#rip animal rug

[bleedingichorhearts]

𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗: So uh… how we doing today?

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉: @kit-williams,@egrets-not-regrets.

𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗:

Viață mică - Little Life (Romanian)

Viață - Life (Romanian)

𝕬𝖈𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜𝖑𝖊𝖉𝖌𝖊: If you are under the age of 18. Shoo! Go away! Skedaddle! Why you reading this in the first place? Be 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 for/of yourself.

TW // SMUT/NSFW, Language, Filth, Google Translation.

|°ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ°| |°ɪᴄʜᴏʀ’ꜱ ᴀᴏ3°| |°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°|

Returning home, I threw my keys onto the counter and started to take off my coat and placed it over the leather couch. Swiping up some mail from the same counter.

I sighed and started to flip through it. Stopping for just a second to take off my shoes, using the counter as support. I wondered where Amadeus was as he usually greeted me at the door like usual. His mock helmet nuzzling against the top of my head, brightening up my day just a little bit brighter when he would greet me so sweetly.

Placing the mail off to the side. I started to take off my shirt next. Figuring if I was alone I could partly streak my own home for a moment and gather my clothing back when I was done taking my planned shower.

Throwing my shirt off to the side, near the leather couch. I made quick work of my pants, unbuttoning them and throwing my pants off to the side on the couch too when I wiggled them off.

Taking the mail from the counter again. I slowly made my way down the hallway and passed a spare living room that I had to do a double take at. My heart jumping in my chest at the split second dark flash I saw until I realized it was just Amadeus.

A very, very needy looking Amadeus.

My god, wasn’t he a sight to see.

The curtains were closed blocking most of the sunlight, but there was this streak of light coming through, creating a god-like glow on his pale naked skin. His most prominent scar going across his chest lining up with the angled sun streak. His lean body leaning back on the love sofa. He huffed, his chest rising up in down quickly. His c*ck twitching against his body, producing some prec*m off the tip. Was he…?

Maybe that shower can wait.

Amadeus tried taking multiple cold showers, but it simply wasn’t enough for his heated skin. He doesn't know really why he was so hot, so needy. It wasn’t like him to be so sexually high. He tried taking care of his sudden erection, c*ming once, twice, then thrice by his hand, but it pained him more than anything, like he was endlessly edging himself. It just wasn’t enough for him. He needed something more.

His eyes snapped open when the scent of his viață mică reached his nose. His mouth falling open to capture more of her scent while he leaned forward on the sofa. His c*ck pulsing at the sight of his viață mică half naked at his waist.

He watched with half lidded eyes as she placed her hands on his thighs, slowly running her fingers up and down them as she cooed at him. Flushing her chest up against his c*ck. The skin against skin contact making his body ignite even more. A strangled groan rumbling through his chest while he clutched the sides of the sofa, creating an indent in them with his nails.

Throne, this is what he needed. He needed his viață mică to take care of him and his aching c*ck. 

He felt like he was in paradise. The need was still strong, but it was pleasurable and it didn’t cause him much discomfort as it did with his hands.

He felt himself twitch, her hands taking the bottom of his length and slowly tracing his prec*m all the way up to his tip before her warm mouth opened up, cooing up at him before wrapping around him.

He nearly thrusted up into her mouth. Another groan falling from his lips, crushing the arm of the soft he gripped onto, by the Emperor.

Her tongue swirled around his tip. Then bobbed her head up and down. A sinful squelch sounding out. Her hands sliding up and down his V line and thighs. Throne, it was all too much, but it wasn’t enough at the same time. He needed more. He needed to be inside his viață mică.

Bringing his hand forward, he gently took her by the throat after she popped off his c*ck for a breath. Surprising his little bonded as she jumped in his hold while he came forward and pressed his lips against her swollen lips. Tasting his needy self on her tongue.

Slowly, he urged his little bonded down to the animal skinned rug beneath them. His lips slowly working his way down her body. Listening to how her breath hitched and her heart beat pick up its pace. His fangs itching to mark her up, to draw blood from that soft flesh of hers. To taste the sweetness of her blood and c*nt.

“Ești prea dulce pentru mine, viață mică(You are too sweet for me, little life.)” He groaned, kissing the inside of her thigh. Suckling a little there while he watched her squirm beneath his touches; his affections. “Dându-te mie.(Giving yourself to me.)”

“I-I hope that means you're enjoying yourself.” She stammered beneath him as he hummed, moving her panties to the side and wrapped his arms around her thighs. His hands softly pressing against her soft stomach, keeping her in place while his tongue slithered out of his mouth, pulling his little viaţă close, a squeak leaving her shuddering body.

Twisting and thrusting his tongue. He listened to the many pretty little noises his little viață made. Her thighs coming in and closing around his head as he ignored how his c*ck was aching for release. He needed to feast, to taste the sweetness before he would stuff his c*ck right inside of her tight c*nt.

He kept the top of her body still on the ground as she cried out. The rest of legs locking around his head as he let her ride out her climax on face. Lapping up anything her delicious, throbbing core would give him.

“Throne, Aș putea să te mănânc toată ziua.(I could eat you all day.)” He mumbled, dragging his lips back up his viață mică body. His hands dragging up the sides of her body and arms. Tugging off her bra while he was at it.

“I hope… you are paying for that.” She huffed, his lips meeting hers once more. His c*ck twitching underneath him while he dragged his hands up her arms, pinning them up above her head.

“Îți dau tot ce vrei, mica mea viață.(I give you everything you want, my little life.)” He spoke, nuzzling his little bonded head before dragging his lips down her face. “Ți-aș da orice de-al meu(I would give you anything of mine.)”

“Ți-aș da viața mea( I would give you my life.)” He admitted, vowed. Kissing her cheek bone. “Ți-aș da sângele meu.(I would give you my blood.)” He kissed her shoulder. “Fiii și fiicele noastre.(Our sons and daughters.)” He purred, running his fangs over her throat, making her shiver beneath him. “Viitorul nostru.(Our future.)”

She gasped beneath him. The simple noise pleasing his ears. His fangs drawing blood from her while he inched himself closer and closer to her tight core. A moan rumbling out of his chest.

He rolled his hips slowly; deeply. The unholy squelch of their hips coming together and their gasps and huffs staining each other’s heated skin. Bodies desperately trying to get closer to one another with each thrust, with each beat of their heart’s.

Truly, his little viaţă was too sweet to him.

Amadeus groaned, nearing his own climax after making his mica viata c*m multiple times on his c*ck before he did. The moon resting between the curtains now.

His lips rose off her skin to stop drinking from his little weakened viaţă, but her hand slid from his own, dragging up his arm and wrapping up and around his head. Threading her fingers through his hair before gripping at it, urging him to drink more.

A deep moan came out of his lips. His c*ck pulsing inside of her as he couldn’t help, but drink some more of her blood. Her whimpering command clear to him.

He didn’t stop when he climaxed himself, his hips slowly grinding back into his little bonded. His head lifting up from her shoulder to lap at the deep mark he created, making sure there wasn’t an ounce of wasted blood on her precious skin.

Throne, he wasn’t finished with his viață mică yet. He still has a lot more to give to his mica viata. He could feel it.

Though, he doesn’t really know what got into him, wanting to breed his mica viata, but he wasn’t really complaining if it had her yearning for him while he drank her sweet blood from her and f*cked her.

Touching his own head against her own. He kept moving his hips into her coated walls. Licking her blood off of his lips as he enjoyed the little sounds she gave him.

[benevolenterrancy]

Zhuzhi-Lang, sincerely, what the fuck do you think gratitude means? I'm just curious. I just want to talk.

[whippetcrimes]

I worked my retail job Saturday and a lot of customers came in and were disappointed that I'd left Misty at home. My coworkers told me that people ask about her during the week too. One lady apparently pulled out her phone to show them pictures they'd taken of her. She is so well loved.

[explorerspack]

say one thing about me if i’m gonna get a character permakilled it WILL be narratively satisfying.

[monster-disaster]

maybe a short story on a human reader being taken by an orc army/camp and just absolutely used as their personal toy???

When I read your request, I couldn't help but hear, "Looks like meat's back on the menu, boys!" from Lotr.

But let's be serious: I hope you will enjoy it. :)

Orcs x Reader Warnings: filth, nothing but filth

The air is thick with smoke, mingling with the musky odor of sweat and leather. The scent of blood and violence still hangs heavy, fueling the heat and tension around the tents made of rough animal hides. The crackling flames of the campfire cast dancing shadows across the rugged faces of the warriors. Feral hunger glints in their eyes as they come closer. It feels like the ground rumbles and shakes under their steps. Their muscular, battle-scarred bodies pulsate with anticipation. The sounds of their gruff voices fill your ears, making you deaf to everything else. Your gaze jumps from orc to orc. The chieftain's large hand is heavy and warm on your shoulder as he pushes you deeper into the center of the camp.

The bounds around your legs and wrists make it hard for you to move, but it doesn't stop the warriors from closing around you. Their heat and raw desire surround you, making you shake and sweat under their primal gazes. Adrenalin fuels the fire in your bloodstream and thrums through your body until you almost buckle because of the throb between your legs.

The chieftain behind you reaches for the clasps and buckles that hold your armor together. The metal piece is dirty and beaten. His calloused fingers trace the edges of your armor before letting it fall to the ground. In other circumstances, you would feel relieved without its weight. Your undershirt sticks to your chest because of the sweat that still glistens in your heated skin, revealing the curve of your breasts. Another orc steps closer, barely smaller than his leader behind you. You remember him. One of his eyes is milky-white with a long scar from his eyebrow to his nose. He rips off your shirt, dropping the useless fabric before reaching for the buckles of your pants. You can't even feel the cold night air between the orcs towering over you.

The warriors move in sync. Their hands work in unison to strip away the layers covering your body. They reveal the soft swells of your curves and the hard cords of your muscles. Your skin is decorated with old and fresh scars, injuries, and bruises. The others get louder and louder with each glimpse they get of your naked body. The clear signs that you are a warrior, a fierce opponent, fuel their desire.

Soon, you stand exposed among the orcs, ready to be ravaged by them. Your limbs are not tied together anymore, but it changes nothing. You can't make yourself to move. It would be futile anyway. You can't fight against them, and they would enjoy chasing after you too much.

The orc in front of you wastes no time. His rough hands eagerly reach out to grope and caress every inch of your body. His dark green fingers dig into the flesh of your breast, squeezing and kneading, pinching your nipple until you mewl and try to get away from him, falling into the arms of the chieftain behind you. The leader grabs your hip, making you grind down on his leather-covered erection. His unyielding grip leaves red imprints on your skin. The cold of his rings digs into the flesh of your hips.

One hand slips between your legs. Rough fingers slide over your slickness and prod at your entrance. Your stomach jumps with fear and excitement. "Look at this juicy cunt, boys! She's all wet and ready for us!" The orc in front of you announces loudly to everyone around you to hear. The camp gets even louder with feral growls and words that make your heart beat faster in your ribcage. Whatever you want to say, to tell him to stop or to go deeper, dies on your tongue. The only thing keeping you standing is the chieftain behind you, still grinding his cock against your ass while his man explores your wetness. He smears it all over your mound and inner thighs before turning his attention back to your entrance. "I knew the moment I saw her on the battlefield that she would be a good prize to fight for," he grunts, forcing each digit of his thick finger into your pussy. Your walls clench down around him, to keep him out or to force him deeper, you don't know. "You like that, don't you?" The chief grunts next to your ear. His question fans over the curve of your neck. "I can smell your pussy, girl." "We all smell her." Someone says from the circle of orcs surrounding you. Their eyes are heavy on your body as they watch you. You steal a few glances at them. A lot of them are already naked, tugging at their cocks hanging heavy between their thick thighs.

The male in front of you continues to bully your cunt with his finger, going deeper and deeper while his other hand reaches up to grip your hair. He pulls back your head, making you arch your body. "You're ours now, human," he snarles. "But do not fret. I saw you fighting, I'm sure you can handle a few orc cocks too." A rumble of laughter waves through the air, and your pussy tightens at the thought. "Oh, look at that!" He laughs, pushing another finger into your wet hole. A groan gets stuck in your throat at the feeling of your walls stretching around him. "She likes the thought." "She does," the chief grunts, pulling his own cock out of his pants to force your hand around it. Your fingers curl around his thick rod automatically. If you could focus on anything, you would be surprised at its weight on your palm. "She doesn't look like someone who backs out of a challenge." His words are followed by laughter again while you bend and turn the way they want you.

Before you know it, you are on your knees with their leader still behind you, shoving his cock into your pussy while his warrior is busy with your mouth. He taps the head of his erection against your lips, and you open without a second thought. At this point, your mind is too hazy, and your senses are full of their musky scent to do or think anything. You feel like a raw nerve under their pushes and pulls. They thrust in and out of you with a relentless rhythm while you moan and drool around their cocks. You slip in and out of your orgasms, getting more and more drunk on their relentless assault. They push your boundaries, both physically and mentally, until you are nothing but a warm body they can use as they want.

You don't even notice when they come inside you. Their warm seed seeps out of your abused holes, and you almost choke on the orc's cock when he pushes himself deeper into your throat.

The ground is dirty and hard under your weak body as you let yourself collapse. Your muscles shake and twitch while your pussy clenches around nothing. Your chest heaves with every breath you take as you try to clear your mind.

But they are not done yet.

"It's your turn, boys," one of them says, stepping away from you to give enough space for the others. "Keep those sweet holes full tonight."

The air crackles with anticipation and feral need. One by one, the orc warriors step forward, their rough hands exploring every inch of your body. Their calloused fingers trace the swell of your breasts, teasing and pinching your nipples until you cry and wiggle. Your pussy pulsates between your legs while their fingers explore your folds and both of your holes. They feast upon your bare curves, their desires ignited by the sight of your vulnerable state.

The first orc doesn't waste his time. His massive frame towers over you, keeping his body up with his trunk-like arms next to your head while taking you fiercely, his thick length plunges deep into your wet and eager pussy. His heavy balls slap against your skin. Your walls grip him tightly even though you are sensitive, and the feeling of him pounding into you makes you tear up. A thumb smears your tears all over your face before pushing into your mouth. Your tongue laps at the digit.

When the orc between your legs reaches his peak, fucking you full of his cum, another one steps forward, hungry and ready for his turn. He turns you onto your stomach easily, positioning himself behind you when you force your knees to not give up under your weight. His hands are gripping your hips as he shoves his cock into your cunt. Ecstasy trembles through your body while someone else grabs a good chunk of your hair and forces your mouth down his hard length. More tears escape from the corner of your eyes as you gulp and suck around the orc's cock.

The orcs continue to take turns, their primal instincts driving them deeper and deeper into you. You become a mess of drool and cum until there is no part on your heated, sweaty skin that they didn't touch or use. They ravage your body with a ferocity that matches the intensity of the battle they had just fought while you scream and moan underneath them.

[larcenywrites]

Headcanons for collaring Logan and calling him "my little animal", please? 😏

I’ll tell you what, that “my little animal” line had me all kinds of fucked up in that theatre 😩 A bit of a preface for the fic 😏 So these are definitely more about what the collar does to him 😏 and I feel like they kinda just turned into sex hcs here and there? Though, I suppose I could supplement with another list of more generalized sex HCs in the future if it’s popular 😘 freaky but tbh the fic is gonna be freakier

Collaring/Sex Headcanons

Logan Howlett x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ nsfw | some freaky stuff in here | mentions of hair pulling | obviously calling Logan an animal (affectionately ofc) | collaring | biting (with fangs and tongue!) | growling | heavily implied rough sex/foreplay | no pronouns used for reader | ONE LINE MENTIONS BLOOD BUT WILL BE MARKED WITH A TW AND BOXING

🍺 His go-to collar is definitely something more rugged and simple. Something flexible, something that fits loosely— as you can imagine, he’s not at all a fan of the stiffer and tight-fitting collars :( he’s been collared before, after all, in a not-so-pleasurable way :(

🍺 But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still like for his collar to be pulled on 😏

🍺 But to clarify, this isn’t really any sort of submissive play. Sure, there are subby elements involved, especially at first, but overall, think of this as more like a safe play, or maybe even an exercise.

🍺 Collaring him like an animal means it’s, well, time to be an animal. That it’s okay to be what he is 🤎 He spends a lot of time working to suppress and regulate the rage and urges and instincts, but sometimes doing so frustrates him more :(

🍺 And depending on the situation, he’s probably tried very hard to keep himself in check when he’s with you, more specifically.

🍺 But you love him for who he is! For what he is! So it doesn’t make it any better when he’s frustrated and pent-up for suppressing what he is 😔 and it only gets worse with age.

🍺 So on days like this, when he comes in all tense and moody (believe it or not, there’s a difference between I’m just pissed at Scott and I wanna rip bricks out of this wall with my teeth but that’s not socially acceptable), all it really takes is a downward tug of his hair to get him head down and on his knees 😘

🍺 He wants it too! He knows exactly where this is going! Again, think of it like an exercise. And where, for once, he can feel more safe and comfortable about it in a controlled environment 🥺

🍺 Buckle it around his neck and you won’t need to do much else for a few minutes— just keep a hand around that collar, pet his hair, and just let him growl it out 😮‍💨 eventually, he’ll lean forward and nuzzle against you.

🍺 He’s still being sweet for now, but don’t forget he’s still…

🍺 “There’s my little animal,” you coo now that he’s in the right space, tugging the collar to make him face up at you.

🍺 You don’t know if his mouth is open in a snarl or a moan, but your fingers are too busy tracing over his lips and teeth anyway 😏 And he’s too busy licking at your thumb pressing on the point of his fang and kissing your palm to care either.

🍺 Past this point, your little wild animal can be a little unpredictable!! But hey, doesn’t that just make it more exciting?

🍺 Logan is strong. Strong doesn’t even begin to cover it! He won’t crush you or anything, but as far as he knows, he has permission to be heavy-handed when it comes to gripping onto you! And making sure you can’t run from him 🥴 So don’t act shocked when you have bruises the next day!

________________________________________

🍺 (TW: BLOOD) and don’t act shocked when those fangs and maybe even claws draw a few pinpricks of blood. He’ll be eagerly licking over those wounds 🥴

________________________________________

🍺 He’s definitely bitey too. He gets excited licking your skin, okay?? He just has to nip and nibble and bite before licking over the pressure marks from his fangs 🥴🥴🥴

🍺 Will eventually start biting his way up your body… and licking overly wet stripes up your chest

🍺 With how hard he’s gripping your thighs while doing this, you’ll probably try to hold his hand or caress it… It’ll feel weird af, but you will be able to feel the way his claws excitedly flex beneath his skin. But be careful! They might poke out juuust a little bit 😉🤏

🍺 Will eventually eat you out while kneeling🧎🏻‍♂️and no matter how hard you tug on that collar, even if you’re choking him, he won’t stop until he’s satisfied 😏 definitely growling while doing it… also growling very possessively and biting your inner thigh when you try to pull him away 🥴

🍺 This mf would drag you up the bed by the neck if he could 😩 but he’ll settle for biting your neck and lifting you up to carry you to the top of the bed 😌

🍺 Sometimes he’ll get overstimulated and sink his fangs into the edge of the mattress or a pillow 😳 and you’ll definitely know when he’s about to do it because he’ll pull away and nearly look like he’s snarling in pain 🥵 and sometimes he looks like he’s about to sneeze 🤭

🍺 But at least he didn’t sink his fangs into you, right…? 😳

🍺 Drag him down by the collar for a kiss during sex, and he’ll meet you with fangs and tongue instead 😘

🍺 In fact, just tug the collar down anywhere while he’s fucking you. Your knuckles tense against his neck with your fist around the collar, holding him face down against the sheets… it will only make him rut into you harder with a low growl 😈

🍺 Holding him against your chest works too 😏 gives him something to mouth on 😘

🍺 He’s definitely cumming inside you, sorry 🥰 You are not gonna get this man off you while he’s like this 🫠

🍺 He’s definitely leaving claw holes in the sheets and mattress 😉 probably right next to the last batch…

🍺 Sometimes he does this normally, but with the collar on, he’s definitely running on mindless instinct while rubbing his face all over you 🥺🥰 as if you didn’t already smell like everything from his cologne to his saliva by now 😒

🍺 All you can really do is pet him while he does this 🥰 especially because he’s still inside you and not moving anytime soon!

🍺 Obviously enjoys it, obviously feels a little better, but he’s still not exactly… proud of it? He has a lot of self-hate to work through on a daily basis, so it’s not your fault. He wants to do it! He likes it! He knows that you like it! You still love him for it! But…

🍺 Well, he can’t really worry about that right now when you’re lovingly biting his nose and distracting him with love and affection 😌

[obeymeshallwedateaddict]

Accidental first kiss

I was wondering.. what if MC and each of the brothers shared an accidental first kiss that was unexpected but highly appreciated that may or may not have led to something more. So I wrote it. Enjoy!

Contains: Fuff

You can find more of my work here: Masterlist

............................................................................

Lucifer

Lucifer ordered you to bring a few books from the RAD library that would help him for his latest report that Diavolo requested. The problem is that the books are not just a few. They are a whole pile! You swear there are like 10-15 books in your arms that are so heavy you have to take multiple breaks on the way from the RAD library to The House of Lamentation. And on top of everything you can barely see where you're going with all those books in your arms. How will even Lucifer manage to go through all of them to find what he is looking for in just a couple of hours? And why didn't he send someone with you to help? This man is full of secrets. When you finally reach his study after who-knows-how-long you knock on the door and sigh while waiting for Lucifer's simple and calm "Come in." It's frustrating how Lucifer is doing absolutely nothing and is completely relaxed while you carry around a huge pile of heavy books. You feel as though your arms are about to rip. You open the door and see Lucifer sitting calmly on one of the armchairs with a glass of demonus in hand listening to the faint sound of the record that's playing in the background. But then suddenly you trip over the loose rug and before you know it Lucifer in his demon form is right there holding you in his arms. His wings are wrapped around you, preventing you from falling. Accidentally though your lips brush against his as you try to keep your balance. Both of you immediately freeze in your tracks. That was your first kiss... All the books are there, surrounding you on the floor while Lucifer's eyes are on you, slightly widened with the red glint in them shining bright and a soft blush covering his cheeks. You probably look the same but you can't bring yourself to care. After a full minute of silence you feel Lucifer's grip on you tighten and his breath by your ear as he whispers in a firm tone. "Again." Before kissing you one more time. The right way. The kiss was passionate and full of pent up tension.

Mammon

You, Mammon and the rest of the brothers (except Lucifer, because he said he had an important meeting with Diavolo) are playing hide and seek in The House of Lamentation. It's nice when Lucifer is out of the house once in a while and you as well as his brothers have extra free time. You always think of something to do whether it will be to play a game, to run around the house like wild animals (which always ended up in Lucifer's room with all of you on your knees before the eldest because someone broke a vase or a painting) or playing hide and seek just like today. It was Mammon's turn to seek while you and the rest were hiding around the house. You have been hiding behind the door in Mammon's room because you thought the demon wouldn't think you'd be in his room. Chuckling to the few loud "Found ya's" of Mammon and the brother's groans when they were found led to you being the last one to be found. You waited patiently behind the door, counting the minutes that had passed when the door opened. You see Mammon's boot walk in and decide to scare him (Since our boy is easily scared) You jump from behind the door with a loud "Boo!" Mammon screams and turns around but you were right behind him which caused your lips to meet in the sudden turn. Your first kiss! He immediately pulls away and takes a few steps back, panting even though the kiss wasn't something big. His whole face was red and he was staring at you with wide eyes. You chuckle to the sight even though your cheeks have also taken a pinkish shade. After a short few seconds he speaks so loud you swear the whole house can hear him.

-Oi! Human! Don't scare me off like that! What's the big idea of kissin' me hm? – You roll your eyes.

-What? You liked it so much you want another? – You tease and he scoffs.

-Of course I didn't like it

Silence follows as you wait for the second-born's confession, staring at him.

-F-fine! I liked it, MC. No!! I loved it!

Leviathan

For the past few days Levi has been bragging about this new VR set he bought and how amazing it was. Today he had finally invited you to try it out. You were excited since Levi mentioned the high quality of the set. Your only concern was the fact that the third-born mentioned that he bought the set for cheap off of Akuzon. You teased him for acting like Mammon at the time and he offered you a grumpy face. You knock on his door in anticipation.

-What's the secret phrase? – You roll your eyes and knock loudly.

-Oh come on Levi! We are way past your goddamn secret phrase! – You speak loudly enough so he could hear your slight frustration.

-Secret phrase is required to enter my room and you know it, MC – Says Levi through the door with a hint of mischief in his yet serious voice.

-Oh my god, Levi! Ugh what was it... (You mumble the last part to yourself)

-The second lord... – You begin.

-...attempted to steal the Lord of Corruption's platypus, which could lay golden eggs... – The third born continues

-...having incurred the wrath of the Lord of Corruption for this misdeed...

-...it was ordered that the second lord would be forever dubbed The Lord of Fools... You may enter. – You and Leviathan finish the secret phrase and you finally enter.

-Levi, don't you think it's too long?

-What's too long?

-The secret phrase.

-Absolutely not. – Levi chuckles awkwardly.

After that Levi helps you put on the VR set and you play an adventurous game where you are a devil slayer. You get so caught up in the game that you lose track of time and levi just cheers on you the whole time, watching you play on his monitor. Unfortunately though the electricity turns off and so does the game. You were right in the middle of a fight so you swirl and bump into the third-born which causes your lips to meet. Your first ever kiss! You immediately pull away and take the VR set off. The whole room is silent and dark. The only thing you can see is the faint yellow glow from Levi's eyes and hear his hitched breathing.

-W-w-w-we didn't j-j-j-just... – The purple haired demon stutters.

-We just kissed.. – You whisper loud enough for him to hear. You can practically sense the blush on his cheeks.

-AHHHHH NOOO WAYYYY I JUST K-K-KISSED MY BEST FRIEND AAAAHHH – Levi screams and you chuckle.

Satan

You were in your room reading a beauty magazine that Asmo had lent you when a knock on the door interrupted your thoughts.

-MC, can I come in?

You glanced up, not expecting any visitors, but knowing how random the brothers could be.

-Yeah –you called out, loud enough for whoever it was to hear. The door opened to reveal blond hair and bluey-green eyes, and your expression immediately brightened. It was Satan! It wasn’t often he came to your room unannounced, so you knew he had something on his mind.

-MC, I need your help with something –the fourth-born said, his tone serious yet inviting. You gave him a curious look and mumbled, “Mhm?”

-I’ve been looking for a book but can’t find it in the library alone. Will you help me?

-Of course, Satan.

You both made your way to the library. When you arrived, he revealed the title of the book: "Worst Curses for Prideful Demons." The title almost made you laugh; it was clearly aimed at Lucifer.

After about half an hour of searching, you and Satan finally reached a bookshelf where the book might be. There it was, on one of the upper shelves. Both of you reached for it simultaneously, causing your bodies to collide. In an unexpected turn of events, your lips met his in a brief, accidental kiss.

He pulled back slightly, his breath still warm on your lips, his cheeks a rosy pink and his eyes wide with surprise. Before you could react, you felt his fingers intertwine with yours as he pulled you into a tight embrace.

-I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time – he whispered into your ear, holding you close.

Asmodeus

Diavolo was hosting a masquerade ball in the Devildom in a couple of weeks and it was set to be the biggest event in Devildom's history! A lot of demons were going to attend: royals, nobles and commoners alike. Though the only problem was that you still didn't have a dance partner for the event. One night just as you were about to go to bed someone barged in through the door.

-MC, sweetheart! Yours truly has come to visit you with an important question! – The fifth-born states confidently while closing the door.

-What is it, Asmo? I was going to bed... – You mutter with a tired tone.

-Will you dance with me? – The sudden question caught you off guard and your eyes widen before staring at him with a questioning look.

-What dance? – You asked, still processing his sudden entrance.

-The masquerade ball, Hun! I want you to be my partner for the ball! – You smile widely when you hear that and run up to hug him. He wraps his arms around you and holds you gently.

-So? – He asks.

-Of course! – you exclaimed.

However, there was only one problem. You didn't know how to dance. And on top of everything you were told that the dance was exceptionally complex. Just the thought of that made your head spin. When you mentioned that to Asmodeus he just smiled at you and told you not to worry. He was going to teach you the dance! And there you were.. a few days later in the living room of The House of Lamentation. Asmo was guiding you into the dance. He was dancing so effortlessly while you struggled to keep up with the intricate moves.

-One, two, three... One, two, three.. – Asmo repeated as you watched your feet.

-One, two- No, MC! The other leg! – He spoke but you stumbled upon your feet and fell into the fifth born's arms.

-MC! Be careful! – He warns when he catches you but then your lips accidentally meet his for the first time. He doesn't pull away. Instead he kissed you gently with a smirk growing on his face. His lips were moving graciously against yours. But you were too shocked to return the kiss. After it ends you look away from him in embarrassment, which earns you chuckle.

-MC... Oh my sweet MC.. why didn't you tell me you wanted to kiss? – Your cheeks take a deeper shade of pink to his words.

Beelzebub

It was late into the night. You were quietly watching an anime that Levi recommended. You made sure to be careful so you wouldn't be heard by Lucifer during one of his patrols. All of a sudden though someone walks in through the door and terror floods your expression, thinking it's Lucifer who somehow heard the sound from the anime. You quickly cover yourself but you quickly realise it was unnecessary when a large hand pats over the blankets.

-MC? Are you awake? – The voice of the sixth-born echoes through the room quietly and you sigh in relief when you recognize whose it is.

-Beel! You scared me! I thought it was Lucifer! – You snap at him while making sure to keep your voice down.

-He finished the patrol one hour ago. I assume he is either asleep or doing work in his room at the moment. – Beelzebub explains and you nod as a sign that you understand.

-Alright. Anyway, Beel. What are you doing here at this hour?

-I was hungry and I decided to bake some sweets. I just thought you would want to help me. – the orange haired demon murmurs.

-I would love to help! – You answer him happily.

About 20 minutes later you find yourself in the kitchen with Beelzebub. You are at your fifth attempt at making cookie dough, because Beel had finished the previous batches before you could even tell him to sample them. And the fifth attempt is the lucky one! Beel has kept his hands to himself the whole time while you were making the dough.

-Vanilla extract right? – Beel asks as he looks at the almost-ready-to-bake dough.

-I'll get it. – You respond and reach for the vanilla extract in the cupboard. After you take it, it accidentally slips out of your hands and falls on the floor. Fortunately the little container was plastic and it didn't break or spill. You bend down, reaching to get it when suddenly the sixth-born's lips meet yours. You immediately pull away and look at him with flushed cheeks. Turns out you were so focused on the little container of vanilla extract that you didn't notice Beel who also had bent down to get it after it fell and there you were. Gazing at Beel whose cheek color was matching yours and you two had just shared a soft first kiss. The scent of chocolate and dough filled the kitchen, along with the warmth of the oven, which was ready for baking.

-MC, I don't think I'm that hungry anymore. – Beelzebub whispers to you, which makes you blush even more, realising that all this time he was hungry for a kiss. Not for chocolate chip cookies.

Belphegor

You were walking down the hallway to your next class at RAD when you heard the seventh-born's voice echo through the hallway.

-MC! There you are! Could I talk to you for a bit?

You turn to face him and wait for him to walk up to you.

-Yeah? What's up? – you question.

-Are you free tonight? Tonight there is going to be a big starfall in the Devildom and I was wondering if you'd want to watch it together? – He asks, looking at you with a hopeful look.

-Of course! I haven't witnessed a starfall in a long time! –You state in excitement.

-Great! I will see you in the planetarium after dinner! –The excitement in Belphegor's eyes to watch a starfall with you makes your heart melt.

When dinner time comes you're already impatient for the starfall and barely manage to sit through the whole dinner. Afterwards you rush to the planetarium and see Belphegor napping quietly on a fluffy blanket that's spread on the floor with candles surrounding it. They are giving a cozy glow and warmth. The thought that Belphie did all of this for you makes you happy.

-Belphie, I'm here. – You say in an attempt to wake him up. Though he shows no signs of doing so. You walk up to him and sit on the blanket. Chuckling to the cute sight of the youngest sleeping so peacefully you lay down and watch the sky, waiting for the starfall. After a few minutes you feel commotion and turn to look at Belphegor who seems to have woken up.

-Hm? MC? Why didn't you say you arrived? – He questions.

-When I came you were sleeping and if I tried to wake you you wouldn't even move, so I decided to let you sleep. – You explain to the demon while he rubs his eyes.

You and Belphegor talk while waiting for the starfall to begin. After a few minutes you notice something moving in the sky and as you were leaning on both your arms you move one of them to point out the beginning of the starfall.

-Belphie! Look!

Unexpectedly though you lose balance and fall onto Belphegor who was following where your finger was pointing at the sky. Your lips meet his as he catches you. He takes a breath and kisses you gently before you pull away to see him flustered after your first kiss.

-You know... People say if you make a wish on a shooting star your wish comes true. I wished that someday I would gain the courage to kiss you. Turns out luck is on my side today. – Belphegor says quietly as your cheeks turn into a deeper shade of pink. And there you were with Belphegor after sharing a kiss under the night sky during a starfall, surrounded by candles and a cozy atmosphere.

[fandomxo00]

Ok imagine this:

Logan is your dad's best friend and the two of you are fucking in the bathroom at dinner

you were supposed to be quieter, but Logan had your ponytail between his fingers, pulling at the strands while his hips pistoned into you. You weren't supposed to be doing this, you weren't supposed to having sex with your dad's best friend. You would agree that it was weird, but you hadn't grown up with him and he was a bit younger than your father.

And he fucked like he was in his 20s. He could go for hours, sneaking into your room when he was supposed to go home. Getting into bed with you, whispering to you as he leant in to softly kiss him, his warm hands snaking up your thighs. Cupping your heat in his hand before applying pressure to your clit.

you were like puddy in his hands, the rugged ripped older man, taking control of you completely. but this time was more dangerous.

this time he had played with you at the dinner table, your dad just across the way. his hand landing on your thigh, just resting there before skimming your inner thigh and dipping up your dress to mess with your panties. you breath was heavy and he was driving you insane as he carried on conversation like he wasn't about to fuck you with his fingers.

then you escaped to the bathroom, he was on you in seconds, hiking up your skirt and leaning down to lick at your pussy. he didn't waste anytime dipping between your thighs, grabbing you by fist fulls of your ass, as he ate you out like an animal would munch on their prey. his hand stretching up to cover your mouth as you whined out his name.

then he hiked you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he started filling you and slowly moving his hips against yours. eventually he picked up the speed, knowing that the two of you didn't have all the time in the world. his hand landing on your clit so he could bring you to your climax faster before the two of you came together. Logan grumbling your name under his breath as he slowed his thrusts, filling you with his come.

[passivenovember]

Steve's never tried a weed brownie before.

Hasn't really wanted to, if he's honest, because the rag-weed shit he gets from Tommy all throughout high school is fine. Even though it's mostly shake and stems and seeds, and the bag Tommy puts it in always looks like it's been mauled by Scotty, his 15 year old schnauzer.

It has to be the same bag, Steve thinks, but maybe that's the 20 minute high talking.

So he's never tried a brownie.

But. Billy Hargrove comes into his life like a storm cloud. Black and gray with impending doom, snagging the air around him with little fish weights until everything is heavy. At first.

But. Then Steve makes him laugh once during a game of shirts and skins, and. It's like the belly of the thing has ripped open, y'know, and the streets of the thing flood with rainwater, and all that existed before is washed down some swallowing, insatiable gutter along with mulch and twigs and the shaky belief that Steve's straight.

They're friends and Steve watches Billy laugh and smile, feels all ten fingers against his chest when Billy shoves him, some sort of atomical reaction to Steve making him laugh, and.

Steve can't believe he ever thought Heaven was in Nancy Wheeler's pants.

--

So.

Billy Hargrove is the Earth after the flood, and the ark carrying everyone to safety. He's the animals inside and the God that sits, watching the world swallow itself.

He feeds things, to Steve.

Lines. You got a really pretty mouth, Harrington. You're smart, you know that? Not. Book smart, but street smart. Dirt road intelligent, I guess, in this shitty fuckin' Hickville hellscape--

Feeds Steve art. That's Samuel Baruch. He's my favorite. Look how he paints cloth, how he tracks the divets and the folds and the shadows. It's like a photo. It's like a window--

Steve makes Billy laugh when he says, "That lady kind of looks like you." Feels all ten fingers on his arm, pushing, when he says, "You'd look cute in a bonnet." Steve nearly falls over. Almost goes easy, but he doesn't.

Billy grabs him. Holds him as he smirks, "Where the fuck would I find a bonnet?"

Steve looks around the art hall, eyes wide and owlish, "Indiana?" He says, out there. In here. And.

Billy stares at him. He's the canvas and the lady in her bonnet, the divets and the folds and the shadows, the artist himself when he wets his thumb and sticks it in Steve's ear. "Dumbass," He says.

Steve finally gets everyone's thing about art.

He snaps a mental image of the afternoon and tries not to smother it in his hands.

--

So.

Steve. His eyes open, bit by bit. And what he finds is blinding. Like he fell asleep in the back of his mother's station wagon and awoke to the screaming light of high noon.

Billy's like the sun, longer Steve knows him. Storm clouds be damned.

Like. He talks about art. And he feeds lines and compliments for shits and giggles, never really noticing that Steve falls for it, a dumb catfish stuck on Billy's sharp, unforgiving hook.

He does all that but he smokes. Weed and cigarettes. He drinks.

He takes Steve to parties and says, "Ever try this before, Bambi?" But it's just Jack Daniels. But. Billy leaning with his elbow on the wall next to Steve's neck, close enough that he can smell Billy's sweat and cologne. He's smiling and his lips are cherry red, rio red, and.

He wants to roll in it.

So. He says, "No," Because, "I haven't."

It's the truth.

So Billy feeds it to him right out of the bottle. Makes him get on his knees. Slaps Steve's wrists away when he tries to hold the vessel himself, because.

Something's happening. Here. There.

Steve stares up at Billy through his eyelashes, trying not to go blind.

--

He blacks out and wakes up in the face of some bitch in a red bikini.

He's still drunk, so it takes him longer than it should to realize she's a poster tacked to somebody's, and he's not at home, and someone's snoring on the rug next to him.

Steve wiggles his toes. Fingers. Tries to remember what happened after Billy's hair caught the dining room lamplight but it's all a blur of sea stone eyes and bright white teeth and all ten fingers, rubbing at him while he threw up under the four way stop on Douglas Street.

Steve groans.

He rolls onto his side and tucks into himself and falls asleep, hoping Billy got home okay.

--

It's silver when a warm, flat palm shakes him alive. "You gotta go," Someone says, their voice rough like flannel bed sheets.

Steve blinks up, into the silver light, and sees Billy. Considers padding from the mattress to sleep inside of Billy's throat, where he'll be warm. It's a familiar urge. It's entirely new.

Steve aches. "What time--"

"--Just before five. My dad gets up early for work," Billy says, like that's supposed to mean castles are crumbing in their kingdom, but he's staring at something on Steve' face.

Really puts things into perspective, because maybe it's supposed to be an emergency. The first wisps of smoke from a forest fire, but Billy has bed head. And pillow lines on his face. And he's looking at Steve like there's something stuck in his throat.

Steve rubs at himself, trying to clear exhaustion and embarrassment. Really, just rubbing it into himself like lotion. "It's Saturday." He says.

"We're poor," Billy tells him, "My dad--"

"Where am I?"

Billy stares at him for a moment and then chuckles, shaking his head, "With me," He mutters.

Steve wants to curl into it like a cat.

--

He's rushed out of the room. He has to climb through the window while Billy keeps watch like a guard dog, and Steve lands on his ankle funny so it isn't until later when he's showered and hung over and falling onto his own mattress that he realizes Billy was in a panic.

That was Billy panicking, like Steve gets when his dad tells him to clean his room before he gets home from work, but Steve was full of concrete and wouldn't do it. Just like that, but worse.

Steve tosses and turns and tries to decipher what there was to be panicked about. Billy's room was clean.

Not just clean but spotless, like someone took a billow pad soaked in bleach and scrubbed every wall and baseboard until nothing remained except that bitch in her red bikini.

The only witness to Steve crawling out through an open window.

--

The more he thinks about it the more it feels like an episode of The Twilight Zone.

He combs through the memory of waking up in Billy's room. He tries to piece together hazy, half-baked image of beige carpet and the bookshelf and the little makeshift vanity that housed all of Billy's hair products.

Steve searches for a spot of the boy he knows. He calls Samuel Baruch's name and hears it shatter against empty, maroon-colored walls and the bikini girl's airbrushed rack.

He tries to envision a wayward sock, left out in the cold. A cup of water on the bedside table. Used tissues on the bedsheets.

Anything.

Steve blinks around his own room and wonders if clutter is a luxury only afforded to boys in houses paid by Monday through Friday workweeks.

He tries to imagine Billy in that room inside the house on Cherry Lane, happy, sleeping until noon in his own boyhood nest while his father gets ready for work.

It sits heavy in Steve's chest. A fairytale.

--

So.

Billy asks him during homeroom on Monday if he's ever had a weed brownie. Really, he scribbles it on a note and has Mary Sandoval stick it under Steve's elbow on her way to the bathroom.

Steve presses the note open on his desk until it's delicately wrinkled, mulling the question over in his mind. He spent the weekend driving himself crazy trying to come up with a reason to invite Billy over, a nook to slip into so he can ask the hard questions.

This could be it.

Steve peeks over his shoulder, flushing pink when Billy wags his tongue.

He has a black eye.

Steve snaps like a piece of rotted driftwood. He turns back to the note and scribbles no, but I'll try one if you have it. Has Mary take it back with her.

Figures. Billy should see his room. Steve should open his eyes.

--

"Why does it smell like that?"

"Like what, pretty boy?"

"Like. Gasoline."

Billy tilts his head back, laughter shooting like fireworks against Steve's ceiling, "It's just the dope. It's how it smells when you bake it into the--"

"--I don't like it."

"Why not?"

"I just think brownies are supposed to smell like chocolate," Steve says, handing the bag over with a wrinkled nose, "It's not a very appetizing smell."

"It's just weed."

"Weed smells gross, too."

"You don't like weed?"

"No, I just--"

"--We don't have to do the edibles if you don't want--"

"--I want to," Steve tells him. "Please." Instead of I'd do anything you asked me to. You're the influence my grandma warned me about. You're the lighter and the cigarette and the smoke in my lungs. Getting me high.

Billy nods, "Since you asked so nicely," and severs the baggy, tearing the first brownie in half.

"Woah," Steve says, embarrassed, "I know I've never had one before but I think I can do more than half."

"They're strong."

"I'm strong too," Steve says. When Billy blinks at him, confused, Steve flexes.

The noise Billy makes is like a duck getting run over by a clown car. It reverberates off the walls and Steve aches to stand and chase it. "You can always start out small and take more if you need to, hot rod."

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. "How strong are they?"

Billy shrugs, fiddling with the chewed plastic lip of the bag. "I kissed a boy on half," He says.

It's the first time since Billy came to town that he won't stretch to meet Steve's gaze.

Steve takes the bag from him and shoves the brownie into his mouth, coughing over the dry exterior.

"Easy, man, easy," Billy smacks him between the shoulder blades, grinning and rubbing his back once Steve swallows.

[qu1cks1lversb1tch]

Killer | Vox x Reader

Warnings: mentions of murder, blood, dead bodies, established relationship (married), HUMAN VOX, NSFW (18+), p in v, slight breeding kink but otherwise vanilla for my first 'smutty' Vox writing, reader is heavily implied to be female, Valentino existing

Word Count: 1.0K

Summary: Your husband came home from work to find a rather interesting sight in his living room. . . Made him wanna do a thing or two. . . Idk 💀✨

A/N — I couldn't not use this gif — I love it. I don't mention him by name until the end because we don't know what his name was while he was alive. . . It could've been Vox in both, but I'm not taking chances, so I used sweet little names instead. . . He also has dark hair and blue eyes in my mind. HOPE Y'ALL LIKE THIS ONE 💕 (I drew/made the MDNI banner myself — tell me you're proud of me. . . I'm gonna pretend I didn't write this when I wake up tomorrow 😭, but hopefully someone does like it)

Blood dripped from the hand of the body that was carelessly draped across the coffee table, the metallic smelling crimson staining the white rug below.

You stood firmly, hands on your hips as you stared at your husband, who, in turn, stared at the body as if it would suddenly disappear if he looked away.

"You killed her." He stated rather plainly, a glint in his eyes as he turned to look at you in all of your glory — bloodied hands, stained apron tied around your waist, hair tousled, and ripped pantyhose. . . It was odd for him to see you so unkempt. Had he not been your childhood friend turned lover and husband, you might have had something snarky to say in response to his obvious comment.

You hummed, assessing the expanding puddle on the new rug that nearly costed a fortune. "Yes, it seems I have."

"Did she deserve it?"

"They always do." You replied nonchalantly, removing your hands from your hips as you walked towards your husband — silently thanking whatever higher power that the blood on your hands had dried. You pulled him down by his tie and gave him a quick peck on the lips. "Welcome home, my love. . . Dinner will be done shortly. It's your favorite."

"I'll handle the mess while you finish up." Came his response.

You smiled as a thank you before going off into the kitchen to wash up the last couple dishes and stir the pot of stew that had been cooking low and slow all afternoon.

Your beloved husband entered the kitchen a bit later, hands coated in dirt and blood with the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows.

He stood there for a moment watching you as if you were an animal of prey and he was an apex predator. Your breath hitched when that glint of something familiar returned to his electric blue gaze.

Within a moment, his hands drenched in sticky blood found your face, gently caressing it and leaving trails of the viscoelastic fluid behind as he brought you into a rough yet passionate kiss.

His hands trailed down your clothed body until they reached your thighs. . . With his fingers grasping the plush flesh, he hoisted you onto the counter top.

"Are you certain you want to do this before dinner, Honey?" You asked breathlessly just as his hands fell to his belt buckle, hastily undoing it with the metallic clicks of the silver colored mechanism, the leather falling from the silvery confines.

"No time like the present, Doll." He replied, practically ripping the button from the hole of his perfectly tailored suit pants.

"Carry on, Darling." You hummed.

He bunched up the skirt of your dress before reaching just below and ripping a large hole in the already destroyed pantyhose, all to gain access to the already soaked cotton fabric beneath.

The singular piece of fabric that separated your pussy from the warmed air of the kitchen.

"All mine. . ." He muttered in awe, rubbing the pad of his thumb up and down the large spot of arousal that had formed since he arrived home. You couldn't help it. Your husband was a fine specimen.

You whined at the need for something more; your darling husband only smirked before completely ripping the beloved pair of panties away, tossing them to the floor — he always said he'd get you more, and he always did. His thumb returned, slipping through your glistening folds before gravitating towards the sensitive bundle of nerves.

"Need you, Honey, please. . ." Your sweet voice cut through the silence with a whimper at the end — that was all it took for your husband's restraint to fly out the window.

He freed his bulging cock from the confines of his pants and boxers, immediately lining it up with the entrance. With your silent nod of approval, he slowly slid it into your sopping wet pussy.

He grunted as he bottomed out, paired almost perfectly with your moan as you adjusted to his sheer length and girth — it didn't matter how many times the two of you fucked, it was always like the first time.

After a moment he began thrusting and your sweet noises filled the room along with the sound of skin on skin. One of his hands held on to your waist so you wouldn't slip, and the other held on tightly to the counter.

"Taking me so well just like you always do, Doll." He grunted in your ear, his pace picking up as you moaned his name like a prayer on the lips of an angel, your fingers laced in his soft, dark hair.

It wasn't very long before the coil within began to build with pressure until it finally snapped, bringing you to a much needed orgasm that caused you to release your hold on his hair and clench around him, unintentionally milking your husband's cock. He came, painting your insides white, yet his thrusts didn't cease until he felt the very last drop enter you.

He then pulled out slowly, using his thumb to push his seed back inside of you as it tried to escape. "Gonna be a good mother one day, Doll."

"I'll try to be," you replied breathlessly before plastering a smile on your face, as if you didn't get railed in the kitchen by your husband, where your neighbor could've seen. "Dinner?"

"That sounds good, Doll. . . Let's get you cleaned up."

Sixty or so years later. . .

"Remember that time we fucked in the kitchen with a dead body two rooms over because the ground was frozen, so we couldn't dispose of it properly?" You questioned casually at dinner.

Vox looked up from his plate, a smirk falling onto his face. "Which time?"

"Well, this just got interesting." Valentino muttered into his drink, looking between you and Vox.

"When I killed Dorothy, of course."

"Can you not talk about your serial killer sex shit at the table!? I'd like to eat without the imagery." Velvette groaned, sliding her plate back slightly.

"Would you rather listen to Val talk about all the positions he's had his new favorite toy in?" Vox questioned.

"Hey!" Valentino whined.

[epiclamer]

This is the post you all have voted for… (i settled for smutty hurt x comfort since you guys were so close)

@save-the-villainous-cat happy two year anniversary baby <3

It wasn’t the end of the world, Villain had been injured in battle countless times before and it was never a problem. But, god, there was so much blood.

They weren’t a very optimistic person by nature, but things had never looked worse for them than at this precise moment. Stumbling blindly through friendly, neighbourhood complexes and past steadily blurring townhouses. Villain could practically feel their demise impending.

“Hey there, stranger~” The criminal gulped, eyes shooting around like a cornered animal looking for an escape. “You’re in pretty rough shape to be standing on two feet…”

Their eyes locked in on a figure—somewhere at the back of their mind they were flooded with a sensation of ease, though they couldn’t quite pinpoint why. They continued to stumble forwards and practically into the stranger’s arms anyways, for whatever reason it felt right.

“Easy— Easy there, Villain… just relax I’ve got you, I’ll take good care of you, huh?”

Warmth spread through the criminal’s mind at the sound of the other’s voice, then down into their muscles before seeping deep to their bones. They blinked and when they opened their eyes again they were laying in a tub, their feet resting at the tap where hot water poured down and into the bath.

For a moment they panicked, but a hand found its way to their shoulder and grounded them back to the present. They knew that hand, they knew that touch.

Hero.

“I’ve got you, baby~” They teased, grinning from ear to ear as they fiddled with the temperature to the water with their free hand.

It all came rushing back to the villain; the fight they had picked with their superior—on purpose—and whatever hope they had left dragging their feet to the hero’s house in a desperate attempt for attention survival.

Hero’s touch was warm where it laid by their collarbone, heating the skin to a feverish degree as it began stitching the villain back together. See, Hero’s powers only worked through touch (something the villain had learned a very long time ago purely on accident), but as much as their touch held only kindness, it did not extend to their healing abilities.

Because, god, did it ever hurt. Painful in some sick and horribly pleasurable way that Villain couldn’t seem to stop craving.

Their collarbone snapped back into place, the bone mending itself back together and their eyes flew open along with the sob that was wrenched from their throat. They flailed, partially to escape the hero’s torturous touch, partially to fall further into their grasp.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay… deep breaths remember?” The crime-stopper’s hand moved down their chest, giving their upper half the gift of a breath as they pained the rest of them.

The villain’s relief was only present for a fleeting moment, as they felt the hero’s fingertips trace the edges of the gash to their chest. Already the ripped skin pulled taught and their torn muscles seized up, under command of the other’s touch.

Villain knew what was coming.

They squirmed, the bath water submerging their legs in its warm embrace, Hero’s hand teasing at their wound, they couldn’t help but try and pull away. “Please—”

The hero shushed them, bringing their free hand to cup the villain’s chin. “I’ll be quick, I promise.” They pressed their hand flat against the gaping hole that should have been the villain’s abdomen, jolting them.

Villain screamed, it was dry and rugged, they recoiled from their nemesis but the only other thing there to hold them was the bath water. “Please, H-Hero, please—” Three more seconds and the criminal was sure to pass out.

Then it stopped. Before the villain could beg again, before they could lose consciousness, the pain stopped.

Cautiously, the villain’s eyes fluttered open, their enemy smiled sweetly back, fingertips now tracing the completely untouched abdomen of the villain’s. They looked normal, they looked okay, even after everything the hero had managed to restore them to their previous glory.

“You okay, gorgeous?”

Villain’s eyes met the hero’s once more, they were gentle yet somewhat mischievous. They nodded, brain completely fogged, maybe from the pain, most likely from the hero’s distracting gaze.

The area still pulsed with the ghost of a previous slash, but there was nothing, just the heat from the hero’s hands. It left a sweet aftertaste on their exhausted mind.

“Think you can handle another round tonight?” They waggled their eyebrows in emphasis, removing one hand to shut off the water to the bath as it began to cover the villain’s stomach.

Villain glared, but only for a moment, some of their usual snideness returning to their demeanour. “Can y-you be a little nicer?”

Hero hummed, eyes glued to their own hands as they made their way down to the inside of the criminal’s thighs, their hands beginning to resume their previous healing glow even under the water. “Really? I thought you liked it rough?”

The villain’s cheeks turned red, but they didn’t have time to retort before the hero placed their hands back against their skin and shut them up with a moan.

[chryblossomjjk]

midnight mistakes | jjk

⇢ PAIRING: fuckboy!jk x inexperienced reader

⇢ RATING: m/18+

⇢ WC: 2.5k

⇢ WARNINGS: v brief sm*t, v slight angst, oc is sick rip, pregnancy scare putting their relationship to the test eep!!!, brief mentions of abortion (reader considers it)

⇢ SUMMARY: a midnight romp with jungkook leads to tears on your cheeks and a pregnancy test in your hand

⇢ NOTES: i miss writing sm so here's a lil drabble of our otp :') school has been v overwhelming lately and it makes me so sad that i don't have as much time to write on here anymore. hopefully, things will calm down soon. for now, enjoy this crumb!! i love you all, let me know what you think!! if you haven't read the series yet, pls read that before this if u want to!! this wasn't beta'd so i apologize for any grammar issues or typos rip

⇢ SERIES MASTERLIST

The sequence of events that landed you in this situation; having a teary, heaving breakdown in front of your bathroom mirror, was absolutely ridiculous, to say the least.

“I’m gonna kill someone,” you squeak, breathless from the endless stream of sneezes ripping through you. The glow of the alarm clock on your nightstand reads 1 a.m. as you reach for a tissue. Violently blowing your nose does little to ease its congestion. With a shaky sigh, you crumple the sodden napkin and toss it into the bin beside your bed; overthrown by contents alike. The wet ball hits the paper mountain before rolling onto your pretty pink area rug.

You shiver, how fucking disgusting. 

A stressful week of labs and quizzes has tanked your immune system, making you susceptible to all the little germs and illnesses that strike when the brisk winter air transitions into the pollen-laced breeze of spring. The antibiotics you were prescribed did little to help your runny nose and sore throat. Pausing the anime playing on your phone, you open your messages. 

dumbo love you, get some rest please xx

So much for getting rest. You weren’t expecting a text back. Jungkook had offered to spend the night, but you encouraged him to go. It was his last semester after all. Still, you were pouty and needy, wanting nothing more than to snuggle into his arms and let the swirls of his delicate fingers on your back lull you to sleep. Instead, here you were, confined to your bed, watching Naruto solo as Jungkook, Tae, and Mina lived it up; taking shots until they were belligerent. 

A distinguishable knock rattles the door before you can press play again.

“What are you doing here?” 

Jungkook stands in your doorway, oversized black tee hanging over his equally oversized green cargo pants. His cute little mullet falls in sweaty loops around his face. “Still feelin’ like shit?” He coos, cringing at your disheveled appearance and the croak in your voice. Ignoring your question, he holds up the various items in his big hands. “I picked up a few things; cough drops—not the cherry kind ‘cause those are fucking nasty,” you laugh at the side note, “—extra spicy ramen and hot sauce to clear out your sinuses.”

Your peer at the array of remedies with wide eyes. Their ability to cure your flu symptoms is questionable. You don’t even have a way of boiling water to make said ramen in your cramped dorm, but the sentiment has your chest swelling with something other than a violent cough for the first time in days. Abruptly, you pull him into a tight embrace. 

“Ah, I see,” he laughs, wrapping an arm around the small of your back and walking you back into the room, kicking the door closed behind him. “My Bambi missed me.”

“I did,” you nuzzle into him further, “but you shouldn’t be here… you should be having fun with your friends.”

“Nah, fuck ‘em,” he retorts playfully, putting the quote-unquote medicine down and then plopping onto the bed, taking you with him. “Besides, what kind of shit boyfriend ditches their sick girlfriend to go to a party anyways?”

“The kind that should be enjoying his last semester,” you frown. 

“I am, though. I enjoy spending time with you more than anything else.”

As he lays under you, black tresses splayed against your white comforter like a misshapen halo, you feel so incredibly lucky. Gently, you run your fingers through his choppy bangs, pushing them out of his doe eyes. “Have you been drinking?” 

“Not really, just a couple shots of Fireball and a few beers.” That much alcohol would have knocked you on your lightweight ass, but after years of beer pong and keg stands, Jungkook’s tolerance was damn near Kage level. It took a lot more than that to get him drunk. “I kinda…” he averts your gaze, something he does when he’s sad or guilty. “I felt really bad so I left.”

“Jungkook, I told you it was okay.”

“I know,” he nods, sliding a warm palm under your shirt, rubbing his thumb against your skin in soothing lines. “But I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” Using your fingertip, you brush an eyelash off the apple of his cheek. “Thank you… for coming back for me.”

“Of course, Bambi.” He leans up and presses a deep kiss to your dehydrated lips.

“Kook, stop,” you mumble, craning your neck back. “You’re gonna get sick.”

“I don’t care.”

It doesn’t take much convincing. If Jungkook doesn’t care, why should you? 

What follows is a battle of warm tongues and the needy clash of his bunny teeth against yours. Tender touches coax your Sailor Moon pajama set to the floor with the promise of Jungkook’s delicious love. Before you know it, you’re sinking down onto his hard length, fingers digging into his shoulders as he slouches against your headboard.

“Take it all,” he whispers, jaw slacking as he tilts his head down, getting a clear view of your wet cunt swallowing the remaining few inches. A slick film coats the two fingers he used to hold himself up for you as your lip pillow around the base. “Yeah, just like that.” His face contorts in pleasure, overcome by your warm, slippery walls after a week of illness-induced celibacy. “Feels good, huh baby? Tell me how good my dick makes you feel.”

He wants praise and dirty talk, but the tickle in your nose makes you pause, bracing yourself as a slew of sneezes pours out of you. Eight sneezes to be exact. Jungkook’s high-pitched cackle is drowned out by a shriek as you cup your hand over your leaking nostrils. “EW!”

“Shut up, it’s fine!” He grabs a tissue from the nearly empty box. “Lemme see,” he mumbles, pulling your hand down and wiping it clean, then doing the same to your face afterward and tossing the kleenex in your glittery pink trash bin. 

“I’m sorry,” you peep, completely mortified.

“Don’t worry.” The crooked bunny grin eases your nerves. “That was fire, actually. You clenched around me so tight.”

You squint at him and then bury your head into the crook of his neck. You make love to each other; slow and gentle. At one point, Jungkook locks his tattooed fingers in between yours, pecking your bare shoulder as lazy drags of your hips bring you both to writhing climaxes. And he looks so beautiful when he climaxes, gnawing at his lip piercing, skin dewy from sweat and the moonlight shining through the blinds. 

At that moment, you felt nothing but love and pure ecstasy. 

Isn’t it funny how pleasures of the past can create complete devastation in the present?

Clutching the edge of the porcelain sink, you stare down at the pink box of pregnancy tests. There’s tear stains on your cheeks. A pain in your lungs from all the sobbing. You wish Jungkook had been a shit boyfriend that night. You’d give anything to take it all back. 

Like a sixth sense, there’s a distinguishable knock at the door. 

“Hey, I-” he stops short, brows furrowing as his dark pupils scan your face. “Have you been crying?”

“What do you think?” You shouldn’t snap at him, but the waves of anxiety washing over you make you highly sensitive. Truthfully, you weren’t going to tell Jungkook any of this. His showing up had put an awful wrench in your plans. Well, unless the test came back positive. Then, you’d be forced to tell him. You clamp your hand over your mouth, the thought making you sick to your stomach. 

“__, take a deep breath. Sit down.” You do and he follows suit. “What's going on?”  

“I-” you gulp, swallowing back a whine, struggling to form a coherent sentence. There’s no escape, you have to confess. “I think I might be pregnant.”

There’s an eerie silence once the words hit the air, lingering over you both like a dark, dreary cloud. It takes Jungkook a moment to internalize the weight of the situation, but you can tell when the thunder strikes. The pink tinge in his cheeks fades to a stark, sickly white as he inhales shakily. “Fuck-” Leaning his elbows against his knees, he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, shielding them. “I thought you were on the pill.” 

“I am, but I was taking antibiotics last week and I read that they can make birth control less effective- and I’ve been having symptoms lately.” It all comes out in a jumbled mess like word vomit. He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move. And it scares you. “Are you mad at me?”

“No.” Despite his posture, his tone is still and calm. “I just… don’t know what to say. It’s a lot to take in.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as the floodgates finally burst. You were still in the swell of your STEM program. Jungkook is just about to graduate with a Bachelor’s in photography. Both of your lives would come to a screeching halt if the worst were true. You weren’t ready for a baby, not in the slightest. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, hey, don’t-.” Finally, Jungkook sits up, wrapping a strong arm around your shoulder and pulling you into his side. The other arm repeats as he rests his chin on top of your head, rocking your shaking frame back and forth for comfort. “Don’t apologize, don’t cry. Why don’t you take a test before we start freaking the fuck out?”

You suppose he’s right. 

The walk to the bathroom is a blur. Suddenly, you’re on the toilet with that evil stick in hand. Jungkook is sitting on the floor with his eyes closed, knees bent and head leaned back against the wood of the cabinet. Normally, you’re extremely pee-shy. It literally will not come out. Under these circumstances, you can’t bring yourself to care. 

“You pee so softly,” Jungkook says through an airy laugh. “I pee really hard- and fast. Like-” he makes a little whooshing noise with his mouth, “like a hose.” 

“Baby, please,” you huff, setting the test aside and pulling your sweats up. You know he’s trying to ease your nerves, but this is one situation where his lighthearted jokes and comments ceased to make you smile. “This is serious.”

“Trust me, I know.” Spreading his legs, he pats the carpet between them. “C’mere.” As soon as you hit the ground he’s embracing you, trailing kisses all over your exposed skin. “What now?”

“Now,” you sigh, setting a timer on your phone for three minutes, “we wait.”

“You know… it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if it’s positive.”

“It would be absolutely awful, Jungkook.” It’s a sweet sentiment but you know he’s lying, right through his bunny teeth. Late-night conversations in bed about the future ring in your head. ‘Honestly, I don’t think I want kids,’ Jungkook had hummed in the middle of My Neighbor Totoro, ‘ever.’ Generally, you felt the same way, but the memory is terrifying in this context; sitting on the bathroom floor with him, waiting for an answer that could contradict all of your plans and possibly crumble the entire foundation of your relationship.

“Who am I kidding?” He chuckles humorlessly. “You’re right, it would be fucking awful.”

Nervously, you toy with the silver rings on his inked fingers. “What if it’s positive, Jungkook?”

“Let’s just wait until we get the results.”

“But what if it’s positive?” You twist in his arms, showing him your glassy eyes and deep frown. Showing him that his answer, regardless of what the test says, was very important to you. 

He blinks at you, lips opening and then closing promptly as he mulls over his words. “If it is… then we’ll take care of it.”

There’s a dual meaning to the sentiment that makes you chew on your bottom lip, eyes flickering up to the white ceiling to stop yourself from crying. Take care of it as in going through with it? Or take care of it as in… the other option? Honestly, the latter would be your first choice, and you’re sure it’s his as well. But for whatever reason, the fact that he assumed it makes your heart ache. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means whatever you want it to mean.” Gently, he smooths a hand over your trembling thighs before they frantically search for yours. “Just… whatever you want to do… whatever you want, I’ll support it… I’m here.”

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding in releases in relief. You feel stupid for even questioning him. After all these months of unconditional love, you should know better. Bringing your locked hands up, you kiss his fingertips. The smile it brings out of him is just as soft as your touch. “I love you so much.”

“I love y-.”

He’s cut off by the blaring ring of your timer.

“Please, can you look?” You mumble, shaking your head and covering your eyes. “I can’t do it.”

You feel his torso twist against your back as he reaches for the test on your countertop. The time between him grabbing it and the dreaded answer feels like an eternity.

“Negative.” 

“Thank fuck!” You groan, doing a complete 180 and wrapping your arms around his neck in celebration. You haven’t felt this type of excitement since you were a child, waking up on Christmas morning and seeing colorful presents under the tree.

“What made you think you were pregnant in the first place?”

You hesitate to respond. In retrospect, it’s not as valid of a reason as you originally thought. “I’ve been feeling sick in the morning.”

Pulling back, Jungkook deadpans you. “Bambi, no shit. You’ve been sick all week.”

“I know but,” you pout, twirling a ringlet at the nape of his neck, “google said I could be pregnant…”

“You’re so fucking lucky you’re cute,” he laughs, holding you flush to him and nipping your cheek playfully. “You’ve got to be the most dramatic person I’ve ever met in my life.” You know he’s joking, but the comment makes your expression drop a bit. “But that’s part of the reason I love you so much. I’m never bored with you.”

Once again, you truly don’t know how you got so lucky. 

“Alright,” he huffs, using all of his strength to haul you up into the air and walk you back to your bedroom. Instinctually and habitually, you wrap your legs around his cinched waist. “We finished Avatar last time, so what’re we watching tonight?”

You click your tongue in contemplation. “Naruto.”

“Naruto? Bambi, isn’t Naruto like- a billion episodes long?”

When he tosses you down onto the mattress, you pout and bat your long lashes at him, pulling out all the provenly successful manipulation tactics. “Please?”

“Fine,” he grumbles, plopping down beside you. “But don’t be mad if I knock out.”

And like clockwork, Jungkook dozes off in the middle of the second episode, but that’s okay, because despite how horrible the pregnancy scare was, it truly solidified Jungkook’s presence in your life. You have all the time in the world to watch hours and hours of subpar filler episodes, and you’ll do it happily as long as you’re with him.

© chryblossomjjk 2023 [do not copy, translate or repost]

[a-yellow-van]

Wish You Were Here | Part 3

You and Joel get stuck in a blizzard during patrol. It leads to something unexpected.

Series masterlist

Pairing : Joel Miller x f!reader

Fanfic tags : canon compliant, slow burn, romance, some smut, angst, hurt/comfort, joel and the reader are terrible at feelings, female reader, no use of y/n, reader is in early 30s, past relationships, trauma/PTSD, grief, loss, post-apocalypse, jackson joel, joel is a good parent to ellie, protective joel, major character death, original characters, queer characters, bisexual main character, age difference, canon-typical violence

WC : 8.9 k

Warnings for part 3 : Minors DNI! swearing, drinking, mentions of trauma and PTSD, mild violence, explicit sexual content (masturbation, unprotected sex, p in v sex, rough-ish sex, praise kink, pet names, limited aftercare), more hurt than comfort I'm sorry

Writing this one hurt a lil. But I'm happy with it. So please enjoy.

It’s been half an hour. Thirty minutes of riding side by side in complete silence, interrupted only by the sounds of Old Beardy and Willow’s hooves rhythmically crunching in the snow.  It seems like an eternity. The tension is so intense it’s almost palpable. Your presence, a blur in Joel’s peripheral vision, is putting him on such an edge that, at any given moment now,  he could turn around and gallop back to Jackson, or start saying things he’d better keep to himself, or get you off your horse and take you by the waist and…

No. Nope. Stop it. 

His grip on the reins tightens and he bites his inner cheek until the stab of pain rips his mind off that absurd train of thought. He stares straight ahead at the deserted highway, the stretch of the 191 carved in a broad valley. The landscape is lost in a sea of white, the concrete below  invisible, crashed cars resembling large animals sleeping in a snowy den. Joel’s face is numb from the cold, rugged skin humid, a few wild strands of hair on his forehead pearling with ice. The brim of his insulated cap isn’t enough to shield his eyes from the stinging wind, but still, he stares, almost unblinking. His neck itches with the urge to turn and glance at you; he has been actively fighting it ever since leaving. He has to remain collected, he has to concentrate on the job. That sentence is playing on loop in his head like a mantra, so much so that the words are getting jumbled, barely making sense anymore. 

He doesn’t understand why it’s been so difficult to just move on from what happened. Not one day during those two weeks has passed without his thoughts drifting back to that brief intimacy he shared with you, without wondering what you’re doing, how you’re doing. And he loathes it. Hates being confused, hates not having control, hates that you’re having such an effect on him. So, before he drives himself crazy, he decides to start counting the cars until the both of you reach the first checkpoint on the Hoback route. Joel has calculated about five miles since Jackson, only around three to go until the job gets more active. There are two cars on the right, their shapes stuck together in a permanent collision, and one on the left. Joel can make it. 

Small, repetitive rituals like this always helped him focus; back when he was working construction, a lifetime ago, he’d recite stupid ad jingles to himself, trying to remember as many as he could and associate them with the correct brand. There was a famous one that Sarah used to sing just to annoy him, delighted when it worked without fail every time. He’d be reading the newspaper in the morning, or watching a game, or driving her to school, and she’d pipe up out of nowhere. And then it’d be stuck in Joel’s head for days. Some annoying rap about credit reports. How did it go again? F-R-E-E, that spells free…something something dot com, baby. Sarah’s mischievous giggles, after he begged her to stop, echo around his mind. Less than a year back, it would have sent him down to a dark, sunken place with slippery walls nearly impossible to climb out of. Not anymore, after Ellie. The memory’s still stained with grief, but it doesn’t feel so crushing to carry. He’s accepted it as part of him. Joel tries to recall the rest of the lyrics to that damned song; he thinks Ellie might get a kick out of it. She’s always so eager to learn about even the most meaningless things that existed before the outbreak. 

It does the trick to distract him from you. It works so well, in fact, that he nearly misses the turn to the checkpoint. He pulls on Old Beardy’s reins suddenly, steering him in the right direction. The horse neighs in protest. 

So much for concentrating. 

You’ve certainly noticed the mishap, but you don’t comment on it, much to his relief.  

Get a fucking grip. 

Joel begins down the side path to an abandoned gas station, the tension rising. Maybe, if one of you were to point out the obvious, it would make this whole situation a bit less miserable. But Joel isn’t going to be the one to do it. It would come out all wrong, anyway. 

The place is small, a few pumps decaying under a canopy that’s barely holding on to four crumbling steel rods. The convenience store isn’t in better shape, its windows shattered, the signboard crashed by the entry. You take initiative and move towards the back of the building; Joel takes it as a cue for him to check out the front. The advantage of being an experienced patroller is that you can do your job without much communication; at least there’s that. He jumps off Old Beardy and walks up to the building, unworried but readying his weapon nonetheless. If there were infected around, he’d have spotted them already. Just as he thought, the interior is empty, what’s left of it is covered in a thin film of dirty snow. Just for good measure, he checks the storage and the restrooms in the back. Still nothing. He jogs back to his horse just as you turn a corner, you and Willow coming back into view, calm, unperturbed. 

You don’t wait for him to leave. He scrambles to mount Old Beardy, and you’re already back on the highway. It sustains Joel’s growing irritation; he almost yells out for you to slow down. Sure, ignoring each other is one thing, but being unsafe and disrespecting patrol rules is another. So, as a punishment, Joel spurs Old Beardy into a run and catches up before overtaking you, almost knocking you off Willow. He hears you gasp out in surprise. You try to swerve to the right, but he blocks the move. He wants to make you crack. Because he can’t be the one to do so first. You try the same move, to the left this time, and again, Joel is faster. He takes things a step further and lets out a dry, arrogant scoff. 

That’s it. You’re about to rip into him. But only the whistling of the wind responds; you keep stubbornly quiet. You don’t even give the man a glance when he finally lets you pass and get back on his side, your expression set in stone. 

Damn it. You’re good. 

Joel doesn’t attempt anything else, deciding it’s wasted energy. You both continue on the road, status quo, for another hour. You stop at a few other checkpoints around the highway : an old RV park, a fire station…Warm, sheltered places that would draw in people, or things, at this time of year. But there’s no sign of life anywhere. By this point, Joel would usually have had to take out at least a stray runner. It’s almost unsettling. Like the calm before a storm. That little seed of concern plants itself inside his mind, heightening his senses. You must feel it too, because you guide your horse closer to his, and he notices your right hand leaving the reins to rest on the rifle hanging from your shoulder. 

Sombre clouds are accumulating in the sky, hanging low, menacing. The wind increases as you both reach the highway exit to the small village of Hoback, carrying sharp snowflakes that cut Joel’s exposed cheeks. The path is narrow, flanked by tall conifers that grow denser, their branches drooping down from the weight of the snow. You’re forced to get behind the man, your gaze on his back piercing, nervous, uncomfortable. The both of you still don’t talk, but the atmosphere has shifted, the unspoken conflict momentarily forgotten. 

Joel moves forward cautiously on trot, alert, scanning his surroundings. The first cluster of residences comes into view, simple log cabins settled at the foot of a hill a couple yards away. From the distance, nothing looks out of place. He signals for you to follow him, and you patrol up and down the short street, hastily inspecting the houses on both sides. They’re frozen in a dead silence, immobile, ravaged by years of negligence and harsh elements. Instead of being reassuring, the absence of movement only causes Joel’s foreboding feeling to develop. Something is very off here. The both of you repeat the process through the village, falling into calculated, practised gestures. And, while patrollers have the habit of checking some key places for supplies to bring back to Jackson, this time, your pair instinctively works as fast as possible, not entering a single house. There’s an unwritten agreement to get the hell out of here as soon as you can. 

You’ve cleared out most of the village and, at last, you reach Snake River, the sounds of its turbulent waters mixed with the wind is tumultuous.  There’s a bridge ahead, just large enough for a car. Its wooden structure is unstable, some slats have fallen, the rest are icy and split in places. This next part has to be done on foot; the horses would collapse through the bridge and drown if they even took one step on it. Once you cross the river, you’ll need to walk a couple miles to the outskirts of the village, finishing off the route at an old golf course. The clubhouse is a great lookout to the area; it holds the patrol logbook. Joel halts Old Beardy before the river, and you stop next to him. The animal shakes his head, freeing his mane from the layer of snow. Joel hesitates, not quite ready to leave the protection and speed horseback offers. He’s debating if an acute gut feeling is reason enough to turn back and leave patrol unfinished. 

That short moment of doubt is precious. Because a second later, nature seems to fall completely silent around you. As though a predator is roaming nearby. Sudden, horrible snarls erupt from the woods stretching to your right. The ground trembles beneath fast, uneven footsteps. A lot of them. Too many. Time stops as Joel looks in your eyes for the first time in hours. They’re full of fear. 

And then a runner stumbles onto the trail about three hundred feet behind, twitching, its mangled head snapping in your direction. Followed by another. And another. It jolts the man right into action. 

“COME ON!” He urges you, spurring Old Beardy to a gallop. 

There’s no way to go, but forward. Joel barrels around the bridge and down the slope, reaching the riverbank. You don’t leave his side, thighs clenched around Willow’s flanks, arms straining with the reins. And as your horses hooves hit the ice, the horde has crossed the distance, pouring down the embankment. There’s at least twenty. Some of them fall into the water, the current seizing them immediately. But it’s not enough to stop them. Joel’s heart is hammering out of his chest, his body rocking with the movement as Old Beardy pushes on, fueled by the danger. Joel lets go of the reins, expert fingers grasping his rifle. He swiftly points it at the first runner that lunges at his left, and lodges a bullet in its brain. The next one steps on the corpse, ready to attack. It meets the same fate. The gunshots coming from your side clearly indicate that you’re handling yourself. Before long, Joel has emptied the chamber, not one bullet wasted. 

“RELOADING!” He shouts. 

You cover him, taking out an infected, mere inches before his claws dig into Joel’s ankle. He doesn’t have time to thank you, however, pulling the trigger the second he readies the rifle again. You both maintain the rhythm up for what seems to be hours, the horses snorting through the effort, runners dropping like flies. Joel has lost all sensation; he doesn’t feel his lungs burning or his muscles pulling; the adrenaline has completely taken over. He keeps riding. Shooting. Reloading. And…Yes, there.

Only two of the fuckers left. 

One on your side, one on his. He fires. Perfect shot. He thinks the two of you might make it out unscathed. 

But then, something happens. Your weapon is pointed at your own runner, about to shoot. But you hesitate. Joel watches as the creature strikes. Willow panics. She rears up. And you are thrown to the ground.   

——————————

That runner. 

It looks so much like her. 

Your body hits the riverbank, head bouncing on a rock, wind knocked out of you. A sharp pain erupts in your skull, high-pitched ringing explodes in your ears, stars appear in your vision. In a fraction of a second, the creature is straddling you. You weakly push an elbow against its chest, keeping its jaws from locking around your neck. It twitches, screams, clacks its teeth. 

And you just…accept it. Twenty-one years of surviving, and this is how it ends. 

You close your eyes. 

And you’re back in the forest. That day. You’re running, faster than you’ve ever done in your life, branches grabbing at you, slicing your skin, like they want to prevent your escape. You glance over your shoulder. She’s gaining on you. Her eyes have turned a milky white, her clothes are ripped, her skin bloodied. But she still looks so much like herself. She still sounds like herself. Your baby sister. Her discorded weeps fill you with a gutting terror. You can almost make out the repeated word. Your name. Tears fall down wildly as you dart between trees, your breathing erratic, throat on fire. 

“PLEASE! ANI! STOP!” you howl. But she’s gone. She can’t understand. So she chases, and you run. 

Until your foot catches on a large root, sending you tumbling through the underbrush. Your gun clatters away from you. You lay there, stunned, dirt in your eyes, your nose, your mouth, ankle bent at the wrong angle. 

She pins you to the ground, broken nails digging in the skin of your arms. You flail around, kick at her, trying to free yourself from her impossibly strong grip. 

“STOP IT! ANI! STOP!” you cry out again, voice raspy, hollow, desperate. 

Your right hand pats around blindly for the weapon, your left is pushed against her forehead, forcing her mouth away from your exposed shoulder. Your heart is beating so fast it seems like it’s stopped. Maybe it has. Maybe you’ve died, and this is just a flash of your last moments as you drift into peaceful, eternal rest. Or maybe it’s a horrible nightmare, and you’re about to wake up, a hand laced in your sister’s soft hair, light snores escaping her lips. She always looks so innocent when she sleeps, like all worries have washed off her, like she’s been sent back to a happy childhood in her dreams. 

Your fingers brush against cold metal. You close them around the handle. 

Bang. 

The shot echoes, in the past and in the present. 

You’re still alive. 

The runner’s corpse slumps down against you, coating you with gore, a foul smell making you gag. You’re paralyzed, trembling, chest rising and falling erratically, gasping for air. You look up at the angry grey skies, the snow plummeting down, catching in your eyelashes. Everything stands still for an instant. 

It all comes rushing back as the dead infected is ripped off your chest, discarded to the side like a rag doll. You sense a presence crouching down next to you, and Joel obscures your view. 

He calls out your last name, loud, snapping you back to reality. You focus on his face; it’s flushed, expression tight with stress, eyes darting, searching for yours. 

“Hey! Are you okay?” he yells. 

Joel takes you by the shoulders and pulls you into a sitting position, the sudden movement making you dizzy. You stare back at him, eyes wide, blinking rapidly, unable to answer. Stunned.

“HEY! Did it bite you?” he continues, shaking you. 

You move your head side to side in response, causing it to throb in pain. You wince, raising a hand to your occiput. Your glove comes back crimson. Joel’s eyes fall to the blood, and he mutters a curse. He reaches into his coat pocket to take out a rag, balling it up and pressing it to the back of your skull. 

“Keep that there for me. Can you do that?” He speaks in a low, steady tone, but there’s an edge to it you pick up on. You nod and execute yourself. Willow comes over and nudges you with her nose; her way of apologising. You pat her with your free hand, reassuring. It was your fault.

Joel runs back to Old Beardy, the poor beast trembling from the fright. He takes something out of his pack’s front pocket and brings it back : a small bottle of rubbing alcohol. He twists the cap off with his teeth and kneels behind you, taking the rag and pouring some of the liquid on it. He rubs it on your wound, eliciting a shriek.

Holy shit that hurts. 

Joel inspects the injury, parting your hair to expose it, the rough fabric of his gloves like sandpaper on your scalp. 

“Cut isn’t deep. But you’re gonna get a mean bump.” Joel explains, applying more pressure. He stops the bleeding, aided by the cold, and wraps the rag around your head, securing it with a tight knot. “We gotta keep moving. Can you stand up?” 

This version of Joel, assertive, protective even, catches you off guard. It’s such a stark contrast from his attitude earlier in the day. It nearly makes you forget how close to death you just came.

“Uh, I-I think so-” you reply, regaining your voice, before attempting to push yourself off the ground and falling back down. Your head spins. 

Joel offers you his hand, which you take to pull yourself up slowly, your whole body protesting. Bile rises up to your oesophagus. You lean over, breathing through your mouth. 

“Shit. I think you have a concussion,” you hear Joel say, from far away.

And, then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, the storm picks up. The snow gets so dense you can barely see five feet in front of you. The man takes the lead, urgently guiding you towards Old Beardy. He helps you mount, taking you by the waist, and you don’t even think to resist. There’s no way you can ride by yourself in this condition. Joel gets on and takes the reins while you hold on to him, chest pressed against his back. He whistles for Willow over the wind. She follows right behind. 

Joel leads his horse out of the riverbank and into the surrounding woods, visibility getting even poorer. You’re blinded by snow, breathing it in, wheezing. You put all trust in Joel’s sense of orientation, praying that somehow, he gets you back onto the road. He presses forward, a hand raised in front of his face to protect it. 

What a stupid fucking way to go out. Lost in a blizzard. With Joel Miller. At least the town would have something to talk about. 

But then, miraculously, the trees begin to thin out; ahead, you can make out the faint outline of a trail. 

He did it. 

You squeeze Joel’s torso tighter, as if to thank him. Old Beardy perseveres, pushing one leg in front of the other. Your head is getting heavier, the concussion pulling you towards a dreamless sleep. 

“Hold on. We’re almost there.” Joel affirms. You’re not sure who it’s destined for : himself, you, or the horses. Maybe all four. But it’s all you need to let go, and you pass out, head slumping on Joel’s shoulder. 

——————————

You wake up to the sound of snow pelting against glass. Your skull feels like it’s being drilled into with a jackhammer. You pry your eyelids open and try to get your bearings, vision foggy, as though you opened your eyes in a chlorine pool. You find that you’ve been laid out on a frayed, deformed couch, springs digging into your back, a quilt smelling of mothballs thrown over you. Your winter attire has been taken off. You push yourself up on your elbows and look around the room. It seems to be the small living area of a cabin; there’s a rustic coffee table where both packs lay next to the bloody rag that acted as your bandage. To your left is a large, frosted-over bay window; the outside is an infinite, oppressing white. Two sets of jackets and ski pants hang from antler-shaped hooks next to the front door, a puddle forming underneath. A stone hearth takes up the wall in front of you, fire crackling inside. And, to your right, a plaid armchair. Joel is sitting in it, leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs, watching you intently with knitted brows. His expression is hard, severe, unfriendly; he’s back to his normal self. You hold his gaze, your sight slowly getting clearer. 

“Uh. Hey,” you speak hoarsely, throat dry. It makes you cough, which prompts Joel to get up and rummage through your pack to retrieve your canteen. He tosses it to you carelessly, and you fail to catch it. It lands on your lap with a thump. Joel plops back into the armchair, huffing. He is very transparently upset with you. 

Great.

You take a long gulp of water and wipe your mouth with the back of your sleeve, the day replaying in your mind like on a movie theatre screen, pausing on your near-death experience. And you’re baffled, ashamed of your own actions. You can’t believe Joel had to step in and save your sorry ass, like you’re some kind of damsel in distress.  

Fucking rookie mistake. And now you have a goddamn concussion. 

You massage your temples and suppress a groan. “How long was I out?” you ask instead. 

“About an hour.” Joel answers, tone glacial, deprived of any sympathy. 

“Did you try calling Jackson?” You nod over at the small radio sitting on the ground by the window. 

“Couldn’t get a signal,” Joel answers, gruff, as if it’s an obvious fact. 

You roll your eyes. You know he’s right, but still, you stand up despite sore muscles, and go over to the device, cranking it a few times before trying the channel knob. You’re met with static. Joel mumbles something under his breath; it doesn’t sound pleasant, or polite. You put the radio back down and return to the couch, avoiding eye contact with the older man.

You glance at your watch. It’s right after 3PM, and the blizzard hasn’t let up. You’re going to be stuck here a while. You rest your head on the arm of the sofa, staring at the beamed ceiling, lost in reflexion. About how genuinely worried Joel seemed when you got hurt, how he jumped right in to take care of you. It makes you seethe. He tucked you in so you’d stay warm. He even changed your socks; the wet pair is drying by the fireplace. How dare he? You shift on the cushions, stiff, ill at ease. And Joel chooses that moment to break the silence. 

“What the hell was that back there?” He questions, his tone accusatory.

You tense up. The blame you’re putting on yourself is more than enough. He doesn’t need to twist the knife. You ignore him, your jaw clenching. 

“Hey. I’m talkin’ to ya,” he nags. 

It makes your blood boil, and you sit up to glare at him. “Won’t happen again,” you grumble.

“Yeah? You sure about that?” He continues, harsh. 

You take a deep breath. “Look, I-”

He interrupts you. “You don’t freeze up like that. Ever. You understand me?”

“Oh, wow. I had no idea!” You strike back, not missing a beat. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Miller,” You spit out. 

Joel lets out a chilling chuckle. “Oh, you’re welcome, by the way!” He barks, “You know. For keepin’ you alive an’ all.”

You spring to your feet, heat shooting to your head, exacerbating the migraine. “I didn’t ask for your fucking help,” you utter. 

Joel gets up too, towering over you, hands balled up into fists. “Right. Next time I'll just let you get infected. That what you want?” 

“I told you. There won’t be a next time!” You shout, holding yourself back from punching him in the gut, or kneeing him where it would hurt most, or pulling him down to the couch and pushing your lips to his neck and letting him- 

No. Nope. Not again, not here, not now. 

You desperately need some air. You move towards the front door, but Joel strides up to you and blocks the way, arms crossed. 

“You ain’t going anywhere,” he warns. 

“Let. Me. Out.” You command. Your head is so painful you think it might explode. 

Joel chuckles again. “You got a death wish or somethin’? Settle down, girl.” He talks down to you as if you were a child, smug, condescending; but that word makes your heart skip a beat. 

You try to make a pass for the handle, but he grabs your wrist and shoves it backwards effortlessly. You’re seeing red. So you opt for the next best thing; you spin around abruptly and storm off to the other side of the cabin, into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you. 

“Oh yeah. You do that. Real mature.” Joel yells out. 

You hear the creak of the floor under his steps and the rustling of fabric as he sits back down. You take your frustrations out on the shower curtain, displacing thousands of dust particles, before biting down on your hand to muffle a scream. When you’re done, you climb into the bathtub and curl up against the lime-scaled cold porcelain, forehead on your knees. The space is dark, stuffy, suffocating. You wonder how you’ll be able to make it through the storm without ripping Joel’s head off. Or doing something exactly opposed to it. How easily that man is able to just get to you is incomprehensible. Enraging. And, worst of all, despite how reluctant you are to admit it… 

Arousing.  

It must be the concussion dysregulating you completely. But the feeling grows, and you extend both legs to squeeze your thighs together, trying to release the pressure building between them. It’s no use. There’s only one thing that would satisfy it, and he’s right outside the door. Without your control, your right hand moves to the waistband of your jeans, undoes the button and goes down, past the elastic of your underwear…Fingers reach down to your entrance, already slick, and glide back up to the hardened nub, the touch sending a rush of pleasure through your body. You rub clumsy circles around, slow at first, mind filling with Joel, his calloused hand there instead of yours, stretching you out, whispering filthy things in your ear. You increase the speed, biting your lip to keep yourself from moaning, cheeks flushed, the pressure becoming almost unbearable. You push two fingers inside, curling them to stimulate that sensitive spot, bucking into your own palm to deepen the sensation. In a matter of seconds, you’re unravelling, free hand gripping the side of the tub, your walls clamping down on the other, come seeping in the fabric below. Your lips part and you can’t help a low squeal from escaping them. You immediately clap your left hand over your mouth, heart racing. 

Fuck. 

Did he hear?

You take a few deep breaths, trying to calm yourself. The reality of what you just did comes crashing down. It only worked to heighten your desire. And your anger. You button your pants back up and step out of the bathtub, wiping your hand on a scratchy towel you find in the linen closet along with a colony of spiders. 

You’ve been in here for too long. You have to go back out. It would raise suspicion if you didn’t. 

——————————

Joel is oblivious, too busy sulking over the events of the day as he tends to the fire, flames illuminating his face in a flickering glow. 

That was too fucking close. 

The image of you, frozen up under the runner, keeps snaking its way into his thoughts. It infuriates him. How you just gave up, like your life was worthless, like you deserved what came to you. And yet, the sentiment is so familiar it makes his chest ache in a burst of empathy. He can sense the burden in you, the intense trauma you endured. Most people have, in this unforgiving world, but you…There’s something more. It was the look in your eyes when you saw that infected, as if it reminded you of something so vivid it stole you away for an instant. He knows because it’s happened to him. It still does, sometimes, although less frequently. They’re these moments of sheer panic, where he’s choking, the world blurring around him. He has to count things he can see, or touch, or hear…He feels so miserably weak after it’s passed, as if he’s just a small, scared old man. Maybe it reveals his true nature. 

And he’s so angry at you for making him care. Because for some reason, he does. Ever since that night at the tavern. Maybe even before. How scared he got when he thought you might be done for is direct proof of it. 

He can’t afford to have another person to protect. 

A quiet cough brings him back to the present. He peers over his shoulder. You’re standing behind him, seemingly troubled by something; you fiddle with the hem of your sweater, gaze glued to the ground. 

He turns back to the hearth, sighing, and forces out an irritated “You good?” The thing is, he actually is concerned with the answer. 

“Fine.” You reply, your tone not an ounce more affable than his. 

That is as far as the conversation goes. Joel eventually gets tired of rotating the same log with the fire poker, pretending the action is crucial to keep the flames alive. He goes back to the armchair, glancing at you. You’ve reclined on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, mindlessly chewing on a piece of dried meat. He decides to imitate you, because he needs something to do with his hands. So he digs in his bag for the sandwich he’d packed; it’s mushed, tasteless. You both eat in thick, loaded silence. 

The sunlight is starting to decline, and the storm rages on, casting the room in an eerie shadow, the cold seeping in through every tiny crack in the cabin’s foundation. Joel shivers despite himself, shoving both hands under his armpits in an attempt to preserve his body heat. 

A second later, you’re out of your seat. Joel watches as you climb up the spiral staircase that leads to the loft bedroom. You shuffle around the space, partially concealed by the railing, and come stomping back down, carrying a crumpled blanket. You hold it out to him at arm’s length. Joel cocks a brow; the sudden kind gesture leaves him completely confused. You jiggle the blanket under his nose, impatient. He decides to take it, and drapes it around his shoulders, the relief immediate. 

“Uh. Thanks,” he mumbles. 

You give a shrug in response, dismissive, wrapping yourself in the quilt and retreating to the sofa.  

What the hell? 

An hour ago, you were fiercely arguing with him. Now this. The flip-flopping is giving him whiplash. 

Time passes, excruciatingly slow, nor Joel or you daring to say another word. The sun fully sets; the darkness outside is opaque, as if the little cabin is drowning alone in an abyss. There’s no way around it, you’ll both have to spend the night here. Around half past 5PM, Joel can’t stew in the tension anymore, so he goes to check on Old Beardy and Willow, confined to the veranda at the back of the house. They’re cramped, but otherwise fine. Joel risks a short trip to the yard to fill an old, warped bucket with snow for the horses to drink. As he shines the beam of his flashlight around, he notes that the blizzard has weakened slightly. This mess might be over in the morning. Just a few hours. He can last until then. It’s not like he has any other choice. 

He feeds the animals with a pile of straw forgotten in a corner of the veranda, behind some gardening tools. At the start of the outbreak, he couldn’t help but imagine who inhabited the places he used as shelters, what their daily lives looked like, if they were still alive. Sometimes, he’d come across evidence of the contrary. It used to disturb him, he’d feel like an intruder, but he’d quickly grown desensitised. Cordyceps didn’t spare anyone. It made suffering the new normal. It’s useless to dwell on what was or wonder what could have been. So, he doesn’t pay more attention to the objects scattered around the space as Willow eats from his hand. 

Once he comes back inside the cabin, he finds you exploring the kitchenette that’s crammed underneath the loft. You’ve opened the cupboards, revealing stacks of chipped, dusty dishes. You’re going through a drawer, a few utensils clinking inside. You haven’t noticed Joel, too focused on your search for something of value. He observes quietly as you move on to the second drawer, when he decides to make his presence known. He clears his throat before speaking. 

“Don’t bother, I already checked while you were sleepin’.” 

His words only make you search harder, meticulously inspecting the contents of the drawer, bent over, your back turned to him.

Goddamn it. You’re exasperating. 

And yet, his eyes are drawn to a specific part of your anatomy, the curves made obvious by your position, your jeans hugging them so well he could just-

“Or do whatever the fuck you want,” he mutters, the hostility compensating for the sudden surge of lust. 

He plants himself in the armchair, once again, the noises of your continued investigation grating, setting his nerves on fire. After a few minutes, they stop. And you come walking back to the living area with a subtle, conceited smirk on your lips, and a bottle of very nice, before-the-apocalypse whisky clutched in your right hand. 

“Didn’t check well enough, Miller,” you say, failing to hide your satisfaction. 

“Where was it?” He asks, upset at himself for missing the item. 

“Back of the sink cabinet,” you answer smugly. “Quality stuff,” you add, reading the label. You’re absolutely right, but Joel isn’t going to recognise it. 

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky,” he grumbles. You don’t waste time and unseal the bottle before raising it to your mouth. 

“Don’t think that’s smart,” Joel cautions, making you pause mid-air. “Y’know. Concussion,” he continues, his tone more unpleasant than he anticipated. 

You don’t listen to his advice, staring at him tauntingly as you sip. He’s quickly learning that you thrive in defiance. And this audacity you possess, it’s…Attractive. Joel inexplicably likes that you’re provoking him. Your expression remains neutral as you swallow, even when Joel knows for a fact it must sting like hell. You offer the bottle to him. 

It’s been a long time since he’s had liquor that didn’t have an aftertaste of battery acid, and the sight makes him crave a good drink. It’d certainly make the night pass by faster. He knows it’s a terrible idea, considering where getting drunk with you led him last time, but it’s so damn tempting…

He takes the whisky from you. 

——————————

You’ve made a considerable dent in the liquor. It’s dulling the pain in your head, reducing it to a distant ache. You’re sitting cross-legged in front of the hearth, and Joel has joined you on the ground, close enough to pass the bottle back and forth without having to stand up. His back is resting on the bottom panel of the couch, legs spread out casually. The fire, as well as the whisky, is enveloping you in a calming warmth, eating away at your inhibitions; you’ve taken your sweater off as a result, stripped down to a tight thermal shirt. There’s silence again between you and Joel, but this time, it doesn’t make you want to claw out of your own skin. It’s strikingly comfortable. And you find yourself wanting the man to come closer, longing for contact, connection. You haven’t forgotten your little adventure in the bathroom; in fact, the liquor is feeding those feelings,  and they’ve risen to a nearly overwhelming level. 

You take another sip, and, during the exchange, Joel’s fingers graze yours, sending your heart in a frenzy and a burst of flustered heat to your face. You jerk your hand away. 

Idiot. 

You play it off by brushing it through your hair. Joel’s mouth twitches upwards before he drinks. 

“What?” You ask, defensive. 

“Nothin’.” Joel passes the bottle back to you with a faint air of amusement. You decide it’s a good time to stop, and you set it down on the floor. 

“Done already? I was expecting more from ya,” he teases. 

You hate how well it’s efficient in riling you up. “Like you said. Concussion,” you retort, pointing at the site of injury. 

“Hm. So now it's a good enough excuse,” he presses on, narrowing his eyes at you. 

“Yup,” you answer simply. 

“Really? That’s all you got?” His smirk is more assured now. 

You give a drawn-out sigh in response, studying the fire like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. 

“Damn. I was startin’ to like the snark,” he says. It seems like the liquor has taken a toll on the man’s reservations, too. 

“Don’t wanna waste my breath on you,” you reply, unable to resist the banter. 

Joel chuckles. “Ah. There she is.” 

You had forgotten how lovely Joel’s laugh is. How natural it feels to talk to him like this. Funny how booze seems to have that impact on the both of you. And, after a tortuous day of being at each other’s throats, you welcome the change of mood. “Did I just hear you say you like me?” You turn to gaze at him, an eyebrow raised. 

“Nah. Must be your concussion.” He answers, deadpan, unfazed. 

You can’t hold back a smile as you reply. “Hm. Sure, Miller.”

He pauses and appears to consider something, chewing on his bottom lip. “Uh. Joel,” he finally lets out, voice deeper, more serious. “Just- call me Joel.” 

You’re taken aback by that sudden request. 

His first name. It feels informal, intimate even, as though you’ve moved past the status of coworkers, into murky, foreign territory. You know you should refuse. You’ve dropped too many of your principles with this man already. 

“Alright. Joel.” You gulp. “Uh, same goes for you.”

He gives a short nod, and mirrors your sentence, only with your name instead.

It’s significant. This moment. It feels like the two of you have reached a point of no return. Like from here on out, things can’t just go back to the way they were. 

“Man, this isn’t how I was planning to spend the night,” you revert to humour to diffuse the returning tension. 

“Yeah?” Joel follows your lead. “Got somethin’ you’d rather be doin’?”

“Pretty much anything else,” you quip. “I was gonna work on this painting I’m late on.” You’re not sure why you’re opening up about that aspect of your life, but it’s the direction the whisky has picked. It’s futile enough. Still safe. 

“Oh. Right. Painting,” he says. “I knew you did that.”

He does?

“Didn’t you do one of Tommy and Maria?” He continues. “For their wedding?” 

The man truly is full of surprises. And to think you were convinced he was completely indifferent to you, at least before today. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that was me,” you reply after a few seconds. 

“It’s good work. You managed to make Tommy look half-decent. That’s talent right there,” he jokes. 

“Yeah. Thanks. I tried.” You chuckle, and your stomach flutters at the compliment. You’d shoot those butterflies one by one with a tiny gun if you could. “What about you? What’d you have on the schedule?”

“Hm,” he answers, “not much either. Was gonna ask Ellie to join me for dinner. And get rejected again.” 

“I don’t blame her,” you comment, a teasing grin forming. “What teenager wants to hang out with a grumpy old guy?” 

“Hey. Rude.” Joel feigns offence. “I can be fun,” he adds. 

“Won’t believe it until I see it,” you push further. 

“Okay then. Just you wait.” He glances around the room for inspiration, until he is hit by a stroke of genius. 

“Truth or dare?”

You snort. “Are you twelve?”

“Truth or dare?” Joel repeats, voice raising in pitch. 

You shake your head in disbelief. 

Joel fucking Miller.  

“Fine. Truth,” you capitulate. 

Joel smirks. “Okay. Uh,” he concentrates, “What’s your favourite colour?”

You take a second to process the words that just came out of his mouth. And then burst out laughing. 

“Come on,” Joel protests, a grin brightening his eyes, deepening the wrinkles around them. “What’s wrong with that question?” 

It makes you double down in laughter. You wheeze, trying to catch your breath, and Joel joins in with a few low chuckles. The stoic mask has vanished. Why does he look so sweet? 

“That-that- was the best you could come up with?” you get out between deep inhales. 

Joel doesn’t back down. “You gonna answer it or what?” 

“Okay, okay. Uh-” 

You realise you haven’t thought about that tiny aspect of yourself in about two decades. Cordyceps has had that strange effect of destroying souls, personalities, the little things that used to make one human. By infecting some, and coercing others into survival. You’re not sure which fate is worse. 

“It’s yellow,” you finally reply. Yellow like the sunshine. That was your sister’s nickname. And you were Moonbeam. Opposites who completed each other. And now there’s only one left, lonely, broken.

Joel nods. “Fitting.”

“Hm?”

“Your tattoo.” He gestures at your exposed collarbone, where a sun made up of a multitude of ink dots is etched into your skin. Joel is scarily on point; that was for her, too. 

“Yeah.” You don’t linger on the topic. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Joel replies instantly. 

You’re not prepared. “Uh- I dare you to-” Your mind is sluggish, moving in slow-motion as you try to come up with something. “I dare you to sit next to me.” It comes out without your control. 

Shit. 

“Easy,” Joel brags. He pushes himself off the ground with a grunt and takes five steps before settling back down so close that your legs are touching. He doesn’t acknowledge it, eyes on the fire ahead, and neither do you. But it sends a chill up your spine and your thoughts to a dangerous place. You determine you’ve taken a long enough break from the whisky and take a swig of the liquid courage. Joel does too. 

“Your turn,” he reminds you. 

“Truth.” You still have enough wits left to be worried of what he’d make you do as a dare. 

“Takin’ the coward’s way out?” He teases. 

You drink again, ignoring the remark. 

“Alright. Uh, tell me about- your first time,” he says, glancing over at you with a sly smile. 

That’s a huge jump from the innocence of his first question. You shoot him an unimpressed look. “You’re gonna have to be more precise.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Now start talkin’,” he playfully orders. 

You sigh. “I was seventeen. With a friend I had in the QZ. Nothing special to it.” Your teenage years aren’t a period you like to reminisce about; you had to grow up much too fast. 

Joel stays quiet for a moment, and bumps your knee with his, in a movement that could be passed as accidental, or as an attempt at comfort. You’re not certain which is the truth. “D’you love him?” He asks, his tone genuine, devoid of mockery. 

“Her,” you correct. “And…I don’t know. It was years ago. Doesn’t matter.” It’s a lie. You remember it like it was yesterday. And you did.

Joel’s expression is one of surprise, and embarrassment. He turns a shade of red deeper than he was the second before, the temperature having nothing to do with it. “Oh. Uh. I- Sorry, uh, didn’t mean to assume- That’s- Good for you- I-” 

You’re very entertained by his reaction. People usually fall into one of two categories when you tell them; awkward ally or plain bigot. You’re glad it’s the first one. You cut him off before he digs the hole deeper. “It’s fine. Don’t beat yourself up. Your turn.” 

He seems rather grateful for the change of subject. “Uh. Right. Truth,” he replies, regaining his composure. 

You give him a taste of his own medicine. “Same question.” 

Joel is unbothered, and tells the story nonchalantly. “Okay. It was my date at senior prom. Back of my car in the school parking lot.”

It makes you laugh. “Wow. How very original. I gotta know what kinda car it was.” 

“My dad’s busted old Wrangler. I put that car through a lot of shit.” he replies, chuckling. 

“I could have guessed that.” 

For a second, you and Joel look at each other, smiling. He almost appears timid. And for a second, the horrors of the world retreat into the shadows that birthed them. For a second, everything is alright. You could stay here forever. 

——————————

Joel could, too. He wishes time could stop here. Because he’s confident that the night will inevitably end in something he’ll regret. No way around it. It’s taking an enormous effort already to keep himself from reaching over and closing the distance between your lips and his. The booze isn’t helping. You’re not either, with that radiant smile that’s melting his hard shell little by little, and your eyes that keep wandering around his face, his chest, and lower too, though you try to be discreet. He’s doing the same, and he’s certain you’re aware of it. Now, it’s a matter of who will succumb to the temptation first. 

You speak up again. “One last thing, Joel. Did you get the girl?” The question is lighthearted, but the memories it brings back certainly aren’t. 

He sighs. “Yeah. I did.” Sarah’s mother. They’d been high school sweethearts. Young. Dumb. A tale as old as time. “Got married. Had a kid. The whole nine yards. Then she wasn’t ready to be a parent. And, well-” He trails off, the words slipping out, motivated by the liquor. He’d never have confessed such a thing in a different context. Especially not to you. And just like that, he’s ruined the mood. 

Your eyebrows shoot up in shock, before your expression softens, as you realise what must have happened to said child. Pity? Compassion? Joel can’t be sure. “Oh. Uhm. I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know-” 

“‘S’okay. It’s, uh, it’s been a while. And I got Ellie now,” he reassures, slurring the words slightly. 

“What-what was their name?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Sarah,” he answers after a pause. He’s only recently started being able to talk about her out loud without breaking down. He doesn’t know if that still applies when he’s inebriated. And he’s not willing to test it out. He drowns the sentiment in more whisky, before giving you the bottle. 

“Uhm. That’s pretty.” You take a swig and hesitate. “I, uh, I- know what it’s like. To- to lose someone like that,” you say, softly. The pain the words cause you as they escape is evident. Joel believes you.

And then something happens. Your right hand leaves your lap, moves to the side and comes to rest on his. 

His gaze travels from your hand, up to your face. It’s full of doubt, eyes wide, as though you’ve just made a horrible mistake. 

It’s all it takes for the floodgates to open. 

——————————

Joel grabs your forearm and pulls you into his lap. His mouth collapses on yours. You don’t protest, accepting the kiss immediately, gripping his shoulders to steady yourself, knees on both sides of his thighs. 

A rugged hand goes to the small of your back, pressing your chest to his, while the other slides up to the back of your head, carefully tilting it to deepen the kiss. Tongues collide, hungry, eager. He sucks on yours, stifling a moan.  

You’ve been pent up so long you’re soaking already. He breaks away from the kiss to trail his lips across your jaw, before going down your neck, biting and swirling his tongue on your pulse point, not mindful of the mark he’s undoubtedly going to leave. He earns a gasp, your fingers interlocking with his hair, holding him in place. You grind against his growing bulge to try and alleviate the fervent pressure rising at your core. He thrusts his hips up to meet yours, the friction sending sparks of electricity to your hazy mind. A hand wanders to your breast, fingers groping the soft flesh, flicking the nipple raised through your shirt. But you need more. Need him inside of you. Now.

And you tell him so, voice quivering with desire. “Please,” you add in a whimper.

It isn’t long before your clothes are ripped off, his lips refusing to break apart from yours for more than a few seconds. He lays you down right there on the floor, bare, trembling, aching for his touch. He sits back on his heels and admires you for a moment, eyes darkened, intense, reflecting the flames as if they are blazing behind his pupils. You watch, mesmerised, as he undresses in the dim, dancing light of the fire, casting him in an aura that’s almost ominous.  He stands up to take off his underwear, cock springing free and hitting his lower stomach.

The sight makes your mouth water. God, he’s big.

He climbs on top of you, your legs encircling his torso, granting him access to your entrance. And he pushes into you. Hard. You’re so wet his cock slides in without resistance, filling you completely, nearly hitting your cervix, the jab of pain delicious. The act isn’t kind, or tender; and it’s exactly what you want. For him to use you, to ruin you. And he does. He fucks you senseless, each stroke bringing you closer to oblivion, to forgetting who you are. The sounds he’s letting out are outright sinful, grunts laced with dirty sentences that could make you finish on the spot. But you’re holding on. Until he lifts you up by the waist, angling himself to hit that bundle of nerves over and over again, making you cry out in ecstasy, clawing at his back. You’re almost there, your walls pulsate around him, driving him deeper inside. 

“Think you should come for me, darlin’,” he hums into your ear, nibbling on the lobe. 

You obey. 

The orgasm ripples with such force it blinds you. You can’t even scream. You’re gone. Not a person anymore, but a being of pure pleasure. Joel coaxes you through it with a few more thrusts, erratic, uneven, as he reaches his own release. He pulls out of you at the last second, painting your belly with spurts of the thick, warm substance. Your entire body spasms before going limp. 

All the fight has been drained out of you. You’re reduced to a panting, throbbing mess on the floor, arousal pooling out of you, coating your inner thighs. 

“Did so good for me,” Joel praises, hands cupping your face, left thumb rubbing circles on your cheek. “So fuckin’ good,” he repeats.

You stay still, eyes closed, brain shutting down your functions one by one. As you’re about to drift off, you feel strong arms carrying you to the loft, carefully placing you on the bed, cleaning you off with a soft cloth. He climbs in and embraces you, limbs tangled with yours, and you nuzzle your head in the crook of his neck. His fingers gently brush the hair from your face to plant a kiss on your forehead. 

“Sleep tight, darlin’,” he whispers. 

It’s so vulnerable it makes your heart ache. 

Because you know this’ll all be gone tomorrow, along with the alcohol evaporating from your system. 

——————————

You’re right.

The sky is clear by the next morning, harsh sunlight brutally waking you. You’re alone in the bed, shivering, sore, his scent all over your skin. You get dressed, head pounding, filled with excruciating remorse. 

Joel is waiting for you by the front door. Glacial. Austere. Haunting. The person that you went to bed with a few hours ago has been torn to shreds. As though he never even existed. Maybe he was a product of your imagination.

And, once you’re outside, standing side by side on the horses, ready for the return trip, Joel utters a sentence that reverberates in your head all the way to Jackson, its echo deafening as you ride in silence.

“What we did. It meant nothing. Understand?”

You keep the tears in until you’re back home. 

To read on AO3

[1emon1ime]

Fleeting Moment [ Koba x Reader ]

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58523500

Koba x Reader hurt & comfort

You find Koba alone, wounded and in need of assistance nearby your campsite, even though you had been warned to stay away, you decided to take the chance and help him.

Rating: Gen

Warning: N/A

Just outside of your small campsite, you had heard what sounded like someone groaning in pain-- perhaps a wounded animal, yet the sound was almost human-like. It had caught you by surprise and as someone with a medical background, you were eager to see if there was anything you could do to help.

What you weren't expecting to see-- was a large ape, hunched over on the ground, one hand clutching his abdomen which wasn't doing much to stop the blood dripping onto the forest floor below him. Upon seeing him, your mouth went slightly agape. You knew of the apes' existence, rumours had spread quickly, however, seeing one of them in front of you like this was still much of a shock. Your camp had warned you, that if you ever came across one of them, not to interact with them; but how could you leave him like this, to suffer--

You too a deep breath, hesitating to approach at first, wondering how he would react. But ultimately you launched forward to help him.

"A-are you okay?" You asked, cautiously approaching the injured bonobo.

He glared up at you through his bloodshot eyes, looking like he might rip your face off. However, he didn't attempt to attack you and it was clear that he was in need of some form of medical assistance. He was injured. You weren't sure what had happened, but he was hurt quite badly. There was a chance that he could bleed out. 

"I-I want to help!" You exclaimed. "Let me take a look at your injury."

Getting a better look at him from up close was quite alarming, his fur was bristled in defence, he had a large scar that ran down one of his eyes, giving him a tough and rugged looking appearance.

“Are you a fool?”

He spoke!

Koba’s deep and gravelly voice snapped at you like a harsh bark, stopping you in your tracks. His scowl darkened into a hateful glare as his fingers dug into the soil beneath him, gripping it to the point that his knuckles turned a stark white. His gaze narrowed on you as he slowly pushed himself off the ground with a pained huff.

“Go. . . . Away." His voice low, guttural and gravelly.

Your eyes widened ever so slightly upon hearing him talk. This would make it easier to convince him. But for a moment you hesitated, wondering if you should have gotten involved in the first place, remembering what the other humans at your camp had told you. No-- You had no choice, if you didn't help him, he would surely die.

"But I can help you. I have medical experience."

Koba's eyes immediately hardened at your mention of experience with "medical procedures". Hand tightened more firmly around the gash on his abdomen, a snarl escaped his lips. He was starting to look very hostile, as if you bringing up medical experience triggered something in him to act aggressively and defensive.

"Back—stay back!" He demanded, but he was unable to get up in the end and simply hunched over on the ground, holding his wounded stomach, trying to regain his breath.

"Okay, okay. . ." You backed away slowly and put your hands up defensively. "I won't do anything." You paused before adding, "I-I can make you some medicine though. . . It's the least I can do."

Koba's expression didn't soften at your reply. If anything, his eyes just became narrower as he sized you up from his position on the ground.

"Medicine—" he hissed under his breath, but that only caused him to winced in pain again, clenching his eyes closed. "What— kind of— medicine?"

"Pain medicine." You explained, "And to disinfect the wound."

"Pain— medicine?"

Koba's expression slightly softened as he contemplated the thought of the promised pain medication. He didn't trust you completely and yet, he desperately needed the help.

With a small grumble, he slowly nodded, begrudgingly accepting your offer.

"F-fine. . . "

"Great!" You smiled, "I'll go and get it from my camp, it's just over here! Just give me a few minutes. I'm gonna have to grab the ingredients."

Koba didn't make a move to stop you. He simply remained laying on the ground, eyeing you as you rose to your feet and faded off into the distance. The ape grumbled to himself as he watched, a bitter look in his eyes, knowing that he was currently unable to do much about his current situation.

He felt pathetic, resenting himself for how out of control he felt in that moment. He couldn't even walk. He was left completely at your mercy and that fact made his blood boil.

Like all the other times.

The bright fluorescent light as he lay on the operating table almost blinding his one good eye-- The eye that he had lost to human cruelty. The pain of his open wound simulating the burning feeling of the scalpel opening up his flesh so that they could torment him more. 

As Koba lay there feeling himself drift in and out of consciousness, the image of his mother flashed in his mind. Koba remembered his mother's screams and cries, the pain she was in as she was taken from him. When Mary had closed her eyes for the final time--

I couldn't protect you.

The sound of a twig snapping broke him from his thoughts. He raised his head to find you standing a few feet away.

"I got the herbs. Let's get you fixed up."

Koba was a little bit startled when you suddenly appeared in front of him again, having been too distracted with his own thoughts to notice you return. He made a displeased noise in the back of his throat but nonetheless didn't protest, watching you with a suspicious eye as you knelt in front of him once again.

He was silent for a good moment, studying the herbs carefully and then looking back up to you. After a few more seconds, he finally grunted in response, signalling to you that he was ready.

"Take this first. It'll help numb the pain."

Koba observed the herbs you held for a moment, then snatched them out of your hand and brought them close to his face. He sniffed them, and then paused warily. Slowly, he brought the herbs to his mouth and ate them, taking the medicine reluctantly.

"Tastes bad." he huffed, not caring to be polite.

"It'll start working in a few minutes. While we wait, I'm gonna check out your wound." You made a motioning movement with your hand, as if signalling him to sit upright so that you could get a better look at his injuries.

The ape looked up, the distrust was still apparent in his eyes as he stared at you. His expression remained wary and untrusting as you announced your intentions to check his injury, and he slowly started to sit up on the ground, leaning against a tree. He winced slightly, discomfort apparent, though he made no move to stop you-- he was in no position to.

"Okay." You murmured, taking a moment to prepare the paste. Koba's eyes remained on you, silently watching as you prepared the medicine.

"This is going to sting." You warned him, pulling a cloth out and dabbing it in a bowl of water first.

"Hng-"

Koba grunted as the cloth made contact with his open wound, flinching slightly but otherwise making no other reaction.

"Sorry, I just have to make sure there's no debris." You told him, "It'll be over soon."

As soon as you were satisfied that his wound was clean, you reached for the paste that you had prepared, dabbing some onto a fresh gauze. Carefully, you applied it over his quivering, toned midriff.

It stung, a lot, and it took him a lot of self-restraint for Koba to not reach out and push you away. He grit his teeth, eyes narrowing, muscles tensing up.

"S-stop." he ordered.

"I know-- it hurts. I'm sorry, I'm almost finished."

Koba grumbled in distaste as you continued cleaning his injury, hating every second of this interaction, but knowing he had no choice other than to comply.

"Hurry." he demanded, his grip on the tree trunk was starting to get so hard that the bark started to crumble around his fingers.

You didn't waste time in applying the medicine to his injury. As soon as you were finished, you started to wrap his torso with a bandage. Even though it took quite the amount of his self-control, Koba managed to keep himself from flinching or jumping every time the bandage touched his sensitive skin. Once you finally finished wrapping his torso, he sighed, feeling a small sense of relief that it was over.

"This will keep the dirt and bacteria out. It should start feeling better in a few hours."

Kobo's breaths came out a bit rougher, his chest heaving rapidly as he started to calm down. His tense frame relaxed slightly when you finally finished dressing up his injury. His eyes drifted down to look at the bandages you had applied. It hadn't occurred to him until now that you weren't trying to hurt him, but genuinely trying to help. 

The pain medication was beginning to kick in as well, and soon, Koba realized that the pain he had been feeling before was easing.

He looked back up at you, an unreadable look in his eyes. It was almost like he was starting to reconsider his initial thoughts about you.

"I will be okay?"

"Yes, but the medicine is only a temporary fix. You should rest. Don't move too much. If you do, you could reopen the wound."

Koba didn't respond as you gave him the instructions to take care of his wound. Instead, he huffed, his expression hardening back to his usual scowls.

"I will be fine." he insisted, refusing to lie down in front of you. "I am strong."

You, however, were a little less than convinced.

"You still need rest for your body to recover, medicine or not." you pointed out. "You will only hurt yourself further if you don't rest."

Koba let out a huff again as you attempted to convince him to rest. He didn't want to give into your suggestion, but he was silently admitting to himself that you were right. He grumbled under his breath, still refusing to admit defeat.

"Perhaps ... a small rest." he muttered reluctantly, his gruff tone betraying his attempt at nonchalant.

"You can lay in my tent if you like, it's much more comfortable than the ground and it's sheltered from the elements. "

Koba's expression darkened as you suggested he rest in your tent. Immediately, he gave you a disapproving look and narrowed his eyes.

"No." he grumbled firmly, his answer short and stubborn. "Rest here. I need no human shelter."

You could see that he was getting frustrated, so you decided not to push any further.

"Okay." You agreed, "That's fine."

For awhile, there was a tense silence between the two of you. Koba simply sat with his back against the tree, staring at the ground with a grumpy expression. But then, after a few moments, he suddenly spoke, breaking the silence.

"Why ... did you help?" he asked, his voice was quiet.

"I heard something-- someone in pain, and I saw you. You were hurt, so I wanted to help." You told him.

"I-I—"

The ape was at a loss for words. His eyes slowly raised to look at you again as you explained your reason for helping him. He listened quietly, almost in disbelief. He was so used to people hurting him, avoiding him, running away in fear, so a human willingly helping him was an entirely new concept.

He didn't understand your motives, he was certain most of the humans in this patch of forest had been taught to avoid and fear the apes, yet here you were, helping him.

A bitter thought crossed his mind. What was your endgame in helping him? Was this some sort of trap? Or were you just pretending to be nice so you could take advantage of his weakened state?

Koba narrowed his eyes at you, his expression becoming guarded. You seemed to have taken notice, explaining yourself further.

"I'm a medic. It's my job to help others, even if they're not human."

Koba raised an eyebrow at your simple explanation. He wasn't used to humans being so ... honest. Listening to you now, there was no hint of lies or deception in your words. Your answer was straightforward and genuine. It racked his brain.

"Hmph." he grumbled, turning his head away. "I didn't need your help."

You couldn't help but chuckle softly at his stubbornness.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to rest at my campsite? You will be much more vulnerable if you stay here like this..."

Again, Koba paused for a moment, taking a deep breath and thinking over your offer. On one hand, he still felt slightly suspicious of you, of your intentions. But on the other hand, he also knew that you were right. He didn't want to admit it, but he was vulnerable like this, and he really could use some rest and getting back to the colony in this state would take a long time.

Letting out a reluctant grumble, Koba slowly began pushing himself off of the ground, preparing to stand up.

"I will be fine." He said, stumbling off into the woods. There wasn't much you could do to stop him, but you still worried.

"Well, you know where I am if you change your mind." You admitted, smiling softly as he slowly limped away into the thick of the forest, grumbling under his breath.

He was stubborn and prideful, and refused to admit that your concern for him was genuine. But even as he walked away, he could still hear your voice, light and airy, reminding him of your offer. He wanted to ignore your words, to prove that he didn't need your help, but he couldn't shake off the feeling of lingering hesitance and perhaps... a hint of longing. 

Koba stopped, turning back to glance at you. "I. . . " He started, then stopped again, struggling to find the right words.

"Thank. . . You." he mumbled, almost too quiet for you to hear. But you did. 

You paused when you heard Koba's mumbled words, almost wondering in surprise, for a moment, if you had heard them properly. But indeed, the rough, bitter ape had suddenly stopped and turned back towards your direction and actually thanked you. It was a quiet and mumbled show of gratitude, but you could clearly hear the small hint of sincerity in his voice.

And as he walked away, you couldn't help but notice that he looked a little lighter, a little less angry.

[yuesya]

“Where is she?”

The injured man stirs faintly and coughs, but does not respond.

Sunday bares his teeth in a vicious snarl, seizing the bastard’s collar in his hands –oh, how he wishes to wring this animal’s neck instead, and he would in a heartbeat if he didn’t still need him to talk. To speak, and reveal his youngest little sister’s location to him.

Halovians are widely adored throughout the universe. Their kind are blessed with beautiful appearances and lovely voices, and many are those who find themselves charmed by such attributes. This knowledge is nothing new.

Slave trafficking is, unfortunately, also nothing new.

… This isn’t Penacony, where the Oak Family’s power stands unshakable. Where protection is extended even to the undesirables of their lineage. But away from the watchful eyes of the other families, this was–!

Sunday shouldn’t have let his guard down.

…

He knows that people talk. He knows about the rumors circulating about his youngest little sister –how she’s nothing like him, or like Robin; how she doesn’t even act Halovian at all. The halos of Halovians allow them to communicate emotions with each other through telepathic means, but no one has ever discerned any emotions emanating from the youngest child at all.

Broken, defective, a shame to her lineage and to her siblings–

Sunday should have ripped out their tongues for daring to say such things, and damn the consequences for such an act. Maybe then, no one would’ve dared to even consider the sacrilegious act of selling one of the family’s children–

“Talk,” Sunday demands, with all the authority that’s been drilled into him from his training. “My patience runs thin. Where is my little sister?”

The slaver has the audacity to laugh. “Ha! You think you can threaten me, little boy? Aside from you, no one will miss a Halovian like that, so you might as well let us make some value out of–”

Sunday punches the man in the face.

It’s uncontrolled, messy rage that guides his actions. Something stings on the back of his knuckles, and Sunday is vaguely aware of blood trickling down his fingertips, but there is something that’s almost euphorically satisfying about the startled cry of pain and flicker of fear that flashes across the slaver’s face.

Sunday raises a fist again.

…

Please let her be alright. Please don’t let it be too late–

By the time that Sunday is finally able to force the slaver’s compliance and rushes to the warehouse on the docks where his youngest little sister was taken, it has already taken far too long for his liking. The smaller strides of a young child are no match for those of grown adults, but it does not stop Sunday from running all the same, praying to Xipe that it’s not too late–

Blood.

Of the multiple warehouses, only one of them has blood seeping out beneath its cracks. Enough to form a veritable lake, and–

Sunday’s mind goes blank, and he immediately throws the door open.

A large hand suddenly reaches out, seizing Sunday by the arms with a death grip. It belongs to a rugged-looking man, who stares at Sunday with wide, bloodshot eyes.

“R… run…”

The man falls, heavy like a mountain. There is a knife embedded in his back –all the way up to the hilt.

Sunday ignores the blood staining his sleeves, and looks into the room.

It… looks less like a warehouse for storage, and more like a slaughterhouse. Blood splatters the walls, covers the ground, and everything is red. Dismembered body parts are littered all over in a mess, like some macabre work of art.

And at the very epicenter of it all, stands his little sister.

… There is another bloody knife in her hands.

Her hair… her blue-white hair is no longer pristine, and neither is the matching dress with Robin that she’d been dressed in this morning. Her clothes are tattered, and she’s drenched in blood just like the rest of her surroundings. There’s no question of what happened here, of what she’d done to keep herself safe.

Yet there’s nothing about her that seems disturbed, or tormented. His little sister looks at him calmly, and… even now, Sunday cannot sense any change in his little sister’s emotions.

But even so, all Sunday can feel is relief.

He instantly crosses the room, uncaring of the blood that he steps through to reach her, and engulfs the girl in a tight hug. The feathery wings behind her ears flutter lightly; the only outward indication of any surprise.

“Thank goodness you’re safe,” Sunday tells her, glad. “I’m sorry that I’m here so late.”

His youngest little sister does not say anything. But after a beat, she slowly raises a hand, mimicking his motions in a clumsy hug of her own, and Sunday feels a corner of his heart melt.

“… You’re not late,” she finally says.

Sunday tightens his hold on his unknowing little sister.

[onesidedradiostatic]

Subject: Vox’s pre-fallout rose tinted glasses of Alastor. I think it fully extended to Alastor’s feral behaviours. Vox has such a corporate city-slicker vibe he’d romanticise Al chopping meat as “rugged” and “unhinged”

Alastor could be ripping limbs off, pulling organs out with his teeth and and growling like a cat refusing to let go of a bread loaf, but Vox-o-vision would play it slo-mo with anime sparkles and nat king cole music. “God I wish he’d do that to me”

(prev)

LMSDLFKSFLHKG this is true