoya tomorrow - a man you've known bits and pieces of for a long time, long enough to be terrified of him. For a moment you let go and smile nervously, you touch his slick muscles when he puts your fingers on his chest, and the laughter carries through the room. As their set ends, an entire party begins, with shots everywhere and dancing, you see your friends stealing little kisses, envying their freedom, but the blue eyed man with slicked back white hair seems to focus on you, taking your hand and bringing you into a dance then. You giggle again, shaking your head. 'I can't dance... what's your name? The real one, not the stage name' you say, looking up at him then, and he tugs you closer against him. 'It's Satoru'

Stripper! Satoru uses a stage name, but for some reason he wants you to have that name, a hand sliding down your body over your pretty white dress, addling his mind. 'Anyone can dance, you've just never tried, sweetheart' you shake your head again, but he's already moving your hips for you, turning you so that your back presses against him, and that's when he feels it, your sweet body against his making him ache in ways he hasn't in a long time. 'See, you're dancing now' you lean back against him, shutting your eyes then, just feeling him. 'My friend set you up to cheer me up, huh?' he sighs against your ear, aching to press a kiss against your neck, but knowing he shouldn't. 'You do have good friends, but I just like dancing with you'

Stripper! Satoru has you downing another shot, the atmosphere is intense- these parties get this way, frequently, another perk of being the most famous male revue was endless beautiful women, and making bank on top of it. Satoru notices the dilation of your eyes when you take one more shot, licking your lips before peering around so shyly. 'Everything okay, these parties get a little...' he's asking about you again, the mere thoughtfulness pushes you to step forward, pulling him down by the black bow tie he's got on, nothing else but a black speedo at this point, revealing the body carved out like a statue, but he lets you yank him down, eyes lowering to your lips. 'If I could, have a kiss, a real one before I... don't get a choice anymore' your whisper ends him, his heart breaking for a girl he doesn't know, even in a haze of liquor and undulating bodies, everything fades but you.

Stripper! Satoru can't help but ask in surprise - 'you've never kissed?' and you see the surprise in his eyes, you look around, the music still blaring, overwhelming your senses. 'No, never, um... I shouldn't-' Satoru breaks his own rule then, slamming his lips down on yours, your first kiss, one you will think upon when it's just that cruel man looking down at you instead. You gasp against his lips, inviting his tongue to dance inside your mouth, yours dances along his, messy and clumsy but following every movement like a dance itself. He feels it then, his cock throbbing from a kiss, you don't seem to notice or maybe don't even want to say something as it presses high up on your tummy, while his hands slip up your body, for all eyes to see. But your friends clearly are pleased- they wanted you to have one night of fun, even if it wasn't what you were 'supposed' to do.

Stripper! Satoru has you against a wall before you can blink, like a switch went off in his mind and all that turns on is you. His hands are on either side of you when he pulls back, taking a breath, cursing softly, your breasts are rising and falling as you look up at him, desire for the first time in your life overtaking you. 'Thank you, Satoru' you smile sadly, was it better to not kiss at all than to have this? 'Is it that bad, the guy?' he murmurs then, and you look down, trembling just a bit, and his instinct is to protect you when he doesn't even know you. Satoru is protective of those he loves, but this feeling makes no sense. Tears fill your eyes and you sniffle, looking away, but he tilts your chin up, swiping one off with a thumb now. 'Thank you for tonight, I see why you're so popular...' he tries to smirk then, raising a brow. 'Because I'm so sexy?' you giggle even through your tears, you've never laughed so much in your life, shaking your head, making him pout. 'You're kinda mean, you're saying I'm not?'

Stripper! Satoru is trying to tease it off, the feelings throbbing though his body, but you're too much when you say - 'no, it's because you're really something special' another tear falls despite tremulous lips, swollen from his kiss, he feels the eyes on him, this isn't what he does, never ever the bride, but it's like he can't drag himself away from your gravity. Kissing you again is too easy, lifting you like it's nothing is even easier, the way you cling to him and lose yourself as the two of you are now locked in a room is even easier. Your dress slips up your hips with a silky whisper, his big hands gripping your hips and dragging you against him, you whine out as you feel it, the sweat dripping against your skin while he barely holds it together, ignoring the fact that he knows better, forgetting that you're not his, and how badly that for some reason feels to him, while he's got your back on a bed, kissing down your breasts and tugging at your dress now.

Stripper! Satoru has his mouth devouring every pretty inch of skin you allow him to, hot and hungry while you melt under him, clothes dissolving with gentle tugs, baring you to his vision, his fingers dance across your skin like you're a canvas and they're delicate paint brushes at first, then they're more insistent, more pressure, hungrier and hungrier for you. 'Fuck, you're beautiful...' he doesn't say that either, of course he compliments, but he's never seen someone earn that title quite like you, when he frees your breasts and they gently bounce from your bra, when your nipples perk up just for his mouth to suck on. When your hands entwine in his silky white hair, and he's pulling one into his mouth, while the other hand twists your other bud taut, and your cunt starts drooling, throbbing, one that's never been touched, even by yourself. Sheltered and taught it's all terrible, your friends had shown you some things but you're mostly lost to anything Satoru is doing, just lost in how good it all feels.

Stripper! Satoru pauses for a moment, as he's licking a trail between your breasts, eyeing you under snowy lashes, watching as you breasts rise and fall. 'We should stop now, before... I can't stop' his husky declaration is filled with need, your hand rushes through his hair, taking a shaky breath and whispering - 'would you be my first?' he pulls back, terrified at the statement, his mouth wide open, he knows it's too far to do, his morals grey enough, just hovering. 'He's cruel and he's... awful to women, it won't be happy for me. I just want once, to be my choice...' Satoru swallows nervously, lifting one of your thighs now, pressing his cock against your heat, watching your head fall back. 'You're really stuck in this? there's no way to get out of it?' you shake your head, trying to focus as your body responds to him. 'N-no, there's no way, y-you don't have to just I-' he moans then, internally cursing himself, because he's already intoxicated off you. 'Your choice' he repeats softly, you nod quickly, taking shaky breaths and gripping his shoulders. 'My choice'

Stripper! Satoru has his long pink tongue slipping across your panties, hot and wet against your cunt, the material pressed tighter and tighter, you're whining out, uncaring of any noise you make, the first time any one has touched you and it's with his mouth. Satoru moans against you, vibrations making your cunt throb when he yanks your panties to the side, baring your perfect, pretty pussy to his hungry gaze, glistening already with your slick. You cry out now, hips raising up for more, when he places a lewd kiss on it, honeyed arousal pouring from your little hole. You should be more nervous right? Afraid of a stranger seeing you? But you're not, you're so ready the moment his mouth latches you're screaming out, hips bucking, whining out at how good it feels.

Stripper! Satoru loses it once he tastes you, those panties slipped down your thighs, torn between leisurely teasing you and straight up devouring you. He opts for the latter, slipping panties down your thighs and gripping you by the fat of your ass, bringing your cunt flush so he can bury himself. He drowns in your cunt as his tongue lavished your walls, while you are rolling your eyes back, breaths coming in little pants while he licks every part of you, tastebuds soaking in your flavor. He has you falling apart under him in moments, your gummy little walls gripping his wet muscle, feeling you tremble underneath him as your first orgasm rocks you so hard you can't see.

Stripper! Satoru presses one more kiss, leaning over you and slipping down that thin satin layer between you, revealing a thick, long cock, you gasp when you see how huge it is, for one moment wondering how it would fit, when he kisses you so messy and desperate, hot heavy cock slapping your skin. 'Satoru!' Your cry makes him leak precum against your inner thigh, as he looks down at you, sighing. 'Are you sure, sweets? We can stop here' again, he gives you the choice, despite speaking through gritted teeth, as if he's in pain, holding his breath and just watching you. You shock him then, hand sliding down to touch his cock, a featherlight brush that almost makes him cum, eyes meeting his now. 'I want it, please'

Stripper! Satoru isn't going to turn down your sweet plea, your desperate ask under him, asking him to take something so special, but he understands you, he knows you need to have a choice without even knowing you. He kisses you then, more intimate in moments than he has been with women before ever. His cock teases and dips against your soppy little hole then, pressing slightly and feeling your tight resistance, moaning as he does. 'It will hurt just a sec, okay sweetheart?' You nod then, and the pain hits, sharp and sweet and addictive, he pauses, letting you adjust, trying not to bust from how fucking right you feel, how perfect. Instead he holds back, watching you with bright blue eyes. 'You okay honey?' - and making you relax under him, the burn and stretch mixing with pleasure the further he presses, nodding eagerly, dragging him back down for a kiss, which he whimpers into as he thrusts inside.

Stripper! Satoru hardly holds back, knowing it's your first time, shaking with the effort not to fold you in a mating press and fuck you to the hilt like he wants. 'Perfect, fuck you feel s'good, mnh...' he's muttering those words as he pulls back and thrusts further, stretching you out impossibly, she's soaking down his veiny length to accommodate, while she pulses from her aftershocks, and you feel that fullness, you're so full. Satoru shoves in harder, deeper, seeing what you can take, your head falls to the side to be littered with kisses, careful not to mark you, though God he wants to, to bite and bruise every inch of skin with his teeth. He wants to leave bruises on your hips, fill you with so much cum you drip him when that man comes near you - but he knows that's fucking stupid.

Stripper! Satoru is pussy drunk so fast, as you open for him, as you loosen your hold, arching your hips up to meet his thrusts, unleashed as you scratch his back, leaving your marks, marks he'll wish will never leave in the coming days. You kiss across his neck, teeth sinking into it and leaving your bite, as he bottoms out in your perfect cunt, the echoes of the squelching wetness and your cries mixing with the smacking of skin, as he loses his control, and you fall off the edge with him. Moans and sighs, gasps and cries, all while he's filling you over and over, bringing you closer to the brink, losing anything and everything all under his long, lithe body, the shadows casting and stretching across the wall, of him over you, of your thighs wrapped around his narrow waist.

Stripper! Satoru has never felt anything like you gripping him, never tasted anything like that honey lingering on his lips, fucking you and dragging his tip on your spot just so, until you shatter, cumming blindingly, crying out his name as you do. He quiets you with a kiss, your cunt spasming around his cock and gushing down further, making a mess of the bed, of him, of you. You're blinking back your vision as you gasp and he leans up, dragging you all the way down his length, his whine so sexy while his head falls back, veins in his arms bulging as he grips you so tight, watching the bulge in your tummy as he slowly moves in and out. 'cum once more, please, wanna feel her again' his whisper is met with a jerky nod, when he finds your clit with the pad of his thumb, running in circles and shoving in so deep he slams your cervix.

Stripper! Satoru watches the pretty bride - not his, how are you not his? - cum for him then, thighs shaking, your head falling back into the soft pillows, and he's done for, leaning forward to pump a few more times, fucking you through that orgasm, before he pulls out with a gasp, wishing he could finish in you, instead pumping that cum on your tummy, white networks of ropes decorating it as it moves up and down with your heavy breaths. You start to come to, when he's cleaning you up, when he's wiping the soreness between your thighs, when he's holding you and kissing you. You feel the emotions hit, the overwhelming pleasure can't override this one singular feeling - dread - and moreso now that you felt this, that you know what it is, to feel so perfect and cherished by a stranger.

Stripper! Satoru panics when you cry, 'was it too much, are you hurt sweetheart or-' you shake your head, hugging him to you tightly, sweet kisses on his neck and cheek then. 'No, it was perfect, so perfect Satoru. Thank you' you shouldn't be thanking him, he musees to himself, letting you kiss him as the knocks finally sound on the door. He gently helps you get dressed, the party is clearly still going on but your friend wanted to check on you, to see your disheveled state she just smiles, rushing off and apologizing, but your skin is decorated in your blush, and he sees it, the fear in your gaze. 'Am I horrible?' he shakes his head then, kissing you again. 'No, you're perfect' and it just leads to more, he can't stop kissing your skin, he can't stop fucking into you, each time hurting less and just feeling better, letting you ride him tentatively, holding you from behind as he fucks you, until the two of you fall asleep, against each other.

Stripper! Satoru overslept clearly, as you're all ready to leave - for a wedding to a monster - and most of the men are hungover, sipping coffee and ready to go home. When he does get dressed in the normal clothes he brought with, you hold his hand, looking down and swallowing, not knowing what to say - that you think in one night you fell for a man - that you'll never be available. It sounds too cruel to say to someone, when there's no future, so instead you hug him tightly, and he holds you against him, trying to hold back everything he wants to say and do. 'Are you gonna be okay?' he asks softly before he leaves, and you smile as brightly as you can, nodding. 'I will be. Thank you for... everything.' one more sweet kiss, and Satoru has to let your hand go, knowing he will never have you again eats at him and he was just inside you, he can't even speak or answer a question, all he can think of is you.

Stripper! Satoru seems like a fantasy, as you walk down the aisle, seeing the bored and cruel gaze staring right at you, dark brown eyes with murderous intent, a nasty smirk as he assessed you. Tousled blond hair, he looks instead at a few of the women sitting in the benches waiting, winking at them instead, before turning back and setting his jaw. When you stand in front of him he yanks back your veil, eyes narrowing and humming to himself. 'Suppose you'll do' he says then, leaving you to feel sick as he grips your wrist, unceremoniously putting a glittery ring on it. 'that hurts...' you whisper weakly, and he squeezes harder, glaring now. 'Keep your mouth shut, little bitch, got it? you're my property now' you sink back, knowing then, the pit in your stomach had been correct, the rumors must be true- he is horrible.

As you sit through the ceremony, as your friends try to comfort you are sent home, as your entire world crumbles and ends, you try to cling to the memory of feeling special, beautiful, you feel his touch, you feel his caress - his gaze. You cling to it as your eyes fill with tears, as your stomach fills with nausea, as he's yanking you onto his lap and laughing cruelly at you. You think of him...

Satoru

Soooo yes this will be a long one, and dw it will end happy somehow! Comment for tags of you're interested in their story <3

perm tagsss- @alt--er--love @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @indiewritesxoxo @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoao-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff @ibreathesmut @s777athv @twinklywinkly @akiii143 @squeezyvalkyrie @cookielovesbook-akie @oinksa @grignardsreagent @shokosbunny

[sidollie]

┈─★ Dad's bestfriend Simon Riley cw// ᴍᴅɴɪ, legal? age gap (simon in his late 40's and reader in her early 20's), size kink, creampie, possessive simon riley

ᯓ★ Simon Riley was your dad’s best friend from the military. He had been in your life ever since you were a kid, back then he was just the scary masked man in black who never talked and never smiled, you used to call him "The dangerous man". Now he’s dangerous for an entirely different reason, he’s older, broader, has more scars and tattoos than you can count

The tension between you both started small. Whenever he was at your dad's place (that was basically every day) you wore something short, sexy— eye catching and he always noticed. His eyes lingered a second too long when you wore those tiny high waisted shorts around the house, the way he had a habit of touching the small of your back, lean in too close when he spoke. He was quiet, protective and definitely watchful.

One similiar weekend, your dad was passed out in his bedroom having one too many glasses of bourbon. You head downstairs to the kitchen for water and you make the mistake of wearing just some cotton sleep shirt with nothing underneath.

He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a bottle of beer in his veiny hand, mask pulled up just enough for you to see his lips and some blonde stubble. His dark eyes followed you immediately, like he was a predator and you were the prey. He spoke in his usual gruff voice,

"Tha' what ya wear 'round the house when yer alone?"

"It's comfortable"

"Ya wear tha' 'round me?"

"I didn't think you'd care"

He puts the beer bottle down with a clink as he crossed the room before you could even blink. He towered over you, his hand gripping your chin, his lips curving into a dark smirk. Ignoring the way that you look up at him, wide-eyed

"Oh, I care, swee'heart. been trying t'be good fer yer dad. But ya walk around here like that and expec' me t'behave?"

"What are you gonna do?"

"Exactly what yav'e been beggin' for"

He drags you by the wrist and bends you over the arm of your dad's comfortable couch before you can even protest. One hand gently fists your hair as the other lifts your shirt, exposing your bare ass.

"No panties, knew ya wanted this, knew ya were fuckin’ waiting"

You whimper as his thick fingers slide between your thighs, teasing your wet core, as they sink into your hot cunt. He curls them just right, grinding against your g-spot while his thumb circles your sensitive nub in tight, cruel circles. He leans over, muttering with his gravel voice,

"Drippin' f'me already, so fuckin' tight, too."

His expert fingers leave you unsatisfied, whining for release. His belt's undone with one pull, jeans shoved down just enough to free his thick, heavy cock that's already leaking for you. He spits into his calloused hand, strokes himself once, twice and then lines it up against your dripping pussy

"Ya ever had a man my size, sweetheart?"

You just shake your head, whimpers falling from your mouth.

"Good, I'll ruin ya f'anyone else."

He moves slowly at first, dragging out every thrust like he's trying to imprint his cock in your right pussy, and that thought drives him more wild. The thought of claiming you, owning you, you—his best mate's young daughter. He kisses your neck from behind, leaving marks of ownership.

He stretches your tight cunt wide, feral groans leave his lips at the way you're wrapped tightly around him. His grip on your hips bruises as he starts to move, thrust so deep you can feel every vein and ridge of his cock in your cunt. He thrusts after thrust, raw and possessive, claiming you as his.

"This pussy's mine now, ya hear me? Say it."

"Y-yours, it's yours… all yours, Simon."

At your words a feral growl left his lips as his hips snapped faster against your ass, his fat cock slamming into you with brutal force. He kept his pace punishing yet pleasurable, hitting that gooey spot within your gummy walls repeatedly. He slammed his cock into you with wild abandon, grunting and cursing under his breath at the feel of your wet heat enveloping him.

He finishes deep inside you with a low, filthy groan and when he pulls out, he doesn't let you go. He watches his hot cum drip out of your spent cunt, wrapping his strong inked arms around you. He kisses the shell of your ear, whispering gruffly,

"Not done yet, luvie. I know ya can take more."

@sidollie, @sehnsuchts-trunken

ᯓ★ masterlist

[joeldarling]

The Flu - Oldman!Joel x f!reader

Summary: Reader gets sick and her old man Joel takes care of her.

Warnings: Light spicy, stablished relationship, f!reader, Joel cums inside, no reader description. THE glasses mention.

Word count: 1k.

A/N: Got sick yesterday and this popped out of my mind this afternoon. It’s just a bit of soft with a bit of spicy and the fact that I can’t contain myself; I am on my knees for oldman!Joel. As usual, English it’s not my first language, so, sorry for any typos or grammar mistakes. You can see more of my works on my masterlist and my requests are open! 💌

You got the flu during one of your patrols, it was cold outside from the snow and everyone was sneezing, maybe they had passed to you, maybe you passed to them. You couldn’t be sure.

You arrived home feeling your body heavy, and it was one of the rare nights Joel had off. He quickly noticed how sick you seemed. You didn't want to cause him any more trouble, but you couldn't hide it.

Joel and you have been together for some time now, in a silent agreement where you share a house, a bed, and multiple orgasms, but don't need any verbal agreements. You had always been his anyway, and even with the age difference, you couldn't care less. Joel was in his sixties but still had more energy than many of the boys in Jackson, and he always made sure you were satisfied, that you had everything you needed—even when all you needed was just him.

He warmed up the bathwater for you, slowly removed all your layers of damp clothing, and made sure your hair was tied up securely enough so it wouldn't get wet. He blew your nose, and you both laughed at the fact that you looked more like a drenched animal than anything else. Joel, even tired from his long day, still found ways to make your journey lighter.

Soon after the bath, he dried every part of your body, and even with desire running through his every glance, Joel dressed you with devotion, giving you one of his old long-sleeved shirts, warm enough so you could sleep comfortably through the night without feeling cold. He put you to bed and prepared a cup of tea, promising that in the morning, he would get something more effective than that. Even finding your silence strange, he didn't complain when you snuggled close to him after he turned off all the lights, trembling slightly at his touch.

Joel talked to you until you fell asleep, the fever making your body as hot as could be and causing the shirt to become soaked with sweat. In the middle of the night, he brought the glass of water you asked for without hesitation or complaint. He brushed the hair away from your face and kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your red and sore nose from so much sneezing, and finally, your lips. His kiss was sweet, it sounded like home. Joel was your home after all.

“I promise I will find ya’ sum’ medicine by the mornin’.” He said, as he pulled you closer, making your heart skip a beat or two. He was completely enamored with every part of you, even when he didn't feel enough, too old with the glasses he wore and his moody expressions. But, you always made sure to assure him how happy he made you, and this cycle of familiarity, even during the apocalypse, made him feel like the luckiest man in the world, worthy of some happiness after so much loss.

He remained in a light sleep throughout the night, making sure you were okay, alive, and breathing. It was just the flu, of course, but with limited resources, everything felt truly more serious. Joel, however, found it slightly strange when, almost near dawn, you tilted your hip towards him, and knowing where that would lead, he hesitated. You were sick, after all.

“Joel, please…” You asked in a hoarse and low voice, rubbing your hip against his. Joel was holding you tightly, and it didn't take long for his body to react, pure instinct. Even sick, it was like a need to have him, and part of you found it completely unfair, after his long day, not to satisfy him the way he deserved.

How could he deny you anything when you asked like that? It was almost impossible.

Joel obeyed your request, taking off your panties and the worn pajama pants he was wearing, feeling how wet you already were before going on, hesitating when he heard you cough.

“M’darlin’ are ya’ sure ‘bout that?” He was making sure you wanted that, but when you once again moved your body towards him, he didn't ask again, entering slowly and giving you some time to adjust; Joel was big enough that even after so many times, these moments were still necessary.

It was nothing like the times you fucked until dawn tirelessly; it was slow, affectionate, his lips on your neck while his hands played with and pinched your nipples. Joel whispered sweet words in your ear, the low moans and the sound of your bodies colliding gently as the sun rose over the horizon were all you heard.

“Cum inside of me, please, Joel. That’s the only medicine I need.” You pleaded, on the verge of reaching your peak, feeling your body soften with the growing pleasure, and he groaned a little louder.

“Gonna fill ya’ up with my milk, sweetheart. Don’t worry ‘bout it. This sweet ‘n tight cunt’s all mine. My poor sick baby, daddy’s gonna give what ya’ want.” He said, his voice trembling, and as his movements became more intense, his thick accent reverberating in the back of your mind as the two of you reached a simultaneous orgasm, Joel definitely filled you with his seed.

Perhaps because of the flu, or the fact that he still remained inside you for a good few minutes, filling every possible space and covering your shoulder and the curve of your neck with kisses, you dissociated, content and definitely full of him.

Joel and you still had a few hours before you needed to head out for the day's tasks, so he slowly withdrew from you, checked your temperature once more, relieved that all that seemed to remain was the sweat from your recent activity, and pulled you to his chest again, adjusting the blankets and allowing himself to fall asleep while listening to the loud beating of your heart and your heavy breathing.

Gods, how he loved you.

[dark-l-angel]

hi!! I saw that you accept request, so I have an idea. It's not really a creative one but I'm obsessed with clingy Jason Todd 😭😭 so I was thinking if you can maybe (please🙏) write something where reader needs to go to work but Jason stops reader because he's needy. Do you get it😭😭

Thank you!

-G.A.

A/N: needy, whiny, bed-hogging Jason who clings like a big heat-emitting emotional weighted blanket telling you to quit that damned job that keeps you away from HIM? YES.. I've been waiting for this moment..

Clingy jason Todd x Reader

Clingy jason, reader is tired of their job. Everything else is fluff

The sun had barely risen. Pale gold light filtered through the curtains you swore you closed the night before, and the shrill alarm on your phone had already gone off.. twice. You were late.

You groaned and shifted, trying to sit up, but you didn’t get far.

There it was. That arm. That damn arm.. muscular, warm, and currently locked like a steel bar across your waist.

"Jason..." you warned softly, already knowing the game he was playing.

He didn’t answer. Not with words, at least. His only response was a muffled grunt into the crook of your neck, his nose nudging against your skin like a sleepy, stubborn dog refusing to move. You could feel his scruff, slightly overgrown, tickling your jaw.

"Jay, I have to go," you tried again, wiggling just enough to reach the edge of the bed.

"Mm-mm" he muttered, holding tighter. "Call in."

"I can’t just call in every time you get clingy-"

"You say that like it’s not a perfectly valid reason.." he interrupted, voice gravelly and deep from sleep. "Tell them your husband is a needy bastard and he’ll literally die if you leave him in this cold, cruel world alone."

You turned just enough to catch his expression.

Eyes still half-lidded, hair sticking up on one side, and that little pout forming on his lips. He looked like trouble disguised as a Greek god wrapped in a blanket burrito. Holding you in one arm while the other hugged a cute pink mochi-cat plushie.

"Jay..." you said again, but this time it was harder to fight the smile tugging at your lips.

He cracked one eye open. "What if I’m cold? You gonna leave your poor man here all defenseless and shivering while you run off to.. what.. type emails?"

"Not defenseless," you snorted. "You have guns, Jason... There's one inside that cat plushie.. and one under our pillows.. and another two in each of the nightstands jay.. "

He chuckled "And yet none of them keep me as warm as you.. and THAT JOB? It’s draining you. And I hate it. I hate seeing you come home exhausted, giving them all your time when I could be giving you everything... I don't fuckin know why you're still insisting on working when i can work instead.."

You looked down at your phone.. the messages of your coworker asking about why you're late..

Jason continued "I don’t want you breaking your back just to survive. I want you to be safe, healthy and happy. I didn’t crawl out of the damn Pit, rebuild my whole damn life, just to watch the woman I FUCKIN love so damn much struggle.. SO.. quit. Stay home. Sleep in. Read your books. Take long baths. Buy shit loads of brands, makeup and skincare... Hell, start that little dream project you've been putting off. I’ll handle the rest. I'm the man in this relationship.. the one who protects, provides, and handles the weight. And my baby? Her only job is to Be soft. Be spoiled. Be mine. You doesn’t ask for luxury.. you expects it. And I make damn sure you get it.. while you.. you? You just focus on looking pretty, being yourself, and let me give you the life you were born to live."

You rolled your eyes yet you almost couldn't contain your smile. "You’re being ridiculous."

"You like ridiculous. It’s part of my charm. Now shut up and cuddle me."

He tugged you back down with very little effort, pulling your face into his chest and throwing a thigh over your hip like a greedy child with a favorite stuffed animal. His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath your cheek, and his scent.. warm, woodsy, something expensive you could never pronounce.. made it that much harder to resist.

"...Five more minutes," you mumbled into his skin.

Jason smirked, victorious. "That’s my girl."

And five minutes somehow turned into 2hrs. You didn’t even feel bad.

"yeah babe... maybe I'll quit".

Ps: i really needed to see someone write jason with that speech.. i made it since i couldn't find it 🫠💕

[myownwholewildworld]

a man called joel (part 2)

↪ a "a man called otto" inspired fic ― jackson!joel miller x f!reader

series masterlist | AO3 summary: worried about your exchange with joel, you decide to go to tommy's house, see if there's somthing you can do to help. little do you know, it just makes things worse. author's note: hi! tyvm to everyone who has shown some love to this series so far <3 it's taken me a bit but here's part 2! i'm posting it before i change my mind haha. please heed the warnings and if you like what you read, please consider interacting with this post! love you all <3 tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. topics of death/murder and losing a child. dealing with the grief and guilt joel feels about sarah, ellie & tess. suicide attempt. tommy, maria and benji make an appearance. joel being a good uncle but a dick to everyone else. arguments. mean/cruel!joel. there's a suicide letter from joel to tommy. dual pov. reader is female, has hair. no use of y/n. joel is in his late fifties and reader in her 40s. wordcount: ~7.4k. divider by @\saradika-graphics

He was such a failure, he couldn’t even kill himself properly. What a fucking shame of a human being.

After closing the door right in your face, Joel trudged towards the couch in his living room, exhausted, mind still buzzing from the near-death experience. He sighed heavily, eyeing the noose and broken hook on the floor, pieces of plasterboard dotted around the mess where he had laid just a few minutes before.

He should have died. Death had been so close, within reach… At his fingertips. And now felt distant again, like a dream he’d woken up too early from. And despite the heartache, the vision of Sarah silently begging him not to do it, Joel needed to chase that illusion. Yearned for another peaceful moment with his daughter, longed for the moment he would see her again. Alive and young and well. Like no time had passed, like she’d been by his side for the past two decades—his personal guardian angel.

His heart was still mourning the loss, his pipedream gone. Hadn’t thought of God and Heaven in a very long while, his wavering faith lost when Sarah was taken away from him. But now, perhaps, there was a chance that Sarah was waiting for him. Somewhere, somehow—and Joel was determined to find her. Whatever it cost—even his life.

Had you not interrupted, his dream may as well have come true. But the banging on the door and window along with your incessant calls had ended up filtering into his brain. Like a motherfucking, unwanted wake-up call. You’d brought him back when he truly just wanted to die, to reunite with his baby girl. Damn you.

He’d only had to try again. Try harder next time. Because he wasn’t done. Not yet, not until he put an end to his own misery. Joel was determined to finish what he had started, and nothing nor no one could stop him.

Not even you, with your pleading doe eyes. His stomach twisted at the thought of your hand reaching up to his face. How your eyes roved over his neck, worryingly and intensely. How your nose scrunched a little and your lips fell into a pout. How your brows creased with concern for a stranger, an old man you didn’t know. Joel could only hope you hadn’t put the pieces of the picture together.

His heavy sight wandered around the room, his hand palming the wrist where Sarah’s watch rested.

Time.

“Fuck, what’s the time?” Joel mouthed, throat dry and tender, while he stood up.

In the kitchen, the clock on the wall told him he was already late. Ten minutes late to a dinner he hadn’t planned on attending. And now he’d have to go, pretend nothing had happened, because of you.

Joel walked towards the door, his back stiff like a wooden plank. His left knee cracked loudly, and a burning thunder went up his thigh. At the same time, the dull pain on the back of his head shot all the way through his skull, piercing his eyeballs. The sudden sting almost made him lose his footing, feeling dizzy and unsteady. He crouched down a little, his hand grasping the armrest of the couch as Joel fought an unexpected wave of nausea.

The fall had definitely been a bad one. Regrettably, not bad enough to have him killed. Only if he had hit his head a bit harder…

Joel pinched the bridge of his nose, pressing his eyes together while bile rose up his throat, leaving an acidic, bitter taste on his tongue. Groaning, he palmed the nape of his neck and then a bit further up, just to notice how his fingertips became wet. Frowning, Joel squinted one eye open to inspect his fingers.

Blood. Fucking great. Now he’d have to deal with that before going to Tommy’s. And of course, he blamed you. For all of it.

Thirty minutes later, Joel was at his brother’s doorstep, curls damp and nose cold. Rubbing his gloved hands together, he blew some warm air into his cupped palms to heat up his face, mind drifting back to today’s events.

“Joel?”

His eyes focused, travelling up from his boots to the frowning face in front of him. Seemed like his little brother had already spoken and was waiting on his reply.

“Are you gonna come in or are you gonna stay out there in the cold?” Tommy asked with a huff, moving aside to let him in.

“Right. Mind’s somewhere else today,” Joel mumbled an excuse while Tommy closed the door behind him.

“You’re late,” Tommy warned. “Maria ain’t happy, turkey’s going cold.”

Joel hmphed, removing his gloves and then his coat. Hung them on the hook by the door. When he turned around, he almost bumped into Tommy, who was standing too close.

“What’s that?” his brother’s eyes squinted, head tilted.

“What’s what?”

“Your neck. It’s… bruising. The heck have you been doing?” Tommy’s fingers reached up to the neckline of his shirt, pushing it down to have a better look. Just as you had tried to do.

Joel swatted his hand away, huffing dismissively. His skin crawled, the idea of being touched unbearable, even by a friendly hand.

“‘S nothing. Had an accident, that’s all,” he mumbled, sauntering towards the dining room.

“An accident? Did you accidentally put a rope around your neck or what?” Tommy laughed at his own occurrence, palming Joel’s shoulder as he walked besides him.

Internally, Joel flinched—a gesture he didn’t let break through the surface. “I have. I’m tired, brother. I want this to be over. It’s… I feel like my life is slipping away through my fingers. I’ve survived insufferable things, and it just feels wrong now. I’m drained of purpose. I’m tired, so very tired. I need’a rest—lay my head on the pillow and drift away… forever. See my babygirl, hug Tess. God, Tess…” he thought. But those words never escaped his mind, tucked away in the confines of his guilt, of his dread. Of his desperation.

Perhaps he should have spoken then—crack the shell of his feelings open, ask for help. But what had help gotten him so far besides heartache? Besides an overwhelming sense of failure? Speaking to Gail had only made things worse for him, forcing him to paint the picture of a crude reality with a clarity he’d been evading for years. Decades.

But he didn’t speak—wouldn’t burden his brother with his thoughts. Because it wouldn’t make a difference, Joel had made up his mind. No words would change everything he’d done, all the decisions that had led him to Death’s door.

“Benji’s been asking about his uncle the whole day. He’s got two new toys, a couple of miniature dinosaurs. Ellie gave them to him this morning,” Tommy happily chirped away, unaware of the hole he was digging in Joel’s chest. Deep and throbbing like an open, infected wound—a wound that would never heal, that would fester until his heart would rot past mending. Past salvation.

Was Ellie getting rid of everything he’d gifted her? Was she trying to erase the memory of him? Of everything they had shared up until that fateful day?

Joel had found those dinosaur toys in their visit to the Wyoming Museum of Science and History for her sixteenth birthday. Ellie had been so impressed with the life-size sculpture of the Tyrannosaurus Rex in the thick woods of the museum, Joel knew she would appreciate to have those as a memento. She’d been so elated with his gift, those two miniatures had had a special place of on her bedroom’s shelves up until she moved out to the garage.

And now she had gotten rid of them, passed them on to Benji. “At least she’s not thrown them away,” Joel weighed in his mind. Had he found those in the trash… it would have dented his rugged heart even more, that muscle condemned to the forgetfulness of death.

“Uncle!” Benji jumped off the chair, running towards him with his arms extended.

Joel’s whole demeanour shifted, a ray of sunlight slipping through the cracks of his darkness. Benji was a blessing in his life, loved him as his own. His nephew would never fill the hole of his loss but softened the edges of the gaping wound in his chest.

He knelt on the creaking wooden planks, arms outstretched to give Benji a big hug. The little Miller laughed, the sound so full of life, Joel wondered when was the last time he felt so at ease, so problem-free.

“Look! Ellie gave me these!” and then Benji shot off his embrace, skipping towards the table.

Besides an almost empty plate—Benji always had an earlier dinner than the adults and already had a dinosaur-themed pyjamas on—laid the two toys that held a special place in his heart. Benji tiptoed near the table and managed to grab them before he returned to Joel, still kneeling on the floor.

“This one’s my favourite, Uncle. Ellie said it’s a Tydono… I dunno, something-saurus! Big, big dino, he was the king of the jungle! Would eat anyone in his path. And look at this one!” Benji kept on babbling, explaining everything Ellie had told him about the figurines.

Joel listened attentively, a softness tugging at the corners of his mouth. His nephew was recounting the same stories he’d chronicled for Ellie three years ago. A part of him—the one that held to a fragile shard of hope—wanted to believe that Ellie still thought fondly of him, that perhaps she didn’t hate him as much as she’d yelled.

“Benji, it’s bedtime,” Maria chipped in, entering the dining room from the kitchen. “Hi, Joel.”

“Hey,” he greeted back with a nod, eyes going back to the Brachiosaurus toy Benji was still talking about, purposefully ignoring his mom. “I can put him to sleep, read him a bedtime story.”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. Thanks,” Maria agreed. “But quick, I’m reheating the turkey.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joel agreed. “Come on, big guy.”

Joel picked Benji up, his knees and lower back loudly protesting when he stood up. Helped his nephew get into bed, read a passage of his favourite children’s book and stealthily walked out of his room when Benji drifted off. He’d enjoyed this bedtime routines with Sarah—but unlike Benji, she would get too excited about the story and ramble about it endlessly. She’d talk so much, she’d tire herself out and fall asleep halfway through a sentence.

With bated breath and an aching heart again, Joel carefully closed the door behind him with a soft click. When he arrived downstairs, Tommy was carving the last of the turkey and setting it down on a plate.

Joel reached for the dish and mumbled a “thank you” before he sat down at the table with his brother and sister-in-law. For a moment, the silence was hefty and thick, like trying to breath through a wall of water.

“Tommy said you have a new neighbour. Don’t scare her away like you did with the last one,” Maria warned him, a mighty brow cocked, looking at him over the fork she held.

Joel huffed, rolling his eyes.

“Agnes was a pain in the ass. Still is. In the span of a week, she knocked my mailbox down twice, and not by mistake,” Joel shook his head in disapproval, stuffing his mouth with the turkey.

“That’s what you said. Both times I checked, your mailbox was still standing,” Tommy butted in, a glitter of joke in his eyes.

“Because I fixed it before you came round,” he hissed, eyes averted, focused on the food.

Had he been looking up, Joel would have caught the hint of worry in Maria’s eyes. How she’d thrown a sideway glance at Tommy when she saw the bruising around his neck. How Tommy had shrugged, downplaying her concern.

Solitude is a silent storm that breaks down all our dead branches.

And the silent storm was brewing with every metal clink of cutlery. A storm Joel had been avoiding, playing ignorant to how things looked on the outside.

“How’s everything with Ellie?” Maria asked out of nowhere.

Joel’s heart plummeted to the bottom of his stomach—a strangling twist contorting his entrails when the simmering anxiety took a hold of him. But he couldn’t show it—how this all affected him, how the solitude wrecked him, playing mind games with him. As if Death was mindlessly toying with him.

“We’re good,” was his automatic answer.

“We ain’t blind, brother,” Tommy intervened. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Fuck everyone then and their stupid gossiping. People are fucking bored in this town if that’s the only thing they can talk about. Don’t they have anything better to worry about? We are fine,” Joel barked, throwing the fork at his plate, hand shaking. “‘S just a phase.”

“Problems don’t just resolve themselves if you don’t talk about them, Joel. They don’t disappear; they just grow bigger until they are blown out of proportion. If you need us to talk to her…” Maria offered calmly, unfazed by his sudden outburst.

“I said we are fucking okay, alright?” Joel’s tone grew louder, frustrated, the legs of his chair screeching against the wooden floor when he pushed it back to stand up. “Mind your fucking business, both of ya.”

“Hey. Watch your fucking mouth!” Tommy stood up, one hand pressed on the table while the other pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You don’t come to this house to disrespect us like that.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t come at all,” Joel gritted out, the tips of his ears hot with anger.

“Yeah, perhaps you fucking shouldn’t!”

“Both of you, calm down,” Maria spoke serenely, the only one keeping a cool demeanour. “No one is getting kicked out of our home, Tommy. You’re welcome here, Joel. We are just worried, that’s all. We don’t need to talk about it now, I’m sure you’ll come around when you’re ready.”

Just as Joel was about to reply, a gentle knock on the front door quickly dissipated the argument. Surely for the better—deep down, Joel appreciated the concern, his rage misplaced.

“I’ll get it,” Tommy muttered.

You twisted your hands resting on your lap, the loud noises of the community hall not reaching your ears at all. You were physically there, but your mind was elsewhere.

You really had tried to keep your mind busy for the rest of the day, pull out some dying weeds before running back inside to clean. But every time a task required some sort of focus, you just couldn’t do it. Your hands were too flimsy, trembling. An impending sense of doom had taken over your soul and you just couldn’t shake it off.

Joel Miller wasn’t well. So far, that was everything you knew. The whole exchange you had with him, how he became instantly defensive when you mentioned his fall… Any other person would have admitted what happened or at least downplayed if they were embarrassed. Not him, though. If your fingers had reached any closer to his neck, you were sure he would have bitten your hand off.

Perhaps he was just a grumpy old man. The type who would bark at every neighbour if they stepped on the grass or if something dropped from their back pockets, instantly accusing them of littering.

The type who would not let anyone help him, not even when he wasn’t okay. And that was what worried you the most. You had seen people falling to their demises just because they were too proud to admit they needed a hand. But his sin wasn’t pride, it was… something that was luring him into the dark. Something personal and painful. Something that was eating him alive.

A sudden noise startled you, jumping on the wooden bench, derailing your train of thought.

“Sorry!” A kid exclaimed happily, grabbing the football leaning against the leg of the bench.

You smiled at her, heart warm with memories of a life lived what seemed a century ago. A sparkle caught your eye—she was wearing a beautiful piece of jewellery around her neck, most probably a hand-me-down from a family member before the outbreak that changed everything.

“Don’t worry, it’s okay!” You replied before the girl giggled and ran away.

With a grin still curling your lips, your mind went back to the topic nagging at the back of your mind: Mister Joel Miller.

There and then, you decided you couldn’t just stand by with your arms crossed. And of course you were not about to knock on his door again, afraid he might actually kick your butt and throw you off his porch. Approaching Tommy was probably wiser, just to see if there was something you could do covertly, perhaps keeping an eye on Joel for him.

Standing up, you thanked the people around you on the table for the warm meal and waved them goodbye. A cacophony of “byes” followed suit—everyone was so nice here, it was like a blanket hugging your heart.

You stood just outside the main door, suddenly realising you didn’t know how to find Tommy. Thankfully, there was a woman smoking outside—Gail, as you found out when she introduced herself—who gave you directions to Tommy and Maria’s house when you explained to her where you wanted to go.

Wrapping yourself in your coat and securing your woolly scarf around your neck, you trudged forward through the thick blanket of fresh snow. A few minutes later you arrived at a cul-de-sac with just a handful of houses, not far from yours. Gail had said that the one you were looking for had a swing bench on the porch.

Scanning the area, you clicked your tongue when you saw it and ran towards the house—your toes were freezing in your winter boots, the cold nipping at the skin of your face. Determined with your mission, you walked up the steps and knocked on the door.

There was a rush of movement on the other side, some loud voices filtering through. Unable to make out what they were talking about, you just patiently waited for someone to open.

A minute later, Tommy appeared under the frame—a pronounced pinch on his brows, his mouth twisting angrily, as if you had inconveniently interrupted a heated argument.

Clearing your throat, you took a step back, realising this might not be the best time.

“Uh, hi, Tommy. Sorry, I didn’t mean to— I can come back lat—” you stumbled over your own words, feeling awkward and out of place.

“Hey,” Tommy greeted you by name. You were surprised he remembered, considering how many people he’d welcomed in. “Don’t worry. We were just having family dinner, you know how those go…”

You nodded with a weak smile—yes, you did. But it had been a long time since you sat around a table with your loved ones. A very long time, indeed.

“Who’s it?” A deep, husky voice inquired from the adjacent room.

You knew who it was before the booted steps betrayed his presence, your heart racing wildly in your chest as your mind tried to come up with some sort of excuse for your visit.

You gaped, a shaky sigh escaping your lips, when the source of your worries appeared behind Tommy. The reason you were here—to tell Tommy you thought Joel wasn’t okay, that he needed help. And you were doing it so behind Joel’s back.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he barked bitterly, nostrils flaring and a hand on his brother’s shoulder to push him out of his way. “Huh?!”

His unrequited rage took you aback. Stepping further back, you almost lost your footing with one of the steps but managed to grab onto the handrail before you fell backwards.

Why didn’t you think of this? That Joel might be here for dinner? What were you thinking?

You stared at Joel, then at a surprised Tommy, then back at Joel, all the while you just wanted to throw up your heart at their feet.

“I asked you a goddamn question,” Joel snapped, walking out onto the porch.

Your heart sank to your stomach. He was truly pissed off at you. Perhaps rightfully so—being sneaky like this was not a good start to any friendship.

“Whoa, whoa! Calm the fuck down, where are your fucking manners?!” Tommy quickly intervened, grabbing at his brother’s shoulder and pushing him back away from you. “What’s wrong with you today?!”

Your eardrums throbbed with the increased blood pressure, your heart pumping violently in your chest. You knew you had erred, but didn’t deserve such dreadful treatment—your intentions were pure, coming from a good place. You just wanted to help, make sure that Joel was surrounded by a loving support system.

As your mind raced and the two brothers confronted each other, Maria, Tommy’s partner, made an appearance. Her aura almost instantly put you at ease, her presence calming.

“Can the both of you keep quiet? You’re gonna wake Benji up,” she scolded them, stepping between the Millers before her eyes found yours. “What’s the matter?” she asked you with a smile, offering you a hand to walk inside with them.

You glanced at both Joel and Tommy, who were obviously locked in on each other, then back at Maria. Letting go of the handrail you were holding onto for dear life, you gestured with your hands.

“It’s nothing. Just a clogged pipe at home, nothing of importance. I can come back tomorrow so you can point me in the direction of someone who can help,” you stumbled over your own words. “I don’t want to interrupt, I’ll leave you guys be.”

“Nonsense,” Maria said, stepping aside to let you in. “Come on in, we were about to have dessert. We’ll send someone first thing tomorrow to help you out.”

“I’m going. M’not hungry,” Joel mumbled, jaw tight like a bow.

Was he leaving because he didn’t want to be in the same room as you? Did he despise you that much with so little interaction? You two had really started off on the wrong foot.

“Don’t be a child, Joel. I’ve got my hands full with Benji already. You’re having dessert too. Let’s go,” Maria reprimanded him, and you felt bad for forcing this situation onto him.

“I can go…”

“No, you’re staying. Everyone’s staying,” and with those final, indisputable words, Tommy, Joe and you followed Maria inside.

The house was warm, the smell inviting—cinnamon mixed with vanilla lingered in the air. The soft orangey shadow the lamps and ceiling lights casted was very comforting, pleasant to the eye. When you followed Maria’s lead into the dining room, you spied some toys scattered on an empty spot on the table. This wasn’t a house, it was a home. Lived in, cared for, full of life. Of hope too—Jackson was a permanent stronghold, a place where families could settle and blossom.

“Any allergies?” Maria asked you, tipping her head towards the empty chair besides Joel in invitation.

“No, none.”

You hesitated, Joel’s discomfort radiating off him, enveloping you. But considering there were no other empty chairs, you had no other option than to sit next to him.

Maria left the room, quickly followed by Tommy. You could hear them bickering in whispers because the silence between Joel and you was loud. Your hands nervously twisted on your lap, deciding whether to apologise or just put the matter to rest.

Before you could make up your mind, Maria and Tommy returned. The younger Miller was carrying a tray with some delicious cinnamon rolls, while Maria set down some porcelain mugs on the table.

“Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea, please.”

Her hospitality was touching, especially considering the state of the world outside Jackson’s palisade. You’d only encountered hatred and greed out there, a thirst for power so potent and pungent it would consume a human’s soul within seconds. Jackson and its people felt… different—neighbourly, kind, altruistic. The town seemed to run smoothly.

Maria and you did your best to fill the silence with chitchat once you’d relaxed a little. On the other hand, the brothers appeared to be in some sort of mean staring contest between themselves. Which, truth be told, made you feel a tad better—perhaps Joel wasn’t really mad at you but at Tommy, and you just happened to be in the crossfire.

“Yeah, of course I would like to help,” you said instantly when Maria mentioned that they were one person down on tomorrow’s afternoon patrol. “I’ve been out there for longer than I care to admit, I know my way around this area too.”

“Perfect. Joel’s patrol partner is in the infirmary with a fever. I was going to cancel it but if you don’t mind joining him, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

You almost choked on the last bite of cinnamon roll, which you had to force down by sipping on your tea. Being on patrol with Joel did not sound appealing at all—not because you would be uncomfortable, but because you knew he would.

“Listen—” Joel began to complain, but as soon as Maria shot a warning glance at him, he stopped right in his tracks. “Alright.”

“It’s settled then,” Maria concluded with finality, she wasn’t going to let Joel argue with her.

Fifteen minutes later, you were saying your goodbyes to the Millers and thanking them for having you. When the door closed behind you, you ventured a bashful look in Joel’s direction.

“We don’t need to walk together,” you gave him a way out of this uncomfortable situation.

“You want to walk the streets alone at night?” Joel questioned, raising a thick, silvery brow.

“Do I have something to worry about?”

“As idyllic as Jackson is, not every single one of us are saints.”

The veiled truth behind his words confirmed what you suspected—Joel didn’t see himself as one of the “good guys”, as worthy of the tranquillity this town offered. How much truth there was to that… you’d only have to unearth it yourself.

“Do… do I need to worry about being alone with you then?”

“What? No,” his reaction was instantaneous. His eyes had widened when his brain caught up with his own words. “Fuck, no. That’s not what I meant. I just— Well, you shouldn’t trust someone just because they are from Jackson.”

“It’s okay, Joel.” A little smile had softened your lips, his mortification somewhat endearing. “We can walk together. I trust you, I think.”

Joel hmphed but didn’t oppose. In silence you walked, but this time wasn’t as excruciating as you had feared. Perhaps he was a man of few words, and that was okay. You understood that when there was nothing of importance to say, it was better to remain silent.

Arriving at your street, your paths parted when it was time to hide in your respective homes. But before you disappeared through your door, you turned around.

Joel was standing in the middle of the road, watching you go up the steps of your porch—as if he was making sure you were getting home safely. When he found himself caught, Joel shoved his hands in the pockets of his furry coat and veered.

“Joel?” You waited for him to face you. “I’m sorry. I know how that looked like, but I wasn’t trying to… I just, you know—”

“It’s okay. I overreacted. Hope they can sort out the pipe for you tomorrow. Don’t be late for patrol,” and with that warning, he trudged forward through the snow and climbed up the steps of his porch.

You pouted—he’d misunderstood. You meant to apologise, “I wasn’t trying to go behind your back. I just worry unnecessarily, I’m sorry I overstepped your boundaries.” But he didn’t give you a chance.

With a heavy sigh, you pushed the door open and locked it behind your back. There had to be something in this house you could block a pipe with, so the plumber’s trip wouldn’t be in vain.

It gnawed at him—how you cheerfully tried to make some small talk while the only thing he could do was grunt and huff in response. Joel wasn’t trying to be rude on purpose, he just didn’t enjoy the proximity of humanity anymore. Not that he had been a big fan of socialisation in the past anyway, but since losing almost everyone he held dear, Joel didn’t see the appeal in connecting with someone else.

And after his confrontation with Tommy, the abyss separating him from the rest of the world just cracked further apart. Everything he touched, died—not everything, but everyone. As if Death was chasing after him, patiently waiting to claim him.

Death followed him everywhere, sniffing at the cuffs of his pants, but never deciding to give him the final clutch of its claws.

Joel was tired of this waiting game. Wanted it over, to be put to rest. Besides Sarah’s grave back in their Austin home. He’d even dared to put those thoughts into words a few days ago.

As soon as the ink had dried on the parchment, Joel had regretted it—asking such a thing from Tommy was cruel, evil. Selfish. But deep down, it was his dying wish; he truly believed that his bones wouldn’t find solace sitting alone six feet under, that Sarah’s presence would sooth the ache he’d left behind in this world.

He’d also written a note to Ellie. But that one… it wrecked his soul just remembering it—how the tears had blurred his vision, some falling onto the paper, smudging his calligraphy. All the things he wished to say when the silence between them would stretch, the unspoken, broken words that would hang in the void, pestering and rotting what little was left of their bond.

Did he hide them well?

“Do you like to read?” your question caught him off guard. “I saw you with a book when I met you yesterday.”

Joel looked at you askance, riding beside him. Blinking rapidly and watching his twelve, he’d hoped you hadn’t noticed the dampness in his eyes—the only visible tale of his agony.

“Mhm, sometimes,” Joel conceded, sharpening his senses to ensure the surroundings were safe.

“Anything you’ve read lately?” you insisted, your mare coming too close to his horse, rubbing necks together, neighing softly.

His stallion didn’t appreciate the caress, pulling from the reins and swaying away. The subtlety of the animals’ exchange didn’t go unnoticed by any of you, your expression wavering for a moment—were you so hurt too when he openly rejected your hand yesterday afternoon?

“Easy, Old Beardy,” Joel whispered, leaning forward to pat the horse’s neck. When the animal calmed down, he straightened his back and gave you a stern nod. “Yeah. Been reading One Hundred Years of Solitude. Dunno if you’ve heard of it.”

“Are you kidding?” your hearty laugh piqued his interest, a frown creasing his brows. “I love Gabrial García Márquez’s writing. My favourite book is Chronicle of a Death Foretold. Have you read it?”

“‘M afraid not,” was his succinct reply.

You were insistent, he’d give you that.

“Oh, I have a copy you can borrow. It’s been with me since, well, all of this happened,” you gestured around you. “While I was working in my family’s garden center, I was also getting my degree in literature. My thesis was going to be about Gabo’s writing, actually.”

“You didn’t finish?”

“The outbreak happened in my third year. Didn’t have a chance,” your excitement died off with your words, a pout painted on your lips.

“Sorry,” he apologised, even though he wasn’t sure why.

“It’s okay. I’ve made my peace with losing the life I had before that ominous day.”

You’d made your peace. What an alien thought—one Joel couldn’t grasp. It’d take a very strong, determined person to let go of the tethers of the past. Perhaps you were braver than him, at least on the outside.

Was he the only one who crumbled to his knees whenever the memories flooded back? Had age weakened him? Broken him past mending?

“Anyways, about the book you’ve been reading! There are so many beautiful passages in there. Any favourites so far?”

You were assuming he’d only read it once, but reality was, he’d lost count.

“Yeah, uhm…” Joel cleared his throat, the words coming back to him as if he’d been mentally reciting them for weeks. “He felt himself forgotten, not with the irremediable forgetfulness of the heart, but with a different kind of forgetfulness, which was more cruel and irrevocable and which he knew very well because it was the forgetfulness of death.”

He should have thought before that quote slipped. To anyone, it’d have been a quirky answer, a dark one at that. But you, it seemed, had picked up on the sadness of his heartfelt delivery—how it spoke more about himself than he’d ever admit—because the silence that followed was telling, consuming.

“It… it is a beautiful quote,” you whispered, and Joel felt the full weight of your eyes on him. “The forgetfulness of death is what we all are condemned to if we don’t nudge a dent on the people we leave behind when we pass. Is that…?”

Joel raised a hand, signalling to halt.

A faint sound that he’d grown too familiar to—a clicking, throaty call. Subtle, but enough to make his senses flare, the hair on the back of his neck stand. As far as Joel could tell, it might only be one, but the noise the clicker emitted could summon others.

Reeling your mount closer to his, you listened in silence. And when Joel’s eyes searched for yours, you gave him an understanding nod.

“We’re too close to Jackson,” you muttered.

“Yeah, gotta take care of it before it becomes a bigger problem,” Joel dismounted Old Beardy and you followed suit, tying both horses to a rail guarding the dilapidated building you both were circumventing. “Go right, sweep the area. Make sure there’re no others. I’ll go left.”

You didn’t question his decision—the alertness in your orbs bright enough to make him understand you’d encountered hundreds of clickers. Your body language had shifted too, your stance stiffer, your shoulders squared as you unsheathed a knife from your belt.

He did the same and turned around, hunting knife on hand.

The building was a wooden structure, possibly an old shed for the farmland besides it. The wood had rotten, blackened with the passage of time. The ceiling was half collapsed, an outbuilding with barn doors attached to the side.

The clicking became clearer as Joel sauntered towards the outbuilding, fingers clutching around the hilt. Crouching a little, his free hand caressed the O-shaped rusty handle and pulled, taking a step back to put some distance between himself and the threat.

A woman laid among the mouldy straw, wriggling in pain. She was in the first stages of the infection, at the point where one could still see their humanity. She had greying brown hair, wavy and long.

It wasn’t her suffering what froze him in place, but her eyes. In the darkness of the shed, they were green as a blooming meadow. The same eyes he’d woken up to for thirteen years—Tess’s. The similarities were striking, like a dagger of the past staring right at him.

Since Tess’s death, Joel had drowned the memories of her, locked them away in a godforsaken drawer of his mind and threw away the key. Because he’d never done good by her—never said what she really meant to him, how she kept his mind cool and his path straight. And in the decade they’d spent together, Joel never dared to say the three words that would have settled their relationship. Never told her how much he cared for her either—because he was a man of acts of service, wasn’t eloquent enough with the spoken word.

And then she died, sacrificing herself for the greater good, for him and Ellie to escape unscathed. Succumbed to clickers alone, with no one by her side. Without a chance to right the wrong he’d carried in his soul, his heart.

Had she known? Joel regretted never whispering an “I love you” when she’d fallen asleep in his embrace. Never opened up to her—his feelings too messed up, entangled with a fear of loss, with a caution he’d learnt after losing Sarah. Because he’d thought that if he ever said the words out loud, Joel would lose Tess. Because everyone he touched, died.

And that wasn’t the worst part, not telling her how much she meant to him. It was how Joel had stepped back away from her when she walked towards him after becoming infected, how he’d built a wall to guard his own sanity, without considering how Tess must have felt. How she’d whispered “oops, right?” to hide her own hurt at his rejection.

“I never asked you for anything. Not to feel the way I felt—”

How his breath had hitched after muttering a breathless negative. “No, you didn’t have to ask, Tess. I do feel the same way. You mean the world to me—we’ve been together for thirteen years. How could I not?”

But instead he’d been too stunted to speak, to voice his feelings, to crack the dam he’d been hiding behind for so many years.

“Joel, save who you can save,” and with that, he’d grabbed Ellie and got the fuck out. Didn’t even hesitate, didn’t mutter a goodbye, didn’t look back—his protective instinct taking over, needing to take Ellie to safety.

It still haunted him. Wrecked him even to only think about how he’d wronged her till the very end. He was a bastard, deserving of all the bad things that had happened so far. This was the universe’s retribution for all his wrongdoing.

The woman’s head snapped around in his direction, a deep clicking sound reverberating in her chest. Slowly she got up, dragging one of her feet along the straw, head tilting sideways in an unnatural, mechanical way.

And Joel simply froze. Was this poetic justice? How he was supposed to die? Perhaps it was—the end would most definitely be fitting. It was what he deserved. For being emotionally stunt, for being selfish, for being a coward, for being a murderer. For existing in this world and feeding into its malice. For being a part of the problem.

His shallow breath caught, a flood of memories drowning him—everyone he lost, appearing in front of his eyes like a grotesque newsreel. It felt like a heavy stone was crushing his chest, his lungs constrained within his ribs, his heart pounding fiercely while sweat gathered atop of his brows. Panic bubbling, clouding his mind to a point where Joel couldn’t think straight anymore.

The clicker approached, and this time, he didn’t step back away from her—from Tess. Joel dropped the knife, the woman snarling at him, his eyes shutting close.

The prospect of dying wasn’t daunting, but strangely soothing, his heartrate slowing down. Welcomed.

“Joel? Joel!”

A commotion took him back to the present—you had decked the clicker to the floor, the hilt of your knife gruesomely protruding out of her temple.

Joel blinked—not in relief, but gutted at the lost chance. The irreversibility of such a death would have been a balsam to the open wounds of his soul.

You got up to your feet and threw yourself at him, blissfully unaware of the situation. Or so he thought. You enveloped him in a crushing hug—your warmth seeping through the thick fabric of your coat, reaching his bones.

“Oh my God, Joel. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Has it bit you?” you stumbled over your own words, frantic with a rush of adrenaline.

Your hands patted his neck, his shoulders, his arms, his chest—your eyes wild with worry, searching for any sign of an infected wound. Inspecting him from head to toe, with a concern he’d not seen in someone’s eyes ever before.

Your eyes finally focused on his face and, for whatever reason, they darkened. Your eyebrows lifted into your forehead, the sadness washing over your features was a heartbreaking sight. As if you cared about him—a complete stranger who had only been rude to you, kept you at arm’s length.

“Joel,” you whispered, your ungloved hand raising up to his face.

This time, he didn’t retreat, still coming to terms with the fact that today he wouldn’t yield to the forgetfulness of death.

Your thumb brushed his cheek, a slow, sweet motion as your lips fell into a thin line, a sorrowful pout curling your mouth.

“Joel, why are you crying? What’s the matter?” you uttered, voice tinged with an anxiety he was feeling deep down in his aching bones.

Joel hadn’t realised the sheer magnitude of his emotions until then. Until your fingertips became wet from his unwanted tears. Then it hit him—not the sadness, but the anger.

“I ain’t crying,” he barked, taking a few steps back, the warmth of your hug turning cold. Running the inside of his elbow through his face, Joel turned away from you. “‘S nothing. I’m fine.”

You looked at him doe-eyed, but with a resolution he feared. You shortened the distance he had imposed, getting dangerously close to him, open hands reaching towards him.

“I said I’m fine!” he shouted at you, losing his composure. “What’s the fucking matter with all of you?! Why doesn’t it register in your fucking brains that I want to be left alone, huh? Is it so fucking difficult to comprehend? Are you fucking stupid or are you just pretending to be? God fucking dammit.”

He snarled like the animal he was—like a scared dog cornered, barking and showing teeth, because he dreaded the gentle hand that approached him.

Dreaded falling to his knees and breaking down in front of you, of anyone.

Dreaded opening the dams of his demons and not being able to herd them back inside.

Dreaded that once he spoke the words out loud, they would only be truer.

His heart was racing again, the vein in his neck bulging, blind with a misplaced rage you didn’t deserve. Deep down, he knew you didn’t. But his fear was louder than his reasoning.

Your whole expression folded, taking a step back away from him. Had Joel been the animal he thought himself to be, he would have smelt your fear. But he didn’t need to—the light behind your eyes dimmed, like a lighthouse running out of power in the middle of a stormy night.

You managed to hide your face from him, veering around without a word to head towards the horses.

Only then Joel realised he’d fucked up. He’d mistakenly taken his fury out on you. He wasn’t mad at you―damn, he wasn’t mad at anyone except himself. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Twice in a row.

“Hey,” Joel called out walking towards you, tone softer with remorse. You quickly glanced at him over your shoulder before your head snapped back to the horse. This time, your eyes transpired no emotion. “Look—”

“I got the message loud and clear, Joel,” you cut him off coldly, getting on your horse. “It’s getting dark. Let’s go back.”

You didn’t wait for him, trotting away before he could get on Old Beardy.

“Fuck,” he groaned under his breath, shaking the reins to catch up with you.

taglist: @wow-life-love4 @denisanoemi @wencontre @ccmoonshine @mystickittytaco @peelieblue @guelyury @marisemonteiroo @fangirlcentral1 @layaispunk @brittmb115 @mrsbilicablog @thedilfdiaries @eff4freddie @missadangel @moel-jiller @sunnytuliptime @queenofdisaster12 @lizzie-cakes @pedrofan @ladywraith @jessthebaker @readingiskeepingmegoing @aleariixx @anoverwhelmingdin @prose-before-hoes

[lieutenantsluvr]

what the quiet hides | oneshot

masterlist

pairing: jackson!joel miller x f!reader

❝ I'm the escape to somethin' that's worse I am the shadow drivin' the hearse ❞

synopsis: Joel struggles to readjust to life in Jackson—a quiet life untouched by the constant specter of death that once followed him. Learning to live as someone who's no longer a killer is no easy thing. When does a monster cease to be a monster? Simply put, when you love it.

a/n: i'd like to say this is the semi parallel universe as death trapped, clad happily—in other words, you know him, you know the terror he's caused, the lives he's taken. hell, you probably encouraged some of it. you aren't someone random. you're important—important enough that he keeps you an arms length away. I like writing the reader as someone who is just plain tired. you want to love, but you're also exhausted from the hell you've been through—and joel can be a frustrating man. you love him, definitely, but at the end of the day you're tired of the wall he's forcing you behind.

warnings/tags: heavy fluff, angst, sexual suggestions, implied intercourse, semi-established relationship, reader is downbad for joel, he's traumatized ofc, lots of dialogue, you play with his hair, something about domestic reader and joel makes me start crying andshitting at the same time

w/c 10.2k

“You have to talk to him,” Tommy says, low and slow, teeth grazing his bottom lip like the thought’s gutting at him. At this point, it’s less a suggestion and more a quiet plea. His fingers twitch against the warm surface of his coffee mug—white, plain. Trembling just slightly. Nervous energy in every motion.

“I don’t know who you think I am to him,” you say, the words scraping out of your throat like sandpaper. You inhale sharp and dry, coffee clinging to the back of your tongue like a ghost. “Whatever he’s doing, whatever he’s not saying—that’s on him. That silence? It’s his choice.”

“Maria’s on my ass—” he starts, but you cut him off before the rest can tumble out.

“I know how she feels about him, Tommy. I know how the whole damn town feels about him.” The words spill out hot, too fast, like you’ve been holding them in too long and they’re finally clawing their way free. “But I can’t just—fix it. He hasn’t said a word to me since we got here. Hell, I don’t even live with them.”

You pause, breath shaky, eyes fixed on anything that isn’t him.

“I traveled across the goddamn country with him—and Ellie,” you say, softer now, voice rough at the edges. “And this is where we ended up. Right here. Barely a word between us.”

The silence that follows chews at your throat. You try to swallow it, try to make it into something cleaner. Something that hurts less.

“You’ve known your brother a hell of a lot longer than I have,” you say, voice low, frayed at the edges. You drag a tired hand down your face, like maybe the weight behind your eyes will go with it. It doesn’t. Your fingers find the mug again, still warm, still useless.

“So, why don’t you tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do?”

The words hang there—sharp, bitter, hollow in the way grief is hollow. You’re not angry at Tommy. Not really. But the question is more than a plea; it’s an admission. You're out of road. Out of maps. And out of whatever thread was holding all this together. Before there was a plan, a mission. Now? Nothing. It's all freewill.

Tommy doesn’t speak right away. Just stares, jaw tight, like he’s weighing the truth against the damage it’ll cause.

“I think…” he starts, then trails off, eyes dropping to the mug in his hands like maybe it’ll give him courage. “I think he’s scared. And Joel… don’t know how to talk when he’s scared.”

You scoff, dry. “Yeah, well. I don’t know how to wait around for someone who won’t even look at me.”

Tommy doesn’t rise to meet your frustration. He lets it pass, steady and silent. He understands—probably better than anyone ever could. He shared blood, breath, and a womb with that man. But more than that, he sees the truth for what it is. Sees it clearer than you’re ready to admit. Two people, equally wrecked, equally stubborn, and completely in love. It’s written all over both your faces, even when you won’t look at each other.

A few heartbeats drag by in silence. Heavy ones. Worried ones.

“Have you talked to Ellie?” he asks finally. Not so much a question as a sideways shuffle—dodging the heat of your words, giving himself something safe to stand on.

“Every day,” you reply, with a tired breath. Your fingers tap out some nervous rhythm against the table, soft and restless. “She drops by. Talks shit. Makes me laugh.”

You pause. The next part stings, but it’s true, and you owe the truth to Tommy, even if it’s ugly.

“She makes jokes, too. About Joel and I—says we’re professionals at pretending the other one doesn’t exist.”

A humorless chuckle slips out before you can stop it. “She’s not wrong.”

Tommy doesn’t smile. He just looks at you like he’s waiting for you to say the one thing that matters most. The thing you keep dancing around like broken glass on a kitchen floor.

“I think she gets on him about socializing,” you mutter, words slipping out like they’re trying to escape your throat before your heart can catch up. “Hell, I know she does.”

And still, he doesn’t come around.

The confession comes quiet, bitter, reluctant.

Truth is—you miss him. God, you miss him more than you’d ever admit out loud.

You miss the almost-smiles, those fleeting little ghosts of warmth he used to give when no one else was looking. You miss the gravity of him—how the air changed when he was near, how the silence always seemed heavier, fuller. You miss the scent of coffee on his skin, like he carried the morning with him wherever he went.

You miss the way his eyes found you in a room like they were built for it. Always watching. Always knowing. Seeing right through you without ever asking too much.

You miss that laugh—barely a breath, a half-hearted exhale that said more than words ever could. You used to live for that sound. Now it’s just an echo in your skull.

And those eyes. God, those deep, forest-dark eyes. Like dusk caught in human form. The kind that made you feel seen. The kind that burned. The kind that made you want to stay.

You drag your fingers across your mug again, fingertips numb from the cold now. You’re not even drinking the coffee. Just holding onto it like it might hold you back.

“Tommy, I—” you start, voice catching on the edge of something you’re not sure you want to say. “I don’t want to look desperate. I don’t want to seem like I need him. Knowing damn well he doesn’t need anyone, not really.” You swallow, trying to shake the weight off, but it’s there. Always there.

A long, suffocating beat of silence stretches between you.

And then, quieter, as if saying it aloud makes it more real: “I don’t want to… get hurt.”

The words hang in the air, brittle with honesty, and they taste bitter on your tongue. The weight of them presses down on your chest like something you’ve been carrying too long, but never dared to unpack.

Tommy doesn’t rush to answer. He leans back in his chair, hands resting on his knees, his eyes searching your face like he’s weighing something heavy. He knows this—he’s been here before, watching people break without ever meaning to.

“Hell,” he says, voice quiet but firm, like he’s been carrying this truth for a long time and it’s finally time to share it. “You’re not the only one scared of gettin’ hurt. We all are. Joel, me, you, Ellie…” His gaze softens just a fraction, the edges of his expression sharpening with something that feels like regret. “We all keep our walls up, ‘cause it’s easier than lettin’ someone in and watchin’ ‘em leave. Easier than lettin’ them hurt you.”

A pause, long and measured, before his eyes flick to the empty space between you both.

“But you know what, kid? You can’t keep livin’ like that. You can’t keep waiting for the hurt to come before you decide to feel anything. ‘Cause it’ll eat you alive, piece by piece.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, voice softer now, a little more worn. “You can’t fight what’s real. Not forever.”

You laugh—more of a bitter chide than anything else. The sound of it barely even feels like yours.

“What, you think your brother loves me?” Your eyes lock with Tommy’s, deadpan and heavy with a kind of dark amusement, though the smile you offer is anything but genuine. It’s a fragile thing, a mask you slip on just to hide the ache beneath.

Tommy’s expression hardens at your words. For a moment, there’s a sharp edge to his gaze—something that goes beyond the casual brotherly concern. It’s raw, almost desperate, like he’s reaching through the layers of sarcasm and deflection, trying to make you see the truth.

“You think I don’t see what’s goin’ on here?” His voice drops, low and urgent, as if every word matters too much to waste. “I’ve only watched you two—hell, for a few months, tops—and I see it. The way you look at him. The way he looks at you.” He shakes his head, frustration in his tone. “But neither of you want to admit it. Both of you too goddamn stubborn to let the walls down.”

Tommy leans in, eyes locked on yours, a kind of plea in them that cuts through the sarcasm.

“Look, I know my brother,” he says, his voice strained with a rawness you don’t often hear from him. “He’s broken. But goddamn, he cares about you. He wouldn’t let himself care, but he does. And you—” He pauses, “You’re no better. I know you’re scared of getting hurt. Hell, I get it. But if you don’t stop pushin’ him away, you’ll lose him before you even get the chance.”

You'll lose him before you even get the chance.

A beat of silence hangs in the air. His voice softens, almost pleading.

“I want this for you both. I want you to make it work.” He exhales sharply, like the weight of it all is finally catching up. “But you’re gonna have to stop running, or you’ll end up with nothin’ but regret.”

You're gonna have to stop running. You'll end up with nothin' but regret.

You shift uncomfortably in the diner booth, your eyes drifting over the busy room, lingering on the Tipsy Bison—a familiar chaos of voices, laughter, and clinking glasses. It's louder than usual today, the air thick with chatter and the smell of fried food. You don’t even register it, though. Your mind’s elsewhere, caught in a storm of what-ifs.

“It’s complicated, Tommy…” you start again, voice hesitant, like you're not sure if the words will come out right—or even if you want them to. “What if Ellie doesn’t want us together? What if—”

Your throat tightens, and you break off. There’s a lump there, one you can’t swallow down no matter how hard you try. Ellie. She's a part of this too, in ways you can't ignore, in ways that make the whole thing feel like walking on glass. You can’t just pull Joel out of the wreckage of his past without considering her, without wondering if you’re tearing apart something she holds together.

Shit, maybe you're making excuses at this point.

“I don’t want to make things harder for her, or him,” you mutter under your breath, eyes flicking back to Tommy’s. But even you can hear the uncertainty in your voice. It doesn’t feel like you’re talking to him anymore, but to the fear inside you.

Tommy’s gaze hardens, but there’s something in his eyes—an understanding, mixed with the frustration of seeing you wrestle with the same doubts he’s been carrying for a while now. He leans forward, hands pressing into the table as he speaks, voice low but firm.

“Ellie’s not gonna stop you from doing what you feel is right,” he says, the words carrying a heaviness that suggests he’s had this conversation with himself a thousand times. “She’s smart. She knows what’s goin’ on between you two. Hell, she probably sees it clearer than either of you do.” He exhales sharply, “And if you think for one second that you’re doin’ her any favors by staying away, you’re wrong.”

He pauses, staring at you with a kind of raw honesty you don’t often get from him. “Ellie’s already lost enough people in her life. She knows the damage of keepin’ people at arm's length. And I think she wants you and Joel to make it work. She wants him to stop runnin’. But you—” Tommy leans in closer, voice growing softer, more insistent. “You gotta stop runnin’, too. The both of you are too goddamn old, and scared of gettin’ hurt to even take a chance on what could be good.”

He pulls back, letting his words hang in the air, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. “If you’re waitin’ for things to be perfect before you let your guard down, you’re gonna be waitin’ forever. And by then… it’ll be too late.”

Christ.

You exhale—deep, shaky. The kind that comes from somewhere buried, where you've been holding it all too tight for too long. Your forehead drops into your hands, elbows on the table, the weight of everything finally pressing down.

“You gotta stop clocking me like this, Tommy,” you mumble through your fingers, voice muffled, worn thin with exhaustion. There's no bite to it—just a hollow kind of resignation. The truth hurts worse when someone else says it out loud.

For a second, neither of you speaks. The noise of the Tipsy Bison hums around you, distant, like you’re underwater.

Tommy leans back, arms folded, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter—gentler.

“I’m not tryin’ to call you out. I’m just tired of watchin’ two good people pretend they don’t want the same damn thing.”

“Fine.” You say it like a weight’s being dragged out of your chest. Your eyes flick up from the mug, settling on Tommy—guarded, but less so than before. “I’ll try.”

The words taste strange coming out, like they don’t quite belong to you yet. But they’re real. And for the first time in what feels like weeks, the wall you’ve been holding up cracks just a little.

You lean back in the booth, staring past Tommy now, past the crowd, into the blurry space where you let yourself imagine something different—something softer.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna say to him,” you admit. “But I’ll try. If he still wants to hear it.”

. . .

It’s later now. The sun’s long gone, buried beneath the horizon, leaving the sky painted in shades of deep blue and silver. The moon hangs heavy above Jackson, casting a soft, almost mocking glow over the dirt roads and still porches. The air’s thick—hot in that suffocating way that clings to your skin. You tug at your shirt, the fabric damp and stubborn where it sticks to you, like even it doesn’t want to let go.

Joel’s house stands quiet in front of you. Still. Heavy. That same heavy stillness he wears like armor. He's intimidating. Fuck, even his house is.

You stare at the door like it might lunge at you. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to turn around. To walk back home. To pretend like this never happened. But your feet don’t move.

You can’t run anymore. Not from this.

Your hand rises before you even realize it—slow, shaking just enough to betray you—and you knock.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Each one lands like a heartbeat, louder in your chest than it is in the air. And then nothing. Just silence pressing down on you like a second skin.

You swallow hard, already halfway regretting it—but it’s too late now. You’re here.

And he knows it.

You wait, your breath catching somewhere between your ribs and your throat, like your body can’t quite decide whether to brace for impact or run. The seconds stretch—long and hollow—and just when you’re about to turn away, the door creaks open.

But it’s not him.

It’s Ellie.

You blink, your posture faltering ever so slightly. She’s standing there barefoot, hoodie slung half-off one shoulder, a brow raised like she’s been expecting something, just not you.

“Oh—” you exhale, breath slipping out in a sigh you didn’t mean to let go. “El, hey.”

Ellie leans on the doorframe, chewing the inside of her cheek for a second, eyes scanning your face like she’s reading a book she’s already halfway through.

“Hey,” she says, casually enough, but there's something knowing behind her tone. “Tommy send you?"

You glance past her, instinctively, but don’t see him. Just low light and a half-finished glass of water on the table inside.

“Is he here?” you ask, softer than you meant to.

Ellie nods, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “Yeah. He’s in his room. Pretending he’s not listening.”

She steps aside, wide enough for you to enter, then adds, dry as ever, “Try not to break anything, yeah?”

“Yeah, ’boutta wreck your house,” you tease, giving her a gentle nudge with your shoulder.

Ellie snorts, but her smirk is soft. “Figured. Thanks for the warning.”

You step just inside the doorway, letting the air of the house settle around you—familiar and heavy all at once. The door clicks shut behind you, but it still feels like the world’s wide open, pressing against your back.

“I’ve missed you,” you say, the words leaving your mouth on an exhale like they’ve been sitting in your lungs for weeks. Maybe longer.

Ellie’s smirk fades, and her eyes meet yours, more serious now—older, somehow. “I know,” she says, simple, sincere. “Me too.”

You nod, pressing your lips together to keep the ache at bay. “I know things have been… weird.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, shrugging one shoulder, “Weirds definitely the word.” Then she looks at you again, more gently this time. “But it doesn’t mean they’re broken.”

A silence passes between you, one that feels less awkward and more like mutual understanding. She takes a step back toward the hallway and jerks her chin toward Joel’s room.

“He’s not gonna bite,” she says, almost teasing—almost. “Probably.”

You stand there, staring down the hallway like it’s the mouth of hell itself—dark, quiet, unforgiving.

“Well,” you mutter, squaring your shoulders with mock solemnity, “just so you know… you’re in my will.”

Ellie quirks a brow, arms crossed, already bracing for the punchline.

“And if I don’t come back from this,” you go on, dramatic, waving a hand toward the hallway like you’re heading into battle, “I want you to have my jacket. The one with the fleece inline."

Ellie scoffs. “Wow. Generous.”

“Also, my stash of knitting spools. And—” you glance over your shoulder, dead serious for a beat, “—burn my journal. Don’t read it. I mean it.”

Ellie’s laughter finally breaks through, light but real. “You’re such a dork.”

You flash her a shaky smile, one that barely masks the pounding in your chest. But it’s enough to steady your feet. Enough to take the first step down the hallway.

“Yeahhh,” you breathe, voice low now. “… You're my dork.”

And then you're moving—one slow, inevitable step at a time toward his door.

You take those few agonizing steps toward his door, each one louder in your ears than they should be. The hallway feels longer than it is, stretched by nerves and silence, the soft creak of the floorboards underfoot like a countdown.

You stop in front of the door—his door—and for a second, you just stand there. Your hand lifts before you can talk yourself out of it. A soft knock. Barely audible.

Your voice follows, thinner than you meant. “Joel…?”

Silence.

Then something shifts behind the door. A quiet sound—maybe the creak of floorboards, maybe just your own heartbeat in your ears. The air feels too still, like the house itself is holding its breath.

You swallow. Everything in you feels crooked, like you’ve walked into the middle of something fragile and sacred and utterly unknown. Your knuckles hover near the door again, but you don't knock a second time.

Instead, you speak—awkwardly, gently. “It’s… just me.”

Still nothing. But you know he’s there.

Because that silence? That’s Joel’s kind of silence. The kind packed with meaning. The kind that makes you want to run and stay all at once.

“I guess you could say… Tommy got to me.” You offer it like a half-joke, your voice barely carrying through the door, but it’s all you’ve got. “Wouldn’t shut up, really.”

Nothing yet. Not a sound. But you keep going, because if you stop now, you won’t start again.

“I wanted to talk about… things.” The words stumble out in a rush, awkward and unpolished. You wince the moment they leave your mouth, like you already hate how vague they sound. “About us. About what happened. About what… didn’t happen.”

You let out a shaky breath, one hand ghosting against the doorframe.

“I don’t even know if you want to hear it. Maybe you don’t. I wouldn’t blame you. But I… I’ve been carrying it. All of it. And it’s getting heavy, Joel.”

There’s a quiet inside that doesn’t feel empty—it feels held. Like someone’s standing just beyond the door, rooted in place. Listening.

You lean your forehead against the door, lowering your voice like a secret. “I miss you. Even when you’re right in the same room, I still miss you.”

“I know things have been awkward since we came back… since Salt Lake City.”

The words slip out, slow and uneven, like they’ve been stuck in your throat for months.

“I’ve thought it over a million times in my head,” you admit, your voice softening, fraying at the edges. “What I could’ve done. What I should’ve said. If I made you upset, angry… shit, happy.”

You laugh under your breath, bitter and breathless. “I don’t know. You never told me.”

There’s still nothing from the other side of the door. But you don’t stop. Can’t.

“I don’t want it to be like this,” you whisper. “This thing between us. This silence. I want us to be whatever we were before.”

You pause, your hand resting on the wood like it might anchor you. “Friends?” you offer, the word clumsy on your tongue, too small for what you really mean. “I don’t know.”

And it’s the truth. You don’t. All you know is the ache in your chest and the ghost of what you had—whatever it was—flickering in every quiet second he doesn't speak.

“But I’d rather fumble through it with you… than keep pretending I don’t care.”

You pause, chest rising, falling. Waiting.

The silence is thick—almost suffocating now. Like the walls are leaning in, like the air is pressing too close.

And you know.

You know it deep in your gut, in the stillness that follows your words like a cold wind after a flame.

He won’t talk to you.

He’s not going to.

Maybe he never was.

You pull your hand back from the door like it burned you. Your fingers curl into your palm, like they’re trying to hold something that’s already slipping through.

Your throat tightens, and you bite down on the lump rising there, hard enough to hurt. It’s all unraveling now—the hope, the effort, the trembling truth of how much you wanted this to go differently.

But it didn’t.

And maybe it never would.

You hear it before you see him—a deep, guttural clearing of his throat. The kind of sound that carries years of whiskey and smoke, rough around the edges, just as familiar as the gravel in his voice.

You freeze.

And then you turn—slow, too slow, as if your body can't quite catch up to the pounding in your chest.

Your eyes fall first to a chest too broad, just a little too close. The worn fabric of his shirt stretches tight across his shoulders, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

But it’s when your gaze rises—slowly, reluctantly—that the air hits you like a punch.

It’s him.

Standing there.

You blink, the words coming out softer than you meant, almost lost in the rush of your heartbeat. “Oh.”

The stupid thing is, you thought he’d been in his room, behind that door. You thought he was keeping his distance.

He was never in his room. He was right fucking behind you.

You clear your throat, the sound cutting through the thick air. Your fingers curl into fists, but you don’t look away. Not now. Not when you’ve come this far.

“I had… a lot to say to that door… in case you couldn’t tell,” you say, your voice smooth, confident—maybe even a little too sassy. But it's a mask. And for once, you're not hiding behind it.

Joel's eyes flicker, dark and unreadable, like he's weighing the space between the two of you. His jaw tightens, and there's a flicker of something in his gaze—a mixture of anger, sorrow, and something softer, something dangerous. He steps forward, closing the gap between you, but not too much. Just enough to remind you he’s there, that he's always there. Even when you don’t see him.

“You talk to doors often, now?” His voice is rough, like it’s been sitting under layers of dust and regret.

You shrug, trying to keep the snark, the bravado, up even though it’s crumbling under the weight of his stare. "I thought I’d give it a shot. Guess it didn't work."

Joel exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face like the whole world’s suddenly too damn heavy. Because it is. Your presence alone is heavy. His shoulders are stiff, tense, like he’s holding back an ocean of things he doesn’t want to say—or maybe things he’s too terrified to admit.

“You don't know what you're asking for,” he mutters, voice low, gravel rough. "You think you do, but you don’t."

Your heart kicks in your chest, but you don’t flinch. “I think I just want you to talk to me.”

Joel's eyes narrow, his chest rising with a deep breath. You see it—the way his gaze flickers toward the floor, the way his hands twitch like he’s holding himself back from doing something he’ll regret. “You don’t know what it’s like. What I’ve done. Who I am. I—” He pauses, shaking his head like the words won’t leave him, even though they’re clawing at his throat. "I'm not the man you think I am."

You take a step forward, closer, but just enough to show him you’re not afraid. You’re not backing down this time. “I don’t think you're a damn saint, Joel. I know that. I've seen that.” Your voice softens, just a fraction. "But I don’t care about that. I care about you. And I want to fix this. Whatever this is."

Joel’s eyes flick to you—deep, tortured—and for a second, just a second, you see it: the war inside him, the cracks that he’s been trying to keep sealed. His lips press tight, and you can almost feel the weight of his self-loathing hanging between you like a wall too thick to break through.

“You don’t know what I could do to you.” His voice is raw now, quieter. Dangerous. "I ain't good for you."

You shake your head, every bit of your soul pushing back. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

The silence settles between you again, thick and heavy, but you don’t look away. Not this time. Not when you’re finally here, finally saying it. Whatever happens next—whatever he says, whatever he does—you’ll face it. You’ll face him.

“What do you think you’re going to do to me, Joel?” You exhale sharply, feeling the anger bubble in your gut, each word sharp as glass. “Break my heart? Shit! You’re halfway fuckin’ there!”

The words leave you faster than you can control them, a slip of frustration, of everything you've been bottling up for far too long. You hope it doesn’t come off as a confession, but the weight of what you just said lingers in the air between you. The ache you’ve been carrying around—growing like an open wound—is bleeding out. And you hope to God it doesn’t hit him wrong. That whatever oozed from your heart doesn’t make him pull away even more.

You wipe your palms against your jeans, trying to ground yourself before the next words come out, but they do anyway.

“I don’t know what we are, or what I want us to be—but I do know I can’t go without talking to you. Seeing you.”

Your voice is quieter now, but still laced with the same fire. The same desperation.

“Tommy coming to me like you’re already halfway in the ground, begging me to get you to talk to somebody around here. Fuck, Maria thinks you’re a liability.”

You’re pushing, and you know it. But it’s not without reason. The words burn like gasoline on your tongue, and part of you is waiting for him to snap—waiting for that goddamn wall to crack, for any emotion to spill out of him. Anything.

You pause, just long enough for the words to settle between you, before they fall out, heavy and reckless.

“Thinkin’ that if I walked right into that bar and grabbed the first man I’d see… would you do anything about it?”

Joel’s gaze hardens as you speak, each word you throw at him building tension between you like a fuse to a bomb. He’s still standing too close, but this time, it feels like more of a challenge than an invitation.

His jaw tightens, his fists flexing at his sides as if he's trying to hold onto something—control, composure, whatever's left of him.

“You think I’m going to break your heart?” His voice is low, a rough growl that cuts through the air, but there’s something strained in it—something raw, something rabid. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing to you?”

He steps closer, a fraction. “You really think I want to keep you here in this mess?” His eyes burn, a flash of anger now, but something darker, too—fear, regret, maybe guilt. It’s hard to tell with him. But you see it there.

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots like he's pulling the anger and pain out of him, trying to keep it from spilling over. His words are like gravel now. Rough, jagged.

“Tommy came to you about me, huh?” His voice drops a little, bitterness creeping in.

“Figures. He’s always had a way of making everyone else carry my weight.” He shakes his head, eyes flicking away momentarily, before settling back on you. “Maria can think whatever the hell she wants. She doesn’t know a damn thing about me. About what I’ve done.”

He doesn’t back away from your challenge. If anything, his presence becomes more imposing, like he’s daring you to push harder.

“Do you really think I wouldn’t care?” he mutters, his voice quiet but thick with something unspoken. His eyes narrow, hard and unyielding. "Do you really think I wouldn’t do anything about it?"

His fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t touch you—doesn’t move a muscle, as if holding himself back from something he can't control. The silence between you swells. He’s trying to choke back whatever’s clawing at him, and you can feel it in the way he holds himself, rigid and cold.

“I’ve never wanted you to walk away," he says, his tone softer now, "But I’m not the kind of man who deserves you. Not the way you think. I’m trying to keep you safe, and you… you just don’t get it.”

A beat of silence passes.

“Please,” you breathe, the word escaping more like a crack than a whisper, jagged and raw.

Your voice trembles under the weight of it, tears burning behind your eyes—thick and hot, pressing hard against the dam you’re trying so damn hard to keep in place.

“Just let me help.” It slips from you like a split thread, like hope stretched too thin. “Let me do something.”

You blink, once, twice—but the tears don’t fall. Not yet. They just sit there, glassy and defiant, blurring the edges of him as you fight to keep them at bay.

“I don’t want to beg,” you murmur, softer now. Almost ashamed of how close you are to breaking.

But it’s already there—in your voice, your eyes, the way your hands tremble like they’re reaching for something that might never reach back.

Joel doesn’t answer right away.

His face shifts—barely—but you catch it. A flicker of pain that cuts through the stone of him. His mouth opens, then shuts again, like the words hurt too much to form.

“You think I want you to beg?” he growls, but it’s not anger. Not really. It’s fear dressed in anger’s skin. His hands flex, jaw tight, like he wants to grab something—you, maybe—and shake some sense into both of you.

“I hear you talk like that and it makes me feel like I already broke you.”

His voice is low and uneven, the kind of sound that comes from a man who hasn’t cried in years but might start now if he lets go for even a second.

He shifts, takes a step back like he’s trying to create distance between your pain and his guilt, but it doesn’t work. It never works. He may not want it to work.

“You wanna help?” he mutters, not looking at you. “You are the help. Just being here, standing there—looking at me like I’m not… like I’m not some monster—I don’t deserve that.”

He finally meets your eyes again, and this time, there’s no armor left. Just Joel. Just the tired, hollowed-out man beneath all the grit.

“I don’t know how to let you in without ruining you.”

There it is. The truth.

But even then—he hasn’t walked away.

You pause, eyes locked on him, heart pounding so loud it might as well reverberate through the damn room. He looks like something cornered—scarred and tired, a man built of walls too high and wounds too deep.

A feral thing, wounded. Backed into himself. An animal.

“Do…” you falter, swallowing the tightness in your throat. “Do you trust me?”

It's not a weapon. Not a trap. Just a question.

Laid at his feet like an offering. Like maybe, if he says yes—just maybe—something in both of you can finally rest.

His brow furrows slightly, like he doesn’t understand how anyone could still ask him that. How anyone could look him in the eye and mean it.

Then—quietly, a rasp, low and broken like gravel over ash:

“…Yeah. Yes.”

His voice shakes on the word.

“God help me, I do.”

He looks at you like it costs him something to admit it. Like handing you that truth took a piece of him he’ll never get back.

Your breath stumbles out, ragged and quiet, and then—you move.

You reach for him with care, like he’s something fragile under all that roughness. He is. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, steady and deliberate, guiding it upward with a kind of grace that feels almost reverent. Like you’re not just moving his hand—you’re inviting him in.

You press his palm to your skin—just there, along the slope of your collarbone, your jaw. Not forceful. Not demanding.

It’s not control. It’s not surrendereither.

It’s trust. A quiet way of saying: I’m not afraid of you.

Not like you’re afraid of yourself.

And he feels it—how you don't flinch, how you don’t recoil. How you let him in, even here.

Your voice comes low, breath warm, eyes searching his like you’re trying to stitch together something he’s long since torn apart.

“There’s a moment,” you murmur, “before and after someone learns the truth of you… the real you. What you’ve done. What you carry.”

“And in this moment… this world after?”

You tilt your head into his hand, just slightly. Just enough.

“I still choose you.”

Joel doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t blink.

Just stands there, frozen in the raw gravity of your words like they physically hit him—like you knocked the air clean out of his lungs. His hand stays where you placed it, warm and heavy against your skin, but his fingers twitch—once, like he’s unsure if he should pull away or hold tighter.

He should walk away. That’s what the voice in his head screams—the voice that’s always screamed. The one that’s kept him alive through blood, betrayal, and loss. Sarah.

But for the first time in years, he ignores it.

Because the way you're looking at him? Like he's not just a wreckage of a man? It breaks him.

His palm spreads wider, thumb grazing the edge of your jaw like he’s memorizing it, religiously.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he rasps, voice low, nearly pleading, almost broken. “You think you do, but—God, darlin’, you don’t.”

Still, he doesn’t pull away.

He steps closer.

So close the heat from his chest radiates through your skin like fire licking at every nerve. His breath fans against your face, hot, unsteady.

"I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

And then, something shifts—snaps.

His other hand comes up fast, almost desperate, cupping the back of your neck, pulling you in. Not rough—not this time. But there’s a bite to it, a hunger barely contained. His forehead leans against yours, the closeness almost unbearable.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he mutters, barely audible. “One day, you’ll see me for what I really am.”

Fuck, you hope so.

His mouth hovers near yours—right there—but he stops. Breath trembling, lips barely apart. Waiting.

For you to move. To choose him again. Even now. Even like this. It's selfish. He doesn't care, he wants to be selfish. Selfish with you.

You lean in, slow and surrendering, your hand resting over his—where it cradles your jaw.

Your body leans into his, like a tide drawn to the gravity of something larger, heavier, older than reason.

It's not an act of bravery.

It's not even hope.

It's desperation—that aching kind. That aching, pathetic kind of deal people make with the devil when they’re too tired to run anymore.

If he wanted you whole, he had you. And if he wanted to ruin you? You’d let him.

Because some part of you knows… he already has. And you're still here, reaching for him like ruin is worth it if you end up with him.

Whatever restraint he was holding cracks apart, splintering into ash. He surges forward—not rough, not angry, but hungry, lips crashing into yours with years of silence and grief behind it. His mouth claims yours like he’s been dying for it, like the taste of you might pull him back from the edge he’s lived on for too damn long.

His hand slips to the back of your neck, the other anchoring at your waist, pulling you tight, flush, his. There’s nothing gentle about it, not after everything. It’s messy. It's flawed.

It's real.

When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s only by a breath, foreheads touching, eyes shut.

“You ruin me,” he whispers, voice frayed. “Every damn day.”

He moves his weight forward, free hand pushing down on the bedroom handle. A quick push and it's open, softly guiding you inside.

The moment the door clicks shut behind him, a quiet weight settles between you—backing you into the cool, dim light of the bedroom. His hand still grips your neck, but it’s softer now—more possessive than forceful, as though he’s trying to make sure you’re real, choosing him.

His lips graze your ear, his breath uneven against your skin. The heat from his chest against your back makes it feel like the world outside doesn’t matter—like it’s just the two of you, everything else lost to the storm inside.

His hand slips from your neck, trailing down the curve of your spine, a soft press against the small of your back, urging you closer. And still, he doesn’t speak—only guides you to the bed, each movement slow and deliberate, like the space between you matters.

When your legs hit the edge of the mattress, he pauses. He doesn’t push you down. He stands there for a moment, breathing, letting the tension settle like dust between you.

Joel runs a freehand through his hair, eyes not leaving yours. “I’m not the man you think I am,” he says, voice low, broken. "I can’t be."

He steps closer again, his presence overwhelming.

“But if you’re here,” he breathes, “if you’re still here… then I guess we both got somethin’ to prove.”

His lips meet yours again, this time gentler, more desperate. As if he’s trying to hold onto something fleeting—something he’s terrified of losing, even as he’s the one pushing you away.

. . .

The morning light slips through the cracks in the blinds, casting soft slivers of gold across the room. The chirping birds outside are a reminder of the world that continues spinning, oblivious to the quiet, intimate war that’s just been fought between you and him.

The ache in your body? It tells its own story—one of tangled sheets, and a bit more aggression than you thought he'd unleash.

You stretch a little, muscles sore but in the best way, the warmth of his body still lingering like an imprint. A soft, lazy yawn escapes your lips as your eyes flutter open, trying to gather the fragments of last night while the day begins to creep in.

The familiar blue comforter. The dark walls. The desk cluttered with wooden shavings, remnants of the life he’s built—a life that always felt like a fortress to keep people out, but last night? Last night, you breached it. You might have even been the main character of it.

You glance over your shoulder and, sure enough, his weight is there beside you. The soft, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the faded sheets. You must have rolled over at some point in the night, tangled yourself up in him without even realizing it. His arm is draped lazily over your hip, like it belongs there—like you belong there.

The faint marks on his collarbones—darker now in the pale morning light—are yours. A trace of the night’s heated exchanges.

That was you.

It feels almost surreal, the contrast between the man he’s always been—gruff, distant—and the one you just saw, the one you touched, held. The one who let his guard down and let you in.

You can still feel him on you, in you. His weight, his warmth, the echoes of his lips against your skin.

The stillness of this moment is almost too much, too peaceful for the chaos you both carry inside. But for now, you don’t think about it. You don’t think about what happens after—about where this goes, what he really means when he says he doesn’t deserve you, or what the hell happens when everything falls apart again.

Instead, you focus on the weight of his hand against your skin, the feel of his chest rising and falling beneath your fingertips, the soft rasp of his breath so close it makes your pulse quicken. You close your eyes again, breathing him in, and for once, the world outside feels just far enough away.

You lift your hand slowly, carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile quiet around you. One fingertip escapes the safety of the blanket and drifts toward him—toward that single curl that’s fallen stubborn across his brows. You brush it back, gentle, and it coils around your finger like it knows you. Like it wants to stay there.

He doesn’t stir.

You stare at him—really stare—and something settles in your chest. Heavy. Bitter. Tender.

It's cruel, you think. Unforgivably cruel, that the world has been so merciless to a man like this. A man who carries so much weight in his shoulders, in the lines carved deep around his mouth and eyes. A man who’s learned to bury softness just to survive.

Because the man before you now? Lying there half-wrapped in sheets and sleep, his hand resting against your hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world—he's nothing like the monster he thinks he is. He feels sweet.

Sweet in the way his fingers twitch in his sleep, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Sweet in the quiet tension of his jaw, even now—like he’s still fighting demons. Sweet in the memory of his mouth on yours, rough, desperate, demanding.

It’s almost unbearable. It feels like something holy.

Your fingers drift lower, slow and reverent, tracing the hardened edge of his jaw—rough with stubble, sharp from years of clenched teeth. It’s not a perfect jawline, not clean or pretty, but it’s his.

Your thumb grazes the corner of his mouth, then down, brushing gently over his bottom lip. He stirs just slightly, not fully waking, but reacting. His breath hitches faintly, and you pause, holding your touch steady.

You wonder if he’s dreaming. If, in that dark, quiet place behind his eyes, he still sees fire. Blood. Regret. So, you touch him like you can rewrite it.

"Handsome," you murmur, more to the moment than to him.

Because he is. Handsome in a way the world would never see. In the way he loves, fiercely and silently. In the way he breaks apart at night and still holds people together by day. Always a protector. Never protected.

You lean forward just enough to press a barely-there kiss to the corner of his mouth—soft, chaste, real.

And when you pull back, his eyes are open. Heavy-lidded. Watching you. He heard you.

His eyes don’t move at first—just stay fixed on you, heavy and unreadable, like he’s still trying to wake up from something deeper than sleep. You feel the weight of that stare settle into your ribs, slow and silent.

Then, finally, he blinks. A breath. A shift in the sheets.

"Good morning," you whisper, a little softer this time—as if saying it too loud might break the spell of him staying.

You try to lighten it, teasing to fill the silence. "I can’t promise I wasn’t doing anything weird while you were sleeping,” you murmur, your voice playful, lips curling as you roll onto your stomach. Elbows press into the plush give of the mattress, propping yourself up just enough to face him.

Only then does the flick of your gaze drop—chest bare, collarbone exposed. The comforter barely modest where it rests along the dip of your spine. He’s just as bare. Both naked. Still.

Joel exhales through his nose—soft. His hand flexes slightly where it’s still tangled in the sheet between you, then reaches, slow and unsure, to tuck the corner of the comforter back across your back. His knuckles drag against your skin. Not by accident.

“You always talk this much in the mornin’?” he rasps, voice thick with sleep and gravel.

You watch the way his eyes settle on you again, less guarded now, like whatever armor he wears hasn’t quite returned to him yet. He sees you—not just in his bed, but here. Still here.

“Only when I wake up next to someone handsome,” you murmur, "…which doesn't happen often."

Joel huffs a breath—something between a scoff and a laugh—and drags a hand down his face. He doesn't say anything right away. But then his fingers drift toward you again, rough palm finding your hip under the covers.

You move closer—slowly, deliberately—testing the weight of the morning, the strength of what last night left behind. The sheet shifts with you, sliding down your back just enough to expose more skin to the chill of the room, but you don’t care. He’s warm.

Your hand drifts upward, fingers threading into his curls—messy from sleep, soft in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him. You let your nails scrape gently against his scalp. Soothing and affectionate.

He leans into it. Barely. But he does.

"Regret your decision yet?" you whisper, voice teasing at the edge, daring him to pull back. To throw up walls. But there’s tenderness laced in the words, too—a crack in your own armor.

Joel’s eyes flicker open wider, finding yours in that hazy glow of morning. His jaw works for a second, like he’s chewing over every version of no that he doesn’t know how to say right. Then, his hand slips from your hip to your waist, palm warm and grounding.

“No,” he says, low and solid.

Then quieter—more broken: “Just scared you’re gonna wake up and regret yours.”

And there it is—laid bare between you. Not lust, not anger, not even love.

Fear.

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t need to. The silence after his words says everything: he’s afraid he’ll ruin this. Ruin you. That whatever passed between you last night was a kindness he’s not meant to keep.

But his hand stays. And his eyes stay. And so do you.

You study him in silence, eyes drifting across the lines etched into his face—Every scar, every shadow, you take in as if remembering them.

Then, softer, a little teasing: "What's your favorite thing to eat for breakfast?" Your smile curves as you lean deeper into the sheets, the warmth between you still lingering in the air.

He grunts—barely more than a sound, but it’s a start.

“You ask a lotta damn questions,” he mutters.

The bed shifts as he moves, sitting halfway up with the sheet tangled around his waist. His back’s to you now—broad, scarred, tense. Like he’s already regretting last night, or maybe just the part where it meant something.

He runs a hand through his hair, rough. “Don’t got a favorite,” he says, after a beat. “Food’s food.”

But it’s a lie, and you both know it.

Another beat.

“… Pancakes,” he adds gruffly. “With butter. None o’ that syrup crap.”

He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t let you see the look on his face. Keeps his voice flat like it doesn’t matter. Like you didn’t just break something open in him he’s been holding shut for years.

"So, I'll make pancakes." You stir, sitting up against the sheets. Softly—you lean over and embrace him in warmth. Hugging him from behind. Bare chest pressed against scarred and ripped skin, hands softly tracing against his hips.

Joel stiffens under your touch like he's not used to it—like the idea of someone holding him just to hold him sets off alarms he can’t quite silence. Your cheek rests between his shoulder blades, skin against scar, breath against memory.

He doesn't move at first.

Then his hand lifts—hesitates—and finally lands on yours, resting where it’s wrapped around his hips Not gripping, not pulling you closer. Just there.

“I didn’t ask you to,” he says. Gruff.

You can feel his heartbeat—strong, steady. Alive.

“Pancakes,” he repeats, quieter this time. And you catch the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close enough.

“Don’t burn ‘em.”

His voice is softer now. Still rough, still Joel.

You slide from the bed in a hush, the sheets whispering behind you. Before distance can settle in, you lean in close and press a kiss to his temple—fleeting. Like it might ward off the ghosts for just a moment.

Your bare feet tap gently across the worn hardwood, and the air bites a little colder when you aren't caged against the warmth of him. The room is dim and quiet, dust caught in slivers of early morning light. It smells like old wood, whiskey, faint cedar. Him.

You scan everything—the way he lives, the wooden spooled mess he doesn’t clean up. Everything here is stitched with the weight of a life survived, not lived.

Your hand finds his flannel slung over the back of a chair, worn soft from time and habit. You slip it on — oversized and heavy with warmth—and spin once as you finish buttoning it up, grinning through a small exhale.

“Feelin’ like Joel Miller already,” you say, half to yourself, half to him.

From the bed, he lets out a small scoff. Doesn’t sound amused. Doesn’t sound angry either.

“Careful,” he mutters, voice raspy with the morning. “That ain’t somethin’ you wanna catch.”

You glance back at him — the way he’s still sitting there, one arm draped over his knee, body cut from shadow and silence. He watches you like you're some dream that he doesn't know how to comprehend.

“I dunno,” you say, quieter now. “Might be worth it.”

He looks away, jaw tight. Like he wants to believe you but doesn’t trust belief.

You round the corner, still in his flannel, steps light, almost playful—until the smell of coffee hits first. Familiar, grounding. But something else follows, quick on its heels. A shift. Presence.

“Joel? Did you make coff—” You stop.

She’s already there. Leaning against the counter, mug in hand, eyes too sharp for someone her age.

Ellie.

Your breath hitches half a beat, and you straighten instinctively. She somehow still manages to fill the room like she owns it — like she’s been here longer than time itself.

She nods toward the two mugs on the counter, smug as anything. “Made you coffee,” she says. Then, with a shit-eating grin and a wiggle of her eyebrows: “I guess the talk went well… last night.”

It’s not even a question. You blink, caught between embarrassment and a laugh. “Jesus… Ellie.”

“Not quite,” she shrugs, sipping from her mug. “But thanks.”

You lean against the frame of the doorway, tugging the flannel a little tighter around you. She catches the motion—notices it’s Joel’s—and her eyes glint with mischief.

“What time did you… get back last night?” you ask, trying to recover.

She shrugs again. “Early enough to hear him snore like a dying bear. Which, by the way, you might wanna get checked out. I thought something was in the walls.”

You let out a soft laugh despite yourself, shaking your head.

There’s a pause — just enough time for the teasing to fade. She looks at you for real now. Not cruel. Not guarded. Just watching.

Ellie nods, satisfied enough for now. Then she pushes the second mug toward you.

“Drink up, Flannel Thief,” she says. “You’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Your eyes practically roll in your head. "Listen… I can't be teased about this forever… Can't you just say… ew gross old people, and get on with it?" You lean against the countertop, fingers reaching for pancake things. Measuring cup… bowl… something to mix with…

Ellie snorts, clearly delighted, and sips her orange juice with exaggerated smugness.

“Oh no, no no. See, you wish that’s how this worked,” she grins, watching you pull out a mixing bowl like it’s part of a comedy routine. “But unfortunately for you, I’m a mature and emotionally evolved young woman who believes in holding adults accountable… for being disgustingly affectionate in my presence.”

You groan, grabbing the nearly empty pancake mix box and shaking it, “You're 15.”

“Old people sex,” Ellie says flatly, grinning into her mug. “Right in the next room over. You should be ashamed. Honestly.”

You shoot her a look, but there’s no heat in it. “Alright, alright, Jesus. I’m already dying inside.”

She shrugs. “Then my work here is done.”

You start pouring contents into the bowl. She watches, but it’s not really about the pancakes. There’s a lull. Not awkward, just quiet—and when she speaks again, her tone’s softer. But still unmistakably Ellie.

“I’m just saying,” she murmurs, “I’ve never seen him sleep past dawn unless he was half-dead or actually happy.”

You stop whisking for a second, glance over. Her eyes are downcast, but not sad. More cautious and hope. Like she’s letting herself believe in something for once.

You offer a small smile. “Well… he’s still in bed, so either he’s dead, and I murdered him… or you’re stuck with me a little while longer.”

She doesn’t smile back right away, but her voice comes light:

“I guess I’ll deal.”

Behind you, you hear the floor creak — heavy, slow steps — and you know it’s Joel before you even turn. You don't look right away. You just pour the batter onto the skillet and ask over your shoulder:

“You want one pancake or two, old man?”

Joel stands in the doorway like he’s been there a minute, just listening. His hair’s a mess — that soft, grizzled kind of disheveled that only makes him look more like himself. The blue robe hangs open over a threadbare white T-shirt and those familiar flannel pants, one tie dragging against the floor. He scratches the back of his head like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

You turn to face him fully, spatula in one hand, the smell of browning batter filling the quiet between you.

“Or none at all,” you add, eyebrow raised, “since you think my cooking is sooo bad.”

His eyes flick between you and Ellie — who’s already pretending not to watch while sipping from her mug like it’s the most dramatic scene in a movie.

Joel exhales through his nose, like it’s taking every ounce of restraint not to be dragged into the teasing.

“You burn toast,” he says simply.

You gasp. “It was one time.”

Ellie raises a hand. “It was two. That I know of.”

Joel just walks to the table and sits down with a grunt, clearly satisfied with himself. “I’ll take two. Since you’re wearin’ my damn shirt, might as well feed me too.”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Cute."

Joel grumbles something under his breath, but there’s a warmth in his eyes when he looks at you. Tired, guarded, but not closed off like before. Not entirely.

Ellie leans back in her chair, hands behind her head, eyes gleaming.

“This is so weird,” she mutters. “But also… kinda nice.”

Joel gives her a side-eye. “You don’t like it, you can go live with Tommy.”

She snorts. “Please. Free food and emotional bonding? I’m thriving.”

You plate up the pancakes and slide a stack in front of each of them, sitting across from Joel, your knee brushing his under the table. For the first time, the room feels full. Not just lived in—but alive.

You sit quietly, trying to act like it’s nothing—just breakfast, just fuckin' pancakes—but your fingers twist together in your lap beneath the table. It’s stupid. How nervous you are. Not just for him to like it, but for her to like it. Like somehow their approval means this whole fragile, reckless thing has weight.

Joel eats like a man who doesn’t want to admit he’s enjoying it. No theatrics, no compliments—just steady bites and the occasional small nod, like his silence is the only permission he knows how to give.

Ellie? She’s less subtle. She drowns hers in syrup and makes dramatic noises of satisfaction with every bite, clearly enjoying the chance to be chaotic.

“Not bad, Flannel Thief,” she says through a mouthful. “A solid seven-point-five. Could be higher with chocolate chips.”

You chuckle lightly, the knot in your chest loosening by a thread. “Next time, then.”

Joel’s fork slows, just for a second.

You catch it. You always do.

Next time.

You glance up at him again, eyes following the shape of his arms, those worn-in muscles that always carry more than just weight. They carry history. Guilt. Survival. Safety. Everything you never thought you'd find again.

Then your gaze reaches his face, and he’s already watching you.

Those brown eyes—soft in the morning light, a little wary, a little tired—but still warm. Still him.

You try to hide how much you’re looking. How much you want this to be something real.

“Y’know,” you murmur, voice just for him, “you don’t have to eat it out of guilt. I can handle the truth.”

Joel snorts softly, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ain’t guilt. Just quiet. You oughta try it sometime… maybe next time.”

But there’s the smallest twitch at the edge of his mouth. The ghost of a smile, buried under years of practiced gruffness.

And for a moment, it feels like maybe. Just maybe. You're not the only one hoping this sticks.

masterlist

a/n2: this has been in my notes app ... ignore mistakes pls

[mercvry-glow]

Too short to be a fic, too long to be an open drabble so enjoy some jack and night shift reader 😘

Made myself sad thinking about Jack and night shift reader, who’s a young r3–you’ve been with him since the starts of your residency, and have no plans on leaving the program even after boards. You’re close. Closer than you probably should be a for a mentor/mentee relationship. You know each other’s quirks, what works and what doesn’t in your relationship. So imagine when pitt fest happens, everyone is frantic, zones are crowded and you’re stuck in red with more victims piling in by the second.

Jack is in one of the main bays with Robby, Mohan and a few others from day shift. You’ve seen bad, night shift always gets the weird and scary shit that would never happen in the light of day.

But this is too much.

You’ve never felt this overwhelmed before. You’re completely alone here, flying the seat of your blood stained scrub pants. Nobody’s died under your care (yet), but you’re not confident in your ability to keep that under control much longer.

John’s not there to crack jokes with you… Parker isn’t around to share a granola bar and a packet of goldfish… Jack isn’t next to you saying that you’ve done enough, that you’ve done a good job.

Normally you can seek him out, tonight there’s no point.

You weren’t even supposed to work tonight.

By the time it dies down, you’re already in the bathroom crashing. The door is locked and you can feel your phone vibrating in your pocket. A call or two, definitely more than a handful of texts.

Tears run down your cheeks, the hair you put into cute braids before the tragedy started were ruined, black scrubs wrinkled and sticking to you in a way that feels oppressive.

No one’s around to say that’s it’s okay to cry, so you sob instead. Heavy and heaving, cries stealing your air as you gasp and brace yourself on the sink.

You’re not even sure if it’s pitt fest, or the feelings you’ve kept inside bubbling out. You’re overwhelmed, you’re jealous, you’re scared…

It seems unreasonable to feel that way, people died, people got saved—and you’re crying because it’s the job you signed up for, and you couldn’t do it with the man you trusted more than anyone else in your life.

For fucks sake, it’s like you were ten again and separated from your class crush during partner projects.

You couldn’t even steel yourself enough to leave the private bathroom with a straight enough face and head home.

Your phone slipped out of your pocket as you slid down to sit against the bathroom floor.

3 texts from Parker

1 call from John

5 texts and 2 calls from Jack

You only texted Jack back, just your location, telling him you’d find him in a second.

Clearly the person knocking on the door had other plans, you called out to let them know you’d be out soon but the unlocking of the door came as more of a shock.

Admin key in hand, Jack Abbot had broken into your crying session.

“The hell are you doing on the floor kid?” He looked at you with a raised eyebrow, a hint of a smirk on his lips as he looked down at you.

You could only give him half a scoff, as he locked the door behind him moving to lean against it as he continued to watch you.

“Didn’t see you all night, you doing okay?” He asked, if he didn’t know he asked, if he knew he asked anyway, that’s just who Jack was.

“I-“ you paused, “I think so… I don’t know,” you weren’t normally this unsure of yourself, Jack Abbot’s sidekick (or just sidekick, the nickname you had been graced with since your intern year) wasn’t normally this unsure of herself.

Jack picked up on it immediately.

“I-I lost someone, sh-she was just a kid… an-and y-you weren’t there and- I just… you’re normally there ya know? You were trying to save other people, an-and I couldn’t even save her an-and-“ you just began to ramble spiraling as you went over your night without him.

“Hey-“ he crouched down in front of you, prosthetic be damned, looking you right in your eyes as he grabbed your chin, “You did good work today, you always do a good job. I’m sorry you lost a patient, but look how many people you did help.”

You nodded slowly, allowing his presence to ground you. “Y-You shouldn’t be crouched like that.. s’not good for you.” Your concern came out as more of a whisper than anything else.

“Then get up off the bathroom floor, and come grab a beer with me. We’re headed to the park,” he stood back up and offered you one of his hands.

You pouted, “You know I don’t like beer…”

“You’re such a princess,” he sighed, “then I’ll get you a soda and you can just sit next to me, yeah?”

He pulled you up, taking a good look at you before brushing a few strands of hair out your face. “Heard the Diet Coke got restalked on the second floor,”

You perked up at that before deflating again, “is Mohan going?”

“Why would I know?” He raised an eyebrow at you suspiciously.

“You were with her all night…”

“I don’t keep tabs on all the residents that run around this place, just you.” He slung an arm over your shoulder about to lead you out of the bathroom after god knows how long.

“Hmph…”

“You can pout at you want kid, doesn’t change the fact that I wanted you next to me tonight. Nobody else can be my sidekick.”

And for the first time that night, you smiled.

[diablasuenos]

exes | damian priest

pairing — damian priest x reader | warnings — unprotected sexual activity (please use caution in any sexual situations)

genre — smut, minors DNI | author’s note — been obsessed with him for so long, i finally got to writing a piece for him. lmk what you think. feel free to send a request my way 🫀

You didn’t realize how bad you wanted him, needed and truly wanted him, until this moment. The feelings never left. They simply simmered under the surface and finally rose to the occasion. One drunken text led to one ex picking up another ex, it should have been simple.

But nothing with Damian was simple. He was zealous and hungry and he never wanted someone as bad as he wanted you. He was sure to tell you over and over as he kissed you clumsily, working his hands around your neck and walked you backwards onto his bed. He was ravenous, you could see it in his eyes and once he was on his knees in front of your wet cunt, he felt that hunger grow.

He wasn’t eating you out, no, he was devouring you. He was working so softly against your pussy you were begging him for more. His mouth was so wet and so hot against you that you felt a heat pool in your abdomen. The hum of Damian’s mouth on you made you prop your legs on his shoulder, letting him get deeper into your as he tongue fucked you. Something about him and his desire to show you how he cared mended the part of your heart that hurt knowing he wasn’t yours anymore. But it didn’t matter that he wasn’t yours because he was still acting like you were his.

His hand was rough but they felt so right in your hair as he kissed you. He tasted like a shot of tequila, bad intentions something else you just couldn’t put your finger on, but you kept tugging on him for more. He was vocal with his kisses, mumbling how beautiful he thought you were and how badly he wanted you. His kisses trailed from your lips down your neck and to your collarbone, finding the exposed skin in the dip of your top.

“I need these off,” he commanded in between kisses. He peeled your top off and made a swift move for your pants. You laughed at his eagerness.

And boy was he needy. He found himself giving the same energy he would give to a match, being attentive and receptive to all your sweet moans. He took his time devouring you, unraveling any tension in your body that he could find. The way you whispered his name out — gasping for breath with each stroke he thrust into you — sent him reeling. He was amazed by how perfect it all felt. He wasn’t sure if it was the beers and the shot catching up with him but damn you felt like everything he ever needed.

The feeling of you around him was unlike any woman he had ever been with. Your body melted into his as he gripped the sheets, steadying himself into a rhythm, making you beg for him. His chain dangled low and you found yourself fingering it and pulling it, bringing your lips up to his ear. His skin was smooth against yours and you found yourself grabbing onto him with the same amount of urgency he was using to pound into you. There were few things in this world that you loved more than Damian, even now with your blurred lines of a relationship. You wanted every single bit of him whenever you had him. It wasn’t right but goddamn did it feel great.

“Damian,” you gasped as you felt yourself nearing the edge of pain and pleasure. There was only one man who could make you feel so many things all at once. The craziest part of it was that he felt the same about you. You couldn’t worry about why it didn’t work out, for now you just needed him. “My god.”

“Fuck, you’re right there.” Your voice was sickly sweet in his ear. His eyes found yours and for a moment you could hardly breathe - not because of the way it felt like he was looking right into you. Sex with your ex was not supposed to feel this good. Nothing had ever felt so right. But you couldn’t get too caught up because you knew in the morning that he wouldn't care, hell he probably wouldn’t even act like it happened. But you allowed yourself to dream and to scream softly at each stroke of his hips into yours.

“You feel so good,” Damian spoke. He grunted with aggressive strokes. His eyes were trained on the sight of his cock going in and out of you, the wetness glistening off his skin. “I fucking missed you.” He admitted.

A part of your heart thrived off hearing that he missed you, too. There was some small part of you that didn’t want him to move on without you. You didn’t want him to be fucking - let alone, making love — to any other woman. The thought made you sick but it also encouraged you to pull him close by wrapped your legs around his midsection and force him deeper. You moaned out his name like a meditative chant and you felt the sweat beading on his skin. You raked your nails down his back, wanting to leave your mark, not caring that it would be easily seen by the fans or camera — or any damn woman who was near.

“Damian!” You yelled as he hit your g-spot. You were dangerously close to a your orgasm. You needed him right where he was. He pushed his forehead against tours, his eyes focused on yours.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” He whispered as you gasped out for air, his lips close to your own.

Baby.

He hadn’t called you a pet name in months. No nicknames, nothing affectionate. But now here he was, coaching you through an orgasm with the utmost affection. Somehow, this felt more intimate than when you were in a relationship — this felt soul binding, sacred even.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop.” You begged him and he obliged. You dug nails deeper into his back and he seethed at the feeling, somehow loving and hating the pain. You tried to close your eyes, your head lolling to the side but his hand found your face, squeezing gently as he forced you to look at him. The fact he was using one hand to hold himself up and the other to make you maintain eye contact was thrilling.

“Look at me while I fuck you,” He ordered and you whimpered under the pressure of his thumb and fingers on your face.

“I’m going to,” You whined, unable to finish the sentence as white hot heat flooded your face and body. Your back arched as you yelled out and Damian’s hand moved down to your neck, gripping it gently. He slowed his strokes down but didn’t stop, admiring the way your cum spread all over him. It was the hottest thing he’d seen besides your pretty face as you called out his name. “Oh my god!”

Damian let you ride the high as he stroked you deeply and you whined out for him to take it easy but he ignored your pleas. You knew you could take, he did too. The pleasure was so good it hurt.

As your adrenaline spiked you were clouded with emotion and you remembered how much you loved him. You reminded by how much you needed him, how much you loved being under his touch. You were so overcome by it all that the words came tumbling out of your mouth.

“I love you, Damian,” You said. “Fuck, I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Those words sent Damian over the edge as his hips bucked and his stroke seized. He was already on the verge of an explosion but those words sent him beyond his grasp. He told himself he would pull — that he wouldn’t let this get more messed up than it was, but that was before you had come undone underneath him and confessed your love for him. As he came, Damian was sent into his memory of the first time you said I love you — it was the exact same way, the same exact position, the same exact jaw-dropping feeling rumbled in his chest. He couldn’t let you go, not after this.

“Fuck.” He groaned lowly as he pulled out of you and settled next to you.

The two of you laid in comfortable silence as you caught your breath, neither one of you wanting to be the one to speak first. Damian was stunned.

I love you, I love you, I love you. Replayed in his brain.

And he loved you, too.

[cherryblossom-heart]

The wolf's den (A devour me one-shot)

modern!Sukuna x Reader

C.W: mentions of violence, mysogynistic men, you know what I'll just say Naoya is his own warning.

A/N: Hi besties, I've had this in my drafts for a little while but here is it, for anyone that's curious how reader and Naoya met.

This is a drabble for Devour Me

W.C: 2k

“Hey, sorry I’m late. I fucking oversle–“ Your excuses to Toji were cut short.

A fake blonde man, probably in his twenties, stood in the middle of the empty closed bar. Renovations were being made ever since the pipe explosion so almost everything was covered in tarp or plastic. The wood floor panels had already been ripped out, concrete and dirt now covering the base of the place as you waited for the new panels to arrive. He was scanning everything in the room, the snob sneer in his face immediately making you want to punch him.

He turned to you, his brown eyes latching to you immediately making the hairs in the back of your neck rise up. A shudder ran through your spine the longer he looked at you, like an instinct hardwired in you that told you to run away from danger.

You should’ve listened to it when you had the chance.

You opened your mouth, the horrible habit you had whenever you were nervous or uncomfortable.

“Who the fuck is this?”

For a second he looked shocked of the way you had spoken. Maybe it was the brass tone you had or the use of the word fuck but something about you made him angry enough to scowl at you.

“Your mother didn’t teach you to speak like a lady?”

Now it was your time to scowl.

You were about to open your mouth, a mental speech already created to emasculate him but Toji cut you off.

“It’s my cousin. Naoya.”

You glanced between both of them and you supposed you could see it. The shape of the eyes, smug smirk and the coldness behind their eyes. You knew where Toji came from, the so famous and dangerous Zenin Clan, you knew the type of people his family was, especially the men.

You should’ve stopped yourself, you should’ve left the bar and come back the next day. Maybe he wouldn’t have taken an interest in you, dragging you into the world of madness you were currently drowning. Or maybe it didn’t matter, you were always a part of his plan.

“What the fuck is your prick of a cousin doing here?”

Toji’s green eyes lasered you. Stop it, they warned you.

“I’m here to save your quaint little bar from bankruptcy so you don’t have to go to the nearest whorehouse to beg for a job.”

Oh.

Oh

You were going to fucking kill him

The words came faster than you could stop them.

“Thanks but I don’t feel like working with your mother. Heard she’s a terrible manager.”

You almost laughed at the sourness that overtook his face. You began walking, putting your things in the bar as you tied your hair. As you walked by him, you got a wiff of the expensive cologne he was wearing, a mixture of citrus with sandalwood and for some reason even that made you on edge.

“Besides, we don’t need your money. I already took care of it.” You scoffed.

He looked at Toji, an eyebrow cocked not only in surprise that everything was handled but that it was you who handled it.

“You’re saying you paid this? What did you do? Did you offered free blowjobs for his debts to be spared?”

You turned to him, hammer ready in hand.

“Not all of us have to give our asses away like you do, Naoya. Don’t project yourself.

Now get the fuck out of my fucking bar.”

“Thank you!” You told the lady of the convenience store as you walked through the doors.

The skies had turned dark a while ago, the work remodeling the bar always took long so it wasn’t unusual for you to be out so late. Even when Toji offered to walk you home you turned him down, his your apartment was only a couple blocks away and your were comfortable with your own little routine. You needed it.

It was stupid.

Everytime you walked home you had this fantasy that maybe, along the way, he would find you. You would hear his voice, calling you a brat or perhaps your just your name, then you would turn around and red eyes would be staring back at you once again.

Finally, he would be back.

They would be back.

The sharp breeze of cold air took you out of your thoughts, pulling you away from the memories. You held your coat tighter as you waited for the traffic lights to turn red, a small tear managing to espace your hold.

You reached your apartment, your body thanking the change of temperature. You opened the door, turning on the lights in habit as you closed the door. Your coat fell to the floor as you kicked your shoes off, every muscle in your body aching as you made your way to the kitchen.

Water filled the cup of water you had in your hands, and as you nursed your drink you turned to put your cold snacks in the fridge.

“If you’re here to kill me you could’ve at least gotten rid of that disgusting cologne.” You spoke to the air.

It took him a second but you heard his steps behind you coming out of your bedroom. You turned around to a pair of brown eyes along with fake blonde hair looking at you with a smirk on his lips.

“I didn’t think you would be smart enough to notice it.”

Right, misogynistic.

A common decease amongst the Zenin clan.                               

“Or maybe you’re just stupid enough to not even being able to kill me. A poor, stupid, little woman.”

You grabbed one of your beers in the fridge, twisting the cap off as you sat in the kitchen island.

“So… are you here to kill me?” You asked after you took a sip.

“No,” He answered, taking a seat across you. “I’m here to collect.”

“Collect? Collect what?” You asked confused.

“Collect your little boyfriend’s debt.”

Sukuna.

“See, he made a deal with me.” He took out his phone, scrolling through it. “He begged for my help so he could find you and your little piss of a sibling.”

He put his phone on the table, pressing play.

“Tell me what you fucking know.” Sukunas voice played through the device.

“Who says I know anything?” Naoya answered.

“You own half of this fucking city, if anyone is going to know it’s you.”

Naoya snicked. “Perhaps. But I have no reason to tell you shit.”

“Stop with the fucking games. What do you want?” Sukuna grunted.

“How much is your little business partner worth? Or her whore of a sister? How much is she worth to you?”

Only a second went by before he answered.

“Everything. Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.”

Naoya laughed, the type of laugh that told you he knew he had Sukuna where he wanted him.

“I’ll do you a favor. But when I come knocking to collect, I’ll take anything I want.”

“Sure, whatever. Just tell me where the fuck they are.”

The recording stopped, leaving you both in silence.

You knew Sukuna had made a deal with the Zenins but… you never thought it was like that. You never thought he had been so willing to give everything away to get you back. It was difficult to make peace with that information, your mind racing as you thought of his words.

If he cared for you so much, why wasn’t he back?

“And now here I am, and Sukuna is nowhere to be found.” Naoya said as he leaned back on his seat. “But I still need my payment.”

You looked back at him.

“I don’t know where the fuck he is.” You said, the bitter tone in your voice didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“I know.”

“So… what the fuck do you want from me?”

He smiled and you wanted to claw your eyes out.

“My payment.”

You took a second to look at him and you couldn’t help the mask of disgust that washed over your face.

“Ew, no.” You spat and if your mind hadn’t been going haywire you would’ve enjoyed washing his smirk off his face. “I’m not the one that owes you shit. Go fucking find Sukuna if you want him to pay you so bad.”

You stood up, chugging some of your beer before turning to empty the rest in the sink. Your hands shook and you weren’t sure if they were from anger or fear.

“I could do that. I could waste money and resources to find him, maybe lose a couple of good men in the process.” He shrugs just before looking back to you. “Or I could visit his brother and… what’s his name? Yumi?”

The bottle slipped from your grasp, hitting against the metal sink.

“Yuji” you whispered, suddenly every cell in your body completely aware of the danger you faced.

“Yuji! That’s it.” He clapped as he pretended to be relieved, as if he wasn’t toying with you. “The pink hair does run in the family, don’t you think?”

This fucking bastard.

All of this had been a game.

He knew who you were and a part of you thought his little visit to the bar had only been the beginning of everything.

You couldn’t risk them. Jin, Watsuke and Yuji didn’t belong to Sukuna and Uraumes world, the world you had been inadvertently dragged into. You supposed this was your world too now that the big bad wold had come knocking on your door. You had to fix this and not just for Sukuna but for them, even without him you cared for them. You had grown together and this past year would’ve been unbearable without Jin’s calming presence, or Yuji’s laughter or Watsuke’s foul yet entrataining humour.

You had to do it for them.

“I have money.” You mumbled as you turned around only to find his stupid smirk.

“I don’t need your money.” Naoya scoffed, the thought of taking your money seemingly offensive to him.

“Then what do you want?”

“I want you to do a job for me. I need you to get me access to someone’s phone.”

Now it was your turn to scoff.

“Me?” You asked, incredulously. “Why the fuck would you send me? Can’t one of your dogs do it?”

He laughed. “My dogs, as you call them, can’t get to this particular man.” He stood up, walking closer to you and for the first time in a while you felt like prey. He stopped right in front of you, his eyes swiping your body and you had the urge to take a hot scalding shower. “But you,” he tried to caress your face only for you to smack him. “you seem like his type.”

“I’m not fucking sleeping with anyone, you fucker.” You managed to say through gritted teeth, pushing him away.

The moment your hands landed on his chest you saw the rage in his eyes and you thought he would hit you, you saw the intention behind his eyes but the only response he had was a deep sigh as he struggled to keep his cool.

“Fuck him, don’t fuck him, I don’t give a fuck. Get me that phone and we’re through.”

He made his way to your front door and you were finally able to breathe again. God, were you really going to do this? Maybe you could talk to Toji, see if he could help you get out of this shit show. Anything that would help you get far away from the wolf’s den.

“Unless…” Naoya said before walking through the door, his back still facing you. “You want to know where he is. Where they’ve been hiding.”

“Wait.”

The word came out before you could stop it.

“You know where they are?”

He looked at you over his shoulder and he gave you the same smirk you thought he gave to Sukuna when he made his deal.

“Maybe… but we can talk more about that once you get me that fucking phone.”

If you like the story please interact: reblogs, likes and comments go a long way. Feedback is always appreciated! Feel free to message me about it.

[knight-of-flowerss]

Nerd!Cregan brothers best friend type situation like Jace’s twin sister and obviously even in the au she’s the princess-esque type, rich family, cregan and jace she thinks are losers but like her and cregan actually make such a sweet couple like ugh him rambling about a game and she’s like babe i really dont give a fuck or understand but i love you so im listening (but really she’s just drooling over his bicep as he waves it around explaining some anime shit)

NERDS HAVE THE BIGGEST DICKS OKAY???

HEHEHEH YESSSS I LOVE NERDS OH MY GOD 😭🙏

Sorry but she's deffo his childhood bully💀 "dad, how did you meet mom?" "Oh, she would cut my hair and chase me and your uncle around with a knife when we were little.. hm.. good days.." and kids are like wtf- 😀🧍‍♀️

This is lowkey a brain dump of Nerd/Geek!Cregan, would love to write a more story like one but I just HAD to do a brain dump lmao

Also I have three different geeky things mentioned in here, 1 is Demon Slayer, 2 is Star Wars and 3 is a poem and if y'all can tell me what poem, I'll give you a lollipop or something or like a fic idk girl

MDNI 18+!!!

MASTERLIST

"So- Tanjiro and Nezuko are siblings, yeah? Their whole family gets killed by a demon and Nezuko gets turned into one! And there's these people- they're called demon slayers - they kill these demons and like protect everyone and-" At this point, you had zoned out. He was just sat there rambling on about Demon killer or Slayer demon or whatever the fuck it is.

Your loud smacks are heard through his yapping, the chewing gum becoming a weird, warm, melted texture in your mouth since it'd been there for so long.

Cregan was hot. So fucking hot. But goddamn, sometimes you had to tune him out.

Like, even during sex you have to shut him up.

You're actually surprised he isn't more quiet during sex. He's fucking his best friends little sister and all he can do is whine and moan. I mean, I think he got it from you though.

The first time you fucked him, it was his finals week. Non-stop revision for the overwhelmed nerd. Physics or chemistry or whatever confusing science shit he did - it had a specific name - fell on deaf ears.

You had asked him about it, to put his mind off of cumming too fast. Virgin. So he rambled on and on about endless science-y things, even getting so engrossed to the point that he had kind of forgotten that he had one of the hottest chicks in school bouncing on his cock like her life depended on it.

But his whines and moans were the best, literally music to your fucking ears. This was never supposed to happen. Never. He was this whiney little bitch boy that she's known since all three of them were in nappies.

You were there when he wet himself at Jenny D'Minco's sixth birthday party and everyone laughed at him, you included. You were there when he cried over the fact that you crumpled his favourite Pokémon card when he was eight. You were there when he busted his nose trying to impress a girl at the roller rink when she was sixteen and he was barely twelve.

You were even there the first time he came in his pants. 15 years old, surrounded by hot, older girls in bikinis at a pool party and one rubbed up on him? Yeah, he was a gonner before he even registered it.

Watching him grow up, seeing all the awkward shit that made him a 'nerd' and a 'geek', etc, should've given you the ick, it really should've. Especially since he was three years younger that you, but you're a nasty bitch deep down inside.

You lied to yourself. Telling yourself you didn't like him. That he was weird and an incel. But god, you'd be lying if you said that watching him jerk off in the bathroom sink when he thinks he's all alone in the house didn't turn you on to the fucking max.

But he had joined University. Left everyone behind. And so did your younger brother. He left a scrawny, whiney bitch that you wanted to jump the bones of but held yourself back, and came back a fucking man that could probably do curls with your full weight and not even break a sweat.

Safe to say, your panties didn't survive that one.

He had grown more confident over those few years too, truly finding himself at Uni. As if he wasn't himself already. But he just felt more comfortable in his own skin.

And back to where we began. Anime. Fucking anime. This man rambles about anime when he should be choking you out with his bicep as he fucks you from behind. But noooo, you're fuck buddies with the bloody BFG who refuses to hurt you.

After what seems like hours to you - it was really just three hours, I mean, how inconsiderate y'all, it ain't even that long 🙄 - he finally paid attention to you.

"And Anakin gets sent to protect Padmè in Naboo, which is obviously where they finally admit they love each other, until Padmè like- rejects him! To keep each other safe, but still!-" Your spit drools down his arm as his fingers delve into your warmth. It doesn't even seem to phase him, the fact that he's finger fucking you blind.

He has some YouTube video on in the background, showing the timeline of Anakin and Padmè and their love story, a Jedi and a former Queen turned Senator- God! You're actually learning some of this bullshit!

A high pitched moan escapes you before you can help it as his fingers find that one spot that makes your legs turn into jelly and your eyes roll back into your head.

And this fucker doesn't bat an eye.

"I think the way they had Padmè's funeral is so interesting- I mean, they literally posed her to still look pregnant, no one knew Luke and Leia were even born! They literally protected them from Anakin- Vader, since birth!" He gushes, grinning at the fact. He didn't find the fact that she was dead enjoyable or anything, he just appreciated the time and effort put into the fifth and sixth episode, the extra details making it so much better.

Cregan's gaze finally flicks down to you and his smile goes from wide and endearing to soft and affectionate. "Gods.. you look so beautiful right now sweet'eart.." Yep. That did it. Him looking into your eyes as he calls you "sweetheart" in that thick accent of his? Oh, you were a gonner before you even realised it.

With a loud whine, your thighs clamp around his arm, trembling slightly as you utter a soft "fuck.." under your breath. And then the part you love the most, his fucking whimpering.

No matter what you do together, no matter how loud or quiet you are, Cregan always has a reaction when you cum. Always. Whimpering and whining as his lip catches between his front teeth and his eyebrows furrow.

Also, don't get me STARTED on when you haven't seen him in a while and you're finally alone. Literally bones = jumped.

He weeps softly, tearing streaming down his face as his hips buck up, whimpers slipping from his lips involuntarily as you suck him off. Well, he always cried when you do. Probably one of the hottest things he does.

You're evil too, you don't even let him cum. Just leaving him high and dry until he finally musters up the courage to treat you how you oh so desire.

I mean, dominant Cregan groaning and moaning in your ear as he pounds into your cunt is fucking amazing and all but, riding him is just so much better.

His thick girth filled you up perfectly, each ridge catching on your gummy walls. "A-and.. the Duke kills the Duchess- well.. fuck- ah!.. He gets jealous and- shit!"

He gets so loud that you have to clamp your hand over his mouth, gripping his cheeks firmly as you ground your hips, teasing him just enough.

You love your geeky fuck buddy- I mean like! You like him.. but he's hotter when he can't shut up, drunk on your pussy.

Tags: @thethreeeyed-raven @lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom @cryinonthefloor553 @visenyablackwood @velaryyon

[neodazed]

The Brat Equation

1 Brat + 1 Brat = TPTGPI {the place they get put in}

In which Riki has got a pair of whiny brats to handle.

“I can give it to you however you guys want it. If you don’t like me being nice, I’ll start being mean.”

pairings: controlfreak/whipped/dom! riki x bratty/sub! sunoo x bratty/sub! fem!reader

Riki is aged up, Y/N and Sunoo are the same age, and younger (ALL ADULTS)

warnings: 3some (poly), unprotected sex (dont), LOTS of mlm scenes so dni if you dont like it, sunoo and y/n are brats but still sub, riki is a mean shit, hair-pulling, p in v, rough oral (f, m), mentions of doublepenetration, blondcest (sunooxreader), basically just porn sorry

wc: 1637

alright so actually my real freakiness started to show its tiny crumbs in this fics. my head is like full of this sickness and i’ll be going off from now on baes. coming up w longer sunghoon and riki fics after this and obvi imagines (my requests also open). have fun reading.

“How do you manage with both of them?”

Is a question Riki gets all the time when someone finds out he’s not only dating Kim Sunoo, but also you.

Two arrogant, self-absorved, whiny people who, despite being undeniably hot, were envied, disliked, loved, hated by many.

Not like Riki cared about their opinion — he did not give a shit about random campus losers who saw the sweet look of Sunoo and you, and thought you were angels came down from heaven. He’d may scoff a little, because oh, the naivity, but still. When people see the way you sometimes act, and he practically can see green flooding their faces when they notice both of you belonging to him…he’d keep his head higher, and hold whichever of you were closer to him.

But Holy Christ, he still can’t answer the question. He’s not confused about liking you and Sunoo, of having you. No, you are his, both of you, no doubt, no question mark, firm dot.

But truly, how does he manage with both of you?

You two can really be the softest things, when you feel like it. Big glittery eyes, heads of soft blonde curls, clingy bodies, silly giggles. All rainbows and shit, basically.

But when either of you decided you wanted to be difficult, God it reached levels into the sky. Riki is not all that impatient and strict, even though most people assumed that due to his cold appearence. He was actually cold-headed in most situations, never losing his cool and softness towards his beauties at little, insignificant teasings. No, he was much better than that. Kind, loving, keeping track of every little whim you guys had, trying, and succesiding in satisfying you.

But he’s just man.

And he has limits.

Because when one of you were acting up, the other always joined, like pissing him off was a cute little bonding session for the two of you. Whether it’s just teasing him too much, making him jealous on purpose, even straight up ignoring him as a ‘joke’…the list goes on, really. The point is, everything you do, let it be nice or not, comes in with the force of two.

Considering all of that, punisments were indeed necessary, to create a balance, at least.

He didn’t favor either of you.

That would go against the purpose of this whole realitionship, and everything he feels.

The execution of the punisments were long enough, never one sided or easy, so sometimes he’d switch between which one of you he’d “torture”!a bit more.

It was just a lack of luck on Sunoo’s side that it almost ended up being him.

And you’ve done it again…

‘I can give it to you however you guys want it. If you don’t like me being nice, I’ll start being mean.’

He didn’t specify how many slaps you’d have to take when you settled down on the bed next to him. To be frank, they were no discussions of slaps at all, but you were too far gone to care.

His index and ring finger rubbed your velvety walls, and his middle circled slow motions around your bundle of nerves, which tested your patience, but you weren’t in the position to complain. At least you were getting something, right? Sunoo couldn’t say the same thing, when Riki forced his head back down onto his dick for the nth time with his other hand. You let out a little gasp at the sight. You have seen countless time before but you could never get bored of it. Sunoo is a pretty boy in general, but he is the prettiest when his eyes are filled with heavy tears, and his plump lips are wrapped around the angry head of Riki’s cock. For you, at least.

And if you weren’t already soaked before, now you are for sure. Your walls clentched around nothing and you could swear your entrance was pulsing a tingly mix of their names, S sliding in a curved line on your slit, kissing your clit gently, the two end of R digging into your hole and the rest cornering the swollen nub.

You moaned at the sight louder, and Sunoo’s fingers gripped onto your inner thigh instinctively, dangerously close to where Riki’s were working. It didn’t go past Riki’s attention, and he grumbled, yanking him up by his hair.

‘Come on, Sunoo. How could you possibly thought you can touch her before you did what I fucking asked you?’ Sunoo whined at the loss and pushed his face against the muscles of his thigh, palm sliding off of your body. 

A pathetic little sound left your lips this time, making Riki even more annoyed. You two were never satisfied. You always had something to whine about.

‘And you? Shouldn’t you be glad I’m paying attention to this pathetic cunt of yours after the shit you pulled?’ You groaned, wishing he’d just forget it and could go about this how you usually would.

‘You’re so dramatic.’ You muttered but it soon turned into a pained hiss when the slow tracing came to a stop, halted by a rather harsh slap placed directly on your pussy. Sunoo’s head shot up.

‘D-don’t think that’s necessary…’ Riki let out a heavy sigh. 

‘This is not it. Imma need both of you to shut up for a bit.’ With that, he changed positions. 

He stood on the side of the bed, and dragged your body to face his lower half, already undoing the strings of his sweatpants. You were slightly confused at first, but everything fall into place the moment you felt a raw, swollen pair of lips being pushed between your raw, and swollen pairs down there. And at that, your mouth opened almost on a reflex, enveloping the hardness Sunoo had blew into this state so deliciously. That seemed good enough for him (for now at least), both of you silenced, the only sounds reaching his ears being the whimpers muffled into your core by Sunoo, and the gagging sound you produced here and there, when the mushroom shaped head hit the back of your throat. 

The only one left unstimulated was, once again, Sunoo, who was more than happy to get suffocated by your scent and juices, but also almost suffering from how little of friction his neglected member was getting by dragging it up and down against the bed sheet. The sweet grunts were blessings when they vibrated through you, so they were for Riki, since everytime your mouth opened a little more due to the sensations, he slid in deeper.

‘Aren’t you so selfish? Too cock-drunk to care about Sunoo, yeah?’ You tried to shake your head to answer, making him chuckle. 

It really wasn’t your intention to leave Sunoo untouched and hurting, it was him making the calls, for God’s sake. It also wasn’t your fault how you enjoyed the way Riki forced his tongue and nose to bury in you, without a chance to protest or breathe. Gripping his locks and pulling him even closer to grind against his face, almost to the point it hurt? Well, that might have been on your plate.

‘Hey! No pulling’ He tsk’d in a scolding tone, like he wasn’t doing the exact same thing. He pried your grip out of Sunoo’s hair, and pulled him up all together with his own. He gasped for air with his worn out, glistening cupid pillows. Riki also gave some time for you to catch your breath.

‘Does it hurt enough for you to stop, or you need more?’ A broken whimper left him as he was yanked by his hair again. He wasn’t even sure what Riki meant – his scalp or his cock trapped in his jeans –, but he nodded, franctically.

‘Y-yes. Please, it-it hurts.’ He sniffled, and the older’s gaze seemed to soften ever slightly.

‘See? You just can’t be gentle, can you?’ He looked down at you, as if you singlehandedly did all that to him. 

He pulled Sunoo closer, kissed off the tears that coated his lips, mixed with your slick. You watch ed the scene mesmerized, the nasty kiss they shared in front of you. 

‘How about you? Sore enough?’ A sharp slap on you again.

‘I am…’

He manouvered you into the ideal setting. You, on your hands and knees, with Sunoo at the end of the bed, standing above you, and him kneeled up behind you. 

Correction: that’s the easiest way to get you soaked. Just stuffing you from both ends.

‘I let you guys off easily this time, right? I’m being way too nice’

Riki mumbled, mostly to himself, while dragging his cock in and out of you. Your body shook with every thrust, literally pushing your mouth to the base of Sunoo’s aching member. Neither of you even thought about answering that, you just took what was given you. Your tongue swirled around the veins of your boyfriends cock, while the veins of your other boyfriends cock was rubbing the insides of your cunt.

“But even this counts as a punishment for you, doesn’t it? Not having your cunt streched by two cocks at the same time’ He whispered into your ears. His tone and words just made your body hotter, the pulsing more intense, your grip on Sunoo’s hips tighter, who also moaned at just the image of being inside of you with Riki.

Above you, things only got needier. The blond tried his best not to buck into your mouth that was already pushed, and Riki found him attempting to be “good” quite amusing. He brought him closer, marking his neck up with painful looking sucks and bites all while still pistoling into you. Your throat ached, bruises formed on your waist and hips by the harsh grip he had on you, and all you could do was to take it, while they ate each other’s faces off, using your body.

See, he does changes who he “tortures” more.

Isn’t that a lovely, well balanced realitionship?

[the-kr8tor]

EEEEEEEEP GET ME SOME DILF! HOBIE TO MUNCH ON!!

Elder berries for my Beloved Bobart Brown with ❣️!! (I had a temporary war w myself trying to choose between ❣️ or ⭐) where R is chasing BBB (beloved Bobart Brown) cuz she has a big fat crush on him while he's like, "uhhh, you're cute but you do know that I'm way to old for you?" but R is a little hard headed y'know.

Hope I'm not asking for too much🥲

Watch me pull a "Too Sweet + Guys my age + Older + Favorite" combo for the next whole hour or so:3

AAHHHHHHH OLDER HOBIE! Thank you for requesting, rozey!

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.4k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, older! Hobie, cw alcohol mention, awkward flirting, fluff!

A/N: Special thanks to @yumeaoka-chan bc their comment abt aaron single-handedly inspired this one 🤭

One year celebration 🎉

The giggling and the chatter of your friends are muffled in your ears as you watch him pass the doors of the pub. It's as if cupid himself struck an arrow right at your heart. He looks fit, like he just strutted out of a runway and into the dim pub. He wears leather well, jacket practically sculpted to his form. His hair is in long braids, all tied together in a ponytail that has the small silver charms clicking against each other. Then you spot the grey hairs weaved around the pretty braids, white hair running from the sides, earning him the title of a silver fox in your heart. Then there's his eyes, amber, soft and kind against the yellow lights of the pub. He has crow’s feet around those golden eyes, a testament that he has smiled a lot in his life.

As he strides towards the bar, his posture casual, hands tucked inside his pockets and with the nonchalance of someone who owns the place. Judging by how he paid for the single pint he ordered, that's not the case. But the curt nod exchanged by the handsome stranger and the bartender says that he's a regular. He just has that air around him that turns heads, admiration or something more as you see some patrons glance his way— all having the same shining eyes you probably have right now.

You purse your lips when he wraps his lithe ringed fingers around the glass, but before he sips, he blinks, head craning to look in your direction.

Caught in the act, you almost squeak, hands gripping at the glass of your forgotten drink as the handsome older stranger tilts his head, a smile curling on the corner of his lips. His eyes seem to gaze at you for hours, but with a parting chuckle from him, he turns back towards his lone drink.

“Shit.” You curse under your breath, palms clammy as you swallow thickly just from how you remembered his eyes meeting your own.

Your friends seem to notice your obvious gawking, and Betty, your best friend, taps your shoulder with a raise of her neat brow. “If you don't talk to him now, I will.”

“Don’t you dare.” Glaring, she giggles, pushing you off the booth until you're tethering off the edge of the rough leather seat. “Betty!” You whisper yell, gripping the end of the table.

“Go,” she continues to urge you, pinching your sides as you hop off the seat with a wince. “Go use your pretty girl charm and get your old man!”

“What charm?” Trying to sit back down, she quickly slides over to your seat, blocking you. “Betty!” Your friends stifle a laugh.

“How about a bet, to encourage you to put your pretty ass out there, hm?” She pokes your stomach, still sitting in your seat. You roll your eyes, pushing her away with your knee to no avail. “If you get his number, then we'll buy you that book you've been raving about.”

“Really?” You perk up, staring at your friends as they nod with a chuckle. “You better not be fucking with me, Betty, that's a really expensive book, it's limited edition.”

Betty almost falters. “Well, if we split it then it won't be, right?” She gets a few reluctant nods. “Besides, do you think you'll get his number?”

“For the book? Yes, bonus I get myself a boyfriend that would go to the store to buy me pads— and yes, I'm looking at you Anna and your Chad, who thinks wings are actually chicken wings.” A round of guffaws echoes out as Anna nods and sends you off with a pat on your behind.

As you start crossing the distance towards the mysterious hot stranger, you start to feel the nerves ebbing through you. Your hands are like waterfalls, and your legs feel like jelly once you get near enough to smell his cologne. Not overpowering that would give you the ick, it's citrus with a hint of fresh linen and mint.

You slide on the stool beside him, not knowing what to do with your hands as you put it on the counter then immediately change your mind and put it over your lap.

He raises a pierced brow, side eyeing you over the rim of his glass. “You’re punchin’ above your age range, love.”

Fuck, even his voice sends shivers down your arms. A good kind of shiver, not the type that you get when there's a scary movie playing.

“Really? I thought you were my age.” That's a shit reply, you thought to yourself, cringing. You close your eyes then swallow down your nerves before exhaling and craning your neck to finally look at him. “So, what's your poison?”

A smile slowly spreads on his pierced lips, eyes roaming around the curve of your jaw before meeting your own. “A girl after my own heart.”

“I'm not a girl, I'm a woman.” That sounded better in your head. You bite your lip to suppress a pained groan as you try to flag down the bartender.

He looks you up and down before flicking his eyes to yours once again. “Clearly.”

Your cheeks are on fire. Not getting a word out, the bartender ignores you.

He swallows the last of his drink, placing the glass down before flicking his wrist, index and middle raised as he calls the bartender effortlessly. You're in awe as the bartender walks over to him.

“A whiskey, neat for me and a cherry daiquiri for the…” he smirks, eyes glancing at you for a moment. “...Woman.”

You huff in your seat, cheeks still aflame. “How'd you know that's my drink?”

“Saw you cradlin’ it while you were oglin’ me.” The drinks slide on the counter, and he catches them before handing you your own. “A cherry daiquiri for the woman.” He teases with a glint in his eyes.

“Fine, I get it, I'm not your type.” Your shoulders slump, inhaling deeply and accepting defeat. “At least let me pay for the drinks.”

“Now, I didn't say anythin' ‘bout that.” His eyes grow softer, head tilting as he smiles, a genuine one, not a playful one. “Who said you're not my type?”

“Y–You, wait– no, I did. Yeah I did.” You stutter, almost fumbling off your seat as he grins at you.

“That right?” He rolls his shoulders, finger tapping the glass of his amber drink. “I figured I owe you a conversation with you payin’ and the book on the line.”

Chuckling nervously, you play with the hem of your dress. He keeps gazing at you like you're the only person in the whole pub, like all of his attention is on you. “W–What book?” You're caught red handed.

“The book that you'll get if you manage to get my number. What kind of book is it then?” He takes a sip, and you find yourself ogling at his bobbing Adam's apple.

You shake your thoughts away, taking your own drink and sipping at it, all the while trying not to choke from the pretty sight in front of you. “It's a new edition of my favourite book. It has a new cover, and they only made like a hundred of them.”

“Shit, is it the one from S. Collins?”

Your eyes widen, expression lighting up from the mention. “Yes! It's by her! Have you read it?”

“Read it? Love, I read all of ‘em.”

Grinning, the two of you fall into a smooth and casual conversation. From talking about books to everything under the sun. He's easy to talk to, smart and not just easy on the eyes. It's as if you've known him your whole life, and based on his easy smile, he feels the same. You don't realize it's been an hour until Betty tosses a straw at you and taps her watch.

“Shit,” you turn back towards him and his shoulders slouch with slight disappointment. “I have to go, thank you by the way. It's—” your heart already aches. “It was nice.” As you toss some bills on the counter, he stops you with his hand bracelet around your wrist gently.

“You forgot somethin', love.”

“What's that?”

“My name, it's Hobie, Hobie Brown.”

Your shyness peeks out as you tell him your name. Hobie smiles back, nodding and hiding his face by taking a napkin on the counter and writing something on it. Wait, was he flustered?

“And my number, call me when you get your book.”

[pankowcrumbs]

Skirt X Eddie Munson

MasterList

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

It had been an oddly quiet evening. The kind that stretches long and slow like honey dripping from a spoon. Outside, rain tapped gently at the windows like a metronome, the occasional rumble of thunder making the lights flicker ever so slightly. The kind of evening where you couldn’t help but want to be tangled up in someone else and in this case, that someone was currently hunched over his guitar, scribbling notes in a worn, coffee-stained notebook.

Eddie Munson, the love of my life and bane of my current cuddle-starved existence.

“Baby,” I called from the sofa, stretching like a cat, my arms above my head as I nestled deeper into the throw blanket. “Come cuddle me. It’s practically written in the rain.”

“I will in a bit,” he muttered distractedly, strumming a chord and frowning when it didn’t sound the way he wanted it to.

“That’s what you said twenty minutes ago.” I pouted, poking my toes out from under the blanket. “You’ve been working on that same verse for hours.”

Eddie glanced up briefly, curls messy, pencil tucked behind his ear, that little furrow in his brow that always formed when he was stuck. He was frustratingly beautiful when he was focused. He looked like trouble incarnate with his tattooed fingers and wild hair, and yet, right now, I wanted nothing more than for him to drop that damn guitar and wrap his arms around me.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “I just need to finish this one thing. I’m nearly there, I promise.”

I paused, watching him. The way his lip curled as he muttered the line under his breath, the frustrated scratch of his pencil on the page. I knew he meant well. But I also knew how to get his attention.

“Fine,” I said, voice sugary-sweet. “Come cuddle me, and I’ll let you put your hand up my skirt.”

That made him look up.

I didn’t stop there.

“We can even make a game out of it,” I added, lazily twirling a lock of my hair. “See how long I can go without making a sound.”

Eddie blinked once. Then again. His pencil dropped.

“You’re evil,” he said, his tone hoarse with sudden interest.

“You love it.”

He set the guitar down so fast it thudded against the carpet.

In three long strides, he was across the room, dramatically tossing the blanket off me and sliding onto the sofa like a man possessed. His hands found my waist instantly, tugging me toward him as he buried his face into the crook of my neck.

“You really play dirty, you know that?” he murmured, voice rough and low.

I giggled, already breathless. “I learned from the best.”

“Is that so?” His fingers skimmed down my thigh, slow and teasing. “What else did I teach you, hm?”

I leaned back against the arm of the couch, legs draped across his lap, heart thudding against my ribs. He was warm and solid, the scent of him familiar leather, smoke, and something distinctly Eddie. His hand slid under the hem of my oversized tee, the tips of his fingers brushing my skin like he was memorising it.

“You okay?” he asked gently, his voice a notch softer.

I nodded, cheeks already flushed. “Yeah. Just… don’t rush.”

“I’d never,” he whispered. “You lead. I follow.”

And he meant it. That’s what I loved about him his patience beneath all that chaos. He might have had the swagger of a rockstar and the mouth of a sailor, but when it came to me, he was all tenderness.

I leaned forward and kissed him, slow and lingering. His hand moved up to cradle the back of my neck, deepening the kiss with just the right amount of pressure. My fingers threaded through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.

“You’re really not finishing that verse tonight, are you?” I murmured against his lips.

“Sweetheart, that verse never stood a chance the second you said ‘skirt.’”

I burst out laughing, head falling back against the cushions.

He kissed my throat, just under my jaw. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” I whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “I love you too.”

The rain carried on outside, a slow, steady rhythm to match the warmth pooling between us. His hand never wandered far, always asking silently with every movement. When I shifted, guiding him closer, he followed willingly, lips finding mine again, tongue brushing over mine in a kiss that promised more.

And when things finally drifted beyond the point of return, when our kisses turned heavier, hungrier, I knew I’d never felt more wanted and more safe in anyone’s arms.

We didn’t rush. We explored. We laughed in between kisses. He whispered things that made me blush and things that made me ache in the best way. And when we finally gave in to the heat building between us, it wasn’t just physical it was everything we’d ever been.

Afterwards, we stayed tangled up in each other, limbs lazy and hearts full.

“That was…” I began, but trailed off, too happy to find the right word.

Eddie chuckled. “Yeah. It really was.”

Silence fell for a moment, broken only by the rain and the occasional sound of the wind.

“I do still want cuddles though,” I mumbled against his chest.

He kissed my forehead. “You’ll have to fight me to stop cuddling you now.”

We’d somehow migrated to the floor, still wrapped in the throw blanket, surrounded by the remnants of a half-eaten pizza and forgotten notebook pages. Eddie was drawing lazy shapes on my bare shoulder with his fingers.

“You know,” he murmured, “I’ve written songs for you in my head I haven’t even dared to put on paper yet.”

I looked up, touched. “Why not?”

“Because they’re too soft. Too much. People expect me to write about chaos and fire and... darkness.” He shrugged. “But you make me want to write about softness. Like... like clouds and sunlight and the way you smell like lavender.”

I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt.

“You can still be chaos, Eddie,” I said softly, “but I like knowing I’m your calm.”

He didn’t reply right away just pulled me tighter.

“Next time I get stuck on a verse, remind me to put my hand up your skirt. Apparently, it works wonders for inspiration.”

I swatted him playfully. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet... you still love me.”

“Completely.”

[ct-multifandom]

The Ruler Reactions

Gay people on national television! This one’s really long. If you read any one thing off this post let it be my analysis of Nath’s bedroom layout. Should I post that on its own, too?

Did they retcon his family to be ginger I’m confused. Oh wait no, I think the dad is, but the mom has brown hair? Curse the way they shade brown hair with orange highlights; it’s confusing, and it doesn’t help that Nath’s hair color right now looks more like his dad’s natural hair than his mom’s.

Nath’s miraculous is like a 〰️ shape

Pinkie Pie ass family dynamic

The dad, who I guess doesn’t have a name yet (?), is giving me basic businessman energy based on his outfit. He has a kind of douchey looking suit and aviator sunglasses

Dude their house is MASSIVE where do they even live?!?!? Is this one of those mansions that’s really far from central Paris? Like holy shit it’s huge and in one of the most expensive locations in the world, too. Is Shirel such a famous and successful architect that she’s that rich, or does the dad maybe have a very high-paying job?

Ew so the dad is one of those “I’m fine with gay people, but not everything has to be gay/ I’m okay with the distant, abstract concept of LGBTQ, but I don’t like to actually see it existing openly irl and deny it could apply to the people close to me” people

Local man prefers nonsensical, out-of-character het ship over well-developed and textually intentional same-sex relationship, hundred dead, thousands injured

Nice to see them making original stories instead of Ladybug rpf

You should talk to your good old pal Marc your buddy your bro

LMAO Marc has the same exact haircut as his mom. How did two boho hipster special brownie recipe Fleetwood Mac vinyl collection parents have such a Hot Topic son? Must be adopted

^ wait actually unironically might he be? I’m taking a closer look, and usually, they give the characters obviously similar features to their parents. His mom might have green eyes, and her mouth and chin shape look like him as well as maybe the ears, and obv they have the same hair texture. I don’t really see anything in common with the dad, though, and neither of their noses look like Marc’s, plus his skin tone is different from both of them and they have thinner eyebrows than him. We don’t know what color the dad’s hair used to be, but Marc clearly didn’t get it from his mom. It could be that the mom is his bio mom, but the dad is a stepdad?

The mom has a skirt with sun patterns and rainbow earrings. Nice to see her supporting her son’s character design motifs. How much do you wanna bet they all have pun names based on the sky like Sol(omon) or Sunny or Luna or Stella? Im putting all my money down, just look at the (a)Couffaines. I’m sure we’ll get more about them in another episode

Everyone’s got their shoes on the couch. Evil

Marc and Nathaniel’s moms would look like Ms Frizzle if they fused together

Marinette reminds me of that one Chris Fleming Gayle skit about cleaning the house. “get rid of the couch. We can’t let people know we sit!”

“I can’t go to school like this!” Because she’s embarrassed about snot and not because she’s ill. Hey Mari remember that time you starred in a COVID-19 PSA? What happened to that, did you learn nothing?

Okay so Diane is literally Nagito Komaeda I see how it is. Write this down for your Danganronpa AUs guys, she’s the ultimate lucky student. Sometimes I think about the early concept where the school they all go to is for elite and talented students… like girl that’s Danganronpa school. And that’s why all the kids are exceptionally good at at least one thing. Diane probably would’ve gotten accepted through some sort of lottery scholarship let’s be real. Side note, I saw the English dub gave her a South African accent which is so cute! They’ve been going off with foreign accents this season in all these different dubs

Marc has a rainbow “lightning bolt” logo of some sort on the back of his shirt

“Probably a jet plane” LMAO

So Marc really does have makeup on just one eye huh. Idk how I feel about that I mean it’s unique and the lightning bolt is kinda cool. I think I would’ve put the makeup and earring on opposite sides because it feels a bit unbalanced.

“It’s as if everything [the heroes] confronted led them to a final revelation” oh Adrien baby you weren’t there for your final revelation

“It’s our story, yours and mine” “it’s more than that, it’s our story, all of us!” Mylene is bi y’all I’ve been saying it. Myvan is bi4bi mark my words. “She’s wearing a pride pin because she’s an ally” you fools, that pin is for HER

To clarify, when she said that ^ I’m pretty sure it meant like the story represents the experiences of all queer people who read it and see themselves in it

Marc’s schoolbag has a tie-dye rainbow flap and the strap is studded like his belt. Nath’s is paint-splattered, and the flap has a comic book POW sunburst with a half-tone pattern and a graffiti tag. Gone are the days of everyone having bags that were the same assets, just randomly recolored in different pastel shades.

“I won’t hold it against you, it won’t change anything between us” <- lying, probably

Genuinely what is Nathaniel doing all day to get paint splatters all over his overalls, shoes, and bag? That’s one character design trope i do not enjoy because it’s so quirky Pinterest art hoe manic pixie dream girl, and it doesn’t even make sense because he’s almost always shown using pen and pencil, markers, and digital media. Show him painting more murals or something to justify this. Or give him a yellow Kanken, a huge reusable water bottle, and a phone case with a famous Impressionist painting on it idk.

^ also knowing how rich his family is now, the whole messy-on-purpose aesthetic is giving Coachella attendee idk like trust fund baby cosplaying as a Home Depot employee. Does this make any sense

Seeing Ziggy participating in all this and Nath asking for her opinion makes it even weirder that Ivan wasn’t talking to Stompp last time. See, Nath and Sabrina are making the most out of their free dogs.

The big nostrils they gave her are kind of distracting, though, and I feel like they make her less cute? If I were to draw a goat from memory I wouldn’t give it particularly large nostrils

He has the Adrienette fairytale AU art above his desk. “Oh Mariknight, we’re really in it now”

More epic art! This is still Avril Circus, right? I guess they really got into the romantasy genre

So obv the knights represent them, but I’m thinking are the helmets supposed to be like fur and feather themed to nod towards their hero designs? Is that a stretch?

“He’d rather lose his powers than his partner” that’s the line of the day right there ^ we are so coming back to that later as it shows how different Marc and Nath as well as Alya and Nino’s priorities are than Marinette’s

“They can’t lose their powers, it’s not fair” oh this is so foreshadowing. It also reminds me of the overarching idea that as a miraculous holder you can kind of just do whatever you want, and that you can create a third outcome instead of choosing between two bad things

Really interesting how Nath’s room is so huge, but only the tiny, hidden-away corner of his desk is decorated or representative of his personality in any way. The rest of the room is neutral and boring like it’s from a real estate catalogue, and is clearly in his mom’s style rather than his own. That shows how controlling she is and how even in his own bedroom the space represents what she wants without considering him. There’s even an abstract painting with harsh black smears and a bunch of eyes on it? It’s like his parents put that up to make him feel like he’s constantly being observed or scrutinized by them even when they aren’t physically there, which follows him away from home as well. Creepy af and reminds me of that one psychology thing where putting up posters of eyes is supposed to deter people from stealing. He has to shove his true self into one little corner as far from the door’s line of sight as possible where he can block what he’s doing with his back.

And this whole “true self vs my parents want me to be a certain way” thing is put in the context of homophobia in this episode, but I think it goes deeper than that. His sexuality and career plan are just two examples in what’s likely a constant stream of “hey you’re not existing correctly please fix that”

When Gabriel Agreste in s4 came out I made a post about the juxtaposed shots of Adrien and Marinette’s scenes with how Adrien’s house is oppressively empty and colorless while Marinette’s bedroom and visit to the art room were colorful, crowded, and filled with details full of personality and warmth. They’re doing it again with Marc and Nathaniel’s houses as a parallel to Marinette and Adrien, and showing us the Mariknight art from that episode solidifies the callback. Even then, despite the rest of the house being cold af, Adrien got to have a bunch of colorful games, music, and a TV in his bedroom even though he didn’t really choose which enrichment got thrown into his enclosure. As far as I can tell, Nathaniel just has art supplies. How is Shirel worse than Gabriel in this regard the bar is in hell

Nath rewrote the ending and Marc liked it better hm. He’s also taking poetry class. Before, Nath said he was bad at writing, but it seems like he’s improving. I wonder if they’re moving in the direction of him making solo comics later on. Not saying he and Marc are gonna stop working together or anything, but Nath wants to do this for a living and we don’t have any indication of what Marc wants to do yet, so there’s a chance comics might be a hobby project for him in the future. By which I mean when they’re adults, not like, later this season.

Nath hid what he was holding as soon as he heard the door that’s a reflex

LMAO they’re referencing the famous “does Adrien smell like cheese” fandom question

Talk about comic relief after all that stuff I just talked about ahaha

I hope the proof poster is gonna be up in the background of Marinette’s room from now on

Ok so they just look through his stuff in his room ok

“I’m okay with gay people as long as that doesn’t include you”

That mindset that you need to have a useful, stable job and make a ton of money and be productive 24/7 is like the Jewish version of the stereotypical “why no A+” Asian parents it’s like “you’re gonna pay our bills when we’re old, right? Why are you slacking off then, why no doctor or lawyer or business executive?”

Girl she threw that entire thick ass packet in the shredder with the BINDER CLIPS still on it?!? What kind of diamond drill bits are built into that thing

Oh hi Fred

First time a side character is abusing their powers for something stupid. I hope this won’t be a problem for him in the future,,, he’s a bit too casual about running around and transforming for personal reasons

Reverser callback, Nathaniel is once again doing destructive bullshit in the heat of the moment that will harm everyone involved instead of doing anything rational

No Alix for him to talk about his feelings with this time though :( when will platonic wife come home from the war

Thinking about that one analysis post I read that was posted forever ago where OP theorized/headcanoned that he has BPD you were so real for that

That was like a bajillion dollars worth of printer ink, rich kid

Maybe you should’ve talked to Marinette before going to school…

“So you were the jet plane?” Lmao

“Comic books are so you” “you’re only saying that because it’s all I’ve ever done” I mean he’s not exactly wrong about that. I don’t think he’s been shown to have any hobbies or specific skills outside of art

“Please respect my choice” callback to Penalteam when he said no to the miraculous and she was like… ok here it is anyway, see you at the akuma battle in five minutes

Aw that hug was sweet. Me personally though, I wouldn’t hug someone with a red nose and puffy eyes who just sneezed through the sound barrier moments ago. Lila wins by default because the whole team gets incapacitated by The Plague.

My “friend”

New teacher just dropped! The gardening teacher has flowers in her hair and patched up knees on her overalls cute

“I didn’t know tomatoes cry when you cut them” yes Nathaniel is very sad right now

Strike two of Nath making Marc cry, thin fucking ice

I need to know more about this academic vampire coven. There’s the poetry teacher and… maybe a school nurse? Both with bat accessories. Putting punk spikes all around the handles of a wheelchair is crazy btw. “Help me with my wheelchair, but also it’s a torture device. If you say no you’re ableist”

“If they were real art they’d be in the louvre” girl is YOUR art in the louvre, huh?

“Comics (allegory for being gay) aren’t real art” ma’am the entire LGBTQ community is currently looking down and watching you from the balconies

How are you homophobic while wearing quirky miniature-object earrings that represent what your job is, that’s a lesbian symbol

Also your son looks like if a man and a woman had a baby so this is your fault

Ok forcefully dragging him by the forearm

Very interesting that Lila didn’t attempt to akumatize Nathaniel during his breakdown but waited for his mom to get more upset,,, will expand on this later

“I’ll give you the power to literally put your kid through instant conversion therapy! It’s gonna work this time.” Wtfffff also the extremely blatant villain name pun is kind of lost in English

Marc has broken the fourth wall a couple times, he knows he has enough plot armor to jump a supervillain without transforming and not get seriously injured

Transformation! His design eats so hard I’m obsessed, and he’s skipping around like a baby goat. The spiky parts of his hair on the sides kind of look like floppy goat ears and the back of his jacket ends in a little white triangle hanging out that looks like a tail :)

How was he doing all that in that tiny closet? *onlooker sees the closet rattling violently and the legs of a poorly made 3D model clipping in and out of it* and yeah yeah he’s done hiding busting out of the literal closet yeah

I do appreciate a teen coming out story where the character is fully aware of their sexuality beforehand btw. None of that “b-but we’re both boys 🥺” trope just a guy who is openly bi and dating a boy at school but has to hide it at home

Ok this is so nit picky but I do wish they did something to suggest he is bisexual in this episode. Totally understandable to focus on mlm relationships, but I see what I imagine are young kids on the insta side of the fandom get confused about season 1 and assume he “became” gay, or I guess had massive comp-het idk. They might be reinforcing that idea here. I hope there’s something later on at least, like that time Rose joked about kissing both Mari and Adrien.

“I need to find my son” I already found MY son get away from him

Bro thinks he’s Splatoon

Those markers cost also a bajillion dollars. I mean they’re like magically generated so I guess it doesn’t count but still. Also are they… just regular art supplies he’s using or are they real weapons that look like art supplies because his power can’t make magical objects. If he’s just launching plastic rectangles at an armored knight that’s not very effective

Love the cunty Bayonetta style kick from chat noir

I guesssss it makes sense why Lila wants to turn CN on LB and get him to bring both the miraculous but like,,, you’re better off asking him to give you his ring first and then go after LB yourself whether you get her or not

This is the part of the episode where the hero explains what’s going on between them and the villain very explicitly in case you didn’t get it yet

Phew good thing mind control victims will respond to anyone’s orders

“Adrien is gonna have a villain arc” well it just happened and it’s that he turned into an Axe body spray boy

Oh what the fuck why is Lila calling out Nathaniel by full government name that’s creepy. Is she onto him for potentially being a superhero? Tbf he did transform twice in front of huge windows. And he stuck to the artist shtick a little too hard. If she suspects him then she’s not entirely sure yet? To expand on stuff from earlier, in Daddycop, she tried to akumatize Sabrina after she ran away crying, but didn’t do the same to Nathaniel even though he was arguably more upset. In El Toro de Piedra, there was a suspicious figure stalking Ivan, but I didn’t notice anyone like that here. In both those episodes, she didn’t say anything specific about Sabrina nor Ivan, so what’s going on in this one? Perhaps she was watching him in the scene where he went to destroy the prints?

Another episode where the shitty parents become niceys at the end. Please don’t let them magically be perfect form now on nor Raul nor Emile, let them suck a little but try to be nicer

Ah so the rewritten ending is that the sun and rain knights don’t lose their powers, but combine to create a new power of rainbow? Also mlm on screen kiss but it’s not between real characters. Fair enough, I don’t think this is an appropriate time for a marcnath kiss

There’s something to be said about how wlw relationships are seen as less threatening than mlm in media like girls kissing can be brushed off as cutesy but boys kissing is seen as a weird kink thing, like how the dad was saying mlm romance isn’t deep and sentimental unlike straight romance. In TV-Y7 cartoons in general there have been a good handful of iconic canon wlw moments, but I can’t think of any mlm equivalents other than minor side characters that barely do anything or like, older men who are also background characters and have no romantic subplot because they’re long time partners. In this show they’ve created an in-universe justification for why Marc and Nath are less open about their relationship, but they still continue to be censored far more heavily than Julerose, Zoe, or Caline and Giselle.

Shoes on the BED broooo if Sublime can have four different hairstyles in one episode they can make the characters take their shoes off okay

I love the physics on Marc’s dangly earring

Let’s talk about rampant homophobia and hate crimes but use nerdy fantasy metaphors for plausible deniability

Awwwww they’re so cute

YOOO Marc’s disguised miraculous has a cutout design in it like the one in a calligraphy pen that’s cool

REVEAL Nath was gonna be bisexual but not eat hot chip nor lie. This will soooo come back later. When Nino did it, it didn’t exactly have humongous consequences? I mean kind of but not in any way that endangered him nor Alya. That’s what I was saying earlier that Nino and Nath value their relationships more than being a hero. The trouble here is that Lila is being really ominous about Nath, he has a track record of impulsively doing bad things, and he’s recklessly transformed a couple times in this ep alone, so this is… concerning but also cute? And since the comic represents them, instead of giving up their powers after a reveal they’re gonna combine them and make them stronger?

People have been saying there’s gonna be a Myvan one too because of the intro and yeah I agree. Probably even more, like I can’t imagine Luka and Juleka can hide it for long. Marinette will realize that nobody thinks lying to their friends and partners is sustainable. She values being a hero over her relationship because she feels responsible for everything. Like she can’t just quit her job and get replaced at this point, she needs to protect the whole city/world and to her, that’s bigger than her personal life.

Interesting that they’re obscuring Marc’s transformation. Does that suggest his episode is after this? It’s not like it’s a spoiler, we already know what he looks like. Dramatic effect ig. Marc was generally very mature throughout this ep tho, and he jumped into the fight to protect Nath, so idk maybe it came first

Lila already knows who most of the heroes are, but not them. There’s a good chance she will find out and use it against them in the endgame. She does know about Alya and Nino. I predicted after Daddycop that Sabrina might fly under her radar the longest and be key in tricking her a second time.

Important edit: I just noticed the spiderverse-esque comic book effects in his transformation sequence, that’s actually sick. It’s so blink and you’ll miss it and by god I missed it the first time. Nathaniel Kuntzerve or whatever his name is. The goat, like literally

Unimportant edit: it finally hit me who Nath’s dad reminded me of and why he felt so familiar. It’s goddamn Tighten from Megamind. “There is no audience for your comic book, there is no tooth fairy, and there is no Queen of England”.

Wow that took me so long to write in actually almost glad there’s a hiatus now! (Not actually I’m joking) :((( it’s ok tho. Gay people in my phone

[sturnboos]

KIDNAPPED BY CHRIS PART ONE

CURRENT WARNINGS: sadistic!chris, physical abuse, mental abuse. Please read at your OWN risk

STARING: Sturniolo triplets x Delilah

I walk through the empty, cold streets, no one near by. It's nice. The rain drenching me as I walk. I've been warned about how dangerous the streets here are but I don't care. They just seem empty, all the shops have been closed for ages here, it's creepy but cool. I rather walking here then in town, there's hardly any cars by, the only weird thing that's happened to me was someone once trying to sell drugs to me. I refused. They followed me for a little then stopped.

It's beginning to get dark. I hear footsteps behind me, I turn around, no one. I turn back around. I'm just imagining things. I hear glass smash on the concrete not to far away from me. I don't turn around, I walk faster, starting to get a little scared now. I suddenly feel something hard hit me on the head causing me to fall to the ground, then I'm completely out.

Blackness.

"She's quite pretty isn't she?" I hear a mans voice.

"Indeed" another man says.

"How hard did you hit her Chris, she's been out for like 6 hours now, it's supposed to be 2 hours" Someone else says.

"Maybe she's dead" one laughs.

I try to move my arm to rub my eyes but my arms are tied behind something.

"Oh she's awake" one of the men say.

I open my eyes slowly, my head throbs. I look up at three men. One had curtain bangs, one with a mullet and last one was wearing a black ski mask as if he wanted to look more intimidating then the other too. I could only see his dark blue eyes and the tips of his fluffy hair.

"What is happening?" I whisper.

"I don't know" the one with the mask says. One of the others laugh. One walks out of the room and the other follows.

"Who the fuck are you?" I say. mask man leans down to my height of where I'm sitting. He grabs my chin and pulls it towards him.

"Didn't anyone warn you of walking around the streets" he whispers. I stare at him, he runs his thumb over my lips then pulls my bottom lip down.

"especially when your so small and pretty" he adds on. I move my leg to kick him in the crotch. He puts his knee down on my calf and puts his weight on it, I wince, "don't do that" he whispers. He moves his knee off me.

"Take off your mask" I whimper.

"if I take off my mask then I'll keep you forever" he whispers.

"where am I?" I look around the room.

"No where near anyone you know Delilah" he whispers and let's go off me.

"How do you know my name?" I ask. He shrugs and stands so I try to kick him again. He turns around and stands on my thigh, making me yelp in pain, he brings knife to my throat. "Don't do it again, I don't really want to have to kill you so early" he whispers. A tear leaves my eye. "I'm not going to hurt you Delilah" he whispers slipping the knife up my throat and pointing at my chin.

"What do you want?" My breath hitches. "I wanted to punch the shit out of you everyday until you're dead but I think I'll keep you" he whispers.

"Maybe you will get a couple punches though" he shrugs and pulls the knife away from me.

"Why me?" I ask, "because you were stupid enough to walk around the streets" he whispers. Then he stands and walks out of the room slamming the door. Tears stream out of my eyes and I bring my knees to my chest.

"How long should we keep her?" I hear the faint voice of one of the others say.

"I think we should keep her for a while then kill her, I mean, we can't keep her for to long, they'll have everyone looking for her" the other one says.

"No ones gonna find us nick" the masked one answers.

"I know, but, if we keep her, what are we gonna do, I mean, we'd have to feed her" one says.

"And thats what we'll do"

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[bonniesbluee]

Drew Starkey x bimbo!reader - friends with benefits situation

drew was just finishing an interview after the success of OBX season 4. obviously, he and his friends had to celebrate. and what better way than to celebrate with some boobs on their faces. they were going for the plenty options of women, but him? he was going for someone special.

his pretty little stripper. he has been seeing you each time he has time to spare. he met you in an occasion just like this, a celebration! and since then? he hasnt slept with anyone else. you have him hooked, from your flirty banter, to how you match his freak, to the way you turn into a softie after sex.

both of you have an unspoken friends with benefits dynamic, and you seem to be okay with that! specially since he's so busy, he wont have time for an actual relationship. but he would be lying if he said he didnt want you out of that job. he wanted to be with you at all times. show you off, take you to galas and red carpets, introduce you as his girl, as his. he would do anything to give you a better life, and he will. eventually.

when he and his friends walk in the club he starts looking for you, telling his friends he needs to go to the restroom. he spots you in a pole, dancing so sexually yet so elegantly. he loves seeing you doing what you do best. he chuckles to himself, walking back to his friends. "yo, where the girls at man?" one of them ask. he simply rolls his eyes and sits down, "be patient, they're coming." he knows they are.

a few minutes pass and he sees you walking down the stage, he doesn't bother excusing himself before he's already behind you. he embraces you from behind, obviously making you flinch before feeling his big hands on you and realizing who it was. you turn, giggling. "oh my goddd!" you squeal, hugging him tightly. "i missed you so much baby." he sighs against your hair, his hands hooking underneath your knees to hoist you up.

you wrap your arms around his neck, pressing soft kisses against his cheek, leaving red marks against his skin. "mm me too, why didnt you tell me you were coming?" you pout, glossy lips glistening against the clubs lights. "i had to surprise you." you laugh before kissing him softly. "you came here alone?" you ask while he puts you down, his hands going up to cup your cheeks. "nah, came here with my boys." he nods behind him, and you hum in response.

"actually, now that you mention it." he smirks, kissing your forehead before pulling you with him. "mind getting one of your best girls for them? for this special occasion." he leans down to whisper in your ear. "maybe then we could get some alone time." you smile at his words, nodding. "alright then." he gives the meat of your ass a squeeze before you rush away into the dressing room. he sits back down, and before any of his friends get the chance of questioning him, he talks. "dont worry, the girls are coming."

you come back minutes later with 3 more girls. they're all in their best revealing attire, from glittery thongs to see through bras. he doesn't see that tho, he sees you. he watches as you and the girls approach the table. "hello boys," you say as you stand infront of the table. hands on your hips. "these will be girls that will be, hopefully, making your night." you wink, giggling softly. you give the girls a nod and they pick a boy of their choosing before they walk away to private rooms. you do the same, grabbing drew's bicep and pulling him to a room.

the moment the door is shut he kisses you desperately, his hands going to your cheek, his other one going down to your ass. "its been so long," he mumbles against your lips. "too long." before you know it your face is deep into the cushion of the couch, practically screaming his name. "i-i-im gonna-" he slaps your ass before burying his face into your neck. "im gonna fill this pretty hole up.." he groans, grabbing your neck and turning your head. "look at me while you come, i want to see you.."

afterwards, you lie on his chest, eyes closed, body sweaty and spent. his hands card through your hair to make sure it doesn't bother your face. "i cleared up my schedule for a week, you could...spend the week at my place?" he whispers. taking note of all the bite marks he left on your hips. "is it even a question?" you giggle, and he smiles. "i guess not." he hugs you softly, hands cradling you against his chest as if he wasnt balls deep inside of you less than 5 minutes ago.