#stuffed balloon boxes

[enforts]

Stuffed Balloons: The Perfect Surprise for Every Occasion

The Art of Stuffed Balloons: A Guide to Creative Decoration Stuffed balloons have gained immense popularity in recent years as a unique and creative way to celebrate special occasions and events. These eye-catching balloons are filled with various items, creating a delightful surprise for the recipient. In this article, we will explore the world of stuffed balloons, their history, types,…

[dollhog]

Yooo what’s your wg shake recipe 👀

Your gains are phenomenal!! You’re really filling out beautifully 🙏

My shake recipe ❤️‍🔥🕷️

Holy shit thank you so much! Here’s one of my recipes, ingredients fluctuate depending on how heavy of a shake I can take down.

1 box of cake mix: roughly 2000 cal

4 scoops of mass gainer: roughly 2000 cal

600 ml heavy cream: roughly 2000 cal

Milk to taste and water to thin it out (I don’t count those cals)

Often I’ll do just one of those ingredients if I’m too stuffed to handle more, sometimes I do two. Mix and match to your liking! I will warn you, take down a few of these a day and you’ll balloon scarily fast, it tears new stretch marks in me daily 🤣

[mrsoharaa]

𝑩𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝑮𝒊𝒓𝒍 🎀🍰

characters; SatoSugu (Gojo Satoru + Geto Suguru) x Reader

cw; none! pure FLUFF! the two dummies being completely lovesick and mopey over their pretty spoiled angel! birthday trope, completely SELF INDULGENT (since it's my bday todayyy <3)

Your lumbering eyes blink heavily to the flaunting streaks of the peeking sun seeping through your bedroom shades. A heavy distinctive weight of multiple objects weighs all over and around your sleeping form, a low grumble tittering off from your supple lips.

Gradually stirring awake from your deep slumber, you glance down at your chest to a note with a beautifully fully blossomed peony taped to the feeble paper. Blinking, you sit upright and take the note into your hands, carefully holding the gorgeous, flourishing flower and reading over the neatly familiar font written in perfect alignment.

Good morning and happy birthday beautiful :)

Sorry that me and Satoru are not there to hold you in our arms and spoil you with endless kisses and affections, but we had to do some...shopping for your surprise for tonight. (I really didn't want to spoil anything about it but I guess I kind of did...)

As you can tell, Satoru had bombarded you with boundless hoards of gifts on you. He was dead set on drowning you in a heap of stuffed animals, jewelry and your favorite type of throw blankets. He's utterly ridiculous, but he loves you incessantly so I suppose that makes up for it haha.

A tender smile seeps onto your cheeks, glancing up and around the bundled stock of adorable stuffed animals, fluffy throw blankets and fancy expensive boxes that you'd presumed to be the priceless jewelry Satoru had hauled for you. Your heart flutters warmly, frantically at the adoring thought.

A bit much don't you think, Toru?

"Oh 'Toru..." you giggle softly under your breath, your softened eyes scrolling back onto the heart felt letter in your free hand.

We should be back home in a few hours or so, so please enjoy your comfortable day lounging about my love. We'll bring home some snacks on our way back.

Oh, and my gift for you (minus the flower of course, because I think I remembered you saying that Peonies were your favorite some time ago) is in in the living room. I hope you like it angel :)

Again, happy birthday princess.

Much love from your goofballs - Suguru + Satoru.

Your heart continues to patter wildly against your chest, smiling ever so giddily to yourself as you glimpse over the mount of gifts hoarding over you. Gently placing the adoring letter on your nightstand, you gently caress the soften petals of the elegant flower, gingerly bringing it to your lips and tending a ghost like kiss to the sweet scented flora. Inhaling the candid natural scent of it's aroma.

"Oh my silly thoughtful boys" you murmur lightly, feeling your eyes swell with happy tears, your heart fluttering happily to the thought of the two idiots you grew to know and love over the years, spoiling you.

Feeling the enthralling excitement swarm in the depths of your stomach, you carefully rise from your gift-cluttered bed and stand onto your toes. Stretching out your limbs, you felt the soft silk of your blush pink night gown grace over the upper plain of your exposed thighs. A tingling, lulling sensation peppering all over your awakening skin.

Still holding onto the flower in your hand, you gleefully make your way into the living room. Stopping immediately at the frame of your bedroom door as your pupils dilate with vast enchantment and wonder.

With your ceiling littered with heart shaped balloons of soft pink, rose gold and white, the dining room table neatly decorated with two tall standing candles, silverware and dishes adroitly placed and pink rose petals lightly scattered along the sleek table cloth and your dishes - you couldn't help the overwhelming warmth resonating deep within your heavy chest.

Those thick, kindred tears welling back at the corners of your blurry irises.

"Suguru..." you hardly whispered out with a soft gasp, blown out watery irises carefully skimming along the beautifully decorated room from their courteous hard work.

Light footing of your delicate steps drew you close to the breath taking scenery displayed out before you. Daintily, you brush the pad of your fingers along the silken table cloth and rose petals that swarmed over your dining room table. Thoroughly, admiring every detail and care they took to prep this, just for you.

Your eyes spot another note in the middle of the table, folded in half and nestled against one of the standing candles.

You carefully take it and open the smaller note.

I hope everything is to your liking angel, I wanted to make everything as perfect as I could for you :) I hope it's not too much.

(Satoru says he helped pitched in, doesn't want to seem like he didn't put in any effort or whatever haha)

Happy birthday sweet girl, dress up nice tonight, we're cooking and tending to you thoroughly tonight. Tonight will be all about you sweetheart.

- Suguru G.

Oh, so he wants you to collapse from a cardiac arrest from all the cuteness and what not?

Grasping onto the small, gracious note and hugging it close to your chest (where your heart rests), you couldn't help the familiar overwhelming feeling of sheer bliss and joyous enlightenment embellish all over your body. Filling your heart and soul with boundless love and adoration.

Tears swiftly cascading down the soften plush of your blossoming cheeks. Breaths catching tightly at the perch of your lungs, heart still restlessly plummeting to the endearing thought of your boyfriends going out of their way to woo you with such enchanting gifts and basking wonderment.

You couldn't help the over joyous feeling coursing through you, titillating excitement pouring through your veins as you rush to your bathroom to get ready for the enticing night!

[allfryam]

the office part 2

Jason was loving his new job. All of the people were great, he barely did any work, and he was never hungry. Speaking of hungry, it was lunchtime and him and Connor were going down to the food court. Jason ordered 3 double cheeseburgers, a large shake, a side of Mac and cheese, and some fries. “Do you want anything?” He asked Connor.

after gorging on enough food to feed a family of three, Jason leaned back in his chair, revealing a sliver of his smooth belly under his shirt. Jason had gained over 25 pounds in the first month working at the office. He had yet to notice because he was convinced he was still perfectly in shape. He tugged his shirt back over his belly and let out a big burp. “I think these shirts shrink after a bit.” He said. “Yeah. Same happened to mine.” Said Connor. “You should come over to my place later.” Connor said. He explained the new x-box game he just got to Jason. Jason wasn’t all that interested until Connor mentioned pizza. “I’ll be there at 6.”

arriving at Connor’s apartment, Jason noticed 6 large pizzas sitting on the counter. His mouth was already watering. They sat down to play the new game and dig into the pizzas. Connor had easily eaten the first pizza, but he was struggling on the second one. “Man I’m full”. He said. “Oh well. More for me” Jason quickly grabbed the box and grabbed two slices at a time, one in each hand, guzzling down the slices as fast as he could. He was like a machine. He didn’t even slow down until after he finished the third box. He hated wasting food so he kept eating but it wasn’t easy. He got another few slices in before he had to take a break. “Yo do you care if I take my shirt off? It’s kinda hot in here”. “Ya sure man”. Jason took off his skin tight shirt and revealed his tight stomach. It was round and soft and sat just on top of his belt. His chiseled pecs were growing softer too. They began to sag and get bigger they were almost all the way to his belly. He took off his belt and unbuttoned his tight pants. His growing gut surged forward with a groan. “Fuuuuucckk”. “That feels so much better”. He burped and grabbed another slice of pizza.

by the end of the night, there were still 5 or 6 slices of pizza left but both boys were stuffed. “Dude I think I can eat them but I need help”. Jason said. “help?” “ yeah. Just help me eat these.” “Ok.”

Connor grabbed a slice and walked over to Jason. Jason leaned back and closed his eyes. Connor shoved the slice into Jason’s mouth as far as he could. Jason mindlessly chewed and groaned as he ate. Connor continued the cycle until there was one slice left. Jason’s belly was taut and red. It looked like a balloon that was inflated too much. “Uuuugghhh” Jason moaned. But Connor didn’t stop. He stuffed the last piece into Jason’s mouth and forced him to chew. After what seemed like hours, Jason finally swallowed and finished the pizza. He had eaten four and a half LARGE pizzas all by himself. He promptly passed out on Connors couch with his stomach grumbling in pain.

A very similar routine would occur for the next month and Jason loved it. He got to steal some delicious donuts from the break room, have an enormous lunch with Connor and then go back to Connor’s place and play video games and eat some more takeout. Jason’s frame was quickly expanding, and he had no clue. He had started to notice a few changes however. He couldn’t fit into his work pants anymore so he would leave them unbuttoned and hire it under his shirt. He had gone through three sizes of shirts since he got the job, but he still believed his dryer was shrinking them. Jason had no idea he was over 50 pounds heavier than he was just a few months ago, and Connor liked it that way.

[leqonsluv3r]

May i request paying a visit to a hospitalized Leon (after a mission) and bringing a chocolate box for him?

waiting room

—you visit leon in the hospital after a mission despite your hatred for them, a blurb

masterlist taglist

you hated this place.

you’ve always hated hospitals and you don’t know why. especially today, especially now. you hate being here. if you thought about it hard enough it could’ve been all those years you sat by your dads beside praying that the chemotherapy would finally work.

and of course, it didn’t.

but you weren’t here for your dad today, today you were here for leon, your boyfriend. and this only made the hatred stronger, made your uncomfortable feelings rise as you stepped through the wing of the hospital.

you had brought him chocolate, a teddy bear and some flowers. you didn’t do anything sappy like a greeting card or a stupid balloon that said GET WELL SOON!! with silly letters on it.

no, you brought flowers, chocolate and a cute little stuffed bear. you didn’t want to come empty handed, you couldn’t come empty handed. it just didn’t feel right.

you checked in at the front and they guided you to sit in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs outside of the many rooms. you tried to hide your discomfort and tried to remember the real and true reason why you were here.

the nurse told you that you could go in, so you get up. the box of chocolates in hand and the teddy bear, flowers in the other. making your way to the room that the nurse is leading you to.

you hate that every step you take is one you’ve taken before years earlier, the noise of the hospital doesn’t help. doesn’t make the thudding in your bones help as you keep walking behind the nurse as she leads you down the long hallway.

you feel like puking, running or just maybe fainting.

but you follow, then you get to the room leon’s in. the nurse opens the door for you and you go in, glancing around the white walls, the tv mounted in the far corner and then him.

he’s got a bandage around his large upper bicep, he’s staring out the window of the hospital from his hospital bed. he seems to be in a deep thought, like maybe he wishes he wasn’t here either.

you clear your throat and his gaze goes to you, those stunning blue eyes snapping to you in an instant. he gazes over you, then the box of chocolates, the teddy bear and then the flowers.

“you came.” he says in a raspy voice, defining his exhaustion with just two words. you blink and lick your lips, “why wouldn’t i have? you got some other girl visiting you and bringing you stuff?” you joke lamely as you walk towards the small nightstand beside the hospital bed. the beeping of the monitor and the IVs in his arms making you realize why your really here.

he follows your every movement as you sit down the gifts you brought him, then stand by his bed and look him over. “of course not,” he says as he rests his head against the pillow, “i just know how much you hate hospitals.”

you sigh and grabs his hand, rubbing over his scarred knuckles, looking down into his eyes. “i hate it, yes. but i braved it for you.” you give him a wry smile and squeeze his hand in your own.

he shakes his head, “the things people do for love.” he admits with a small chuckle, you blink at him and swallow. “you love me?” you whisper softly.

almost in astonishment and nervousness for a whole different reason now, besides being in a hospital. his blue eyes meet your own, “was that not obvious when i…asked you to come here?” he says with a nervous laugh.

you squeeze his hand and smile, “it…it was. i just, you haven’t really said that yet.” you blink a little and feel your cheeks heat up. he looks up at you, “well,” he moves closer to you in his hospital bed, “i do love you, honey. i love you so much.” he says with a little bit of water in his eyes.

you nod and smile, a large one that couldn’t even be coaxed out of you by someone with a gun to your head. he loved you, he had suffered on a mission and made it back alive. and he was here, injured, telling you that he loved you. it was not what you expected to happen when you went to the hospital to see him today.

but your glad you did.

you were glad that he was fine, that he only got some minor bruising and injuries. because if anything happened to this man on your watch, while you were in his life. it wouldn’t be easy, he had lived to tell you he loved you.

and deep down, you knew you loved him too.

suddenly, being in a hospital to see him didn’t seem scary anymore. it seemed something that was easy, that you could have no problem doing. what was far scarier were the words slipping out of your mouth as you looked down at him.

“i love you too.” you managed to get out, squeezing his hand so tightly that you were deeply afraid that you could break it. but he was strong, sometimes he seemed indestructible. at the rate of how little damage he took on this last mission, only have a couple bruises and a fractured wrist.

you had both gotten so lucky, so lucky to have found each other. despite your hatred for hospitals and his for admitting his feelings, here you both were. you were both accomplishing your fears today.

you leaned down and pressed your lips to his, carefully and mindful of the strain on his body. the thought of him being in a hospital bed was obsolete and it didn’t scare you as much as you thought it would. not now, not here with him.

he kissed you back, his uninjured hand still gripping yours tightly. he poured every drop of his love and affection into that kiss as he could muster. wanting to give you something to latch onto, a promise, that he actually meant what he said. that it wasn’t just lip service.

“i love you.” he whispers against your lips, breathing in the same oxygen as you, like he would die without it. you let out a breathless laugh that fanned against his lips, “i love you too, so very much.”

love was simple, it was a fear from him that was as easily accomplished like one of his missions. he took what he could get, he faced it.

just like you faced your fear to be here, holding his hand and kissing him. bringing him ridiculously corny gifts, staying with him and not running when he admitted his feelings to you.

you both deserved each other.

fear or no fear, love or no love. you both could do it, this proved that. you both would be okay, he would be the one to absorb all the pain and love he was offered, the same as you.

because he loved you, and that could never be scary.

an: slowly working on all my requests, i hate how long it’s taking me but i work like 40 hours a week now and i only get two days off 🫣 i never get time for anything anymore. it sucks major ass, but at least, im almost done with most of them. but i hope you enjoyed this, hopefully. i hope it met your guy’s expectations lol <333 i love you all, kisses, xx.

[twiixr4kidz]

Hii I was wondering if you could make Seven evil exes x reader and it's like their first anniversary hehe thanks!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

I AM SO SO SORRY THIS IS SO LATE I HOPE U ENJOY IT ANYWAYS

matthew patel

he's been preparing for MONTHS

he wants everything to be absolutely perfect

you're gonna come home to the house being covered in rose petals and balloons

the smell of a fresh, homemade meal wafting through the halls

the sound of a hot bath being drawn, filled to the brim with the most delicious-smelling bubble bath

and matthew, with a small gift in hand

in that box may or may not be a specific piece of jewelry you'd been eyeing for like, ever :3

matthew LISTENS

lucas lee

he invites you over and hands you a fancy outfit, perfect for a night out

he tells you to take all the time you need to get ready while he does the same

once you're ready, he will not shut up about how fucking incredible he thinks you look

and then, it's time for the bougiest dinner you've ever eaten

the sky is the limit, and lucas is more than willing to pay for whatever you want

he even gets the most expensive champagne

AND DID I MENTION IT WAS A PRIVATE DINING ROOM???

todd ingram

spoiler alert, he's been writing a song about you since he first began having feelings for you

definitely sits you down beforehand to plan something, except he doesn't tell you that it's for your anniversary

he wakes you up with breakfast in bed and a fresh pitcher of your favorite flowers on your bedside table

he lets you sleep in, but not TOO late - you have a very busy day ahead, full of the most stomach-churningly sweet romantic activities ever (todd's a little bit of a cornball but in the best way possible)

roxie richter

roxie gets so excited the night before that she literally keeps you up until midnight just so she can scream "HAPPY ANNIVERSARY" and pop confetti canons that somehow?? spawned into her hands??

she does let you sleep eventually, but she wakes you up as soon as she sees fit

the entire house is fucking COVERED in the tackiest party city decorations

for breakfast? a cake. that she made. at 3am. (she didn't sleep)

she also wanted to do something fun for your anniversary... by fun i mean a nerf gun fight

plus side, if you win, you get to pick dinner!!

kyle katayanagi

at first, kyle sort of brushes off your anniversary

trust me, he cares. he cares A LOT. but he literally has no idea what to do for an anniversary so him brushing it off is his way of saying "WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO"

the day of, he'll invite you over without saying much

when you get to his house, he (nervously) greets you with some hand-picked flowers and your favorite drink

he's the kind of guy to get you one of those little gift baskets that has things like your favorite snacks, a movie, a comfy pair of pj pants, a stuffed animal, and a little giftcard

at the very bottom, tucked into the folds of the pj pants, is a letter where he expresses how lucky he is to have you in his life

ken katayanagi

ken's a big planner but a bad celebrator

similarly to his brother, he also isn't really sure about what to do for your anniversary

he's probably going to keep it on the simpler side because he doesn't want to overwhelm you

he pays attention to the things you say you like and you want, and he'll pick out a couple that he knew you really wanted

and of course, he's going to treat you to dinner because what kind of gentleman would he be if he didn't??

gideon graves

i've said it once and i'll say it again, gideon LOVES to spoil you

he gives you gifts all the time, and your anniversary is no different

the gifts that he gives on your anniversary are one the more expensive side

he either makes or buys all of your favorite foods for you

AND, when you thought he already did the most, he surprises you with two tickets for a trip to a dream location of your choice, including plenty of fun activities, lots of sight seeing, and LOTS of rest n relaxation

[peavhyshy]

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ - SHOPPING SPREE

ᯓᡣ𐭩 pairing ─ ୨୧ ─ Boyfriend!Rafe Cameron ⋆ Pogue!Reader

ᯓᡣ𐭩 summary ─ ୨୧ ─ in which Rafe goes over-the-top as usual to apologize for cheating which includes a grand gesture of buying out an entire boutique is creatively meant to.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 warnings ─ ୨୧ ─ strong language, fluff, semi smut (but not really), power dynamics, mental/emotional manipulation and ulterior motives, reference to cheating, sexually suggestive situations, non-consensual elements (pressure/coercion into sexual acts), dubious consent, unhealthy relationship, discomfort/anxiety, misogyny/objectification.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 wc ─ ୨୧ ─ 5,130

⋆˚✿˖° a/n ─ ୨୧ ─ It's been a while since I posted on here and whatever so here I am, but who's to say I won't disappear for another few months.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── Outer Banks Masterlist ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── Navigation ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Rafe sauntered into the high-end boutique, the little bell above the door announcing his arrival. The sales associates perked up, eyeing his Ralph Lauren polo and Sperry boat shoes. Ah, a Kook with money to burn. 

"Hello sir, can I help you find anything today?" the manager asked, her voice dripping with fake pleasantness.

"Yeah, I need to buy out like, your whole store," Rafe said nonchalantly, checking out a display of cashmere sweaters. 

The associates' eyes widened in surprise and delight. "Buy out the whole store, sir?"

"Yep. I screwed up badly with my girl. She's a Pogue, you know? Doesn't really do the whole fancy clothes thing. But she found out I cheated on her with some Touron last week, and now she's pissed." Rafe picked up a floral sundress, scrutinizing it. "So I figured, what better way to say sorry than decking her out in some new designer threads?"

The manager nodded enthusiastically. "I'm sure she'll appreciate the gesture. Let me start ringing up some items for you."  

"Nah, like I said, I want to buy out the whole damn store. Just name your price." Rafe pulled out his credit card, waving it around.  

The manager's eyes lit up at the thought of the huge commission she was about to make. "Of course, sir, let me calculate our current retail inventory value and I'll give you a total."

"Make it quick. I’ve got a picnic on the beach planned to beg for her forgiveness," Rafe said, leaning on the cash wrap counter impatiently. 

The manager returned shortly with the grand total. Rafe didn't even blink as he handed over his credit card. Anything to get his Pogue princess back.

Rafe leaned against the wall near the cash register, watching with disinterest as the store employees scurried around grabbing items off racks and shelves.

"Come on, pick up the pace," he called out impatiently. "I wanna get out of here before the sun goes down."

The manager gave him an appeasing smile as she stuffed an armful of sundresses into a large box. "We're going as fast as we can, sir. I really appreciate your business - this is the biggest sale we've ever had!"

Rafe just shrugged, stifling a yawn. The workers were cramming the boxes full of tissue paper and accessories, trying to maximize what they could fit. Shoes, handbags, skirts, tops - everything was being cleared off the floors and walls. 

One associate struggled to fold a pile of cashmere sweaters to fit in an overflowing box while another carefully wrapped up a display of fine china jewelry. The store was slowly emptying out as the minutes ticked by.

"Ugh, this is taking forever," Rafe groaned, pulling out his phone to scroll aimlessly. "I should've just gone to Party City and bought her a bunch of balloons or something." 

The manager's smile strained a bit as she kept up her enthusiastic energy. "Almost done, sir! Just a few more minutes and you'll have our entire inventory to present to your lovely girlfriend."

"Yeah, yeah," Rafe muttered, back to being bored. Buying out the whole store was proving to be more tedious than he had anticipated. But hey, you were worth it. Probably.

”I need all of this shipped to her beach house.”

The manager nodded as she taped up another overstuffed box. "Of course, sir. I can arrange delivery to any address you'd like."

She gestured to one of the other employees. "Sara, can you grab some shipping labels? We'll need to send all of these boxes to this gentleman's girlfriend's house once we're finished packing everything up."  

Sara hurried to grab a stack of shipping labels and a pen. "What's the address, sir?" she asked Rafe.

"Oh, uh..." Rafe scratched his head. "Somewhere in The Cut, not really sure of the exact address. It's a small blue house near the bay though, it has a tire swing out front. Think the name on the mailbox is L/N or something like that."

Sara looked confused. "Do you have the street name or number? There are a lot of small blue houses in The Cut."

Rafe rolled his eyes. "Jesus, I don't know that shit. Her dad's name is Hank though, if that helps. Everyone knows Hank the Tank down there."

The manager and Sara exchanged a look, neither seeming confident about locating the right address. 

"Tell you what," Rafe continued, pulling out a thick wad of cash from his back pocket. "Here's 500 bucks. That should cover you guys figuring out where the hell to deliver all this stuff to Y/N in The Cut. I'm sure one of the Pogues down there can point you in the right direction."

He tossed the cash on the counter and headed for the door without another word, leaving the overwhelmed store employees with boxes piled high and vague delivery information.

You squinted against the setting sun as three large delivery trucks rumbled down the sandy driveway toward your family's weathered beach house. You set down your cards on the rickety picnic table, where you had been playing an intense game of Crazy Eights with John B, JJ, Sarah, and Kiara.

"What the hell is this?" you muttered. The trucks parked haphazardly amidst the uncut grass and strewn beach debris surrounding the house. Drivers hopped out and opened up the backs, revealing piles and piles of boxes crammed to the brim.

"Whoa, did you order the entire Amazon warehouse or something?" JJ joked, sauntering over to inspect the deliveries. 

Before you  could respond, the porch boards creaked loudly under the weight of multiple pairs of high-heeled shoes. The group turned to see half a dozen boutique store employees teetering across the uneven ground, laden with clothing on hangers and large shopping bags.

"Oh no..." you groaned, realization dawning on you. 

"Delivery for Ms. Y/N L/N!" one of the women trilled, scanning the rural beachfront for the recipient. 

"That's you, Y/N," John B said, giving you a puzzled look.

Just then, a delivery man approached with an oversized bouquet of roses and a card. "Are you Ms. Y/N? These are for you along with all of these boxes."

"I'm going to kill him," you seethed, grabbing the card. Sure enough, it was from Rafe, attempting to apologize for cheating in his usual over-the-top Kook fashion.   

The others laughed, taking in the three trucks overflowing with designer clothes and accessories that had arrived on your doorstep.  The group whooped and raced toward the trucks, laughing at Rafe's attempt to buy back your forgiveness. You had to admit - it was a pretty damn good start.

The sun had just set over the expansive Cameron estate as you marched up the long driveway and let yourself in the front door. You breezed past the elaborate foyer and down the hall towards the state-of-the-art home gym, where you knew you would find Rafe. 

Sure enough, there he was - shirtless and pumping iron, the clanking of weights echoing through the large room. You crossed your arms, watching as Rafe finished his set of bicep curls before acknowledging your presence. 

"Oh hey babe," he said casually, setting down the dumbbells. "I see you got my gifts."

"You mean the eighteen-wheeler trucks filled with designer clothes that choked the road to my house all afternoon?" you replied sharply.  

Rafe grinned. "So I take it, you liked them?"

You rolled your eyes. "Did you seriously buy out the entire Verona Boutique?"

"Maybe," Rafe shrugged, grabbing his towel to wipe the sweat from his brow. 

"Why would you do that?" you asked in exasperation. 

"Come on, I was just trying to apologize for what I did," Rafe said. "I wanted to show you how much you mean to me."

You sighed heavily. "You can't buy me off with fancy clothes, Rafe. That's not how this works."  

Rafe stood up and walked over to you. "But did it at least make you smile a little?" he asked with a coy grin. 

Despite yourself, You felt the corners of your mouth turn upward. You shook your head, trying to fight the smile. 

"You're unbelievable," you scoffed. But Rafe took your reaction as a promising sign. 

"So...am I forgiven?" he asked. 

You shrugged, struggling to stay stern. "You're not off the hook yet. But...it's a start."

Rafe smiled victoriously and pulled you into an embrace. You hated to admit it, but his over-the-top gesture did melt away some of your anger. Only a Kook would think that buying out an entire boutique could fix cheating - but you had to give him points for creativity.

Rafe's face lit up with a delighted grin as he saw the smile fighting its way onto your lips. Score! He knew you couldn't stay mad at him for long, not when he pulled out all the stops with his over-the-top apology gifts. Sure, buying you an entire wardrobe wasn't exactly practical, but he wanted to go big to show you how much he cared. Because even though he screwed up by cheating, your were still his girl and he needed you to know you were #1. No Touron hookup could ever mean anything compared to you.

Pulling you tighter into his embrace, Rafe pressed a kiss to the top of your head as you nuzzled into his bare chest. He could tell the wheels were still turning in your mind, trying to decide if you were ready to fully forgive  him yet. But he had plenty more tricks up his sleeve if needed. Diamonds, a new car, a trip to Paris - anything you wanted, it was yours. Being the heir to the Cameron fortune had its perks when you needed to get yourself out of the doghouse.

"So when are you gonna model some of these new outfits for me, hmm?" he murmured suggestively in your ear. "Maybe a private fashion show tonight? I'll even let you use my black AmEx again if you want to pick up some sexy lingerie to complete the looks." He grinned devilishly.

You rolled your eyes and gently pushed out of his embrace. "Down boy. You're not off the hook yet," you reminded him, though your tone had softened considerably. Rafe held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Okay okay, I know. But you gotta admit, the mental image is pretty hot," he said with a wink. you just shook your head, trying to hide your smile. You could never stay irritated with him for long. 

"Alright, I should get home and figure out what to do with the small mountain of designer clothes currently cluttering up my living room," You sighed. "I still can't believe you bought out the entire store."

Rafe waved a hand casually. "Don't even trip about it. Consider it just a small token of my love," he said smoothly.

You quirked an eyebrow. "A small token? Rafe, it's got to be worth at least $20,000 worth of stuff."

Rafe shrugged. "Meh, that's like pocket change for me, babe. You're worth it and so much more." He pulled you in for a quick kiss. "I'll swing by later to help you sort through it all, yeah?"

You nodded, a genuine smile breaking through now. "Yeah, okay. I'll see you later." you gave him one last peck on the lips before heading out, shaking your head slightly at your ridiculous boyfriend's attempt to buy your forgiveness. But even you had to admit it was a pretty damn adorable gesture. The boy was utterly smitten, that much was clear. And even if it took a small army of delivery trucks worth of designer clothes to prove it, you supposed you couldn't complain. After all, what girl didn't love a massive shopping spree courtesy of the Cameron family fortune?

Rafe sauntered up the stairs of your beach house, not bothering to knock before letting himself in. your dad was away on a fishing charter and he knew you’d be home alone trying to organize the massive shipment of clothes he had sent over as an apology gift.

"Knock knock, princess!" he called out as he strode down the hall to your bedroom. "Did you get a chance to try on any of the new outfits I bought you?"

He pushed open your bedroom door to find you sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by mounds of tissue paper and discarded shopping bags. You looked up at him in exasperation.

"Rafe! You could at least knock before barging into my room," you admonished. 

“My bad, didn't mean to startle you. Just excited to see my gifts being put to use," he said with a grin.

You sighed, gesturing to the chaos around you. "Well, I've been trying to sort through it all morning but there's just so much stuff. You went way overboard as usual."

"Anything to make my girl happy," Rafe replied smoothly, plopping down on the floor next to you. "Here, let me help you get organized."

He began sifting through the piles of clothing, occasionally holding up items for your inspection. "Ooh, you have to model this one for me," he said, grabbing a lacy black teddy. "And this mini skirt would look so hot on you."

You blushed deeply, snatching the risqué items out of his hands. "Rafe! My dad could be home any minute," you hissed in embarrassment.

"So? I want him to see how smoking his daughter looks in the outfits I bought her," Rafe said with a devilish grin. "Might make him finally approve of me."

You buried your face in your hands. "You're unbelievable," you groaned. "Can we please just focus on organizing? I don't have time for an impromptu fashion show."

"Fine fine, I'll behave. For now," he added in a playful whisper.

You guys spent the next hour sorting your new wardrobe into categories - dresses, tops, bottoms, shoes, jewelry. Rafe "helped" by periodically holding up scandalous lingerie pieces and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively until you threaten to smack him with a stiletto heel.

Despite your exasperation at the overabundance of clothing, you had to admit it was fun exploring all the different styles and accessories Rafe had picked out for you. The boy definitely knew your taste, even if he did go over-the-top with buying out the entire store. You made a mental note to donate some of the clothes to charity once you had a chance to try it all on.

You collapsed backwards onto a pile of cashmere sweaters. "Phew! We’re almost done." You smiled over at Rafe. "Thanks for your help. And for the very generous gift. Even though it's pretty ridiculous you bought out an entire store," you added with a laugh.

Rafe grinned and leaned down to capture your lips in a soft kiss. "Anything for my princess," he murmured. "You deserve to be spoiled rotten."

You giggled as he nuzzled your neck, wrapping your arms around him. You supposed you couldn't stay irritated with him for long, not when he was just trying to show his affection through expensive gifts. Over-the-top as it may be.

"Alright Casanova, that's enough distracting me," You said, playfully nudging him away. "Now help me get all of these clothes put away in my closet before my dad gets home."

You shook your head in amusement. "You're absolutely ridiculous. But…" You tilted your head up to him and smiled."I love you for it."

Rafe playfully tackled you onto the pile of cashmere sweaters you had been sorting through. You let out a surprised squeal, smacking his chest lightly as he hovered over you. "Rafeee, I told you to behave!" you chided through your laughter. He just grinned mischievously, dipping his head to kiss along your neck and collarbone as you squirmed beneath him ticklishly.

"Mm mm, you know I can never keep my hands off you for long," he murmured against your skin, nipping lightly. His hands slid up under your shirt, tracing along your stomach and ribs. You shivered at the contact, cheeks flushing as you felt him growing hard against your thigh already. You really shouldn't be doing this with your dad liable to come home any minute…but then again, the risk just made it more exciting.

You bit your lip, hesitating only a moment longer before grabbing Rafe's face and crashing your lips to his in a hungry kiss. He groaned into your mouth, grinding his hips down against yours. Things were escalating fast, all thoughts of organizing clothes now tossed aside. Rafe broke the kiss only to tug your shirt over your head swiftly. His eyes drank in the sight of your breasts encased in a lacy pink bra.

"Damn baby…have I mentioned how fucking sexy you look in all these new lingerie pieces I bought you?" He reached around to unclasp your bra, leaning down to take one of your nipples in his mouth. You whimpered, arching into him. You were quickly losing the willpower to stop this and he knew it. His hands slid under your skirt, fingers dipping beneath your panties to find you wet and ready for him already. His hands wandered recklessly over your body, groping and grasping wherever they pleased..

"R-Rafe, my dad…" You gasped half-heartedly in protest even as your body betrayed you, arching into his touch.

Rafe silenced you with another bruising kiss, grinding his arousal against you. His fingers tangled in your hair, using it as a handle to maneuver your head for better access to your neck and chest.

"Shh, don't worry about him," Rafe crooned, his breath hot against your ear. "It's just us right now." His knee nudged between your legs, parting your thighs as he claimed your mouth once more.

Your knees went weak, overwhelmed by the onslaught of Rafe's hungry kisses and wandering hands. You clung to his shoulders for support, unable to form a coherent thought beyond the sparking heat of his body pressed to yours. Your token protests died away as Rafe's skilled fingers caressed the soft skin of your breasts.

"That's my good girl," he praised darkly when you arched into his touch instead of pulling away. His knee rubbed teasingly between your legs as he continued his pleasurable assault, intent on showing you exactly who was in control here.

Your mind reeled, inner alarm bells drowned out by the pounding heartbeat in your ears. You knew you should push Rafe away, stop this before it went too far with your dad possibly home any minute. But your traitorous body seemed to have other ideas as it melted shamefully against Rafe's hard frame.

His kisses left you dizzy and compliant, willpower evaporating under the intoxicating strokes of his hands. But when those hands went to zip down your skirt, some deeply buried remnant of reason sparked back to life inside you.

"Rafe, stop," you gasped out, catching his wrists in your hands. He paused, eyes dark with lust and irritation at being denied his prize.

"Come on baby, don't be like that," he cajoled, leaning in to nip at your earlobe. "I know you want this too."

You shook your head, gently but firmly removing his hands from your body. "No, not now. Not here." Your cheeks burned but you held your ground. "I'm not comfortable going any further with my dad so close by. Can we please just…slow down?"

Rafe's jaw tightened, displeasure evident at having his fun interrupted. But after a tense moment he stepped back.

"Fine, princess, whatever you say," he relented, tone dripping with poorly concealed frustration. You let out a shaky breath, tugging your rumpled clothing back into place. Your lips still tingled from the force of Rafe's kisses but the frenzied moment had passed.

"Thank you. I'm sorry, I just don't want our first time to be so…rushed," You said earnestly, hoping he could understand despite his obvious annoyance at being denied. His eyes remained dark but he managed a tight smile.

"Yeah yeah, I got it. Wouldn't want Daddy dearest walking in on us anyway," he said with an eye roll. You smiled weakly, knowing that was as close to understanding as you would get from him right now. At least he had backed off for the moment. But you had a feeling this conversation was far from over. Rafe did not like being told no.

He swallowed down his anger, forcing his face into a strained smile. He had to play this carefully; you Lila too much and you’d bolt. No, he needed to lure you in gently, make you trust him completely.

"Of course, princess. We'll take this at your pace," he said smoothly, stroking your cheek. "I just got carried away because you're so damn irresistible." He kissed your forehead, the very picture of understanding despite the lust still raging inside him.

You visibly relaxed, giving him a shy smile. "Thank you, Rafe. I'm glad you understand. I promise, when the time is right…" You trailed off, blushing. Rafe tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, letting his fingers trail down your neck teasingly.

"Don't worry baby, I'll make it so good for you when you're ready," he purred. You shivered, skin tingling from his touch. "For now, why don't you model some of these new outfits for me? Might give me a sneak peek of what I have to look forward to." He grinned devilishly.

You laughed, swatting his chest playfully. "You're incorrigible," you admonished, but went to pick out a few items from the piles of new clothes. Rafe settled on your bed, hungry eyes tracking your every movement.  For now, he would enjoy the little fashion show. But it was only a matter of time before those clothes ended up scattered across the bedroom floor instead.

A relieved smile crossed your face as Rafe appeared to accept your request to slow things down without argument. You knew he must be frustrated, but you appreciate him respecting your boundaries for now. There would be a right time and place for intimacy later on.

As you sifted through the piles of new clothes, Your smile faltered slightly. You could feel Rafe's intense gaze following your every movement, almost palpable in its hunger. It sent a shiver down your spine, but not entirely an unpleasant one. Still, something about the glint in his eyes gave you pause.

You selected a few simple, conservative outfits to model - a loose fitting sundress, some shorts with a flowy blouse. But Rafe tsked in disappointment, getting up to rummage through the options himself.

"Oh come on, you can do better than that," he coaxed, grabbing a slinky miniskirt and cropped tank top. "I want to see my sexy girl shine." He shot you a playful grin as he pressed the revealing clothes into your hands.

You laughed nervously. "Rafe, those aren't really my style…" But he pouted childishly, guiding you towards the adjoining bathroom.

"Humor me? Just a peek," he insisted. You hesitated, then relented with a shy smile. You had never worn anything so risqué before, but the delight on Rafe's face was gratifying. And it was just the two of you after all…

You changed quickly, adjusting the tiny skirt over yourself. The top was snug and showed a hint of midriff that made you self-conscious. But Rafe's eager expression as you stepped out stopped any protests before they left your lips.

"Stunning," he breathed, drinking in the sight of you. You blushed under his intense scrutiny, suddenly feeling very exposed. But you tried to push past it, giving an awkward little twirl to show off the outfit fully. Rafe's grin was downright predatory.

"Now take it off nice and slow," he said lowly, eyes raking over you. "Give me a proper show."

You balked, arms crossing instinctively over your torso. "Rafe, I…" His eyebrows shot up in challenge and you faltered. Maybe you were overthinking things. You didn't want to disappoint him again…

With trembling fingers, You reached for the hem of the snug tank top. But the voice inside screaming this was a bad idea only grew louder. You dropped your hands, shaking your head firmly as you backed towards the bathroom.

"I'm sorry Rafe, I can't do this. The clothes need to stay on." Your voice was small but resolute. You wouldn't ignore your instincts, not even to placate Rafe's desires. His scowl made your stomach twist anxiously, but you stood your ground, waiting for his response.

Taking a deep breath, Rafe fixed an understanding smile on his face. "You're right, I got carried away again. I'm sorry," he said gently. "I just can't control myself around you sometimes. You look so gorgeous in that outfit."

He approached you slowly until you allowed him to take your hands in his. "Of course the clothes should stay on until you're ready. I'm truly sorry for pushing you, princess." He brushed a tender kiss over your knuckles.

You visibly relaxed, giving him a grateful smile. "It's okay, Rafe. Thank you for understanding." You leaned up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek before disappearing back into the bathroom to change.

You emerged from the bathroom in a comfortable sundress, feeling infinitely more at ease now that you were back in your own clothes. Rafe's obvious disappointment tugged at your heartstrings for a moment, but you brushed it aside. You knew in your gut that stripping for him, even just down to your underwear, wasn't something you were ready for yet.

To your relief, Rafe seemed to have reigned himself in and was back to his usual charming self, apologizing for getting carried away again. You smiled up at him gratefully, leaning in to give him a light kiss on the cheek.

"Thank you for being so patient with me," You said earnestly. "It really means a lot. I know this is all new for me." you ducked your head a bit shyly.

Rafe tilted your chin up, smiling fondly as he gazed down at you. "Of course, princess. I'll wait as long as you need. I'm just happy to be with you," he assured you smoothly.

Your heart swelled. You knew you had been lucky to find a guy like Rafe. Wealthy Kook boys had a reputation for being entitled spoiled brats. But most people didn't get to see this sweet, caring side of Rafe like you did. He could be impulsive and hot headed at times, but he respected your boundaries when it really mattered.

"You're the best boyfriend ever," You declared, going up on tiptoe to kiss him warmly. Rafe grinned against your lips, strong arms circling your waist.

"Anything for my girl," he murmured affectionately when you broke apart. You playfully booped his nose, eliciting a laugh from him.

"Alright mister, as much as I appreciate these new clothes, I could really use some help donating some of them," you said in a practical tone. "I can't even wear this many outfits in a lifetime!"

Rafe heaved a dramatic sigh but smiled good-naturedly. "Fiiine, guess I did go a little overboard on the shopping spree," he conceded. You giggled.

"Just a bit. Come on, let's get started." You took his hand, leading him back to the piles of clothes awaiting sorting. Even if Rafe's impulsive extravagance could be frustrating at times, You were grateful to have someone so attentive and willing to lavish you with gifts and affection. You hoped in time he would come to value you for more than just your looks or virginity. For now, You were content to take things slow and simply enjoy exploring young love one day at a time.

Rafe resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he let you lead him by the hand back to the piles of designer clothes he had gifted you. Donating them? What a pointless waste. He had spent a small fortune solely with the intent of seeing you decked out in finery, not giving it away to the destitute Pogues of the Cut.

But he bit his tongue, keeping up the doting act. "Of course I'll help, babe. Anything you want," he said smoothly, playing with your fingers.

Soon, he promised himself as he pulled you in for a chaste kiss on the forehead that contradicted his lustful thoughts. Your smile made him want to gag, but he mirrored it charmingly. Let you enjoy playing house a little while longer. He was adept at getting what he wanted from any woman eventually. The thought made Rafe's cock stir impatiently, but he willed it down. Not yet. He needed to lull you into total complacency first before finally stripping away the last of your resistance.

You hummed contentedly to yourself as you neatly folded clothes into donation boxes, Rafe helping beside you. You smiled up at him after he gave you a sweet kiss on the forehead, happy you guys seemed to be back in sync after the brief tension earlier.

You held up a slinky red cocktail dress, pondering keeping it for a special occasion. But no, it wasn't really your style at all. Into the donation box it went. You frowned slightly as you pulled out several incredibly risqué lingerie items - crotchless panties, lace teddies that left little to the imagination. Definitely not your taste.

"Geez Rafe, did you raid the whole lingerie section?" you asked with a laugh. Rafe just shrugged, unbothered. You shook your head in amusement as you set them aside to give to your more adventurous friend.

Once all the clothes were sorted, you surveyed the boxes contentedly. You had kept enough everyday outfits to last a lifetime, but now many girls in the Cut would have the chance to enjoy fancy new clothes too. It made you happy to spread the wealth, so to speak.

"There, all done! The donation center is going to be thrilled." You smiled brightly at Rafe. "This was a really great idea. I know I said it already, but thank you again for being so generous. And understanding about…everything," you finished, cheeks pinking slightly.

Rafe smiled back warmly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Of course, babe. Anything for you," he said, dropping a kiss to the top of your head. You snuggled into his side, relieved you seemed to be back on the same page.

You hoped with time, Rafe would see you as more than just a conquest or object of physical desire. For now, you were content taking it slow, focusing on emotional intimacy over physical. You had all the time in the world for those things later on if things progressed. But for today, You were simply happy snuggling innocently with the boy who made you feel so safe, protected and cherished. Everything was perfect just as it was.

[stayteezdreams]

Celebrating Valentines Day {Maknae Line}

Headcanons/Scenarios: How you celebrate Valentines Day together - Maknae Line

{Hyung Line}

Pairings: Ateez Maknae Line x Gn!Reader (separate)

Warnings: Mentions of food/eating in all members sections.

Words: 0.7k

San

San has always wanted to go all-out on Valentines Day ever since you started dating.

I'm talking rose petals everywhere when you walk into the room, cute balloons, a big bouquet of flowers, chocolates, teddy bear, candles, and a homemade dinner.

He is nervous but excited.

You are in shock when you walk in and he can't help but giggle at your reaction.

San makes you feel spoiled, and that is his intention.

You felt guilty because it felt as though your gift and chocolates paled in comparison.

But San reassured you, you could have gotten him just a card and he would have loved it.

After you ate dinner, you ate a cute cake you had bought for the two of you.

Something he had known you were excited to buy, so he didn't bother with dessert.

You spent the rest of the night cuddling on the couch, wrapped in each others arms.

Where it went after that is up to you...

Mingi

You and Mingi wanted to do something fun for Valentines, but were stressed with the idea of planing it out.

So you decided to just go with wherever the day took you.

After breakfast together you went to a park nearby that was hosting a small music event.

If you wanted, Mingi would put you up on his shoulders/back so you could see everything over the crowd.

You spent a few hours there before heading off to a Valentines cooking class you booked that morning.

You cooked each other food and made each other chocolates.

It had been something you were interested in for a while, so you thought you might as well do it on the cheesiest day of the year.

You finished off the evening going to a small festival nearby.

You played some games, watched fireworks, and somehow ate even more food.

By the time the two of you had gotten home you were exhausted, but happy.

You decided going with whatever you found ended up being the best decision you could have made.

Wooyoung

Wooyoung of course surprised you with a beautiful bouquet, and a much-too-large stuffed animal.

You made him chocolates from scratch which made him squeal with excitement (you know the noise), and he proceeded to pepper kisses all over your face for an alarming amount of time.

Wooyoung is in full support of fun Valentines Dates.

Mainly, a giant arcade.

Someplace you could spend hours having fun together.

You played racing games, sport games, bowling, mini golf.

You danced and did karaoke, and won a dozen prizes in claw games before the two of you grew tired enough to go home.

Once you got home, Wooyoung insisted on cooking you dinner.

After some convincing he agreed to let you help by cutting up some vegetables, and clearing the dirty dishes.

Music played as you cooked, and after a few dance breaks, play fights and ...other distractions, dinner was finally done.

The rest of the evening was spent in each other's company, while Wooyoung ate all of the chocolates you made him, and then proceeded to beg you to make him more.

Jongho

Jongho had never celebrated Valentines with a significant other before.

He had been given gifts and chocolates on Valentine Day, but he had never really wanted to do the same for someone until he was with you. So he was quite nervous and unsure of what to do.

He spent a lot of time agonizing over the perfect flowers, the perfect chocolates, the perfect thing to say.

Then as the two of you were talking about the holiday, you told him you didn't care what he got you. The fact that he would do anything for you at all made you feel special.

This boosted his confidence and settled his nerves.

But he still surprised you with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, and a large variety chocolate box.

Also a large teddy bear he said would be his replacement for when he was away.

You got him flowers too, which made him blush and giggle. A sight you had rarely seen that you wish cold be engraved in your mind.

Neither of you wanted to brave the crowded city full of couples.

So you ordered an abundance of your favorite foods, put on your favorite movies, made a comfy pillow fort in the living room and spent the night huddled together.

It was simple, but it was perfect.

xx

General Taglist: @otsilliak, @brattybunfornct, @bahng-chrizz, @otakutrash669, @tinyelfperson, @the-lemon-boy

Ateez Taglist: @soso59love-blog, @dlmlufics, @hongjoongsprincess, @tunaasan, @thedistractedwriter, @dear-dreamie, @thunderous-wolf, @briqnne, @hyukssunflower, @dinossaurz, @dancelikebutterflywings, @skz1-4-3, @staytiny2000

Jongho: @lieutenantn (I didn't pay attention and tagged you in the hyung line one too, sorry! lol)

Mingi: @ye0nvibezzn

[barfygutcheck]

pizza-logged

/uhh to be perfectly honest this is just pure kink and little else. it involves a stethoscope and some pizza overload. enjoy/

Sawyer was knocked out cold, splayed across the couch in the typical position that followed an indulgent meal. Her legs extended past the edge, one arm loosely covering her eyes while the other dangled over the side. The coffee table bore witness to her indulgence, cluttered with an empty pizza box from Sawyer’s favorite place in Kingston, discarded greasy napkins, and the subtle scent of pepperoni still hanging in the atmosphere.

Jackie nestled up against her girlfriend, one hand gently resting on Sawyer’s broad chest. Instances like this left Jackie unsure of what to do with herself. Sawyer had emerged from football practice “starved,” and Jackie, ever the supportive girlfriend, had urged her to eat… perhaps driven by a desire to see Sawyer grow full. Part of her reasoning was practical: to recover adequately, Sawyer needed to consume sufficient calorie intake. The other part?

Slightly adjusting her position, Jackie let her head rest on Sawyer’s shoulder, her gaze instinctively falling on Sawyer’s belly: markedly swollen, her muscles slack, the fabric of her shirt pulled tight.

With a moment of pause, Jackie felt equal parts self-conscious and concerned before she allowed her hand to settle directly on the expanse of Sawyer’s abdomen, where the pizza had settled, mindful of how stuffed Sawyer must feel. The heat of her skin was striking against the distension.

Normally, if Sawyer was awake, Jackie wouldn’t even get this close. Sawyer operated in two distinct modes: boasting about her food consumption or lamenting the consequences of her indulgence. In this instance, it was clear that she had reached her limit and would be grappling with a stomachache if she were conscious. However, she was far from awake. So, Jackie indulged her curiosity, tracing circles across Sawyer’s expanded stomach, her fingertips exploring the surface. As she applied gentle pressure, she could sense the tightness of the bloating — much like a balloon blown up to its near-bursting point.

She could practically imagine the digestive process occurring in her girlfriend’s abdomen; the stomach walls contracting in a rhythmic fashion, guiding the hefty mass of food toward the intestines. Given the sheer bulk of cheese and dough, this process was inevitably sluggish and inefficient.

No wonder Sawyer was out cold. Her head lolled to the side, mouth slightly open, completely knocked out from her food coma.

Jackie couldn’t help but feel aroused.

Just as she was settling deeper into the couch, she heard it — this faint gurgling sound. It was so soft at first that she thought she might’ve imagined it. But then it came again, a quiet, low rumble that seemed to echo from Sawyer’s belly. Jackie lifted her head slightly, peering down at Sawyer’s stomach again.

“Huh,” Jackie murmured, raising an eyebrow. “Is that your stomach, babe?” Of course, Sawyer couldn’t respond.

Jackie bit her lip.

The gurgling continued, a gentle but persistent noise that made her own stomach twist with a vague sense of unease.

Jackie’s medical training took over, and though she knew it was important not to jump to conclusions — Sawyer was a big girl, more than capable of handling a simple stomachache — her concern deepened with each passing moment. The sounds from Sawyer’s stomach were growing harder to ignore, and Jackie couldn’t shake the feeling that it might be more than just a typical food overload. She didn’t want to deal with chunks of half-digested pizza all over the couch, or worse, risk Sawyer waking up in agony.

Jackie shifted slightly, careful not to wake Sawyer. Her hand slid off Sully’s chest as she reached over to the coffee table where her stethoscope lay. She always kept it close, a habit from long nights of studying.

 Sawyer would probably give her so much grief if she knew Jackie was taking this medical approach, but since Sawyer was completely out, Jackie figured there was no harm.

“Alright, don’t hate me for this,” Jackie whispered as if Sawyer could hear her. She gently lifted Sawyer’s shirt, revealing her toned stomach, now slightly distended from all that pizza. Pronounced was one word. Swollen was another. Jackie had helped with a few slices; two and a half, precisely because she ate like a bird.

Sawyer had taken care of the rest, but one would have been able to tell just from the looks of her stomach.

Jackie placed the stethoscope’s diaphragm against Sawyer’s warm skin and pressed her ear to the other end.

The soft growling noises she had heard earlier were much louder now. Jackie’s brows knitted together as she listened intently. It wasn’t just normal digestion but rather intense bubbling, sloshing, and churning. Periodically, a sharp, almost groaning noise emerged, as if Sawyer’s stomach was actively protesting the overwhelming volume of food it had been tasked to manage. The sounds weren’t alarming in a medical emergency kind of way, but they certainly weren’t… pleasant. Her stomach could hardly grapple with the excess.

“Jesus, Sully, what did I get you into?” Jackie muttered under her breath, pulling the stethoscope away for a moment. She frowned, her hand resting lightly on Sawyer’s stomach. It was warm to the touch, but not unusually so. Still, with the way it was rumbling and shifting beneath her fingers, Jackie had a feeling Sawyer was going to wake up in for a rough time.

Sawyer shifted slightly, her face scrunching up in discomfort, but she didn’t wake.

Jackie felt a pang of guilt. She’d encouraged Sawyer to eat the entire pizza, and now her stomach was working overtime to deal with it. Jackie pressed the stethoscope back to Sawyer’s belly, listening again. The sounds were just as unsettling — a mix of liquid sloshing and air moving around in ways that didn’t seem like they should be. Under normal circumstances, the sounds would be rhythmic but somewhat gentle; occasional burbles, gushing as digestion kicked in. However, Jackie picked up prolonged periods of silence followed by harsh gurgling and strained noises, indicative of a cramped digestive tract.

Perhaps nausea was building up.

Sawyer’s body jerked slightly, a sudden hiccup escaping her lips. The hiccup was so forceful it jostled her entire body, and Jackie’s hand felt the sloshing inside Sawyer’s belly. The sound was unmistakable — a thick noise that made Jackie’s eyes briefly widen. She froze, listening as another hiccup followed, this one even louder.

Jackie leaned back with a sigh, pulling the stethoscope from her ears and setting it aside. There wasn’t much she could do now except wait for Sawyer to wake up and see how she felt. Jackie just hoped she wouldn’t feel too awful.

Her gaze softened as she looked at Sawyer’s peaceful face, her breathing steady despite the clear turmoil happening in her gut.

The growling from Sully’s stomach continued, but Jackie was at least reassured that nothing serious seemed to be happening. It was just a classic case of overeating.

Jackie leaned her head against Sawyer’s shoulder, letting the gentle rise and fall of Sawyer’s chest calm her own nerves. For now, all Jackie could do was wait and make sure Sawyer didn’t wake up in too much pain. After all, it wasn’t every day your girlfriend devoured an entire pizza and then passed out like a rock.

Jackie chuckled softly, resting her hand on Sawyer’s warm stomach again, feeling the faint vibrations of her digestive system working overtime. Sully might grumble when she woke up, but Jackie would be there, ready to help.

[bleue-flora]

I give you the map for the recently created au I’m gonna call the playdate au, where over the summer, all of the neighbor’s kids often come over to play at Dream’s house (the Dream SMP). Dream’s parents are fairly abusive hence why he’s annoying and controlling to the other kids, trying to keep them from breaking something and such because as the oldest he’ll be the one to face the punishment later.

Locations:

Greater Dream Smp - the whole playground.

Community House - the gazebo, where the snacks, drinks and food are put out.

L’manberg - the pool and pool deck, where Wilbur is forced to monitor as the pseudo lifeguard because he’s the strongest swimmer.

Exile - a little tent area set up in the woods, where Dream sends Tommy for a time out.

Kinoko Kingdom - the mushroomed tree with a house that Sapnap decorated with Japanese lanterns.

Las Nevadas - the cookie stand and sand box that Foolish loves to play in.

Eggpire - the garage with some old red Christmas lights and Easter decorations.

Anarchist Commune - the air conditioned inside of the house, where they often watch movies and play video games.

Wilbur’s burger van - the cookie stand Wilbur set up on the other side of the yard to compete with Quackity.

Pandora’s Vault - the dark and hot inside of the big black slide, where Dream goes to hide from Tommy’s temper tantrum or gets too overwhelmed and overstimulated. Sam tends to guard the bottom from Tommy trying to annoy Dream. Quackity likes to throw rocks up the slide, but Sam also lets him crawl up and show Dream fun games with his cool lighter and pocketknife. ;]

Snowchester - the porch, where it’s just outside enough so they can eat popsicles without making a mess inside as well as a good spot for Tubbo’s stuffed pig to stay safe from getting all dirty in the chaos.

Limbo - the bedrooms used for nap time.

World Spawn - the bathroom

Niki’s underground city - the kitchen, where she convinces Phil to bake cookies with her.

Things:

The Music discs - two appropriately colored frisbees that Tubbo, Dream, and Tommy like to use in monkey in the middle.

Michael - Tubbo’s beloved stuffed pig

The Egg - Bad’s favorite chicken named Eggsy that he never goes anywhere without.

L’manberg flag - Wilbur’s weirdly patterned towel.

Nukes - a few huge water balloons

[developed in part with @piscespixiewastaken, @simplepotatofarmer, anon, & @error-dream-was-found]

[princelylove]

Sometimes it just feels better to turn your brain off and let someone else do aaaallll of the thinking for you.

Dumbification comes in a few different forms. Dollification and bimbofication, mainly. What's the difference?

Wellll. Dollification could be a number of things. People like all different kinds of dolls. Porcelain ones that sit on the shelf and do nothing but collect dust all day, action figures that can be posed, sex dolls that you inflate like a balloon and have your way with, rag dolls that have been through the war, actual stuffed animals, the list goes on. A doll is anything their owner wants them to be that day. That's what playing pretend is all about!

I see quite a few of my yandere interpretations being into dollifcation for their darling. Unfortunately not many for themself, but it's alright.

I think it's obvious that Jotaro loves dolls. Porcelain dolls, those fabric dolls with frilly dresses... he thinks they're just oh-so-cute. It's a shame they break so easily. He usually would go for someone that's already a bit doll-like- maybe their skin resembles porcelain, or their fashion sense makes for an obvious comparison.

I've spoken a bit in the past about Jotaro's fascination with lolita fashion, but it really does make a little too much sense to me. It scratches an itch for him. You either get it or you don't. The 'sweeter' styles- classic lolita, sweet lolita, hime lolita, even gothic lolita, they're all appealing. It's not necessarily the colors, it's about the amount of frills and lace and layers. He probably has a thing for petticoats because of it.

Jotaro's ideal day with his favorite dolly is nothing special. He'd prefer his doll on a shelf, safe and sound from the elements. It's not that he's a collector, it's that his darling is his prized possession. Taking care of it makes sense. He just wishes you'd stop thinking so much.

Yukako thinks you're better when you're finally broken in. You're just so much cuter when you let her dress you up and take you out! It irks her that you're not talking, but she can get you a voice box! Communication cards? Something! Maybe you're just shy. Aha. Ahahahahahahahahahahha.

She thinks a darling with a modern, feminine fashion sense is the cutest. Girly, but fitting for her age. If that isn't what she initially wears, Yukako has no problem gifting her some pieces here and there until her closet is full of cute clothes! Or, just. You know. Kidnapping her and not giving her any say in the matter. Either works. Have fun taking lots of pictures with Yukako!

There's a lot of yandere interpretations of mine that enjoy 'total bombshells,' but what about an actual bimbo? For some yanderes, it's about taking an entirely normal person and making them a mindless slut, for others it's about trapping one out in the wild and taking it home. It's your own little barbie! Or a bratz doll, depending on their style, I guess. Who can really tell?

Pannacotta isn't the type to openly degrade someone, his insults take a second or two to really process. He loves the adorable look on your face while you're thinking about it. Really, he's fine with you dressing however you want to, he just wanted you to know that it's fine in the first place. You know, some people don't prefer their girlfriends to dress like that, but he doesn't mind at all.

He knows how to keep his darling in the mindset. I think I've spoken a bit about Pannacotta's inclination for mind games and conditioning, of course he's into the process of bimbofication. So rewarding to do it himself, even more rewarding to keep his darling in such a state. It's a slow process, but it's worth it. He's more patient than his interactions with Narancia would have you believe. You're not Narancia, are you? Gooood, no you're not. It's simple, really. Reward behaviors you want to repeat, punish behaviors you want to stop. The reward depends on the darling, but the punishment.... it's Pannacotta. You can guess.

His conditioning is very slow. It takes a while to break someone in, but it takes an even longer while to learn someone's exact niche. He starts off by 'helping' with simple things. Things you can absolutely do by yourself, but are currently having an issue with. He'll use a machine for you, like a coffee machine or a ticket machine. Can't think of a word? Tell him the definition, he'll help. Pannacotta's gentle and firm, and fine with taking the time to learn what makes his darling tick. He loves to study, anyway. He'll figure out what his darling appreciates, and harp on it. It's often infantilizing, but hey, Panna's just Like That. Oftentimes both Guido and Narancia will excuse his behavior for him, the guy's a bit of a control freak. Just let him have whatever he's worried about and the guy'll go away.

He likes to emphasize the syllables in 'big' words here and there for you. Slowly says them, even. It's im...pera...tive... that you don't forget to call him back later.

Jolyne has never felt comfortable embracing her girlier side, she appreciates people that are openly feminine and comfortable about it. She just has a sort of mental block when it comes to her own femininity- she used to love being called "Jojo," and God knows what other cutesy, girly names, but now cringes at the thought. To her, femininity is vulnerability, and she's just not ready to embrace her old self again. Pretending- no, really being- tough is her new way of life. A darling that's already feminine, and needs her.... it's hitting a niche she didn't think she'd like.

Honestly, the dumber they are, the better. The first time Jolyne ever heard her darling say "Huuuh?" it was love. She wouldn't consider herself to be above average when it comes to stuff like that, but she's smart enough, in her eyes. She loooves when her darling asks her questions- rely on her. Keep coming to her. No, she's got zero fuckin' idea how half of the shit you're asking about works, but she can read something and sum it up for you. Maybe read it to you, add in a few extra words she thinks you don't know... (Author's note: Jolyne actually does know some niche things, she pulls out a Mobius strip in canon. Her intelligence and creativity is negated by the fact that darling is probably asking if she knows if there's carbs in butter. No idea, sweetheart.... no idea. Let's go look.)

Jolyne isn't really one for mind games, so breaking in her darling isn't going to come naturally. She's more likely to fall for someone that's already like that, or shows signs of it. Jolyne's someone that struggles to use her words, but finds it easy to do things for someone she likes or bring them gifts. Girls like you like makeup, yeah? Here. She'll leave it where only you could find it- assuming you're both in jail, she'd put it in your bed, under the covers. Seriously prays you aren't all tuckered out after headcount and don't just drop your dead weight on this palette she had to fork over a benjamin for....

It's worth it when she gets to watch your lips as you talk. Perfect, glossy.... sooo much happier now that she's helping you express yourself... Huh? She heard you, yeah. Say it again though, but slower...

[chiliechicken]

𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐊𝐈 𝐊.┊★ dude, i'm just not into you! Denki Kaminari x GN!Reader, Angst, OOC, Ex!Denki, Cliffhanger(?) oops

PT 1 — you're seriously crying?

Crying in your dorm room isn't what you expected to do after you broke up with that dweeb you used to call the love of your life. You spent hours sobbing into your pillow that you completely forgot to do your homework, better yet eat dinner with your classmates. They felt awful for you ever since they heard about the breakup. In fact, nearly every second year heard about the breakup.

The news spread like wildfire all throughout your grade and you couldn't feel anymore embarrassed about all of this. Students gossiped like there's no tomorrow, making sure that they and their mommas knew all the drama that surrounded yours and Denki's name.

You don't understand what's so interesting about your situation. I mean, it was just a simple breakup, it wasn't like two celebrities got a divorce after the one found out the other cheated. Even then, that news wouldn't spread this quickly in U.A.

You groaned and rolled over in your bed, wiping your tears away with the back of your hand. You turned your phone on and looked at the time, it read 8:45 P.M. "Goddamnit, shut up..." You sighed and stared at the screen as you watched the notifications continue to pour in. The wall of your school's official group was filled with the news. You furrowed your brows and turned off your phone before throwing it on the other side of your bed.

So what's so entertaining about all of this? Well for one, you and Denki have been dating since freshman year and have been well-known to be a power couple during your first year.

While Denki was friendly, open and talkative, joyful, flirty and funny, you were reserved, cold, usually preferred to be alone, and a little violent. Sometimes you'd be lashing out at the smallest of things, hitting anyone who even dares to look your way on a bad day. Even in your friend group everyone described you as timebomb, waiting to blow up at the perfect opportunity, or a balloon held over a sharp pin beside a war veteran. You were always ready to cause chaos and disaster.

Your presence was well-known as the 'violent kid that could kill you with one look alone', a reputation that rivaled Katsuki Bakugo's own aggressive nature. You were the complete opposite of Denki, so it surprised people when the goofy-goober, high-energy (literally and figuratively), good boy of the prestigious Class-A managed to pull you out of your little box and get you to open up, completely giving your personality a full-on makeover when you two began dating.

People often call the two of you the embodiment of opposites attract. The sun and the moon, the black cat and the golden retriever, the flower and its thorn, all that cheesy stuff you would rather rip your skin off than associate yourself with.

Your phone vibrates as your friends and classmates bombard your messenger with texts asking how you were doing, what's the tea, did you want to get drunk, why is Denki outside your Heights Alliance building—

"[Name]? Someone's looking for you."

Ugh, seriously?

You groaned audibly and threw a stuffed toy at your door, urging your classmate to leave you alone. She didn't listen since she continued to knock and even tried to turn the handle, yelling for you to come outside, "Come on! I know you don't want to go but he won't leave us alone! It's getting annoying and it's movie night."

What the hell could he want, now? You stood up from your bed, bit groggily, and hesitantly opened your door. You came face to face with your classmate who already had an irritated look on her face, as if the irritation in her voice wasn't enough.

You furiously wiped away your tears as you followed her back down to the common area. Thinking possible scenarios and outcomes wasn't really helping you calm down in this situation. In fact, you were feeling even more anxious, your footsteps thudding against the floor as you headed towards the couches. You took a deep breath and pushed through your classmates to get to Denki.

"Outside." You seethed out while gritting your teeth and grabbed his arm firmly with your fingers digging into his skin. Denki winced, stumbling on his own two feet as he followed you out of the building. Once out of view from your nosy classmates, you turned to look at him, your expression that of frustration. You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes, waiting for him to speak up before you lose your patience and rip him to shreds.

Denki let out a deep breath, one he didn't realize he was holding, and looked up to meet your gaze, determined. Albeit he flinched when your eyes were practically burning into his own.

"Take me back—?" You smacked the shit outta him as soon as he opened his mouth to say those words. Wincing and yelps of pain were heard from inside the building.

You glared at Denki, your palm stinging with pain as it began to warm up. You honestly couldn't believe the nerve of this.. boy. After the shit he put you through, he had the audacity to ask for your hand again?

"W-What the hell's that for?!" Denki cried out as he held his red cheek. God, that stung his feelings more than his skin. He frowned and stepped closer to you as he reached his hand out to hold yours, "You didn't have to do that! W-We can just talk, y'know?"

"I don't wanna hear anything from you." You snapped back almost immediately and leaned away from him, "Why are you expecting me to listen to your bum-ass words when you didn't even spend a second to listen to mine? I gave you so many chances to help me mend our relationship, but you never took the time to do so!"

You ran your hand across your face frustratedly, your other hand perched on your hip as you narrowed your eyes. "Just fuck off, Kaminari. I'm so done with you."

You turned around and began to walk away from him, trying to calm yourself down.

Denki sighed. He expected you to get mad, yeah, but you were really leaving him? He thought you loved him as much as he loved you. With a huff, he caught up with you and blocked your way. "I'm never gonna give you up."

You scoffed and pushed him away, "Haha, that is so funny. I am so hysterically laughing right now." before continuing to walk. He groaned in frustration and grabbed your arm, pulling you pack towards him. "I'm serious! I'm never gonna give you up no matter how much you hate me."

Denki looked at you as his gaze softened, "Please, [Name]. We've come so far together, why stop now?"

He gripped your arm tighter and momentarily looked away, trying to find the right words to say without possibly angering you. "I know I was kinda a d-dick in our relationship, but I promise you I'll do better! Give me a chance, please. You're my first real relationship, I-I can't lose you!"

You opened your mouth to speak, only to close it back again. What do you even say to this fool? You already said what you wanted to say to him earlier, you're satisfied with how things turned out. Right? You averted your eyes and clicked your tongue; fuck, you're really doubting your decision now?

With a sigh, you looked back at him and furrowed your brows. "What do you want from me?" You asked, your tone genuine. Denki raised a brow and tilted his head to the side, "I mean—isn't it obvious? I want you."

"No, idiot! What do you really want from me? Why do you want to chase me so bad? What is it about me that's so interesting that makes me so worth it?"

Denki frowned further and pulled you closer, "That's my answer. You. I want you." He spoke before he loosened his grip on you slightly, "It's as simple as that. Nothing more, nothing less, babe."

"Don't call me that." You sneered at him before pulling away, crossing your arms over your chest. "Go find someone else to fuck over. I can't believe I wasted half a year on someone like you." You stormed past him, bumping your shoulder against his, as you went back inside the dormitory.

"No, wait! Baby, please—!" He tried to call out to you, but you already disappeared behind those large doors.

Denki stood there, motionless for a moment as he processed what just happened. He sighed in frustration, running his fingers through his hair as he stared at the ground. "Fuck." He breathed out and walked back to the Class-A Heights Alliance, utterly miserable and defeated.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..."

Wanna know how he spent his night? Same as you, crying himself to sleep until he passed out on a pile of half-eaten chip bags with a cheesy romance movie playing in the background.

Match-made in heaven!

★┊gyehehehehehehhhhh HAUAJHA I'm going insane, I don't have any motivation to write at all

This one isn't as long as the first part, why? I'm not in the right mood to write angst MEANING I'm feeling really happy today since I'm all alone right now

Which reminds me that I'm lonely

I need a girlfriend

[yeyinde]

ATROPHY | Joel Miller x F!Reader

》 SUMMARY: It's her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of.  》 WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT (mild); allusions to death, assault; female gendered reader, female gendered anatomy; minor game spoilers; Joel isn't bad at feelings – he just doesn't want them. Joel is tired™ 》 WORD COUNT: 10,9k

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds. 

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry.

》 NOTES: I did something different with my writing. It's still a Reader insert, but. I tried third person instead of the usual second. also, how this ballooned up to nearly 10k is lost to me since it was just supposed to be smut?? I had this clear image of older Joel laying in bed, his guitar leaning against the wall, catching the light of the sun as you slowly rode him, and now? I don't even know. ⤑The gif is mine. Please don't take or repost without permission

MASTERLIST | FAQ | AO3

Complacency is a death sentence in a world like this. 

Lazy Sundays spent between the warm, damp sheets. Boredom. Afternoons strumming his guitar on the front porch. Sleeping in. Drinking at a saloon in town. Music. Laughter. 

It doesn't exist. 

Shouldn't. 

And yet—

His guitar sits, abandoned, in the corner of the bedroom. The wood still carries the heat from his thumb this morning when he played a song alone on the porch. Eyes bleary, full of sleep, of rest, as he took in the varicoloured dawn cresting through the indigo sky.

Those same weathered, beaten hands that strummed the chords to Hurt are now occupied again. One perched on her hip, skin sateen soft and plush, full and warm and clean from the shower last night as she bears down on top of him in a quiet cadence, a muted, languid dance. The other cups the swell of her breast in his palm, nipple still damp from his hungry mouth, and flushed red from his teeth. 

This should just be a fantasy. 

A dirty thing in the recess of his mind when he has a moment to himself breathe. A thought, a whim. Something to needle away at the last vestiges of his consciousness when he sees her in the wild—vibrant, young, and free—and then sullied in the back of his head when he leans against a tree, and thinks of the dirt on her skin, the blood on her delicate hands, and how they'd taste under his tongue.

But this isn't a dream.

When he sleeps, he dreams in black and white. The only colour that bleeds through is red. Blood red. Pulpy and vicious. Ugly. Garish. It splatters across the pavement where he laid Sarah down, where he lost Tess, and everyone else he never promised to save and still couldn't. 

He knows this isn't a dream when he blinks his eyes open, and she's there. Sitting atop him in a kaleidoscope of colour, drenched in ochre from the still rising sun. The only red is her blistered lips, the rough burn between her thighs from the scrape of his beard, and that sinful little tongue that slips between her teeth when he slides in deep. 

And then—his eyes drop to her side—that ugly wound that cuts her flesh, ripped over the seam of her ribs. 

He's awake. Lucid. 

She's much too heavy to be something carved from fantasy. 

He doesn't say this, of course—Joel isn't stupid, and for someone so considerably smaller than he is, she packs a hefty punch in those slender fingers that curl into a fist barely the size of an apple. The sharp jab of a rusted, blunt knife. Knows where to hit him, too. 

He tucks it away, and lets his hands explore, feeling the tangibility of her weight, her presence, under the tips of his bloodied fingers. 

(Broken on the same teeth that caused her to hurt.)

The knob of her hip bone juts out through her flesh, and he grazes it with his thumb, feeling the soft curve. 

Real, he thinks. Flesh and bone. 

He can feel the flutter of her racing pulse under his hand when he kneads her breast in his hand, and lets her nipple graze teasingly over the rough skin of his weathered palm.

The tight clench of her around him—pussy a perfect knot around the base of his cock, all pretty and tied tight like a bow—is another stroke of realism his dreams, nightmares, fantasies, could never imbue. 

It's a present he's sullied more times than he can count, each touch another tally to the neverending number of sins that pile higher than the hollow skyscrapers in Boston. 

Joel feels each breath that leaves her heaving chest. Each gasping hiccup of his name when she raises her full hips up, and then slide back down the length of him in a slow, languorous roll until he nudges against the seal of her womb, and steals the air in her lungs. 

It's real. 

A paradox, then. 

One of those things that shouldn't happen, but is. Like her, and him, and everything else in between.

He knows what the others in town say when they see her—pretty and soft with a ginger touch and a sweet curl of a voice when she whispers his name. It doesn't make sense for her to be all wrapped up in him, following along behind like a shadow to a man who's cut from ashlar, and reeking of rot. Ruin. 

He's calamity in ageing grey, and she's the ripe, forbidden fruit he's not allowed to bite. Poisoned apple. Cherry sweet. 

(He wonders if they'd recoil once they saw that her insides were gnarled; acrid and sour; bitter melon. Lemon drops.

That she is far more like him than they could ever dream.)

They glare at him from the corner of their eyes when she swells like a lighthouse in the midnight gloam at the sight of him wandering back from patrol, eyes all bright and beaming, and beautiful—Christ. 

She's a picture, he thinks. 

One of those pinup girls he'd find in dirty magazines as a kid. When he and Tommy would sneak a peek behind the barn, away from prying eyes. A portrait of lust. Desire in high gloss. 

A classical beauty—the type that would make men drown themselves at sea. A starlet in the golden age back when it mattered. 

Writers' muse, maybe: she would have been the girl everyone talked about—the one that eluded the tortured artist, made him pine. 

Hemingway would call her brutal. 

Cat in the Rain. 

(She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.)

He doesn't know much about poetry but he knows she's the type who could make a man want to stain his fingers in ink just to capture the curve of her lips when she smiled. 

A vixen. Hellion. Lilith. 

Her voice is a song when she says his name. A hymn. 

Dangerous. 

He doesn't know when this started. 

Maybe, when they brought her in with the rest of the group she was travelling with. Beaten down, hungry. Clinging to life with frostbitten fingers. 

Her eyes were flat; a stagnant pond. Lips a grim, blue line. Placid. Gone. She'd been out there for too long to ever find comfort behind walls, and he knows the feeling of trying to crawl out of your own skin when people stand too close. 

She scoffed at the idea of this place, of sanctuary. Resentful and derisive. He could see the distrust in her clenched jaw, balled fists. This world was a whim—evanescent—and what they gathered from the rest of the group, survival hadn't been easy outside of safe zones.

Wall after wall fell, she said, tone flat. Blank. Haunted by ghosts still lingering in the canyons of her eyes. Stopped believing in stuff like this after a while. 

Her eyes were stained—jaundiced and red, filled with burst blood vessels—and raw from how hard the edges of her knuckles had dug into the flesh of her eyelids. They spoke of sleepless nights. Ones interrupted by her own sense of survival, hyperarousal. 

He knows the feeling of jerking awake whenever his brain starts to lull, to slip into that dangerous facsimile of security. 

Pipe dreams. She wears her fatigue like its armour, wielding the brunt of her exhaustion like a shield. 

(Sleep often feels like a bad habit for people like her, like him.)

But like him, it waned slowly. 

The chips in her veneer cracked, split, and he saw the incipient filament start to seep in. Complacency. Comfort. 

A few months in, she stopped being so defensive when they invited her out for drinks, and when they talked about dinner parties, and birthday celebrations. Derision was still a heavy weight in her distant gaze, clutched in bleached knuckles like a claymore, when she looked at them, a touch incredulous. 

Joel understands the feeling. 

The itch in your guts, the discomfort in your chest. It festers, doesn't it? 

Children play close to the fences, making up games of tag, and hide and seek, as if those things with broken, pustulous faces weren't skulking within arm's reach just a breath away. 

This whole place is a vacuum. The interior is covered in thick molasses; stuck in stasis. They pretend that birthdays and holidays matter. Dance around the saloon at night with drinks in hand. Pale ale. Old booze. 

It's rigid in its structure: patrols that span the entirety of a day—from dusk to dusk in three shift increments—and daily checks of the fences, the gates. Trading with other communities. Rules. Regulations. 

It gives the idea of safety. Of security. 

(But the bruises on his hands and the gash in her side are proof that it's sometimes not enough.)

Slowly, though, as the days wore on and the fences stood proud and tall and secure, she softened. Tucked it away with a smile, and started saying, I'll think about it instead of clipped jerks of her chin, or nothing at all. 

Joel doesn't know if she ever really did think about it like she said she would. 

Broken promises carry a distinct sound. One he knows all too well. 

She never showed up despite the invitations. Never came to celebrate. 

She stood by the fence, and looked out, eyes wide, mouth flat. The coil in her shoulders, the tremble in her hands, reminded him of a trapped animal. Cornered, and tense. 

She'll bite someone eventually. 

(He just never expected it to be him.)

The tension didn't flee the crease of her eyes, but she tried to integrate herself into the fold, the community. Slowly. Slowly. 

He took stock of her in the same measure he does everyone new who wanders in. Assessing. Watching. Cautious. 

He could tell right away that she was a wildcard. A lit match slowly burning down the wick in a sea of gasoline.

Pretty, he finds, despite himself. Drawn in by her allure; a coruscating light in the middle of endless, unfathomable grey. 

He catches sight of the weathered face that blinks back at him from the frosted windows, hazy and thick with condensation that make the grey in his hair, his beard, look startlingly whiter than it was ten seconds ago. It's a jarring reminder of who he is. What he's done. 

It's not insecurity that keeps him from seeking her out, but self-preservation. Some people, he finds, just have this magnetism about them. A beacon. A light. A gravitational pull that drags you closer and closer. 

And hers is purely primal. Animalistic. She smells of sex and sin and makes him think of object permanence when everything around him had been clouded in the sharp shade of ephemeral grey. 

She's a fractured mirror. Medusa in the making. 

Joel's always avoided broken glass. 

(Ladders. Black cats. Cracks in the pavement. Pretty girls who swallow everything like a black hole—)

Too sweet, he finds. Forbidden fruit. Tart, ripe, and sugar dipped. 

(He never had much of a sweet tooth, anyway.)

Through his observations—necessary, he tells Tommy when he catches the way Joel's gaze follows her around when she moves; limbs ballerina lithe, swan songs after dark: just because we let them in, doesn't mean we can trust them—he finds out everything he needs to know. 

A rusted sign on the side of the road says, stay away. Danger in dulcet. Soft and sweet. A perfunctory bow in battle before the deadly blows come. 

He oscillates between finding her both too soft and too hard, and it's the unknown that makes him wary. 

She's a caged animal. Everyone is just kidding themselves if they think she's domesticated. 

Somewhere in the throng of people milling about, drinking and dancing like the world wasn't in shambles, she finds his gaze, matches his stare. 

Most people looked away. 

But she's not most people, is she? 

No, she's dangerous. Pretty in a way that's entirely too ethereal for the broken remnants of what remains. Left behind. Mouldering until death claims its victims. Until the spores released from the earth itself burrow in the rucked lines of your head, sprouting up like flowering buds. 

She makes men want. 

And while the pickings might have been slim, Joel knows there are several (and maybe a little more) above him in terms of desirability. He's older. Gruff. Rough around the edges without any whim of changing, or scouring himself down so that his jagged pieces don't pop something as tender and sweet as her. 

He doesn't put himself in the same bracket. Despite Maria's insistence, Tommy's needling, he isn't a bachelor. 

Hasn't made himself available.

And he isn't. 

Not since Tess. Not since—

None of that matters. He's too old to think about romance, about skin and sex, and warmth. And more.

The thought of it all leaves something sour twisting in the gnarled rot of what remains inside his chest. 

Despite that, or maybe in spite of it, she comes to him. 

(Somehow. Somehow.)

She asks him to dance, and the breathy tone of her voice tastes like a lit cigarette; it plumes nicotine in the air. Second-hand smoke. A contact high. 

He finds it disarming when she laughs after he says no. Firm. Hard. Dismissive. 

Not in your lifetime, sweetheart. 

The unspoken stay away rang clearer than the echo of her laughter. 

And that was that. 

But she came back. 

("If not a dance, then how about a drink?"

"Wastin' your time, sweetheart."

She grins, then, soft and coy. "Not much else to do with it these days besides chatting up a handsome stranger."

He pretends she didn't make him choke on his drink, and eyes her warily instead. Dangerous, he thinks. The type that just doesn't quit. One who is just small and malleable enough to slip inside the tiniest splinter.

Just like a raspberry, she'd rot fast. Festering. Clouded white and infectious. Worse, in many ways, than the parasites outside of the walls. 

"Just don't get your hopes up." He settles on after a moment, a lull, that makes her blood-red lips curl up like the curve of those stupid hearts dangling overhead. 

And hates that he doesn't really know if he's still just talking to her or the wandering eyes in his own skull when he says it.)

He doesn't know why she takes a liking to him of all people. Of all men. He might be out of touch with the reality they live in now, always on the fringes of waiting for things to buckle at the knee, and collapse into ash, but he isn't stupid. Oblivious. 

Joel sees the way she stares at him. Open, wanting. Curious. 

She shouldn't be. There's nothing in him—nothing left. His insides are polluted, gnarled. Ugly. A gurgling cesspit that doesn't know how to fix, only dissolve. Consume. He's acidic. Caustic. 

Bad for anyone's health. 

He can't keep anyone safe, and all he knows how to do anymore is push people away, and lie (and, lately, make Ellie so incensed with anger, she cuts him to the core and spills his choleric blood out onto the pavement where it hisses and sounds just like Tess). 

He's a patchwork mess of a man sewn together with a churlish hand. The broken pieces are borrowed and maligned, but they sometimes feel like they fit when he shifts, and spits enough contempt to keep everyone else from getting too close, and—

It's enough. 

(He likes it that way.)

But she—

His hands grip her tight sometimes—too tight—and the stains he leaves on her skin set his teeth on edge. It's too much like ownership. Possession. 

(And he finds the colour that blooms on her flesh to be too fucking pretty to ever sit comfortably in the gnarled pit of his guts.)

"Don't worry, Joel," she whispers when she catches him staring at the marks he left behind. Dark and ugly. Contrition tastes of old nickels. "You won't break me that easily." 

It's a bad decision. 

But he was never known for his good choices, and when she fluttered her eyes at him, hand pressed to his chest like she were allowed to touch him, he crumbled. 

She didn't give him much of a choice to fight back when all she asked for nothing but the warmth of his skin, and the taste of him on her tongue. 

Pleasures of the flesh. It's easy. Simple. He fucks her behind the saloon, rough and dirty, and swallows the sounds she makes against the brick like they're just for him. He takes her home, and knows that when he's nestled between her thighs, it's as close to heaven as a man like him will ever get. 

And then—it's over. She leaves. He pretends to sleep. 

Rinse. Repeat.

It carries on this way for nearly two years. Distant, cold. He can't remember the last time he had anyone warm his bed, but it takes the edge off, the stress and pain of Ellie's distance, her mistrust, and hatred, and she asks for nothing. 

She lets him grab her when he wants. Lets him bend her body into whichever shape suits him best, and says nothing about the fingerprints that he leaves behind, the astringent tang of rot when she slides out of his bed, his hands, and out the door. 

He lays back, the same hand he used to grip the back of her neck when he fucked her into the mattress now resting under his head, and he pretends doesn't feel colder now than he did before. 

There is no promise of forever. There's no promise of exclusivity, or monogamy, but he knows that she hasn't fucked anyone else since she got here, that those pretty thighs only ever parted for him, and he's too worn down to entice anyone else who wasn't looking for a sleazy fuck against a tree into his bed, anyway. 

Complacency begets comfort, security, wants.

They settle down in their borrowed homes, in their borrowed beds, and think about making the most of their borrowed time.

In that, they yearn. Family. Togetherness. Everything they had before they tried to drag into the now. Forcing a square through a round hole. A mismatched puzzle piece into the slot it wasn't made for.

Sometimes, they get lucky and it slips through. It distorts itself into something different, and new, just to fit through the preconstructed crack.

Joel doesn't think about then. He thinks about now. A broken world no closer to resolution, absolution, than it was thirteen, fourteen years ago. There is no roseate veil over his eyes; everyone else can see it. 

He isn't the type of man someone brings home. The one you push and push until he fits through the front door, and back into normalcy. Stagnancy. 

And she's not the type of woman who'd ever try. 

He likes that about her.

Poisoned candy apple. Pretty on the outside and rotted within. 

There is no future outside of the way he fits inside of her, and this is as permanent as the blemishes he leaves on her pretty skin. 

Then he dreams, and it's of her.

Lifeless, blue. The way her head splits open is beautiful in that macabre sort of way horrible things sometimes are. Flowers burst behind her eyes, petals budding out of the hollowed space that once made his chest stutter when the sun caught the crevasse of black that split from her pupil and bled into her iris. A small stream of ink. 

The canyons of gradient colours are now filled with blooms of enoki. Red amanita curls out from her ears. 

Where he once laid his palm over her chest is now a gaping hole flowering with a pulsing mass of candlesnuff and staghorn. 

Death cap where her heart once beat. 

Beautiful, he thinks, even as he howls her name.

He wakes up drenched in a cold sweat, and the curve of her name heavy on his tongue. His knuckles pop when he fists the damp sheets between his trembling fingers, but the ache feels good. The sting reminds him he's alive. Whole. 

He's awake, but the nightmare doesn't end. The sight of her body lingers in the back of his head when he strums his guitar and plays a song for the demons within. He thinks of her when he forks over the expired box of condoms he found on a run, and listens to Jesse ramble about how Ellie is doing in exchange for the loot. 

It's her he sees. 

She blinks at him, eyes that same shade that sometimes makes his breath hiss between his teeth, and then her crown caves in. Forehead splits down the middle. One half stands where it was as the other falls over on her shoulder. 

Fractals spill from the plumule that was once her brain stem until the two halves are bleached white like dead corals on a ruined reef. 

The flowering toadstool quivers. What was once her—wit, charm; that uncanny ability to make him feel like the ground beneath his feet was crumbling—is a mass of spores. Polluted. Rotted. 

Where she once stood is a puppet. Dead. Gone. 

Her head tips. Ink spills from the putrefying blood vessels, congealing in the air. It spools into a circle. A black hole. 

He lifts the gun, and feels nothing at all. 

Everything he could have felt, feels, is syphoned into the needlepoint of no return, the place where she once looked at him, and said, I don't want anything from you, Joel. I just want you.

He wakes before he can see the aftermath of pulling the trigger. 

A fluke, maybe. But it happens each night after that. 

He knows, then, that there's no turning back. 

Permanence doesn't belong in this borrowed home, but she somehow drags it through the foyer and into his bed, anyway. 

She stayed over last night. 

Joel doesn't think he tried to let go when he collapsed into the bed beside her, arms woven around her sweat-slicked back, locked tight like a pair of shackles that mean about as much as a prison or the law these days.

It was cold. Late. He didn't want her to walk back in the snow all alone. 

That's all. 

But Joel isn't a gentleman, and despite how much he wishes he wasn't, he's egregiously self-aware. 

He knows he's in trouble when it just makes sense to keep her close. When it's easier to have her within arm's reach than it is to meet at the front door, and let her in. 

(When he sleeps better if he can feel her burning skin on his.)

"You're thinking too much," she gasps, eyes lidded and heavy. Drinking him in. 

Joel doesn't know what a pretty thing like her sees in a man like him. 

He can't offer her anything except the cold comfort of a warm body, but even that is null. He knows there are younger men prowling outside her door, just itching for an opportunity to make her look their way. 

(She never does.)

"Yeah," he rasps, the word sticking to his teeth. "Never been much of a thinker."

"Really? Ain't that a surprise."

His hand slips from her hip, palm swatting at the soft flesh of her ass. The sting makes her tighten around him like a vice. 

"Watch your mouth."

The way she gasps his name, breathy and aching, makes him stifle a groan between clenched teeth, her voice rolling over him like warm sea breeze. 

She's a lot, he thinks, and yet—she asks for nothing. 

(Nothing but him. One of the things he can't give her. Won't.)

Still. 

Her nails press into his damp chest, catching on the smoked dusted patch of coarse charcoal hair. Bracing herself against the swell of his ribs, and slowly rocked back into him, taking him deeper and deeper into her soaked, tight cunt. 

The pulse in his neck throbs out of his skin, a tick she likes to press the flat of her tongue against and drink up the briny droplets of his sweat. He can see the want in her eyes when he catches her staring at the column of his throat, the way she bites her lip like it's a substitute for how badly she wants to sink those same teeth into his flesh. Mark him as her own. 

Possession. Ownership. 

Sometimes, he catches the glossy, rotund image of himself in the inky puddles of her pupils, blown wide with feverish desire, and he can see the same expression, the mien, captured in her startling hue. 

Mutual want. 

It's easier to give in sometimes. To let go. 

He can't, though, and selfishly, he knows she'll never ask. She will bite your lip, the inside of her cheeks, and your tongue until it's raw and bloody before she lets the words slip through the gap of her teeth. 

(He feels the rough, chewed ridges on velveteen flesh when he rolls his tongue between her ivory teeth, swiping over the insides of her cheeks; broken skin split and metallic—a testament to her own selfless desires.

He tastes it on his tongue long after she's gone. Wet pennies. Dandelion sour.)

It knots inside of him. She'd ruin herself before she asked him for more. 

Maybe somewhere in his avoidance, his distance, she knows he's ruining himself by just giving her this much. Nothing, and yet—

Everything to him. 

An impasse, then. Uncrossable when he's already two feet out the door. 

"Joel—"

"I know, sweetheart," he murmurs, low. Rucked gravel. Falling rocks. It jars him how easily he responds to her. She says his name, and he'll drop anything in his hands to get to her quickly enough. "I know." 

The wound on her side pulls taut when she moves. It draws his eye like a beacon. Makes him grind his teeth together until it sparks pain down his jaw, the enamel sawed to the raw nerve. 

His hand slides over her molten flesh, trailing over the soft curve of her waist, until his thumb brushes the seam that keeps her insides from spilling out. The swollen, bruised skin is warmer than the rest of her body. Glossy where it tugs against the black threads keeping her whole. 

Joel didn't go with her on this particular trade. She went with some new kid they'd picked up, all varsity grins and clean hands. He seemed so damned eager to get her attention in the pub. Her age, too. 

Made a pretty couple, Ron said. Fucking loud mouth Ron. 

He was supposed to go, but when the kid caught him in the corner, nursing a beer that sat in his guts like a stomach ache, and said, hey, man, can I take your spot? he didn't know how he was supposed to say no and still cling to the degrees of separation he wedged between himself and the world. 

So, he raised his mug to his mouth, and forced himself to drink, to nod. 

Knock yourself out. 

The flash of sadness that flickered over her face meant nothing at all—nothing—but he felt something churn inside of his rotted guts. Atrophy, he thinks. He isn't meant for this. Doesn't want it. Need it. 

She's a bigger liability the closer she gets. A slow-moving black hole consuming all of the counterscarps he dug until nothing is left but crossable rubble. 

It's better, then, to cut it at the root before it infects the rest. 

So, he does. 

Maybe, he expected something different. For her to call this thing what it was, and then demand more of him, yell and scream and beg for the things he wouldn't give her—if only so he could break her heart into pieces, and force her to let go. To stop. 

Force himself to do the same. 

But she doesn't 

It's a quiet acquiesce; a little more than a nod, and a grim line of her pretty mouth. Okay, it says. If that's what you want. 

And that's what she always says, isn't it? If that's what you want, Joel. Whatever you say, Joel. Sure, Joel. Okay, Joel. 

A spitfire in ochre. A bright lighthouse in the middle of the grey sea. 

(The only person she dims for is him.)

Joel doesn't see her off. Doesn't say be careful or come back safe because words like those don't fit between his teeth. They aren't meant for the nothing between them. The chasm of everything she can't pry from his gnarled fingers. 

She leaves with him. 

He drinks alone. 

Despite whatever nonsense Tommy says, spouted over rationed potatoes and deer meat stew, he isn't sulking. 

"Let your girl go out alone? Unlike you, brother."

The way the words sat in his chest felt like an anvil. 

"Ain't my girl," he muttered. He wanted to be angry but all he felt was numbness. "Ain't my anything."

It's Maria who gets under his skin when she scoffs.

"Joel Miller, you're the biggest dumbass I ever met, save for your damned brother. Gonna push a good thing away and die alone." 

"No one asked you." 

Maria tries to fill in the blanks of something that doesn't exist. 

It peels back the gossamer from his eyes, and he sees, then, the way they skirt around him and her like it's something. As if his name is permanently attached to hers. 

He pretends he doesn't feel the burn in Maria's glare when he doesn't see her off at the gate.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't. 

He isn't there when she comes back, and hates, even more, that he feels something prickle inside his chest when Maria catches him near the stables, and says, I expected more from you, Joel.

It doesn't feel good when he bites back, that's your problem, Maria. Shouldn't have gotten your hopes up. 

Joel lives in his vindication, in his pettily forced indifference. She hasn't come to see him, anyway, and he's sure that she and Varsity jacket are meeting at the pub for that date he'll never give her. 

Doesn't matter, he thinks. And then, if only to burn himself in the flames, he adds: better this way. 

She'll know when he's not there. She's smart like that. Know him in ways he doesn't think anyone else ever could. Ever wanted to. 

(He hates it, and her, sometimes, for it.)

She'll understand. She might corner him one day with that dry ire dripping from the corners of her mouth, patronising and grim, and she'll do what she does best when she strips him bare and leaves him to rot. 

Her eyes are cobra pits. Her teeth leak venom. 

But she won't push. 

It'll simmer out when she blinks, knowing that this is it, and she'll say: okay, Joel. 

Okay. 

He braces for it—hates that has to because that means something, something he isn't ready to acknowledge—and—

And it's all moot. 

She never shows up at the gate. 

It punctures something in his lungs when Tommy looks up at him, face ashen and worried, and says: "she didn't come back. They didn't come back."

It takes an hour to find her, left for dead and beaten within an inch of her life by the side of the road. A wound in her side—a gaping hole he swears he can see through. Milky bones poke through, drenched in red, and—

His heart doesn't stop, but a piece of it breaks off and lodges itself in his throat. He can't swallow. Can't breathe.

Something curls out from the moon-white line of her rib. 

A bud, he thinks. Distant. Warbled. A saprophyte. 

He has the image of her in his head. The same one he sees when he closes his eyes and falls into a fitful sleep. 

Beautiful even as the cordyceps split her skull into blooming monkshood in hideous grey and plum. Pale and lifeless; a marionette on toadstool strings. A puppet in fluorescence. 

"She's—"

Tommy's hand reaches down, fingers curling around the sprout. 

Don't— not Tommy, too—

He pulls back, and Joel catches the tremble in his joints, the whites of his knuckles, when he spreads his fingers. 

In the palm of his hand sits a leaf. 

A leaf. 

The bark that leaves his chest tears right through the clot in his throat. Rips him open from the inside out. 

"A fucking leaf—"

He carries her back, and doesn't let go until the doctor is there, urging him out of the room. 

"You'll get in the way." 

He sees the looks they give him when he passes, but Joel never cared what people think. 

Doesn't plan on starting now, either. 

He's on the wrong side of fifty, and has more blood on his hands than the looted bars of soap could ever scour clean. He knows who he is, and maybe, maybe, knows what he wants, and Ron's loud mouth never meant much to him, anyway. 

Joel gets a name when she's sleeping after surgery—lucky, he overhears, got there in the knick of time, any later and—and brings nothing with him when he leaves. He won't need it. Doesn't want it.

He finds them chatting over an open fire, and beats them to death with nothing but his bare hands. 

He doesn't burn them. Doesn't bury them. 

When he's finished, covered in blood and aching, and satisfied, he drives an ice pick through their skulls (the same thing, he finds, that caused the hole in her side), and leaves them to rot. 

They say nothing about the blood on his shirt, or the broken, mangled fingers of his hand. He's content to leave them. To feel the agony as his broken bones split through cracked skin.

(He thinks of her—broken, blue—and clenches his hands so tight, the pain makes him blackout.)

He only lets Maria patch him up when she hisses about infection, and blood poisoning. 

Says nothing at all about what he'd done, where he'd gone. 

She doesn't ask. 

When she's finished, she says: "woke up yesterday."

He knows. Still: "that right?" 

"Gonna go see her?"

"Don't need me crowding around her bed."

"Maybe she, for some reason, wants to see your ugly mug."

"She tell you that?" 

"Didn't ask about you, if that's what you're asking." She snorts. Shakes her head. "Both a'you are really perfect for each other, you know?"

"We ain't." 

Her brow raises. Something prickles across her expression. "Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing," she shakes her head with a small smirk. "Just… didn't know you knew the word we, is all." 

"We done here?"

He doesn't go to her. 

Stubborn as an ox, she comes to him. 

She says nothing about the bandages on his black and blue hands. Nothing about the way he can't make a fist through all the swelling. Her hands are soft, and warm, when they wrap around his. Small, delicate. A baby deer cupping the paws of a grizzly bear. 

His eyes flash with something that tastes of the same rotten satisfaction he felt gnarled inside of his chest when the man who left her for dead on the side of a road wheezed as Joel broke his nose, and then battered the broken bulb into a messy, mushy pulp. 

He didn't stop until grey matter leaked through the holes. 

She knows what he did. He feels it in the way she stares at the black, swollen mess of his fingers. Bones broke on teeth, on a fractured skull. 

He doesn't regret it. He doesn't even think he enjoyed it much, really. 

It had to be done. Had to. 

They took a life. Varsity Jack, she tells him. Stabbed in the heart when he tried to defend her with the same ice pick that ripped through her flesh. 

Her tone is flat. Empty. 

He sees bruises on her knuckles, those little fists were her only defence against them, and the red welt on the man's face makes sense now. 

He feels proud. 

She's not broken—battered, beaten, torn to pieces—but she still stands, whole, intact. Resilient. Strong. 

(A survivalist. The only time she ever alluded to more was to tell him that he was worrying for nothing. That, above all, she would survive. Outlive him, even.

"What are you so afraid of, old man?" A cheeky wink. Her tongue dips out, and touches the upper corner of her lip. "I'm gonna outlive you, anyway."

God, he thought, he really hopes she fucking does.)

It doesn't surprise him to see her eyes cloud with anger, arsenic white, when she brings his hands to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. Anyone else might have asked why. Said thank you, even. 

She just murmurs, "I hope they suffered." 

Saccharine sweet. 

Rotten to the core. 

He saw the same shade of calamity in her eyes when she wandered in, grim and distant, as the one that stared back at him in the mirror. Her complicity in this doesn't surprise him. If anything, he wonders if she's angry he left nothing behind for her. 

The thought makes his lips quirk in a needle of something he hasn't felt in a long time. 

"They did."

The words are uttered like a promise. His busted pinky twitches, and it makes her smile. A bloom of petal pink flowering across her face. Soft and tender. The swell of a sea mark burgeoning out in the gloom of grey. 

And all for him.

Joel pulled her in close. Closer still. 

(Too close, maybe, because now he doesn't know how he'll sleep without her by his side)

His thumb slips over the tumid skin poking out from tight, black sutures. The threads are the only thing keeping her together. 

Beneath it is a bruise. Black. The tip of his thumb presses against the cresting peak. Knuckle to skin, it's a perfect fit. 

(In all the same ways he and she aren't.)

"I'm okay, Joel," she whispers, and the thick, dulcified tone of her voice shakes him from the labyrinth of his mind. 

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds. 

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry. 

"Yeah," he intones, and he isn't sure if he's speaking to her, himself, or a god he hasn't spoken to since he was eighteen and Sarah got sick for the first time. Maybe everyone, all of them, all at once.

It makes her huff. "Am I losing you already, old man?"

"Ain't that old," he bites back, hips lifting when she slides down. It makes him nudge something that has her eyes fluttering, mouth dropping, slack. Her nails catch skin when they rake over his chest. 

Sex has always been an outlet. A comfort. It blankets that part of his head that never quiets—failures, failings—and offers a respite from it all. Her weight on his hips, chest, thighs doesn't dull it all but buffers it. 

White noise in his ears when her nails rake over his skin. The scent of her clings in the air around them—sex, kerosene, cinder, ash: the scent of a wet forest after a wildfire scorched the earth—and clots out the fetor of decay, of mildew, and moss, the earthy tang that reminds them of death. Of them. 

It's a distraction. Distance in skin, sweat, and heat. 

It's just sex, just—

"God, Joel," she gasps loud, sharp, when he pitches his hips into her, blunt and unforgiving, and hits deep. Carves out the shape of him in her soft, fluttering flesh, and tries not to get lost in the thick scent of her. 

It dusts over everything until he still smells her even when she isn't here. 

Temporary made permanent. 

It's the very thing he runs from finally catching up. He feels the graze of fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck when he looks at her, poised and centred above him. Aphrodite in flesh and bone. Her fingers prickle his skin with their sharp tips, and the indents left behind are soothed over when she gasps his name like it's something special. Meaningful. An orison murmured in the quiet box of a confessional booth. 

The curtain rustles. 

"Yeah," he grunts, low and filthy; the noise sticks in the back of his throat when he feels her tighten up around him. A little apple-sized fist of pleasure. He flexes his thighs, hands grasping her tight, and knows he's going to keep her here again tonight. "Fuck, sweetheart—"

The way she moves is liquid. Mercury. He watches, eagle-eyed and enraptured, as she squares her shoulders, and takes him to the root. The base. 

Her presence in his life atrophied his defences until they lay scattered on the sheets that reek of her. In the folds of his pillow where he rests his head at night. The featherlight wood of his guitar when she leans over his shoulder, and says, play me another one, Joel. 

He's a dog without an owner. A stray mutt on the outskirts of town, wandering through the city in search of sustenance. 

She's the one who keeps feeding him. Lays out a dish just for him, and scratches her nails behind his ears until the curl of his lips subsides. A slow broiled trust. He stops showing her his canines, his claws, when she shows him the vulnerable curve of her neck, and lets him mark her skin with his touch. 

Joel will mourn her the same way he does everyone else—achingly empty, and tearless—but he thinks, now, that he might think of her once, and then never again. He's selfish. Always has been. 

(Can't afford not to be when she looks better bearing his mark. When he sleeps easier with her breath in his ear.)

Just sex. The words are weak in the back of his head, and he feels the shaky resolve begin to crumble, chossy wobbling under unsteady feet, when her head falls back in a mockery of prayer, the utterance of his name heavier than the sins on his shoulders. Just sex. Just—

The grille falls, and shatters into smelted pig iron at their feet.

—it's just her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of. Won't. Not now, not ever. He won't give her anything, nothing but the touch of his hands, and the weight of his body, but it's juxtaposed to the worry heavy in his chest, the anger still lacing the broken bones in his fingers when his thumb brushes the curve of her wound. 

It splits in her ardour. The bottom scab tugged too much, lifting from broken flesh. 

Ichor pebbles on the seam. It pools an angry merlot against the indigo scab, but when it slides down her flesh, it's Phlegethon red. 

His thumb catches it. It's warm, and sticky. He smears it over her quivering belly, and fights the urge to try and lick it clean. Knows, somehow, it would taste of Lethe. 

Joel's teeth ache when he grinds them together, tongue lashing across the ivory seal. He's thinking too much—abstracts, concretes; they blur together in a cacophony of want, take, run, hide—

Keep. 

"It's okay," she says again, as if all his secrets laid bare. As if the talons digging into his flesh somehow tapped a vein, an artery, that leads directly to his stem, and she's syphoning the thoughts in his head with the same ease that she steals the breath from his lungs. "It's okay, Joel. It's—"

She doesn't finish. Her words are shorn, bitten at the grain when he reaches up, holding her around the waist, and brutally fucks into her weeping cunt with the finesse of a starving man invited to a feast fit for a King. 

It jostles her. Breasts swaying, head bobbing back and forth as he nearly lifts her off the bed with the force of his thrusts. 

The brutality of it screams one shrill echo of it isn't. None of this is okay. None of it. 

She's chiselling him open until he's a raw wound exposed to the unforgiving air. Until he bleeds and thinks of her. Until the only sound that drowns out the terror raking across his synapses is her voice when she murmurs his name. 

"We're fine, Joel—," it carries the flavour of axiom. Aphorism when she says: "we'll be okay."

She trembles over him, muscles straining to keep up. This isn't her taking; despite being perched above him like a queen astride her throne, she gives. Lowers herself the way he likes. Circles her hips until he sees white behind his eyelids. 

The weight of her feels like an anvil. The heat is enough to liquefy his bones. 

"Keep goin'," he rasps the words out—a strange limbo of being both an encouragement and a demand. It lacks the bite it had before, when he'd bend her over and fuck her until he was satisfied, until the howling in his head, and the ache in his bones was eased with the soporific gossamer only sex could give him. "Just like that, pretty thing—"

It's a slip. An accident. 

Her rhythm stutters. Her ribs expand wide under his palms; ballooning up so much he wonders if she's trying to burst them at the seams or float away. Irrational, of course. Sex makes him stupid. Makes him hungry and needy, and has him feeling like he's almost, almost human, and—

He holds on a little tighter. 

Pretty thing. Her lips form the words in a soundless exhale. Pretty thing. She's used to him calling her all sorts of sobriquets smeared in a palpable stroke of derision. It's not contemptuous, but he makes his mockery of it clear with the flout in his tone. Sarcastic, caustic. 

Sure thing, beautiful. If that's what you want, sweetheart. Go on then, gorgeous. 

She always wore the same sour twist to her lips, the exaggerated eye roll. The heavy huff. 

It was never flirtatious, never complimentary. 

This—pretty thing—is the softest he'd ever regarded her. 

He watches her throat bob when she swallows, eyes tracing the nervous flutter as she struggles to grasp the concurrency of his words, the way he said them. Their meaning. It flickers through those depths that threaten consumption whenever they dust over the length of him. Thinking. Thinking. 

They were always abstract, but his words are concrete, and she isn't sure how to carry the heavy cinder he drops on her. Her fingers are used to the ephemeral weight of his scorn; the delineation of distance—unspoken but unignorable. Unequivocal in its separation. 

"Wow," she breathes, tremulous. She grasps at normalcy but he can see how much those two words have rattled her. She swallows again. Eyes narrowing. Viper pits. "Getting soft in your old age, huh?"

Joel isn't ready to acquiesce. 

He pitches his hips up, letting her feel the solid length of him—blunt, burning iron—and feels his chest flutter when she whines, head dropping back as he bludgeons into her core. 

"Fuck, Joel—"

He isn't soft. Isn't malleable. He's made of carbonised grief, anguish, despair. Reinforced with volcanic clinkers running rivets of apoplectic fury. 

He isn't soft. Isn't what she deserves, or needs, or should even want—

But the way she says his name is pyrolysing. 

Cinder. Soot. Ash. 

He spent so much time holding firm against the walls to keep her out, he never bothered to filter the air he breathed. She clots in his lungs. The scent of her builds. A mass forms. Metastasises inside of him. 

Her hands fall there, palms drawn to the steady thump of his beating heart. It drums under her skin, a stuttering rhythm that makes her own chest swell with her shaky inhale. 

His slide, rough skin scraping over her soft flesh. She burns hotter than the acorn stove in the corner of the room, and he feels the heat simmering in his veins. Scents the sulphur and volcanic ash in the air when she leans down, bending at the elbows to press her lips against his. It's chaste, as far as their usual kisses go. Biting and vitriolic. As if being sweet, tender, was forbidden. 

Maybe it was. He doesn't know what he'd have done if she kissed him like this back then. Honeyed rich, and molasses slow. It tastes like smoke but reminds him of the rock candy he'd make at home with Tommy when he was young. 

She moans into his mouth when his hands slip around her waist, her thigh. He holds her steady, and rocks up into her to the same tremulous beat as her clumsy, fragile kisses. The vibrations buzz on his bruised lips, and the tingle of her voice washing over him makes his cock twitch inside of her. 

The press of him, unyielding and firm, against her soft, soft walls makes him grunt. Another noise pulled into the cacophony of them. It's lower than anything he's ever made before. New. Novice. 

Fucking her now feels marginally different than it had only yesterday. It's raw. Vulnerable. 

He thinks of a slow burn. A candle wick. 

Wonders, then, if she feels it, too. This rawness that sits in his thundering chest; a scraped-out, hollow feeling that draws in more and more of her until the crater is filled with the essence of her sweat, the heavy breaths she tries to stifle in her throat to keep kissing him like she'll never get the chance to again. 

And that must be it. 

This isn't what he normally gives her—bruises and bites, beard burns over the delicate softness of her flesh; he leaves her kiss-bruised and drunk off of the taste of him, malt-heavy and whisky sour. 

Intimacy is saved for moments when she cums around him, tightening up like a strung bow in his archer's hold; when she squeezes herself into the nook of his shoulder, whimpering as he fucks her through her high, and chases his release in the spasming clutch of her willing body. When he cums, painting her stomach, her thighs, her ass, with the stain of his spend, the only physical proof he'd been inside of her, and smears the wet mixture of them on her heated flesh, still buzzing with the aftershocks of her orgasmic haze. 

It's reserved for the microcosm carved from their shared release, drenched in the glow of the chemical slurry that saturates their brains, releasing endorphins until they feel nothing but the buzz of each other. Skin to sweaty skin. Each breath a gasp. 

He lets her linger in these soft moments. This singular dissonance sits incongruously with everything else between them. But then she shifts. The microcosm that filmed around them bursts. 

She slips away after he does, slowly leaning over to pull on her discarded clothes, and wipe the stain of him from her body. 

His fingers itch for a cigarette when he watches her through lidded eyes as she stumbles around on fawn legs. 

She always hesitates for a moment. Joel often wonders if she's waiting for him to ask her to stay. 

He never does. She leaves. 

(Rinse. Repeat.)

But now—

"Easy, now," he murmurs, tongue slipping through the gap of her teeth to chase her taste. "Don't rush this, sweetheart."

Everything about this is unlike him, and she moans her disquietude into the scant space between them, brow knotting together when her stitches pull, and he leaves a bloodied trail across her waist, knuckles split and bleeding anew. 

They're both bloodied, he finds. Drenched in each other's sweat, spittle, and blood. 

It makes dizzy. Makes his fingers dig into her flesh, holding her closer to his heaving chest as he takes. His hips raise off the bed—a clumsy slant into her welcoming sex, and he feels her shudder when he hits deep, cock nudging that soft place inside of her that always makes her forehead crease. 

He can't see it when she leans down, peppering wet kisses across his grey beard, and painting hard through her nose when he presses the flat of his palm against the base of her spine and fucks into her with sharp, unrhythmical thrusts. 

"That's it, take it just like that—," he grinds the words off, and tastes the condescension in his tone. 

In response, she bites down on his pulse point. 

Another break in the routine. The rules lay scattered around them, smouldering embers of this incipient beginning to something neither of them is ready for. 

Her hands wiggle out from between their chests, bringing them closer together than before, and when she tangles her fingers in the damp curls behind his ears, he swears he can feel her heartbeat echoing through his ribs. 

He spears himself into her faster, seeking that place he knows will make her melt—

"Joel, oh—ah, fuck—"

—and once found, he cruelly angles the head of his cock into it, rasping out words of patronisation into her ear. 

Good girl, he says, and groans when her cunt tightens around him like a nautical bow. Taking me so good. Gonna cum for me? Gonna cum around my cock—

He can feel his release brimming up like a fever in his veins. White-hot and arctic cold. It sets his nerves on fire, and the pressure of her around him makes him see pure white. 

He thinks of church on Sundays when she chants his name like a hymnal—Joel, Joel, Joel—and finds nirvana when she sinks her teeth deeper into his flesh, unmarked and unclaimed until now. He'll have the perfect impression of her teeth embedded in his skin, and thought alone makes that gnarled spool inside of him loosen. 

Joel is taken by surprise when she cums—voice a shaky, shrill howl of his name, and the sound of it, the blood that stains his beard when she turns, baring her teeth and pressing them flat to his jaw, makes him grunt. It's raw. An oozing wound.

She flutters around him like the beat that echoes through his bones, and feels a hunger inside of him grow. 

The uncoiled knot inside of him rears, once dormant and dead to the world, now gnashing its jowls at the hands that prodded it from its slumber. Rapacious. A black hole when it yawns. 

The town knows she's his. Has since she sidled up to him, all soft smiles and viper eyes, and asked him to dance, for a drink, and what's a handsome man like you doing in a place like this? Got anyone I should worry about, Joel? Wanna dance? Wanna fuck—

And they know, now, that he's hers when he carries her in his arms, and knocked his forearm into the necks of anyone who tried to pry her from his clutch. 

They know. They know, but it's not enough. 

He wants to mark her, stain her. Leave her with the permanent smear of him on her pretty skin. 

Fuck—

This wasn't supposed to happen, but the keen awareness comes much too late. 

He fucks the frustration into the tight clutch of her willing, forgiving, body, and tries not to come apart at the seams when she mewls his name like he's just as much of a burden to her as she is to him. Bankrupt. Bereft of the walls and the rationale that kept him lightyears away from everyone else around him (until Ellie, the hospital—this place that reeks of stagnancy and burrowed into his marrow), he crumbles in her hold once more. 

His release hits him like a sucker punch to his gut, and the force of it makes him ache.

He doesn't pull out like he always, always, does despite the contraceptive she has, and spilling inside of her spasming cunt feels too much like heaven for him not to come apart at the seams. For him not to shatter into pieces when she pulls him closer, and murmurs, that's it, Joel. That's it—cum for me. Just let go, I got you—

And for the first time in a long time, he does.

It's an awkward assemblage of limbs that don't fit together, bodies that are too incompatible, but he tugs her down onto the mattress beside him, and makes it work. She rests the flat of her palm over his sweat-slicked chest, nails raking through the dusted grey smatter of hair on his chest. The inside of her thigh is wet with him, with her, them, when she slides it over his hip. 

Her head rests on soft tissue where his arm and shoulder meet, ear nestled into his armpit. His arm around her back, fingers resting on the curve of her elbow. It's then, when he finds his thumb brushing small circles into her dewy skin, that he realises what this is. 

Cuddling, he thinks, a touch derisively, in the apocalypse.

It was never a burning release, the aftermath of that intoxicating chemical bath of endorphins, oxytocin, and then a quick until next time. 

Being trade partners for most of the scheduled shifts—his brutality, and her knowledge of survival made them a perfect match outside of this clumsy moment of intimacy—meant that she often stayed for a few hours afterwards discussing plans, and who to barter with next or the places they haven't yet scavenged. Lying naked beside each other, shoulders sometimes brushing as they spoke—that was the extent of their post-sex ritual. 

This, he knows, is new. Different. 

It has the same cadence as last night when his massive hand swallowed her wrist in his palm, and he said, just sleep here, but it's a syncopation. Lighter, somehow, than the gruff way he demanded her company, the brutal divot between his brow. 

She moves, slow and languid, and for a moment he thinks about letting her leave. Repairing the chasm that crumbled between them into heaps of broken ruination and anguish, her hand brushes his when she pulls away, and he knows he won't. 

For such a massive presence, she's surprisingly small in his grasp. The bump of her wrist bone fits snug against the broken, swollen knuckle of his middle finger when he folds his hand around hers. 

The hitch in her breath, the rapid flutter of her pulse beating against his too rough, too worn palm are the only measure of her hesitation, her confusion. 

They're not themselves in this moment. 

The moor around him collapses. A sinkhole forms. 

He clings to her and drags her under with him.

The words won't form on his lips. His throat is bereft of what he feels in his marrow, unable to utter them aloud, to make them real. As if speaking his burgeoning desires is somehow worse than a death sentence. 

Wanting in this world is dangerous, and ruinous, but when Joel sees the dawning realisation buoying to the surface in those unfathomable black holes, he knows there's nothing more worrisome, more deadly, to him than her insatiable appetite. Her desire for more. 

More—

And just him. 

Something in her gaze splinters. Cracks. Her shoulder slump in something that tastes of the same defeat that taints the pinch in his brow. 

"You are getting softer, Joel Miller," she takes a stab at a joke but her hands shake too much for it to land properly. "Who'd have thought all it would take is old age and mortality—"

"Shut up," he grumbles, and fights the thrum of satisfaction that spumes in his veins when she lays back down beside him. "Didn't hear you complainin' this much five minutes ago."

"Yeah, well—" her hands settle on his chest, fingers carting through the damp, matted hair. "There's a reason I'm always on top, you know. Worried you might throw your back out." 

"You say that like I haven't already." 

Her chin scraps over the soft flesh where his bicep meets the curve of his shoulder, eyes bright in the morning sun that smears rays of ochre across the bridge of her nose.

She's pretty, he thinks, and feels that same gnawing in his guts, that same hunger, when she dips, and presses a kiss to his skin. 

"Poor baby," she coos, brows drawing together in mock sympathy. "I can't believe a little missionary ruined you so badly. Guess I should take better care of the elderly."

"Wasn't the missionary," he huffs. Her skin is soft, tacky, when he runs his fingers over her shoulder. "It was carrying your heavy ass home."

"Did my heavy ass snap your hips, too—"

"Christ," he bites out, but it lacks any heat. "You just never shut up, do you?" 

He hears the click in her throat when she swallows. 

"Guess you'll just have to shut me up, won't you, old—"

He presses his lips to hers, and steals the goading words from her quivering mouth. 

"Call me an old man again, and I'll spank your ass, little girl."

The condescending tone is thick, but where he expects her indignation over the same words spoken to her by everyone else when she said she wanted to go with him on runs—stay here where it's safe, little girl—it instead makes her suck in a sharp breath between her teeth. He feels the vacuum of it against his lips, and blinks up at her. 

"Did you like that—"

"No," she snaps, and drops her head to his chest. "God, Joel, you really know how to ruin a moment."

"Is that what this was? A moment?"

"Yes," she volleys back. "You don't think it was?"

He swallows down the tang of panic that salts his tongue, and presses his lips to her crown instead. 

"Ain't much of one, was it?"

"We'll make a better one," she murmurs, the lilt of a promise heavy in her words. 

When she settles in his fold, cheek laying flat against his chest—hiding her embarrassment he tones with a particular thrum of fondness so sweet it makes his teeth ache—he folds his arm over her shoulder, keeping her tucked into the bracket of his body. 

She's too small for him to ever be a perfect fit. Too hard inside that pretty little head for him to ever wiggle through. Too soft for him not to ruin her completely when he holds her too tight in his hands that overlap in a way that sometimes makes him dizzy, feverish with want, with fear. 

She doesn't click in the same way Tess does—did. 

A silent agreement of unspoken distance. Never ask for more, it hissed because you'll be brutally disappointed. Never hunger because you won't ever be satiated. Don't yearn. Don't want. Don't, don't, don't—

No, she doesn't click. She doesn't fit. Not with him. Not at all. 

(Tess left him whole. 

She devours.)

Consumes. 

Her eyes are black holes, and ever since she looked at him through the fanned ring of her lashes, and said: you won't break me that easily, he's been standing on the edge of her event horizon waiting for that perfect singularity to swallow him whole. 

(He thought her pull would happen quickly. Instantaneous. 

But she's been ripping him apart the entire time; morsel after morsel until all that remains is raw nerve. Scraps.)

A slow descent into comfort, kinship. 

She's on the same plane of existence as Tommy, Ellie. Maria, too, he supposes, a touch begrudgingly. His circle widens, expands. The bubble encompassing her, too, and he knows that he'd mourn her in the same hushed breath as the rest. 

I'll outlive you, old man. 

(He's never wanted something more in his life right now than for those words to come to fruition.)

For the first time since the walls reared, since the gunshot that still echoes in his ears like a reminder of his sins, his failures, Joel thinks of tomorrow. And the one after that. And after that. 

He thinks of her, and them, this, in the afternoon. Over old stew. Tommy's laughter. Maria's knowing glances. Ellie's anger. Her scorn. Distrust. 

Wasting the night away in the bar that's always several octaves too loud not to make him tense, antsy. Watching her dance around the room, ballerina nimble with a sprinter's pace. Listen to her joke and laugh with the men who look at her a touch too long, and a shade too intense, and—

Bringing her home after. Back here in this small house where he rots. Where he plays his guitar as if the chords of Hurt would ever be enough to drown out the bullets and the bloodshed. The clicks, the groans. The scent of moss, and fungus. 

Taking her to bed in the sheets that hasn't stopped smelling like her since he fucked her three times over Christmas until she sobbed into his pillow, and begged him for respite. When she brushed the grey hair from his temple with fingers that wouldn't stop trembling despite the ease in her grin, and the polynya in her eyes as she regarded him with more than just desire. More than just sex and sweat and the comfort that comes with losing yourself to the chemical high of another body tucked into the crevasse of your own. 

She doesn't fit. She doesn't belong. 

But fuck—

He knows he's gone when he can't imagine her anywhere else. 

"Sure," he says, and wonders when she let herself into his life, into the gnarled remanants of his chest. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

(He only dreams in black and white, but when he closes his eyes and dreams of her, it's in a startling palette of browns, reds, and blues.)

[ultram0th]

31 Days of Derek Hale

Day 05: Cursed Tape

Info │ 01 │ 02 │ 03 │ 04 │ 05

“Der!” Stiles voice rang out, dripping with jubilation. “Come see what I just scored!”

Derek grunted as he got out of his chair, feeling tired from his long day at the auto shop. Still, he shuffled down the hall, clad in only his white tank top and sweatpants, freezing when he saw Stiles beaming ear to ear and holding a large cardboard box.

Before he could even ask, Stiles rushed out, “I got a mystery box at the thrift store! Can you believe it?! How cool is that?”

“Mystery box?” Derek grunted, crossing his arms in front of himself as he cocked his eyebrow. “And how much did that cost?”

Stiles shrugged as he carried the box to the living room. “…um, about eighty dollars, give or take…”

Derek’s eyes widened and his jaw clenched.

Stiles obliviously set the large box down onto the floor before eagerly tearing into it, his large eyes alight with wonder over the “treasures” he’d scored for one-hundred thirty dollars. The big box was stuffed full of various items: scraps of fabric, old porcelain figurines, and some VHS tapes.

“We don’t even own a VCR,” Derek grunted, unamused. 

Among the pile that his husband was creating, Derek spotted an odd looking VHS tape. There was a gaudy neon background that looked like it was ripped straight of the 80s, with little captions indicating that it was a workout video of some kind. However, the weird part was that there was a blank outline of a person on the front instead of some obscure fitness guru. The title of the odd tape read out: Sweatin’ it to the 80’s! Starring _____!

“What the hell?” Derek scoffed as he picked up the tape to examine it some more— the second his fingers grazed the cover of the tape, Derek felt what seemed like a jolt of electricity ripple throughout him.

The werewolf jerked back, confused over what had just happened, yet he quickly realized that he was still holding onto the tape. Derek tried to relax his grip to let go of it, but his hand refused to listen, instead clutching onto the tape with all of its strength.

“Stupid tape…” he grumbled to himself, stopping once he saw something else start to happen.

Steadily, his white tank top began to change hue, turning from bleached white to a neon blue. As the straps thinned out, the collar dropped down low to his midsection, exposing his pecs to look more like a stringer. 

The changes didn’t stop there.

Stunned silent, Derek’s jaw dropped as he witnessed his toned pectorals shudder before pushing out as they gradually inflated. The previously proportional mounds plumped up and rounded, becoming an impressive set of muscletits that jutted off Derek’s chest noticeably. His altered tank did nothing at all to try to conceal them, the enlarged nipples poking out of the sides and demanding attention. His arms packed on more muscle, becoming large and bulging, especially his biceps which rivaled melons. Derek looked down, yet his massive pecs blocked his view of his sweatpants as they tightened against his legs, suctioning to his form to become a skintight pair of spandex that showed off every ridge of his carefully crafted musculature— that was prompt ruined as his legs grew in size, becoming larger. His butt ballooned out as it beefed up and pushed itself outwards. Derek’s eyes widened as he felt a sensation like he was getting harder. When he reached down and patted at his bulge, he almost gasped at the girth package that filled his hands. His cock and balls had inflated to the point where it looked like the larger stud was smuggling a softball in the front of his spandex pants.

When he was done changing, Derek had to have packed on at least fifty pounds of muscle, making him look like some over-the-top workout guru who belonged on the front of those cheesy exercise tapes.

Derek’s face stretched out to form a large grin, despite the panic that he was feeling. The living room shifted and Derek felt as if he were falling, the walls of the room stretching upwards. Derek’s sight rapidly shifted upwards, forcing him to stare straight up at the ceiling. He tried to look away or call out to Stiles for help, but he couldn’t move. All the shocked werewolf could do was smile and show off his hairy muscletits on the cover of Sweatin’ it to the 80’s! Starring Derek Hale!

Blissfully unaware of his husband’s transformation, Stiles finally finished rummaging through the mystery box. “See?” he smiled, standing upright. “There’s tons of cool stuff in here… Derek?”

Stiles looked around for Derek, pausing when his eyes landed on an obscure VHS tape that was on the floor. He walked over and picked it up, his eyebrows rising at the image of a muscled up Derek on the cover, smiling widely. His eyes looked panicked though.

“Derek!” Stiles gasped, clutching the tape close to him. “Don’t worry! I’ll figure something out!” He sprinted out of the house and to his Jeep…

About an hour later, Stiles returned home and set up the VCR in the living room. Once it was connected, he popped the cursed VHS in and pressed Play.

Synthpop blasted over the speakers, and bright neon colors flashed on the screen before a shocked Derek appeared on screen. He was still in his muscled up body, appearing to jog in place.

“Stiles?!” Derek called out on the TV, able to see his husband on the other side. He tried to stop himself from jogging, blushing at how the motion made his inflated pecs bounce up and down. “What the hell happened— Time to get that heart rate up!” His eyes widened at his last statement, having said it was such pep that he sounded like a cheerleader.

Stiles threw his hands up in exasperation.

“How am I supposed to know?” he cried. “How the hell did you get into the TV?”

Derek rolled his eyes as he stopped and started to do lunges. “It’s that damn mystery box of yours!” he accused. “I touched some weird tape and this happened!” He nodded down at his inflated form, wincing as he couldn’t stop working out.

He paused his lunges and started to bounce his pecs up and down.

“And one, and two…” He blushed, but he couldn’t stop the muscled mounds from lifting and slamming back down. Still, he was smiling widely and speaking with immense enthusiasm. “You gotta do lots of reps if you wanna get pecs as big as these!”

Derek couldn’t stop himself from working out and showing off his out of proportion body. The whole time he kept smiling, despite his eyes looking wide and disbelieving.

Stiles, unsure of what to do, figured that perhaps the best course of action was to let the video finish. Plus, he had to admit that Derek looked pretty hot with big, hairy pecs. “Um, maybe… maybe we should just let this play out?” he suggested.

Derek screamed on the inside, but could only place his hands on his hips. “Now that we’re all warmed up,” he beamed, “I’m gonna show y’all some glute blasters!”

[prncssie]

hiiii it's my birthday and I was wondering if I could get a birthday hobie x reader?

hi pumpkin! first off, happy late birthday i hope you had sooooo much fun. so sorry i couldn’t get this to you on your actually birthday. i wanted to, promise! i just had a lot to do but here you go <3 celebrating your birthday w hobie. i’m hoping this makes it through tumblr bc my last drabble about rengoku is not showing up on the dash but it’s on my acc if you’re interested — hoping this is what you wanted | mdni, black fem coded reader, unedited

birthdays came up early in your relationship with hobie, especially considering his came a few months before yours. you found out rather quickly that he’s not a big fan of making the day a holiday.

of course, he’ll smile and plant a sweet a kiss on your two-toned lips when you, eventually, pull a tiny, gift wrapped gift out hidden — somewhere new every time — and set it in his hands. you do it every time, even hen he says he doesn’t want a single thing, and it’s always a relatively cheap gift so he doesn’t make a fuss about it. last year, it was a little necklace set from hot topic, modeled after the coraline movie’s stone and key — only $7.95 and thankfully, on sale.

however, your birthdays are different.

they’re important to you and therefore, important to hobie. he cherishes them, staying away from your affection all day while he prepares his boathouse for your arrival. he’ll get balloons and candles for mood lighting, he’ll go to the grocery store and pocket a box of cake mix and whipped icing, he’ll use the sprinkles from the night before. hobie will even chop up fruit and melt chocolate to dip them in later, following the creamy pasta he’s cooked for dinner just in case you didn’t feel like indulging in something as sweet as cake, that night.

that’s not dessert though. the real dessert comes after cuddling on the couch and soaking in the praises that fall from your lips between kisses until your lips are swollen and sheened with saliva. every year, he takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom, where he forces you to close your eyes upon stepping through the door way. you can’t know where his hiding space is. you’re too curious and would end up investigating it in secret later on.

this year, hobie managed to get you the demonia camel-311’s. how he had gotten him through his unconventional methods is unknown to you but you don’t ask, too busy fawning over the smooth, vegan suede beneath your fingertips.

“oh my god, hobie. what the hell?” you say, seated on the end up his disheveled bed, eyes round in grateful astonishment.

hobie’s has always been . . . clean but not tidy. he knows where everything is and you understand that he has a system. the random stacks of albums littered around the room never bothered you, nor did single wall covered with painted doodles parallel to the bed you sit on.

“you like em’, bug?” he drawls, showcasing his prideful smile full of teeth as he watches you go through the motions to react to his grand gift. “i’m mates with this guy who sells em’. looks like something you’d like.” hobie doesn’t bring up the deal he made to do some manual labor instead of paying such a pretty penny for these shoes.

you head rise and falls in a little nod and you set the shoes on the floor, reaching inside to pull out the brown-gray stuffing paper to keep the molding of the shoes.

this persists for a while, your gushing and prattling over the platform boots, warm and perfect for the winter. it’s all a routine part of the night, something you’ve expected — not because you knew what gift he was going to get you, but because he always gets you material gift before and something a little more after.

the after is what you both know you’re really looking forward to, after all the events that slowly passed throughout the night.

“oh my god, hobie!” it’s the same words from earlier but this time, said so much differently. it’s whiney, airy, and provocative. you can’t help it, the sound forced out of your mouth with each snug smack of hobie’s heavy balls against the brown globes of your ass, part of which glisten with the watery cream of your past two orgasms.

hobie plucks your hand slotted against the soft outlines of his abdominal muscles on his stomach. he grins, strained, and rests your palm against his chubby lips. “you g - got it, pretty.” he mumbled into the warm skin of her hands, words muffled on their way to your ears, not that you’re paying attention anyway. “ ‘s your dick, yeah?”

anything he says just comes across as faint buzzing humming in your head. your legs have begun to shake and twitch, muscles stretched and pushed up to your ears. your cunt is on full display, in its brown and chubby glory, squeezing around the length of hobie’s cock with the intent to milk him dry.

your back has long begun to arch off the soft mattress with a balled hand repeatedly making soft contact with his shoulder. you’re struggling to withstand it, writhing beneath his hold. you’re sure you would have wiggled away and up the bed had he not had you anchored in his grip. you’re struggling but you love it, finding yourself delirious with the lust that comes with being fucked within an inch of your life.

“can’t,” you hiccup, tugging at your hand encapsulated by his. you want to draw it back and push him some more but he won’t let you, overpowering your strength with his own. tears form in the outer corners of your eyes and roll down the sides of your face.

you’re rewarded with a firm smack on the chub on your round butt, leaving a stinging sizzle that has you jolting with a gasp. another wave of waterworks comes forward in your eyes. you want to sob but the ability is ripped away when hobie digs his fingers into your mouth, as many as he can until no more can fit and drool is pooling out the corners.

“you’re, god, lyin’, pet. hate that,” he pauses, pressed entirely into your sopping wet cunt, eyeing you with disdain. his fingers press against your soft tongue, eliciting more drool to pull in your mouth. he tilts his head at the sight of you, twitching and eyes blown out.

he can still feel your pussy pulsing greedily, begging for more, and he chuckles, pulling his slob covered fingers out your mouth and taking ahold of your thighs again. “you always say that but you didn’t use your safe word so i know you’re lyin’.”

you sort of just warble, feet dangling in the air. your toes, painted a pretty pink gel polish, curl and straighten with each movement hobie makes, even if it’s just him leaning forward.

“gonna tell me i’m wrong?” hobie’s voice drops into a whisper. he’s close enough for his lips to skim across your cheek, breath warming the surface of your skin.

he’s pleased to see a small shake of your head. “no,” you’re telling him wordlessly, round eyes staring right into his more slanted ones. you’re lucky he’s considered being sweeter on such a day of celebration.

“no? then you’re gonna quit your whinnin’, right?” his hand comes to plant on the round crest of your head, flattening your scalp, frizzy due to the physical activity he’s put you through.

your leg goes to circle around his slim waist, locking his body to yours. “mhm . . . ‘m sorry, ‘bie.” you’re much softer now, more pliant without the constant push and pull inside your sensitive cunt. your circle your hands around his cheeks, brushing your thumb across the smooth, seal brown skin across his face.

the corners of his mouths lift; he finalizes your gentleness with a sloppy kiss on your mouth, wrapping his tongue around yours and sucking it into his mouth. there is stringy saliva connecting the two of you. his hand atop your head serves its purpose when hobie finally begins to move again, thrusting deep in your cunt. it keeps you right where he wants you despite your wriggling.

his other hand supports his weight, jumbling the sheets between his fingers. his head falls onto the bed beside yours and you have a front row seat to the groans and pants he exudes, lost in your body.

every year when your birthday comes around, hobie picks you up, bring you to his house, and showers you in love and affection throughout the night. he makes dinner, lights your birthday candles, and watches any movies of your choice.

every year, he surprises you with a gift he had planned for months and pulls it from his super secret hiding spot. he soaks in your flattery with a grin until you’re done and putting the new gift to use.

and every year, you both wrestle in the sheets, naked bodies connected at the most intimate parts as the air grows thick and heavy with lust. he kisses you through your whines and cries, forcing blinding white orgasms out your body until you’re exhausted and tapping out.

[saigawrites]

Rescue ranger on their way!

Seelie! Genshin characters x Platonic! Gn! Reader

Tags : fluff, crack, scenarios. | part 2 part 3

Warnings : mentions of crying, cursing

Summary : Genshin characters get isekaed into our world, but as seelies. Waking up in an shady alley, they were lucky enough to find you, or you to find them.

They genuinely didn't know how have the events turned out like this. Currently, they were in as they assumed, a seelie form, and in a whole other universe. They got that just from opening their eyes. Everything was so extremely detailed, exaggeratedly textured and completely unfamiliar to them. They tried to take out their weapons to protect themselves from any possible threat, but found out that they got rid of their hands. Arms and legs and other body parts in general. All that was left from them was their mind, their conciousness, as they were trapped in a fluid blob body, more similar to a circle. Fear have awakened in their instincts, and they worriedly and carefully levitated around, studying the environment.

They stumbled upon you :

Panic took over their body the instant they opened their eyelids. Not even having the time to process the situation, the instantly flew from their spot, bumping into some random things first, then finally getting their sense of balance after some painful hits. They wanted to escape whatever area they were in fast, flowing through long alley between buildings to the street lit up by the night lights. But, as they were about to be free, you were about to pass by and took a direct hit by a surprisingly strong aura blob. That happened to be the last hit they could take, as they blackened out and fell into your bag.

Kaveh, Mika, Itto, Yoimiya, Amber, Chongyun, Bennet, Barbara.

You stumbled upon them :

They froze in their spot from confusion, as their mind couldn't process any information given to them in the period of them opening their eyes and adjusting their view. Their body refused to move, as all they could think was "What". While their mind was somewhere in space, travelling with stars and meteors, you noticed a brightly colored orb casually sitting on an alley floor. You thought the whole image in front of you was questionable, but your body seemingly moved on it's own, getting dangerously close to the unknown object. Kneeling down to it's level, you with massive second thoughts muttered "what a strange thing" and proceded to pick up the blob and put it inside your bag.

Thoma, Dehya, Al-haitam, Tignari, Shenhe, Kokomi, Ayaka, Rosaria, Mona, Diluc, Xiangling, Xingqui.

They snuggled inside a box in fear and you heard their cries :

Fear and horror overtook their body, as they trembled underneath the unfriendly landscape. The fact that they were now smaller, and couldn't protect themselves didn't help either. Their non-existent heart seemed to race as they looked around, and saw a small entrance into some tight space. Finding no other good shelter, they hesitantly entered the carbon box and snuggled themselves in the corner. They can't help but let out quiet cries, as their squeaks had an irregular tone. You, taking a walk late at night heard the cries of something small in the distance, and rushed over to help whatever creature was in trouble. Though, you didn't expect to see a pretty colored circle with ears, stuffed inside a box and shaking violently. Flashing them a warm smile, you carefully reached out your hand, seeing if the sentient balloon would response. Them, seeing your kind gesture, instinctively bolted from their shelter into you arms, nuzzling deep into your hoodie. You couldn't help but yelp a little, but then gaining your composure, you gently put them in your bag and headed home.

Wanderer, Ganyu, Fischl, Sucrose.

They explored around with cautiousness :

They are not usually the ones to give panic or fear control of their body. They reacted calmly to the situation, trying their best not to worry too much. Afterall, they are still strong, even if they don't have their weapons, and have turned into a seelie, right? Silently floating around the area and carefully studying the objects, they tried to locate where they were and what to do from now on. Peeking out slightly into the street from one of the buildings walls, they met your gaze and quickly backed away. Nervously searching for a hiding spot, they were met with the grasp of your hands, holding them firmly as they felt fear in their gut. But, seeing as you gently turned them to face you, attentively examining their features and form, and then smiling at them and saying "What on earth are you?" They couldn't help but feel safeness for the first time in this day. Maybe, just maybe, you are actually not bad.

Wanderer, Shinobu, Yunjin, Gorou, Raiden, Kujou Sara, Aether, Lumine, Eola, Yanfei, Xiao, Xinyan, Keqing, Jean, Razor, Noelle, Kayea, Beidou, Cyno.

They explored around with amusement :

They are fearless bastards, barely having anything threatening in their own world, they think they can fly around safely in a whole another planet. They spectate their surroundings with amazement or amusement, as they find the scenery interesting. They probably have already thought about this kind of thing, floating careless as a seelie, without a worry in mind. First they were only met with walls and trash that seemed gigantic to them, until you caught their perepherrial vision. They rushed towards your direction, sneakily burying themselves in the bag you were holding. You, dense and unknowing you, didn't even notice their genius plan and intentions, as you strolled back home from the store with noise-canceling earphones.

Baizhu, Zhongli, Heizou, Yelan, Ayato, Yae miko, Kazuha, Hu Tao, Albedo, Childe, Venti, Ninguang, Lisa.

Ahhhh is this long? Idk. But, this is my apology for the short-ass continuation of the previous fic😁. Wanderer has two tropes because I couldn't decide which one suited him the most🤔.