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heazueken · 3 days

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Can I believe You? - Part 1

*ೃ༄ summary: Nanami leaves behind the Jujutsu world fresh out of high school and reader resents him fir abandoning not only you but Haibara too. warning(s): body horror, violence, graphic violence, major character death, angst...lots of angst, mdni pairing(s): nanami kento/reader wc; 4.1k a/n: got the courage to post this hear too but you can find this on my ao3 too! there is a lot of angst in this...just a warning

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“Did I ever tell you that you’re my type, Y/N?” Haibara says your name cheerfully when you set your lunch tray down on the table. A laugh escapes you, finding joy in how brash and unapologetically blunt Haibara was. It was one of the many things you had admired about him.

“And why is that, Haibara?” Geto, Gojo, and Shoko side eyed you two, their ears perking to listen in on the conversation. A blush washes over you, the attention being all on you now and you nervously poke and prod at the food in front of you. Nanami pays no mind, Shoko had decided that he better spend his time massaging her shoulder than listen to you and Haibara blabber on.

“Because, you eat well, you’re strong and you’re super pretty!” You laugh, so innocent, so plain. Haibara felt like such a normal person that he seemed to stick out like a sore thumb as a classmate learning jujutsu. You admired him for his stubbornness to prove people wrong and always study hard, put his own life before your own.

“Well then, if I’m your type, how come you haven’t asked me out on a date?” He smiles and lets you eat a little more before he answers, folding his arms over the cafeteria table.

“I don’t ask out girls who aren’t interested in me back.”

“How do you know I’m not interested in you?”

You watch his eyes flicker to the side at Nanami, then back at you. A silent discussion between the two of you occurs and your cheeks flush in realization. You curse at Haibara has he immediately falls into a fit of giggles, you throw your rice at him, Gojo hears the commotion and helps you empty your plate on him while Shoko laughs, Geto sits there quietly watching and Nanami is scolding the two of you to stop.

“Geto hasn’t been looking so good,” Haibara mentions to you and Nanami. He’s sitting on the stairs in the school hallway and lays his head in his head, sighing.

“I tried to cheer him up, I’m not sure it worked, though.”

You put a comforting hand on Haibara’s arm, rubbing your thumb over his uniform.

“You tried. That’s the best anyone can do. I’m sure you helped a little.” Haibara gave you a weak, genuine smile and you knew you gave him a little comfort in that moment.

You heard about what happened from Nanami. The mission going terribly wrong, the Star Plasma Vessel - who you learned to be a girl Rika - dead. Assassinated by a man who had threatened their lives, left the both of them on the verge of death, thankfully Gojo was able to use his reverse cursed technique. Geto was left with the sight of watching Rika die right in front of him, pool of blood forming beneath the girl after Geto had offered to take her back home, offered to let her live the life she had deserved. Of course the trauma of that would send anyone into a spiral, you knew of that, and yet, it seemed like no one else could understand why he had been in such a funk. You remember Gojo taking you aside to talk about it, mentioning that he had asked him if anything was wrong, that he looked thin and wasn’t eating.

“And he…it’s like he forced himself to look at me and I could see that fake smile when he told me he was fine. That it’s the fatigue the heat brings him,” He shrugs his shoulders passively.

“Why didn’t you push him to tell you more?” You demand, trying to meet eyes with Gojo but with the sunglasses it was impossible. You couldn’t see the look in them but you saw his eyebrows slowly come together, creasing the skin.

“Because, I want to believe that he’s actually okay. I want to believe that he’s telling me the truth.”

You and Gojo both know he wasn’t.

“Satoru, he told you what had happened. How could anyone walk away from that without having felt some guilt?”

Gojo didn’t look at you, ashamed, he knew you were telling the truth but he had refused to see it.

“Because we’re the strongest.” He said simply. You couldn’t argue with him.

You saw Geto when you were heading back to your room. He looked sluggish, his feet dragged behind him and his head hung low.

“Suguru,” you said quietly, softly stepping towards him. He raised his head then and you saw what Gojo had described. His lips curled into a smile that did not look like the one you knew so well. This was not the Geto you had befriended so early in the school year. This was someone playing a part, someone who was hiding something, hiding a deep pain that he was keeping from the rest of his classmates. His eyes looked glassy, like he wasn’t even looking at you truly.

“Y/N,” he responds gently. “What’s up?”

Words fell silent against your tongue and you couldn’t seem to form what you wanted to say.

“I….what happened?”

He shrugged. There was a long silence between the both of you.

“One moment I'm standing there with her and the next she’s a bloody heap at my feet.”

The smile still remained on his face and your blood ran cold. The mission had failed. You already knew that but it had explained why you had heard about the Start Religious Group celebrating the death of the vessel. You could not come up with anything to say, you stared at Geto and your hands raised to cover your mouth in shock.

“Suguru-“

“I’ll be fine, Y/N,” he began walking again, the sound of his feet dragging on the floorboards was the only thing that could be heard down the long hallway. You watched him until he disappeared into his dorm before you could finally find the words. Not that they would have given him any comfort anyway.

I’m sorry.

You hadn’t want to use your technique, not when you knew it would harm Haibara and Nanami. But when you saw the curse thrash Nanami into a building did you feel the smoke ooze out of your palms in a desperation that hindered you still. Your eyes widened and your fist clamped around the naginata staff, your eyes caught where Nanami’s body slumped, his weapon laid next to him as you saw blood trickle from his mouth. A rage increased inside you and you readied your weapon, feeling the poisonous vapor enshroud the weapon before you. You had to use it now.

Before you could leap and attack you saw Haibara. Only a flash of him when he ran to Nanami’s side. He lifted him, shaking him and though you couldn’t hear, you could see him frantically yelling for him to wake up. Haibara had one eye shut, blood pooled from his head and over it, his hands were covered in his own blood and you watched him smear it across Nanami’s face as he desperately shook him to consciousness.

The curse roared, its tentacles reached and flashed across the area towards you, but you were quicker. Your blade sliced the tentacle off and the smoke secreting from the weapon soaked itself into the skin of the curse and it quickly began to bubble. The skin grew blisters, they turned plump and pink and the curse took a moment to stare at its large stump before screeching in pain when the blisters burst, puss oozed and more vapor poured out of them. The monster began thrashing, the remaining tentacles swung and destroyed the buildings around it. It screamed obscenities and you rushed forward, slicing another limb off. Your feet were quick, running along another one, letting your blade glide across its green skin and let more spores awake in its path. You glance just for a second to see Nanami finally getting up, pushing Haibara away in an attempt to run and help you fight. You kept the curse further away because your technique was considered a curse, even if humans came into contact with it it would cover their bodies in horrible blisters and eat away at you from the inside. You had learned to channel it through your weapons to make the smoke more precise and less dangerous. But you had to release a puff of the poisonous smoke from your hand to keep the away from your friends.

Nanami screams your name, this monster wasn’t a grade 2 like they thought.

It grabbed you with one of its untouched tentacles, throwing you down to the ground. Your weapon falls from your grasp and before you can register what had happened you hear a sound of bones breaking, skin squelching and what sounded like someone releasing a pail of water across the floor. It was blood.

Haibara stands in front of you. You look up at him, his back to you and you see it. The curse had stabbed right through his body, the limb poking out of his back. Your mouth opens into a silent scream and you can only watch as he vomits blood and more blood and more until his body immediately goes limp.

You don’t remember much. The world seemed to be spinning. You were pulled aside by someone, people in suits and sorcerers more powerful than you finally arrived and you watched them massacre the curse. Your eyes trail to where Haibara had been left lying there, forgotten in the heat of the fight. A flame ignited in you and you fought against the strong arms of what you assumed was another sorcerer holding you back.

“Let me go, let me go!” You screamed. “Haibara! We have to-“

“We can’t! Not yet!” The sorcerer responded, grip becoming tighter on you.

“Get the fuck off me!” Your voice strained. “We have to save him! Let me fucking go!” You thrashed, kicking dirt up with your feet in an effort to get to Haibara. You felt defeated when you couldn’t even wiggle one arm from the person's grasp.

You saw people with medical masks and long white coats run to his body, placing him on a stretcher and frantically talking to one another as they ran to the vehicle waiting for them. You see Shoko, scrambling outside the car, her face also covered with a mask. She turns to you, catching your gaze and you hold onto it, your eyes begging for some answer.

Will he be okay?

She shook her head.

You don’t remember how or when you had calmed down but the next moment you were in a car with Nanami beside you. You look over to him and he was staring blankly, blood, Haibara’s blood now dried on his face. He wouldn’t look at you - couldn't look at you.

Everything felt numb.

“That was a first grade case.” The severity of the situation hit you like a damn train in that moment. Your vision became blurry and uneven, your hands grappled to the handlebars of where he lay and the tears dripped onto the shroud. There were dark tear stains riddled across the blue of the fabric and the moment Geto finally, finally pulled it over to cover Haibara’s pale, bloodied face did you crouch and sob with all your might. The tears streamed down your face, falling to your knees and letting your hair trap around your face like blinders, your ears thumped with blood rushing loudly. A sinking feeling fell inside your stomach as you struggled to breathe but more sobs broke out instead. Your stomach began to turn, the world becoming quiet and muffled around you and you didn’t notice Nanami crouching next to you, not until you felt his hand on your shoulder.

Don’t comfort me. What’s done is done. Your comfort can’t bring him back. Don’t comfort me. I don’t deserve it.

The tears dried your throat and you began to retch, they were empty gags but the tears refused to stop even when your body begged for them to. You couldn’t shy away from Nanami’s touch and the way his palm tried to soothe over your back. Your crying didn’t subside until you had passed out.

Haibara was dead and it was your fault.

“Y/N,” Nanami said softly. “It’s okay.” He’s crying too but you don’t see it, can’t hear him when you’re unconscious on the floor.

Everything is black. You’re in a void and all you can see is Haibara's broken, bloodied body on the ground. Several of them littered around your feet, you look around and it’s endless, the bodies, the blood soaking into his uniform and pooling around your feet. Your stomach churns at the sight before you, watching the blood go up and up, rising over the toes of your shoes. You try to scream, but no sound comes out. All you can smell is blood and all you can see his Haibara. Tears stream down your face.

I’m sorry! I’m sorry!

You feel a set of hands on your shoulders, gripping you. You blink your eyes open and the bodies are gone. Except one. Haibara’s standing in front of you, grasping you so tight you think he’ll shatter the bones in your shoulders.

“Y/N,” he doesn’t look right. His face is contorted, blood is pooling out of his mouth and onto the ground. His eye is an empty socket with a cascade of blood running down the expanse of his cheek.

“Why didn’t you save me?” He asks with an eerie frown. You gasp and find your voice.

“They wouldn’t let me get to you! I tried to-“

“You weren’t strong enough. I died because you failed.” He would never say these things. Never. And yet it felt like that truth. Still, you shook your head.

“I did my best! It was a grade 1 curse! I tried to save you! I tried to save Nanami! You-“

“You failed,” He said, every word he spoke blood only poured out, staining his teeth red. “You weren’t strong enough.”

Haibara was dead and it was because you weren’t strong enough to save him.

You awoke in your bed with a gasp, sitting up immediately. Tears stained your cheeks already when the memories came flooding back to you.

“Y/N!” It was Nanami. He had been sitting down beside your bed, you guessed he had fallen asleep judging by the small rim of red around his eyes. Or maybe he had been crying just as much as you have. He reached for you, his hand grabbing yours and the other one going around your shoulder to support you. The room began to spin and little black stars riddled around your field of vision as your head thumped like a drum.

“Careful, you sprained a few ribs.” He gently said. You looked at Nanami, his face has a look of concern, your heart warmed at the realization that he had stuck by next to you for however long you were unconscious.

“H-how long was I out?”

Nanami pulled away, letting you lean back against your beds headboard.

“Couple of hours at least. You were talking in your sleep.”

The dream came flooding back to you and you held Nanami’s gaze for a beat, wondering what to say. What had you said?

“I’m sorry…” You leaned back, the ache of your bruised body finally making itself known. “What…what do we do now?” Your hand rubs gently over the bruises riddled over your ribs.

Nanami sat with the question for a bit. Sitting back in the chair beside you and rubbing his fingertips across the wrapped cloth on his arm, blood starting to creep its way to the surface. He’ll have to change his bandages soon.

“We recover and go back to work.”

Your stomach sank, something felt different. The vessel incident, now Haibara…everything seemed to be too much. Like their entire world was crashing down with them.

You’re weak. That’s why. More people are going to die because of your lack of skill. Blood is on your hands because you weren’t strong enough to protect Haibara.

“Hey,” Nanami said, putting his good hand on your shoulder. You blinked at him, taken out of your egregious stupor. Your eyes met with his brown ones and your heart beat a little faster.

“It’ll be…alright. I think. As long as we have each other, right?”

You always had Nanami and Haibara at your side. Now with him gone your only option was to support Nanami and he support you. You two needed each other now. It was the right thing to do. You nod.

You would become stronger for Haibara.

It got easier, as time went on. Nanami had stayed by your side and you stayed by his as the two of you recovered. 2 months flew by and you two were sitting in your dorm together, still bandaged up but you both were able to eat more. You looked down at your rice, sifting your chopsticks through it.

“I miss him.” You say. Nanami doesn’t need to ask who you’re speaking about and he pushes his hair to the side to get a good look at you.

“Me too.” He reaches over, he smiles, it’s sad and it carries a silent apology with it. He squeezes your wrist in comfort.

“He wouldn’t want us to be sad. He’d want you well fed and healed. Now eat.” You brought the rice to your mouth, eyes still skimming across Nanami’s face as he elegantly finished his food. You noticed he’d grown more, was starting to look more like a man. In just 2 months his jaw had seemed more sharp, his shoulders bigger, hands larger and warm when they touched your healing skin. His hair had also grown…longer.

“When are you going to cut that hair off, hm?”

He turned to you. “What? Is it an eyesore?”

You wrinkle your nose, “Yes, and it’s lame. You look like - what do they call it? A scene kid.” He rolls his eyes as you giggle.

“Finish your damn food already.”

You always had a crush on him. Even now, when he smiled at you - which you rarely saw him do - did the butterflies release inside you, a laugh released from you and there was a sharp pain in your side - sending you into a coughing fit, you groaned because damn, those bruised ribs fucking hurt. Nanami patted your back, trying to comfort you but it only caused more pain to ache throughout your body. You shove him away, a fit of giggles and coughing and groaning filling the room and you think for a moment how much you had admired Nanami for sticking by you throughout all of this. He had suffered a great loss, too.

Nanami Kento was the strongest man you had known.

Nanami Kento was a coward.

You hadn’t suspected a thing. Although, he had been starting to keep to himself a lot more as the years passed. It wasn’t particularly out of character for him so of course you were ignorant to the plans he had been setting up ever since Haibara died. Freshly graduated, pride still riddled across your face as you strutted through the halls, chest pumped up and high on the fact that you were Number 1 on the honor roll list. You wanted to share the happiness with your best friend, perhaps get some drinks with him. The thought of it makes your face go hot. You open the shoji door to one of the classrooms that Nanami frequented with you, a smile big and bright on your face.

“Nanami, I-“

Nanami was not there. In his place was Gojo Satoru, leaning against one of the student desks. He adorned his iconic sunglasses, laying further down on the bridge of his nose so you could see a glimpse of his pure sapphire blue eyes. Your smile quickly fades and your shoulders lower. A stone sinks inside your stomach.

“Gojo, what-“

“He left.”

You immediately ask, “Who?” The air became suffocating when Gojo pushed himself off the desk and walked closer to you. His footsteps echo across the room and he looks at you with an empathetic look and you know his answer. It feels as though a curse has wrapped its spindly fingers around your throat when Gojo finally answers.

“Nanami. He left this morning. Told Yaga that he was leaving jujutsu high.”

No. No, that’s not right. That can’t be right. The feeling on your throat felt tighter, pins and needles pinched the inside of your esophagus and your eyes began to burn, tears threatening to resurface. What used to be such a drafty, cold room began hot, too hot. There was no storm and yet you heard thunder and lightning, it felt like the walls around you were crumbling down. A tear threatened at your waterline and you blinked, letting it fall down your cheek. Your stomach squeezed and it made you stumble slightly.

“Y/N-,” Gojo grabbed your shoulders, supporting you against his side.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” You couldn’t focus on the sound of his voice, only mumbling to him so he’d know you at least still acknowledged he was there. He had an arm around your shoulder and grabbed onto your wrist with his other hand, holding you steady to guide you to one of the desks. You slumped onto the seat, your mind running through all the things Nanami had said to you. Promising that he’d stay by your side. That you would stay by his. Your throat began to burn again. Your hand tightened into a fist.

No, you could not. Not in front of Gojo. Not even in front of yourself could you cry anymore. It didn’t do anything - only caused a headache, made you feel sick to your stomach, had you on the floor heaving and gasping, hoping for it to end. It only showed the weakness you had shown when you had seen Haibara dead beneath the shroud. Gaining control of your emotions, releasing them through weapons, training your body until you were throwing up and your muscles ached was the only way you knew how to express the feelings that you held close to yourself. You had to get ahold of yourself. You slammed your fist on the desk in front of you and Gojo cocked his head in curiosity.

“Where did he go?” You finally ask, hiding your face in the palm of your hand. Gojo was silent for a moment, you glanced at him. He had pushed his glasses all the way up the bridge of his nose so you could not meet his eyes. You could tell by the way he shuffled on his feet and his hands slid into his pockets that he was almost anxious to answer you.

“He, uh, went into business, I guess? Salaryman.”

A salaryman. Pathetic. Rather than protect people from curses and carry on Haibara’s legacy he decided to leave that behind to pursue a life of money and long hours in a stuffy cubicle. Standing around with other men in suits who only spoke of politics and how much wealth they had. He’d rather dedicate his life to a big company. Just like that, he ran off like a fucking coward. The sadness that had settled inside you boiled into a fiery anger, your hands clenching and immediately getting up. The chairs legs scrapped across the floor in a loud and screeching sound and you pushed it back into place with a force that was so great you were almost worried you’d break the wood beneath your grip.

“Y/N, I’m sorry about him. I tried to tell him that you would appreciate to be told but he didn’t want to.”

“Didn’t want to?” Your anger burned your skin, “He didn’t want to tell me that he was abandoning the school, abandoning the people out in the world that need saving.” You took a deep breath, “Abandoning me?” Abandoning Haibara.

He was running away like a coward. Hatred seeped into your anger and spread like the disease ridden smoke that oozed from your weapons. Gojo didn’t say a word because there was nothing else to say, so of course he stood there with his mouth a straight line, shoulders still and hands at his side now.

“Goodbye, Satoru. Thank you for telling me.” You couldn’t direct your anger at Gojo, he didn’t deserve it. You needed the training room, you needed to feel the weight of your weapon under your grasp and the blisters that awakened from the strain of the wood staff, to feel sweat trickle down your forehead and the satisfying ache of your muscles.

Nanami had been the strongest, sweetest man you had known and he had turned into a coward. Perhaps you and Haibara never mattered to him. You hoped to never see him again for the heartbreak would be too great.

#jjk #pepper writes #nanami kento #jjk nanami #jujustu kaisen #nanami x reader #nanami fanfic #i hope you guys like this ooffffff

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squea · 2 months

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corns first vacation, first break-in, first kiss, first hangover. also he needs 12 friends and we are currently on... 4... (he fell out with Berrie)

also he came across @minimooberry 's drega in willow creek and of course he was smitten. but then she didnt turn up for their date the next day so other things happened there.

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#u know that spongebob bit with the water thats like. i dont need it. i dont need it. thats corn in the 4th pic with drega #hes a weak man in a world of pretty people #ts4 #the sims 4 #ts4 gameplay #corn gp #cornelius kidney #corn: friend of the world #corn: public enemy #berrie by buttertrait #drega by minimooberry

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candied-cae · 7 months

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Real talk y’all?

They musta put something extra special in his water this season because - lord have mercy - he is GLOWING and I am ON MY KNEES. I keep coming back to this one just to look at him. Look at him, y'all. LOOK AT HIM!

HE'S SO FUCKING GORGEOUS I'M GOING TO DIE!

JUST ONE CHANCE- JUST ONE CHANCE IS ALL I ASK-

#Cae Has Lots of Feelings About Our Flag Means Death #The prettiest man in the world #I'm obsessed with him #As I should be #Look at the material #Zoom in on all the flaws he doesn't have #Take it all in #Because holy shit #It astounds me every damn time #He's simply the cutest patootie on the big blue sea #and I am weak for it #This cast is way too attractive for queer people #and they're starring in the queer show!#They got hot men and hot women and hot enbies and we're just supposed to survive?#No. They pulled us in with the good ass show and got us by surprise #I'm spending hours watching and rewatching this goddamn show full of pretty people I can't kiss and it's painful but so sweet I keep coming #Our Flag Means Death #OFMD #Oluwande #Oluwande Boodhari #Yes. he served last season too. But… damn it’s a different ball game this year <3

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eternityofend · 1 month

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BOOTHILL HEADCANONS

> Reminder that this is not canon/accurate to his personality

+ contains nsfw (Is labeled)

( Art credit: @ Luvmybabygirl0 )

SFW

I'd like to imagine, that this man just does a hair flip every time he's offended at what you said.

Ex.

"My Love, I know you're jealous but it's just a cat.."

Boothill looks at you for five solid seconds, and then hair flips to let you know he's really offended. "Tell the cat to move then, that's my place."

Does not skip leg day, would probably kabedon you using his LEG or if he does work out he'd probably want to use you as weight, like letting you sit on him while he does push-ups.

Loves going on little trips with you using horses, if you don't have your own horse he'd definitely let you ride his horse but you're in front of him.

Bonus points if you're shorter than him cause he'd put his chin on top of your head while his hands go around your waist to grab the rein.

Would flex to everyone about you, like- he's in a fight with someone? "You weak cutie(bitch), my lover hits harder than you."

Would call you petnames like "Sugar", "Honey", "Darling" , "Babe/Baby" , "Sweetheart" , "Love" , "Love bug" , "Sunshine" , "Pretty (boy/girl/thing)"

Listens to Lady Gaga, I'm sure of this, he would so rock it out on the dance floor and get you to dance with him.

Has eaten a bullet in front of you and was incredibly confused at your reaction that was just like 😰, until you tell him that you were surprised he ate a bullet he'd just be like 🤨 but if you did tell him straight away, he'd cackle at you.

Sometimes forgets he was originally a human so he does the craziest things knowing he can get fixed up anyway (he once jumped off a 13 foot building to chase after an enemy)

Loves to cuddle you, he wants to feel your warmth while he sleeps or relaxes.

Lets you braid his hair or comb it if you want to, once he gets used to you combing or braiding his hair he'd just walk up to you at random times with a brush in hand and let you do what you want with his hair.

Really reckless and causes a lot of trouble sometimes but there are days where he's really calm and all he wants to do is spend time with you, like he just acts like a cute little kitten who just woke up when he's calm.

If JoJo existed in their world, he would be a big fan of it.

Would let you name his gun or horse, does not complain at all even if you name it "princess twilight sparkle cookie crumble" he'd just laugh, completely accepting the name.

Even says the name during fights, he'd say "Your time's out, time to die by my princess twilight sparkle cookie crumble." 😭😭

Looks at his reflection in the mirror a lot while practicing poses, even getting you to watch from the bed or couch while showing you a new pose he likes.

Kisses you a lot, even in public he's really affectionate and touchy, cause no way is he letting other people look at you and think you're single.

You're hot and he knows you're hot so he's trying his best to make everyone know you're already taken.

If someone TRIES to flirt with you in front of him, he's already got you by the waist, against the wall, making out while he flips off the one who tried to flirt with you.

Would let you pick his earrings, always excited when you say you bought a new earring for him.

Looks good in an apron, like, really good. Househusband material frfr.

Plays with your hair a lot, twirling it, and even kissing some strands while he looks at you in the eye.

Easy to get flustered but it always leads to him making you more flustered, he takes everything like a challenge but he does love it every time you sass him back or flirt with him.

Causes a lot of trouble for you and with you, if its for you it's going to be super romantic however it'll some people irritated, but if he's causing trouble with you, its more chaotic and a LOT of people will 100% get pissed.

Cannot sleep without you in his arms, he'll walk over to your room (if you guys aren't sharing one), hair all messy from tossing and turning because you weren't in bed with him. He'll just plop into your bed, it doesn't matter if you're even awake or not he just wants to hold you while he sleeps.

NSFW

Definitely takes off his hat and puts it on you BUT only when he's letting you ride, if you're having normal sex he'd probably just keep it on or let you bite on it while he fucks you from behind.

Probably says something weird during sex which I would love to imagine would just be "Yeehaw" because he can't curse.

Probably into roleplay where you're a criminal and he's a cowboy who successfully hunted you down or the opposite, has a bunch of handcuffs just to use it for roleplay.

I feel like he'd just be the type of person to use sex toys, not dildos though cause he wants to be the only dick inside you, something like collars, leashes, handcuffs, whips, ropes,

He'd be into gags, bondage, dirty talk, lactation, blindfold sex, spit, both praise and degrading kink, spanking, anal, lap-dances, fingering (he'd be conflicted about receiving), oral (receiving and giving), sensory deprivation, and gun play!

If he doesn't have a dick, he'll probably have a bunch of straps, he's good at giving oral but would still prefer fucking you with a dick than fingering or eating you out. (Unless he's the one getting fucked)

I feel like he's a switch but more on the dominant side, he's super open to submission as long as his partner can pleasure him real good.

This man walks around technically naked all the time, so he's got to have imagined having public sex here and there, but most likely in bars where everyone's busy and doing their own thing. Like it'd turn him on if you were just on his lap humping his erection while you both are in a bar but everyone else is just too drunk to notice at all.

Super vocal, grunting, moaning, sometimes even whining and whimpering, you got it all, bonus points because he does it all straight into your ear.

Uses his sharp teeth to mark you all over your body and then sucks on it to leave hickeys, would likely be a little menace and leave his marks somewhere visible even if you're wearing clothes so people would know your his

Wants you to pull on his hair while fucking, he wants to be able to know how good he's making you feel and hair pulling would be his goal to make sure you're getting actual pleasure.

When he kisses you or makes out with you, it'd always involve tongue, has a little hand that sneaks over to your waist stopping at your hip or your ass.

Slaps your ass loud, especially in public, he just smacks it while you're in mid-conversation and the sound just ECHOES, it doesn't hurt it just sounds like it does, he just stands there smirking while you stare at him.

He's an ass guy, boobs are nice to him cause he can suck on the nipples but definitely an ass guy, you cannot tell me he doesn't fuck you from behind solely to see your ass jiggle with every thrust he does.

Flat? Nuh uh, he's making that shit bounce no matter what.

Likes playing with you using his gun, frequently flicks the handle of his gun over your nipples or dick/pussy, sometimes he shoves a little bit of his gun in and if you get your cum on the muzzle, he'd lick it right in front of you.

Likes praising you and getting degraded, is into getting whipped too, he secretly wants to be on his knees begging for you, worshipping you, while you're standing over him with a whip in your hands. (The whip doesn't actually do any damage)

Does not care what gender you are, sometimes he'd misgender you on purpose and call your ass a pussy or if you're a girl, he'd probably call you "pretty boy" just to get you riled up.

His favorite positions when bottoming would be cowgirl, and his favorite position if he's on top would be Doggystyle.

(Edit: I just realized how much of a power bottom he is, but it's up to you, the reader whether you want to fuck him or be fucked by him 😇)

Please do remember everything is just a headcanon and is not actually linked or accurate to what Boothill's like in canon.

( Art credit

1st: Kradebii on Danbooru

2nd: Tei (@2hwe1) on twt

3rd: 2월14일 (Valentine_DD_) on twt )

Please tell me if I got the artists wrong!

#boothill x reader #boothill #headcanon #smut #boothill hsr #boothill hsr x reader #hsr x reader #hsr #xreader #reader #female reader #male reader #gender neutral reader #imagine #honkai star rail #boothill headcanon

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astarion-approves · 8 months

Text

More than sex.

Astarion x gn! Tav

"You’re telling me, that you.. would pass on a night of… meaningless, fantastic, eyes rolling to the back of your head, mind blowing sex… for love?”

“Yes.”

Rating: Mature (for the subject but no actual sex or smut in any way shape or form.) Tags: Demisexuality, demisexual Tav, Demisexual Reader, No Smut, gn! Reader, Slight spoilers, Act One spoilers, Developing Relationship, Developing Friendships, Drabble, short and sweet, Confessions

Ao3 or keep reading below:

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

“I’m just looking for a little more excitement. A little more fun.”

Tav considered these words, anytime they saw Astarion having ‘fun’ was on the battlefield. Either stabbing his way through anything that stood before him, or sneaking up behind them and slitting their throat before they could even scream. “And what’s your idea of ‘a little fun?’”

Astarion smiled, taking a sip of his cheap wine before speaking, “By the hells. Sex, my dear. A night of passion.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed. So, how about—“

“Shadowheart is free.” Tav looked over their shoulder to where she stood by her own tent where she fiddled with a bottle of wine attempting to open it with slow hands.

“Wait, what—“ Astarion shifted to look past Tav to where she stood, the woman catching his gaze and glaring in return.

“And she’s really pretty too,” Tav offered.

“I’m not interested in hearing her praise her goddess tonight.”

“Well, there’s also Lae’zel—“

Astarion shook his head. “I think she would rather behead me before she would ever bed me.”

“Halsin is available too—“ The Druid elf was handsome, and such a powerful one at that but before Tav could even finish, Astarion cut them off.

“Tempting, but not the one I’m interested in.”

“Gale—“

“No.”

Tav hummed, putting their hands on their hips as they scanned the rest of the camp. There were many others, but most were already too drunk to even remember their own names. “I can’t think of anyone else.”

“There’s always you, darling.”

“Me?” Tav snorted a laugh. Surely he must have been joking. Of all the people that Astarion could have… Tav would personally put themselves at the bottom of the list.

“Yes, you. It’s not everyday someone like yourself would be propositioned by someone like me, and this may be your last opportunity—“

“No thank you.”

“No?! What do you mean ‘no’?!” Astarion was shocked, his hands jumping to his chest as if Tav had stabbed him directly in the heart.

Tav grimaced, the way that Astarion’s face dropped, the hurt that filled his eyes so quickly… “Look, I’m not… rejecting you—“

“Sure sounds like rejection to me—“

They shook their head. “I need to be in love first… before I can…” Tav lifted their hands, gesturing towards Astarion in a weak display of trying to find the words and failing. “Don’t get me wrong… you’re- you are breathtaking, Astarion. The most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on—“

“Yes, I know. But– you’re telling me, that you.. would pass on a night of… meaningless, fantastic, eyes rolling to the back of your head, mind blowing sex… for love?”

“Yes.”

Astarion paused, taken aback. “Well, that’s actually quite admirable… But why?”

“For me, I want it to mean something. Sex is an easily obtainable thing, but love… love you have to work for, to fight for, to earn and to cherish. Sex is great and all but… making love to the person who means the most to you in the world. That’s what I want. That’s what I need.”

Astarion tapped his finger against his lips, thinking to himself before speaking again. “Hm. Sex and love, I never took you for such a sap,” he said with a light laugh. “Well, how do you feel about being friends then, hm? The kind of friends that protect one another, that is.”

Tav chuckled. “I think it’s too late for that.”

“Too late?! So what, now we can’t even be friends?!” Astarion threw his hands up, frustrated. “All I did was hit on you and now—“

“No, no,” Tav cut him off, reaching for Astarion’s hands and holding them gently. “What I mean… We can be friends but… I have developed some feelings for you. If you want to be friends, that’s fine. That’s great, actually. I just… well, I need to know if I should ignore those feelings—“

Astatrion pulled his hands way, choosing to gesture towards Tav as he spoke. “So, let me get this straight. You have ‘some’ feelings for me?”

“Yes,” Tav replied with a nod.

“But you don’t want to fuck me, tonight? Right now?”

“Right.” They nodded again.

“How very interesting… and even.. a little refreshing,” Astarion smiled, a smile that almost seemed shy… With his head turning away from Tav—and Tav swore they saw the smallest blush growing on his cheeks.

“Refreshing?” Tav questioned, learning towards Astarion in an attempt to see that adorable blush—

Astarion waved them off, the blush already gone and Astarion back to his usual self. “Never mind that, Tav. I guess we can see where this goes then?” He reached out, taking Tav’s hand into his own and giving it a light squeeze. “Whatever this is, anyway.”

Tav smiled. “I’d like that.”

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hairmetal666 · 13 days

Text

TW for internalized homophobia and related bad decisions

Steve is 12 and he thinks about finding his soulmate all the time.

You're supposed to find them through touch; your life together will flash in front of your eyes. They're rare, though, soulmates. So rare that most people never find theirs. So rare that some people say they're made up.

Steve wants to be one of the lucky few. He wants it to be a true, unbreakable bond, a love he gets to have forever.

He wonders if he'll find his soulmate at school. He's popular, he thinks. Tommy would say they were popular. But Tommy's definition of popular mostly has to do with the number of kids he can get away with being mean to, and that's not really Steve's deal. Tommy is like a prey animal, the way he can find weaknesses.

There's a new boy at school. Steve doesn't know his name, but they have English together. He's too thin, with huge brown eyes, and all his clothes are too big. His head's been inexpertly shaved and he never looks anybody in the eye. It's only a matter of time before he catches Tommy's interest, and Steve wishes he could stop it somehow, but he's never been good at going against Tommy.

The day comes, of course. They're standing in the hall, the new boy walking towards them, head down, as always. Tommy nudges Steve says, "What a loser."

And Steve shrugs, starts to ask Tommy about football, if the Colts can make the Super Bowl, but the boy is nearing and Tommy is cackling.

"Watch this." Tommy sticks his foot out.

The boy doesn't react fast enough. He falls forward with a bitten off yelp, and Steve moves without really thinking, only knows he can't stand to see him fall. He catches the new kid beneath his armpits, Steve's thumbs brushing the soft skin his arms.

The world around him falls away at the touch.

---

He's sitting on the floor in the band room, Eddie--the boy's name is Eddie--next to him. Eddie's hair is a little longer and Steve's in a green polo he doesn't recognize, and he's never been in the band room in his life. They're leaning into each other and laughing and Eddie's so beautiful.

---

They're in the woods--Skull Rock, Steve thinks. Eddie's hair is curled and frizzed around his chin, and he's laughing, his cheeks pink, his dimples prominent. He tries to pull his hair in front of his face, but it's not long enough yet to reach. Steve is overwhelmed, wants to kiss him so bad. He's never had to wait to kiss someone, or been unsure, or--

He wants to kiss Eddie.

So, he does.

It's hard, desperate, not the first kiss Steve expected, but then they've been waiting for so long.

---

Steve stands in the hallway of Hawkins High. He's wearing a striped, beige short-sleeved polo, and flirting with Nancy Wheeler.

He likes Nancy, she's pretty and smart and fun. And it's easy. He can hold her hand. Can introduce her to his parents. Can take her on dates and kiss her in public.

She bats her big blue eyes at him, and he can't help but kiss her.

He pulls away gently, brushing his thumb against her cheek, and when he looks down the hall, Eddie is there, frozen. His mouth is wide, his eyes glassy.

Steve thinks the way his heart stutters must be what dying feels like.

---

He's sitting on his diving board, facing away from the pool. He smokes a cigarette and there's a bat studded with nails at his feet, what the fuck. Music thuds, shrieks and laughter seep into the cool night air.

He should be playing the gracious host. He should be having a good time. Instead, his eyes search the woods and he taps another smoke out of the pack.

"Harrington?" The voice makes him jump, hand flexing around the bat handle. "It's freezing out. What are you doing?"

He recognizes the voice now, doesn't turn, doesn't respond, can't stand to see another person he let down; another person who could call him bullshit and be 100% correct.

"Do you not have a jacket? C'mon, man."

Something warm settles over his shoulders, and he inadvertently breathes in weed and leather and cedar. He squeezes his eyes shut, like that will make the comforting, familiar scent go away. He'll have to move to shrug off the jacket, though, which would mean acknowledging Eddie's presence.

"Can you at least say something, Harrington? You're freaking me out."

"I'm fine, Ed--Eddie." The nickname falls from his lips too easily. He doesn't miss how Eddie flinches.

His hair is long now, down to his shoulders, brittle looking in the cold. He's wearing a t-shirt and worn flannel, arms wrapped around his chest for warmth now that his jacket is draped over Steve's shoulders.

Steve is an idiot. He's such an idiot. Chasing after Nancy when Eddie is--

"I'm sorry," he says. He turns to face his soulmate, then. "I'm sorry about Nancy, I--"

Eddie jerks back like he's been hit. "Fuck you, Harrington," he snarls.

---

He sits in the back of an ambulance, eyes swollen shut, face throbbing. He's wearing a sailor suit for inexplicable reasons, which is almost more upsetting than the ambulance. He smells like puke and something toxically sweet.

A girl is with him, one he doesn't recognize, but he feels deeply, instinctively protective of her. He holds her shaking shoulders tight, tries to whisper comfort to her through his busted and bleeding mouth.

He's pretty sure he has a concussion.

"Steve!" Someone screams over the sounds of the EMTs and firefighters, of the building burning and collapsing behind them.

Eddie bursts through the gathered onlookers and past the ring of police cars enclosing them. He's falling into the ambulance before Steve has a chance to react.

"Sweetheart," Eddie sobs. He tries to cup Steve's face, but his fingers flutter around the damage. "Sweetheart, oh my god. I came as soon as I heard. Are you--what can I--"

Steve stares at him--his hair falling from its messy bun, his cutoff Metallica tee, concern and love leaking from those brown, brown eyes--and bursts into tears.

---

They sit on the roof of his house, sharing a joint back and forth. It's chilly, bordering on cold, winter just on the horizon. They're laughing, leaning into each other, and Steve is--he's happy. Elated. Could float away with it.

Robin--Robin-- is in the bathroom, or maybe in the kitchen for snacks, and it's just them for now. They're looking at each other, smiles wide, eyes bright.

They're taking it slow. Steve knows it's important, after what he did. They talked about it, his abandoning of Eddie for Nancy, chasing what his dad told him was normal and expected.

He doesn't want to cross any boundaries, wants to do this right. How Eddie deserves. But they're leaning into each other and they're smiling, and he's so in love. Intoxicated with it, lost.

In the end, he doesn't know who makes the first move, just that they're kissing and it's like coming home.

---

He's in a building, a shed or something. It's musty and dirty, smells like oil and gasoline and a building left closed up too long. Eddie's in his arms and he's talking through hiccuping sobs.

"I didn't save her, Steve. I didn't help. I just left her there! She was broken in pieces and I--I--"

Steve holds him close, tight, squeezes his eyes closed to stop his own tears from falling. He never wanted this for Eddie, never wanted him involved. Thought he could protect him from all of Hawkins's terrible things.

They aren't alone. Robin is there, coming up to hold Eddie too, plus a redheaded girl and curly haired boy he doesn't recognize.

"We'll figure this out, Eddie." The boy promises.

"We won't let anyone hurt you. We know you didn't murder Chrissy," the girl says.

---

Steve is in a world he doesn't understand, and Eddie is his arms. Eddie is in his arms, and there's blood everywhere. He's not awake, he's not--his heart beat is soft and slow, too slow, and his breathing stutters, and Steve can't--

"Baby, stay with me." He begs as he runs across the dead and rotting landscape. "Eddie, please. Wake up, okay? Wake up for me. I need to--I need to know that you're alright."

Eddie stays limp in his arms.

"Please," he begs. "You can't leave me. We promised, remember? We promised we'd be together forever. The rest of our lives. Me and You. Our six little nuggets. You promised."

The portal back to Hawkins is less than a dozen feet away, he's so close. Eddie gasps to consciousness, but his eyes are still hazy.

"Hi, sweetheart," he mumbles.

"Hey, hi, you're doing so good. We're almost out, okay? We're almost out and we'll get you to the hospital."

Eddie reaches out a weak hand, touches the edge of Steve's jaw. "Love you, Stevie," he whispers. "Glad you were mine."

He goes still in Steve's hold.

---

The images come faster now--

A hospital room at Hawkins General, Eddie hooked to machines. Steve holds hands with an older man. They wait in terrified silence

Eddie propped in a bed, a bunch of kids around him, Steve and Robin at his side. His eyes keep sliding to Steve, like he's making sure Steve's real, that he's still there

Their bodies tangled together in a bedroom Steve doesn't recognize

Steve down on one knee in a marble room lit only by black and red candles, Eddie standing in front of him

Hand-in-hand on a cliffside overlooking the ocean. The Chief of Police, Jim Hopper, stands in front of them with tears in his eyes and a beaming smile on his face

In a big, green yard behind a cozy little house. A little boy with Eddie's eyes and curls riding on his shoulders. Eddie sprinting around with a tiny girl giggling after him, perfect imitation of the King Steve hair-do on her tiny head

In a park, surrounded by family and friends. Steve has a little bit of a paunch and wears glasses. Eddie's hair streams around his shoulders, going grey at the temples. There's a banner strung between trees proclaiming 'Happy 20th Steve and Eddie!' They're surrounded by everyone they love and it's perfect

---

The images flash too fast for Steve to catalog after that, seconds-long glimpses of a shared future, and then he's back in his body in the hallway of Hawkins Middle, still holding too tight onto Eddie's arms.

Eddie rears back, face pale and terrified, and Steve is too shocked to do anything but let him go.

Tommy's yelling, but Steve only has eyes for his soulmate, who scrambles to his feet and throws himself down the hall away from them.

"What the hell, Harrington? Why'd you catch him? That was about to be funny as hell! I bet he'd have broken his nose--you ruined it!"

Steve isn't listening. He's trying to hold on to the memories of their life together, the ones that are already fading.

The last thing he remembers is that, sometime in the not-too-distant future, he'll find his way to the band room, Eddie Munson, and the rest of their lives.

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #ficlet #soulmate au #fluff #angst #angst with a happy ending #childhood sweethearts #canon divergent au #everyone lives/nobody dies #glimpses of the future #getting together #break up #getting back together #first kiss #brief stancy #platonic stobin

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wonderwomanfantasy · 10 months

Note

okay but imagine a jealous Miguel who's been absolutely obsessed with you but was to scared to say anything. One day he comes over to your house to tell you how he feels about you but he notices you're wearing an old hoodie from your ex(who you obviously don't care about because you've been madly in love with mig) and he just goes feral and rips it off you, he says sm nasty possessive shit while he fucks you in full nelson✋ I'm sorry I've just had brain rot over this man and saw your asks abt him

oh baby I'm obsessed. this is nasty so it's going under the cut ^^

Miguel is 100% the type of guy who will refuse to admit he has feelings for you while everyone else knows. Yeah, he brings you coffee almost every morning, it is not to see you smile he just uh… made extra? He likes it when you rely on him, he likes being your hero even if he’s just buying you pads. He’s touchy too, when he passes behind you he puts his hand on your lower back even if he has plenty of room, or wraps his arm around your waist while the two of you are in a crowded place together so he doesn’t lose you. God speaking of crowded places if the two of you are ever in a loud place trying to talk he’ll lean in close so he can hear you speak and if his proximity makes you flustered, all the better.

Miguel knows deep in his heart that it’s wrong how jealous gets, and realistically if you two were just dating he’d be able to just chill the fuck out but since you aren’t he can’t help but worry that someone else will catch your eye while he’s busy working out how he feels for you and wondering if he’s selfish enough to pull you into his dangerous world like that. The realization that you’re already in too deep makes his stomach churn. Even if you’re not dating you’re easily the person he’s closest to, everyone in the multiverse knows about his weak spot for you… if there's danger you’re already in it, if he really loved you he wouldn’t just keep you at arm's length, he’d cut you out of his life completely.

It’s a surprise when Miguel stops by. You’ve told him a thousand times that your home is open to him anytime but he always at least calls beforehand. Not this time. You can tell right away that something is off, he doesn’t hug you when he comes in and he’s got this weird look on his face like something eating at him but he won’t say what's up.

Miguel really did come over with intentions to tell you that he can’t spend time with you anymore, that it was too risky and too painful… then he sees the goddamn hoodie you’re wearing. And he recognizes it. He knows in that moment that he isn’t going to leave you, he isn’t going to let you go and let some other man have you. You are his, in this universe and in every other.

“Is that your ex’s?” you’re a little tripped up by the suddenness of the question, and before you can answer it he’s looming over you, one of his clawed fingers hooked in the collar of the garment.

“Are you thinking about him again or what?” Miguel demands of you and really he doesn’t even care to hear the answer. “I could treat you better, why don’t you fill your pretty little head with thoughts of only me?” as if at that moment you could think of anything else. Not with his pretty eyes looking at you like that. Not with his big sharp fangs biting and ripping your clothes off of you. All you can think about is him.

You’ve never been scared of Miguel, not the way other people were, but at that moment when you see the hungry look in his eyes all you can think is “god he’s going to eat me alive” and it sends a shiver down your spine.

He carries you like you weigh nothing to him. And honestly, you’ve seen this man bench press a minivan, you probably don’t weigh anything to him. Miguel holds you in front of a mirror and makes you watch as he presses his big dick into you and uses your body like a fleshlight.

“See that? See how good you take me?” he whispers into your ear “You’re mine now, no one else gets to fuck you, no one else gets to hear the sweet noises you make, just me.” he says while bitting your neck

He has your legs over his arms and he really is just bouncing you up and down on his dick, he pushes your head down and makes you watch as he pushes into you for the first time before he pulls your head back to look at yourself in the mirror.

“Wanted to fuck you like this for so long, now that I’ve got you here I don’t think I’m ever going to stop,”

And he doesn’t stop. Not until a mix of his cum and yours is dripping down his thighs and your legs are twitching. When he finally pulls out he scolds you for not keeping his cum inside of you and pushes the mess back into you with his fingers.

He asks if you feel empty without him nine inches deep in you (you do) he asks if any other cock could ever make you feel full again (not likely) he asks if you’ll forgive him for being so rough with you, and if you’ll let him do it again.

#miguel o'hara #miguel x you #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara x reader #gender neutral reader #miguel x reader smut #miguel o’hara x reader

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planetnini · 4 months

Text

LOVE TO KEEP ME WARM !

࿔･ﾟ*࿐ for the first time ever satoru is left puzzled just by a simple question from tsumiki, but he knows just how to prove his love for you + gn!reader. fluff with some angst— use of nicknames (baby, sweetheart), found family trope <3, girl dad satoru agenda, he is a bit insecure but it gets resolved, cutest fucking declaration of love ever, surprises! snow shenanigans, mistletoe kiss, satoru is the best boyfie ever i love him (5.8k words)

notes. this is a gift!!!! so it will cater to the interests and personality of my person but everything else is very vague :) merry new years secret santa thing @scarameows-world !!!! very late by the time this gets published but whtever.. i'm the reindeer that's been up in your inbox <3 we had alot of good talks and i hope we can stay in touch after this :") now here's a cute little fic i made for you about the one and only gojo satoru. title is inspired by this song

gojo satoru is a man whose proficiency knows no bounds. he is a force to be reckoned with ushering a new era of powerful sorcerers and curses due to his possession of both the six eyes and limitless technique. he could do almost anything as one might expect and everything came naturally to him. he never had any doubts about himself, but then came along you.

satoru was a natural when it came to flirting, but he was not accustomed to the rejection he faced in his early days when you would ‘let him down easy’– it was nothing short of disastrous, always ending in banter between you two. yet somehow you had your wicked ways of making him chase even though all you two did was flirt. after several attempts to woo you and you finally stepping up, one thing led to another now here you were, co-parenting two kids with the man you once swore you’d never be with. satoru was 100% sure that he would be yours for infinity, but it wavered on this particular day.

satoru was on a little errand run with tsumiki whom he had entrusted with pushing the trolley around as he scanned the list you had made for tonight’s dinner and activity. she was a young and incredibly happy girl who was much friendlier than her brother, megumi. when satoru adopted the two, tsumiki had taken a liking to him immediately whilst megumi took a liking towards you so he had taken her on the trip. it had been going well, with them doing the final grocery run after spending what felt like hours picking out the perfect wreath for the front door, however tsumiki’s question stopped him right in his tracks.

“do you love y/n?” she asked, a little curious look decorating her features.

“that’s a silly question. of course i do!” he uttered, scanning the wreaths with his eyes picking out the perfect one because quite frankly, he didn’t know how to react.

people naturally assume that growing up from a family who viewed him as an ornament and coddled him that he would be a closed book or lacking in social skills but his first few years at jujutsu tech proved everyone wrong: he was not just a pretty face who could get away with just that. in the end, his love for others was his weakness and tsumiki had brought up something that satoru had failed to anticipate. what did she see that satoru couldn’t and was that even possible?

she took the wreath from his hands and put it into the trolley bringing him back to the present, “how do you know you love y/n?” she paused, and tsumiki must be sadistic for making him suffer like this, “what does it feel like?” she asked, looking up at him.

satoru looked down at the child, surprised by her questions. he paused for a moment, considering how to articulate such an answer to a complex question. was it that hard to believe that gojo satoru was capable of loving someone?

while satoru would never admit it at the start, he needed megumi and tsumiki more than they needed him. after suguru’s defect, they especially reminded him that sometimes blood wasn’t all that important when it came to the people you loved. he loved them but in a completely different way than he loved you. a love so unequivocal that it was impossible for people not to know how truly and deeply in love satoru was with you, so he wasn’t sure where he went wrong but perhaps it wasn’t enough.

“well,” he began a thoughtful look on his face, “loving someone is different to everyone. i guess i can’t really explain it other than a warm, fuzzy feeling inside and it makes you feel like everything is right…” he replied, her eyes lighting up with understanding, “you care for their happiness the most, that you’d even share your favourite candy.” he chuckled with a playful glint in his eyes, trying not to sound too sentimental.

“so you feel warm and fuzzy when you see y/n?” she looked up curiously at satoru.

he chuckled, ruffling the child's hair, "yeah, exactly. now come on, let’s finish this quickly so we can go home. get something for yourself and your brother.” he winked to which tsumiki nodded eagerly, seemingly satisfied with his answer as she rushed down the aisle finding something to bring home.

the atmosphere between satoru and the girl was no longer tense but satoru’s mind was swirling. he was reflecting on the innocence of the question as he took control of the trolley now, finished with his chores for the day. he even went as far as buying you something too but tsumiki had inadvertently planted a seed of doubt in his mind and now satoru was spiralling. did he love you enough? was his warm and fuzzy feelings strong and genuine, or was it something he convinced himself of after everything that went down? the simplicity of her question left satoru questioning himself and for the first time in forever, he is unsure of his relationship with you.

“i thought i told you that they can’t stay up late.” you spoke while washing the dishes. satoru could only lightly chuckle as he rinsed the plate, putting it on the drying rack. he knew you only meant well but he enjoyed seeing you like this more than he had expected: seeing you so worried and being such a caring person towards them. it was not like he had forced you to take care of them, it was through your own volition that you practically raised them.

“come on…” he drawled a little pout on his lips, “they said they didn’t want to decorate the tree without you tomorrow.” he reasoned, knowing that the two children in the living room were your true weakness and that just as much as you do for them, they’d do for you too. the way a simple sentence morphed your furrowed brows into a look of gratitude proved his point.

“do they actually want to decorate the tree with me or is it only because you bought them sweets today?” you accused.

“they’re much older now,” he reassured with a tone you doubt has any good intentions, “besides, i think it’s fair if we stop their ban on sweets, don’t you?” he asked with a simple hip nudge and you roll your eyes at the gesture.

he was happy with this, with how things were going in your life right now, in fact he couldn’t get enough of it. his request was simple, but you wasted no time immediately retaliating, “you just want to freely eat your sweets and use them as an excuse.”

“what little faith you have in me!” he gasped and you have to stifle a laugh, “plus, they’re kinda scary when they don't get their way.” he joked, leaning back on the counter with his arms crossed to get a better view of you who had just finished washing and drying your hands after dinner.

“how the higher-ups trust someone like you on those missions, i have no idea. i wonder how they would react if they found out you can’t handle two children.” you said, flashing him a smile. mentioning the higher-ups in the conversation made satoru’s blood boil but it had been tamed when he caught that little shake of your head combined with your smile. he had been contemplating the nature and depth of his feelings for you but tonight had proved that it was all a fluke– just seeing you was enough to remind him that nothing about loving you could ever be doubted, because loving you was as natural as breathing.

satoru leaned down to meet your eyes as you turned to face him, “sweetheart, if you want me home instead of on missions, you could just say so.” he smirked– a signature gojo satoru look that you couldn’t tell if you loved or hated.

you narrowed your eyes at him, “i hope you get put on more missions.”

“you wound me.” he grunted, a hand over his heart feigning hurt but you knew that he was joking.

“you can take it.” you hummed, eyebrows scrunching as he stared down at you lovingly with a smile etched across his face.

there have been so many moments between you, satoru and the kids that blossomed with joy– something that felt lost in a world rife of evil– but you forget that you’re both still fairly young, thwarted into roles of guardians. you loved satoru since you were teens and seeing that this was your first relationship ever, it is only normal to feel insecure, and normal that you have doubts that satoru could ever truly love you.

while staring at satoru your mind can’t help but swirl with thoughts and he catches on immediately, perceptive as ever due to his six eyes and well, being gojo satoru. he sees it in your contemplative sighs that he had been hearing throughout the week, in your crafted smile, the way your shoulders are tensed and your jaw clenched: he knows you’re feeling some way right now because even your eyes don’t have their usual spark. your name rolls off his tongue so naturally, as if he was born to say it, as he reaches up to brush his hand across your cheek.

“what’s on your mind?” he questioned with a tilt of his head, thumb caressing your cheek. to him, the signs are as clear as day that you were troubled with thoughts of something and he wouldn’t rest until he found out what was going on in that beautiful mind of yours.

that warm fuzzy feeling intensified, secret moments between the two of you that the young girl was unaware of. it’s times like this you’re grateful that satoru is so in touch with how you felt most times and you can’t help the relief that settles in your heart when you realise you were so lucky to have him in your life, “it’s nothing,” you shook your head with a smile plastered on your face, “just… thank you for everything you did the other day,” you said, genuinely appreciative of his contribution to megumi’s birthday dinner, “i know you don’t think that he likes you but he really does look up to you.” you admitted.

“my charms aren’t all that bad.” he hummed, a proud nod as you snorted at his holier-than-thou tone.

your eyes closed at the soft contact of his lips on the crown of your head, warmth spreading all throughout your body during the cold winter month. you crave him and his touch, and you’re lucky that he hasn’t been put on any missions, specifically requested (he threatened the higher-ups knowing his status) to stay home with you and the others for just a couple of weeks. a small sigh left his lips as he started moving his hands away from your face up over his blindfold, the loss of contact made you pout slightly. your hand came over his, stopping him with a simple action, “are you sure you want them off?” you whispered, your voice dripping with concern.

“i want to see you.” he said, without an ounce of hesitation in his response.

“i don’t like the migraines it gives you when you have them off.” you retaliated as you shook your head resolutely. he wants to listen to you, seeing how much you cared for him and laid your heart out for him. the love you had for him was overflowing and he did not know how he got so lucky.

“i can take it,” he insisted, voice a mix of both amusement and affection, “besides, i’ll endure any and all amounts of pain just for you.”

“after that declaration, i better not hear a complaint out of you.” you said, smiling up at him as you begin to unwrap the blindfold yourself. your delicate fingers moved the bandages around his head, undoing the white bandages. the gesture made satoru relax in your touch as you pulled them away from his face. being able to let his guard down after suguru had been difficult but you were a rare (and lucky) case.

once the bandages are undone, you can see that he’s wincing and squinting, probably due to the oversensitivity. adjusting to his surroundings, you brush his cheek with your thumb and his eyes flutter open to have a look at you, “hi beautiful.” he breathes out, utterly captivated by you.

you mirrored his look, squinting as you leaned forward with a smile wanting nothing more than to kiss him until–

“what’s taking so long?” tsumiki yelled, surprising you and making the two of you jump from your spot. if satoru was masking his pain before, he wasn’t doing so now as he screwed his eyes shut and you feel extra protective of satoru now that his blindfold was off. he was extra sensitive to loud surroundings so when she came in shouting the two of you with his guard fully down, you knew satoru probably was still adjusting to having his blindfold off with the kids.

“did your brother put you up to this?” you asked.

“we were just wondering where you two were.” she replied bashfully.

“i told you they were kissing.” megumi groaned from behind her and if you weren’t embarrassed before, you wanted to dig your grave now that he had said it out loud.

“actually, we were rudely interrupted.” satoru complained, narrowing his eyes at megumi. living with them, you know how much megumi truly looked up to satoru but moments like this question why they were always at each other’s neck

megumi rolled his eyes, “have some manners you two,” you ordered, making tsumiki chuckle a bit, “i’m sorry for making you guys wait so long.” you apologised and you see megumi nod slightly at you.

“are you two in cahoots?” satoru whispered in your ear but you pushed him away jokingly. megumi was first to leave the room and tsumiki followed suit, but before satoru joined the two, you reached out grabbing his hand, “i know you said no presents this year, but-” you said, handing him a wrapped rectangular box.

“you said no presents for christmas.” he blurted out, confusion taking over his features.

“well, i sometimes doubt if you ever listen to me,” you looked up at him and you would be right because satoru had bought and wrapped your gift already, “just think of it as a very belated birthday present then.” you smiled at him, anticipating his reaction to your gift.

he opened the box carefully and he could see an engraving on a case, and his heart sunk. he knew he was in love with you, but was it possible to love you even more than he already had? he picked up the case and took out the special glasses he wore when he went out instead of the usual blindfold.

“i remember you said you needed new ones after they broke.”

“correction, when megumi broke my other ones.” he corrected. you rolled your eyes at him, and give him a light peck on the cheek, “thank you.” he spoke before you could make your way to help the children.

“don’t break them again, i’m not made of money satoru.” you warned and situated yourself on the floor, sitting cross legged as you peered over at what the two had been up to when you and satoru were in the kitchen. tsumiki was unboxing some tinsel and megumi was taking care of the ornaments. to be honest, you weren’t sure when you became one of those families who went full out for christmas. the only things you ever really did was presents or stockings and having dinner together. you were overlooking the process, not really helping, or rather not knowing how to as you had never really had a tree let alone decorate one.

“you’re not going to help?” tsumiki questioned, with a tilt of her head as she began to decorate the tree.

all the attention is turned to you now as you shake your head untangling some of the lights for the tree, “i mean, i’ve never really celebrated christmas with a tree and it’s for you guys right?”

“that’s sick and twisted!” satoru gasped, slumping down right next to you with his new sunglasses, “so you mean you’ve never had a christmas tree?” he exclaimed, and quite frankly you don’t really see the big deal.

“i wasn’t blessed with being born into a family like yours.” you teased and he took serious offence to that, not because he was offended by your comment but more so your nonchalance.

“well, anything you want to do for christmas?” megumi asked, putting some of the ornaments on the tree. he always had an artistic perspective and you were glad he was putting so much thought into where each one went.

“i’m not going to be home until late at night, but i guess i’ve always wanted it to snow big enough that i could build a snowman.” you shrugged, looking at the kids.

“that’s impossible.” megumi groaned.

“how are we going to get it to snow?” she exclaimed.

“exactly. it’s alright,” you reassured as you stood up from your spot, “as long as i’ve got you guys, that’s all i could ask for.” you winked at them as you helped them get to the higher spots of the tree. satoru sits there watching as you now start to help the two decorate the tree and decide to help out. you are too distracted to see that his mind is swirling with ideas– he is determined to make your christmas a little more special and he has some ideas up his sleeve that he can’t wait to use.

you feel the exhaustion of staying up late last night settle deep into your bones when you’re on your way home from the mission. it wasn’t like you didn’t get enough sleep, you got just the perfect amount but not being home today to celebrate with the kids and satoru kind of made your heart sink. it had always been the four of you the entire day and sometimes occasionally with the others but being away from home, away from them had taken a big toll on your heart.

you wiped at your eyes with a yawn as you began making your way down the path to your house. the cool winter night was in full swing, trees moving slightly in the small rush of wind that passed by along with the small sprinkles of snow. you took a deep breath and rubbed over your arms as you looked up at the sky. you weren’t lying when you said you wanted snow, it had always been a dream of yours to see falling snow, and enough that it might be enough to build a snowman, it was just something that hadn’t happened in a long time.

you reached the house but the eerily quietness and lack of light concerned you, were they watching a movie or something or did they go out and not tell you beforehand? you brushed off your worries, unlocking the door walking into an empty house. the whole room was dark, nothing could be heard and your heart was stuck in your chest, stopping at just the mere thought of not being completely alone right now.

you could hear some whispers and instinctively your hand went up, charging up your cursed technique as you hear some shuffling until an array of fairy lights went off above you, decorated meticulously going up the stairs and some nice garlands all around, warm lighting and while you’re staring at the lights, you don’t notice the three standing right in front of you.

“welcome home.” they shouted, and you swear you had felt that much relief in your entire life.

“i could’ve hurt you guys!” you exclaimed, a hand over your heart. the soft vinyl record you distinctly remember shoko gifting you after seeing you eye it last christmas playing from the living room, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“well that defeats the whole point of a surprise if i told you, right guys?” he said, and it is only now you realise that he has a santa hat on with the other two in ugly sweaters. you know megumi would be less than happy to be dressed in this right now but you assume he did so for you and couldn’t help the way the corner of your lips curved up at the sight. this… this is what you loved about your little family, and you knew it was wrong to call it a family– the two kids aren’t yours, and you’re not married to satoru but this moment, combined with the cute late night you shared with them just the night prior confirmed that you were all closer than that and how much they loved you.

“you did not need to do this for me,” you sighed, a little overwhelmed by how well decorated everything was. you hadn’t even noticed the holly, the bells, candles, and a bunch of other festive decorations– they really went all out. you wonder just how they pulled it all together but then you remembered that satoru would stop at nothing when it came to his gestures, “and you definitely did not need to drag them into this.” you added, kneeling down in front of them so that you could hug tsumiki and as you stood up you looked at megumi and ruffled his hair despite how much you know he hated when satoru did it, when you did it, you weren’t met with the same grumpy huff.

satoru gasped, “hey, these two were asking if you’d like them and i pointed them in one direction okay?” he defended but as you looked down at the two they were shaking their heads as if to refute his words, “don’t listen to them. they did it because they love you just as much as i do.”

respectfully, you hated satoru but not in a way that was malicious but for always making you feel like the luckiest person on earth. for being friends with you back then when it seemed like the world wasn’t on your side, for allowing you to stay in his life after losing his friend, for letting you take care of two of the most beautiful children ever. he was one of the sweetest people you ever knew and you doubt any gift or gesture would be enough to make up for the man that he is. without realising you had tears stream down your face, and you bring your hand up over your face to cover it. you weren’t usually the type to cry over something so trivial but here you were.

“i can’t believe you made y/n cry on christmas.” megumi complained, trying to lighten the mood as tsumiki’s mouth dropped.

"y/n's fine!" satoru reassured and you can’t help but laugh as you wiped away some of the tears. before you could speak satoru went over to you, engulfing you in a hug, “you better not apologise for crying. there’s nothing you need to be sorry for.” he reassured, rubbing circles on your back. you nod profusely, trying to keep yourself calm in front of the others (not that they’d never seen you cry before) before pulling away from the hug. you stared into his cerulean eyes, out and free from their usual blindfold or glasses, “it’s nice to see you my love.” he whispered, meant only for your ears.

you chuckled, pressing your lips into his cheek before turning around, “how about we open some gifts? how does that sound?” you smiled and their eyes lit up, brighter than the lights all inside the house and they scattered off like little mice to the living room where the tree was, with quite a few presents under the tree (courtesy of satoru’s money but joint in terms of thinking of what to get them) and you followed behind. satoru threw his arm over your shoulder as you took a seat on the couch as they got ready to unwrap their gifts.

“are you hungry?” he asked softly as they started unwrapping their gifts, the one in the penguin wrapping paper which satoru had wrapped up himself.

“i had something to eat on the way back.” you reassured and he nodded.

the two had spent quite a while opening satoru’s gifts. you noticed that the presents were some things the two children had mentioned once a very long time ago and were quite surprised that satoru had hand picked these gifts himself without asking you for help. you knew that he noticed every little detail about the people in his life but it made you wonder if he got you a gift after you said not to. you wouldn’t be mad if he didn’t get you one and vice versa.

“i got you that one.” you spoke, trying to contain your excitement as megumi picked up your gift, wrapped in some candy cane paper. you watched as he unwrapped it, revealing a digital camera and you hear tsumiki exclaim, excited for her gift now.

“a camera?”

you sat up, moving away from satoru as you leaned forward, “i know there aren’t that many pictures of you guys around the house so i got you that so we could start printing some out and putting them up.”

megumi couldn’t hold in his gratitude any longer bringing you in for a hug, “thank you y/n.” he said, and you hugged him back, kissing him on the cheek. satoru was going to make a comment about how he also wanted a hug after all the gifts he gave but it was a special moment shared between the two of you and he was not going to ruin the moment.

as megumi was setting up his camera with satoru’s help, you turned to tsumiki and watched as she unwrapped her own gift, she looked up from the box to you with shock all over her face, “y/n…” she whispered, voice cracking, “i can’t take this.” she said, handing you back the box.

“hey.. it's okay,” you reassured, lightly pushing the box back in her direction, “it’s a gift tsumiki.”

you watched her pull out the necklace, the stunning small heart shaped engraved with her initial on it but that wasn’t all you got her. after observing the necklace and helping her put it on, she opened a box that contained a letter, telling her of how much you adored her with special keepsakes from some memories you shared throughout the year. you have never seen her so happy and when she hugged you, you catch the stare that satoru is giving you– absolutely entranced by how much you loved them. a simple flash takes you off guard as megumi takes his first picture on the camera.

“how about you guys get your coats, i have something to give y/n.” satoru stated and they ran off with excitement in their bones at his plan. he had filled them in but they weren't convinced he could pull it off.

“talk about a successful night.” you chuckled, picking up the wrapping paper and throwing it in the bag that satoru was holding.

“get changed.” he spoke, taking the bag from you and now it’s your turn to be surprised again.

“what? where are we going?”

after getting changed, suspicion arising from his sudden ask of getting changed. you walk out of your room seeing everyone in their coats, scarves, and you watch as the children begin to walk out first leaving the two of you alone.

“what are you up to satoru?” you questioned, furrowing your brows.

“since you thought you could cheat your way around buying me a gift,” he replied honestly, which took you off guard, “i thought it was only fair if i got you some things as well.” there was a small box in his hand, and you took it from his hand. you held your breath as you unwrapped the paper to see a box tied with a ribbon. you opened the box, revealing nothing but a sheet of paper.

you definitely weren’t the ungrateful type but you were expecting something else like maybe a ring, a necklace or something else but as you examined the paper you looked up at him with your mouth wide open. it was a receipt of something you had been eyeing for a couple months but nothing you could excuse spending money on. you had been an avid lover since you were young and it was always your dream to have one of these.

“satoru.” you said, honestly starstruck at his gift.

“you have been eyeing that for so long,” he reasoned with a simple nudge of the shoulder, "merry christmas."

“i can’t accept this.” you shook your head, giving it back to him but you know it is relentless to deny his gifts especially after you pulled your little secret gift on him the other day.

satoru gave you a stare and pursed his lip, “you are keeping it. end of discussion.” he smiled as he started to wrap a scarf around you. satoru had always looked good in winter clothing, a scarf tucked around his neck and due to his infinity, he was never cold but still dressed to the occasion with his designer brands. he was so handsome…

“and since you’re not saying anything i'm assuming you don't like it?” he taunted. you told your brain to make a coherent sentence or at least move so you don’t make a fool of yourself just looking at the gift. you stared up at him, you used your free hand to push the scarf down from the bottom half of your face, "you know i thought you weren't going to get me anything?"

satoru had never stopped at any words faster than he had those, "what?" he answered with a shaky voice.

you scoffed holding his hand in yours, looking anywhere but into his eyes, "i thought you might do a whole 'i'm your gift' thing," you admitted, a little ashamed you had such little faith in him, "i guess you do love me."

"y/n..." he uttered, "if i have ever made you doubt i love you then i have failed as your boyfriend," he spoke and you could feel your whole body warm at his words. "you are everything to me even if you and megumi are in cahoots and pray on my downfall." he said and you shoved him. he winced lightly at the push and smiled as he pulled you close to him once more, eyes moving down to your lips then back up to your eyes.

“that was really sweet of you.” you uttered, looking up at him.

“sweet enough for a kiss?”

“unless you make it snow, i’m not kissing you.”

“i think i deserve just one…” he teased as he leaned closer to you.

a hand suddenly grabbed yours, tsumiki's gloved one, and once again stealing that moment between you and satoru, "y/n! didn't you hear me?" she gasped as you saw the wet snow on her coat go from crystal into a wet drop.

"what happened? is megumi okay? are you okay?" you asked, hand brushing over her face as if to check for any injuries.

"it's snowing!" she exclaimed as she made her way back out.

you looked over at satoru baffled but you could just see him smile at you mischievously and you run out and to your surprise, the snow is pouring down from the sky and you now know that your christmas wish has been satisfied. looking up at the sky, you put your hand out as the snow falls into your hand and you chuckle even though you are freezing your ass off.

the children began throwing snowballs at each other and one hits you at the back of the head and you turn to see all three of them standing there staring at you. they all point at gojo before you decide to pick up some snow for yourself throwing it at him back, thankful his infinity was still down.

you truly appreciate satoru doing his best to make you happy because it was all you ever wanted. he got a snowball in the face before falling down on the floor, and all of you chuckled at him landing on his back as he began to sit up, snow covering his whole back side and all in his hair.

you knelt in the snow and began to make the snowman you've always wanted to during christmas with the help of the two and when you're done you notice him standing at the front porch just staring as tsumiki started doing snow angels and megumi's two wolf shikigami joining him in the snow. you don't know when he let them out but you just smiled as you approached satoru, "what are you doing here?"

"just admiring you," he complimented and you shake your head, "did i do okay?"

you stare at him in bewilderment before moving to press a kiss to his cheek, "you did well satoru. more than that if possible."

he smiled cheekily and you move your hand to drag him back into the snow, "come on..." you hummed as you tried to pull him away from the front porch but he refused to move and you stare at him with a tilt of the head, "what's wrong?"

"you said you would kiss me if i made it snow.” he recalled, hand on his chin as he tried to refresh your memory.

“how the hell did you manage to make it snow?” you snickered but he didn’t look like he was joking. you don’t know how he managed, he would never say but you shook your head, “sorry babe, i don’t think you can control the weather… it is quite unpredictable.” you shrugged, giving him a fake guilty look.

“it’s a christmas miracle!” he yelped with his smile that you know and have grown to adore so much and you follow his gaze to the mistletoe above your head, "you know the rules." he seethed trying to seem nonchalant.

"you're an idiot," you laughed before holding his face in your hands, tiptoeing a bit before pressing your lips to his. you pulled away and brushed his lips with your thumb a little, "i love you satoru, always."

he could only pull you back in for another kiss, smiling as he did so as the kids exclaimed in disgust and horror at the sight. "i love you y/n. here's to many more years with you." he whispered when he pulled away. it was a christmas you will never forget and one that tsumiki and megumi will also never forget, dramatically reminding you that they were traumatised from your little kiss.

tags! @stsgluver @sukxma (thank you for hosting the event)

i hope you love this lynne, i apologise it's not my best work and i'm sorry it took so long. i love you, i hope you're doing well

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sagaduwyrm · 5 months

Text

DCxDP Idea - Tucker x Tim Soulmate AU:

Now on AO3

So the Justice League believes the Fentons and the GIW. Not completely, but enough. That’s the bad news. The worse news is that they have Danny, and are apparently planning to use him in some kind of spell to banish all the ghosts from the living plane. Which, okay, sure, not the worst idea, except that trying to banish a Liminal is a great way to kill them instead, and guess what everyone in Amity Park is? Not to mention what powering such a ritual could do to Danny.

Tucker is not having a panic attack. He might have one later, but right now he has a job to do.

So the thing about the Justice League is that they’re powerful and together they cover each other’s weaknesses, but individually they are, if not manageable, then at least survivable. They can’t take on the entire league, but Ghosts and their ilk have fangs for a reason, and every predator knows how to divide and conquer.

Technus and Skulker are using Lex Luthor’s tech to deal with the Supers. Jazz has got emotional manipulation and FrightKnight’s sword to take down the Flashes. Desiree agreed to start a mage’s duel with the Justice League Dark. Sam, Ember, Johnny, and Kitty hopefully have the watchtower in hand, with Walker playing backup to get Danny free.

Tucker has two jobs. One, work with Technus to take down the Justice League communications without making it look like anything is up. Two, for the love of the Ancients, do not let the Bats realize something is wrong.

And you know what? He’s got this. Duul Aman was the most feared sorcerer of his time. Tucker isn’t him, not really, but he’s no slouch in the magic department. Egyptian magic, the way Duul Aman knew it, was almost like code. Relearning it was as easy as breathing, but the real reason Tucker’s job is to deal with the bats is because he took it further than his last life ever could. Sure, he’s a dab hand at illusions, his curses are almost as nasty as Sam’s, and instant sandstorms are never not useful, but where he really thrives is with tech. Afterall, if ectoplasm can be combined with computers, why can’t magic?

Tucker is the world's first technomage and he’s goddamn proud of it.

It’s his saving grace now. Infiltrating Oracle’s system took weeks, and he still wasn’t able to look at or do anything important, but it was enough of an opening for his magic. He wormed his illusion through every single piece of bat-tech he could reach, whispering in their ear, Gotham needs you. The Justice League is fine. Gotham is where the problems are.

Weeks of work and sleepless nights, and he still doubts he’ll be able to keep them from noticing anything for more than a few hours. Luckily, by that time Danny will be free and Tucker will be long gone from Gotham.

This confidence lasts until he brushes hands with another guy in the cafe. He can feel the bond snap into place, a soulmark crawling across his body. Tim Drake stares at him, eyes wide but sharp.

Tim Drake.

Red Robin.

Shit.

Time to see whether fighting ghosts extends to fighting humans, because he is not letting this asshole mess up Danny’s rescue.

+++

The first thing Tim notices when he meets his soulmate is the rage in the man’s eyes.

They’re really pretty eyes. A bright, glowing gold, lined in kohl. Almost certainly a sign of magic.

They look at him like the man wants to turn him inside out and burn the remains. Tim’s a little offended, beneath the shock and awe.

“Fuck,” the man hisses. Tim’s offense is starting to supersede his surprise. He’s a catch, thank you very much.

He says as much. The man laughs, and it’s almost friendly. The cafe is empty. The people of Gotham have good instincts, and there’s something in the air around this man that puts Tim’s hackles up.

“You know, I think that’d be more believable if you hadn’t started this.”

Tim’s brow wrinkled. He felt like he’d remember starting something with his soulmate though? What was he supposed to have started, anyway? Saying ‘this’ wasn’t very specific.

He rolled and dodged to avoid the sudden lash of golden sand. Ah. A fight. He could do that. Figure out why his soulmate was angry later, defeat him now.

He reached up to call for backup and only got static.

Shit.

He was on his own. Time to show this bastard why underestimating a bat was a bad idea.

#There's a part two to this now #Check the notes #Enemies to Lovers #potentially #Tim’s gotta put some work in #Tucker’s usually pretty chill but…#fandom #danny phantom #dpxdc #dp x dc #batman #fandom stuff #dc #tucker foley #tim drake #Tucker/Tim #technogeek

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sttoru · 9 months

Note

just saw ur fic ideas post .......... how bout semi public stuff with gojo @ some high end jujutsu event and he just is SOOOO enamoured with how you look and takes you to the bathroom and ..... 😙

GOT A FETISH FOR YOUR LOVE !

ෆ note. sobs dies ressurects… im so weak… i had to write a full on fic… everyone thank T for this cuz i went crazy on this one and it’s super detailed for no reason. this post contains smut, proceed at own risk !

ෆ tags. (perv)dom!satoru x female reader. semi public, p in v — unprotected, bits of manhandling, corruption kink, breast play, premature ejaculation, cervix fucking, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, teasing, cum play, creampies, spanking, pussy slapping, mentions of masturbation, perv panty stealer satoru, implied cunnilingus, fucked against a wall, lots of dirty talk, satoru calls you ‘slutty’ once, satoru with the famous ‘just the tip’ beg, satoru sometimes turns whiny and subby so you get the best of both worlds (hes pathetic), he has a big dick ehem, pussy drunk satoru.

satoru couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw you climb up the stairs near the torii gates of the high school he teaches at; your appearance only increasing in beauty due to the candle lights placed all around the environment.

your face and body were glistening under the moon light as you made your way up. you were silently cursing yourself for wearing heels while knowing that jujutsu tech was situated on top of a literal mountain.

unbeknownst to you, your boyfriend had been waiting your arrival near the entrance since the first guests started pouring in.

with a sigh, you finally lift your head up as you notice the entrance to the main building come into view. there were lots of known sorcerers gathered around, chitchatting about recent business and changes in the jujutsu society.

you were too enamoured by the elegant decorations that hung around the school and the people who were dressed accordingly to the theme to even notice the white-haired man walking up to you.

which was unusual, since satoru’s tall physique could be easily spotted in any crowd.

“baby, you should’ve told me you had arrived!” satoru exclaims almost embarrassingly loud, waving at you without a care in the world of all the other guests that were giving him stares. his gaze was only on you, “i would’ve come picked you up.”

you wave back at him, eyes lingering on the tailored dark blue suit he was wearing, the waistcoat and dress shirt underneath being undeniably attractive. a bonus being that he was wearing his glasses and not his blindfold.

“it’s okay, love.” you reassure satoru as you walk a few steps towards him as well.

“ya sure? you didn’t hurt yourself or anything, right?” satoru pouts, immediately wrapping his arms around your waist and hugging you tight, “my poor, poor girl.”

you roll your eyes at satoru’s antics. his one and only desire in life is to give you the princess treatment you deserve and it shows at moments like these.

“it’s fine,” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury your face into the crook of his neck; getting drowned in his familiar scent, “you look handsome by the way.”

satoru chuckles, feeling a bit giddy on the inside from your compliment. he almost responded with a ‘i know i do’, yet he held himself back. today was an exception and he decided to save you from any more cheeky remarks.

“thank you, pretty.” satoru hums, “you look ethereal.”

you could feel the way your boyfriend hugged you even tighter after his comment, pressing your body against his. you normally wouldn’t mind it in the slightest, however you could notice a few people glancing over at you two.

satoru couldn’t give a single damn about it; the only thing his senses were hyper focused on were your breasts that were squished against his chest—the curves of your body being easily accessible to the sorcerer.

“god..” his breath was shaky a little. satoru was really trying hard to repress his urges, the event hadn’t even started yet and even so, he was way too lost in his perverted thoughts.

he couldn’t help himself. you were just too addictive; your perfume, your warmth, your body, your face, your glossy lips… your breasts, your ass—

satoru clears his throat and pulls back after a bit, “shall we, m’lady?”

he bowed a little to you, putting his hand out for you to hold on while a subtle smirk played on his lips.

with a giggle, you grab onto his hand and satoru wastes no time interlocking your fingers as he guides you to the entrance of the main hall.

the building was scattered with even more sorcerers from all kinds of clans; some admiring the scenery, some sitting and eating various delicacies.

like before, you were too caught up in the scale of the event to realise that satoru was ogling you. it was a great thing that his pitch black lenses were blocking most of his eyes from the outside;

his gaze lingered on your side profile, your lips that were slightly parted in amazement, your hips which swayed from side to side with each step and your ass which he tried not to grope in public.

satoru hadn’t even noticed that he started to ball his hands into fists out of pure self control. his hand that was holding onto yours tightening its grip as well.

“something wrong?” you ask your boyfriend once you noticed, tilting your head to look up at him.

“nothin’, baby.” satoru lies and flashes you a reassuring smile, “c’mon. let’s enjoy some food.”

without waiting on your answer, satoru guides you towards a free cocktail table and stands near it, serving you an appetiser that was set on the table cloth.

you gladly accepted it and took a small bite, looking around the place some more and taking in the details, “it’s really pretty. the decor and stuff.”

satoru hums in agreement even though he hadn’t taken a single proper look at the environment when you were the main event in his eyes, “yeah. i think so too.”

everything about you somehow drove him crazy today. on most normal days, he could wait until you were at home to show you how much he adores you. that was not the case at the moment since he was fighting with his own self on the inside.

he was absolutely whipped for your elegant look.

“very pretty.” satoru mumbles under his breath. he most definitely wasn’t talking about the interior or exterior of the place.

it was getting harder by the minute to not give in to his primal needs. the more you talked to him, flashed him your innocent smile and let him hear your voice, the more he was struggling to keep his (now hard) dick in his pants.

you continued rambling about something that you noticed around you and satoru took the chance to place his hand on your hip, pulling you closer. it wasn’t anything unusual, thus you kept on talking.

it started off by him rubbing the area around your hips to his fingers subtly sliding downwards, eventually reaching the hem of your dress. his index finger dipped under the fabric, caressing your upper thigh. that small skin to skin action made satoru’s breath hitch and his cock twitch in its restraints.

“fuck.”

“what was that?” you abruptly stop yourself as you heard your lover curse under his breath. you weren’t aware of all the lewd thoughts going on in satoru’s mind and that made it even better. your innocent confusion wasn’t going to last long, however.

satoru lowered his head a bit until his lips were right next to your ear. the warmth of his breath made you shiver.

“i said,” he starts off in a low tone; one which he knows would make you weak for him, “i want you.”

it was as if time froze for you for a split second. you knew what satoru meant with that. you could’ve easily guessed the hidden meaning behind those three words just by his tone. the light but daring touches on your legs were your second hint.

“love, we’re in public.” you whisper back. satoru has a reputation to uphold as the strongest sorcerer in this entire building, yet there he was; implying that he wanted to take you right there and now.

a sigh left satoru’s lips, the air hitting your ear once again, “please, baby? for me?”

satoru was running out of patience. he could act out in the midst of the hall and disregard his image for all he cares. he just needed you. badly.

“promise i’ll be quick, yeah?” he adds, tone pleading but also a tad dominant.

you gulp and wanted to give in. you stood no chance to your whiny boyfriend, who always knew the right buttons to push to get you to comply to his requests.

satoru saw the hesitation in your eyes and he decided to plead more, “just the tip. i promise, sweets—tha’s all i need.”

a intrusive mental image of satoru fucking your brains out made him grip your thigh a bit harder; his voice suddenly growing deep and dominant, his expression filled with only lust.

“shit—please. have to feel your sweet pussy wrapped around me or i’ll lose it.”

his words were growing explicit and it was only a matter of time before he actually touches you improperly in front of everyone. you could tell by the way his long fingers inched closer to your clothed cunt.

“..fine. just the tip, like you said.” you breathe out shakily out of pure desire. though, both of you knew that it was going to be more than ‘just the tip’.

satoru grinned and immediately put down the appetiser he was holding onto, grabbing your hand and almost rushing out of the hall.

there were a few sorcerers trying to greet him on the way, yet he didn’t even glance at them once. his eyes were dazed with hunger as he swiftly made his way through the crowd—his thoughts being filled with the ways he’ll have you moan and beg.

satoru opens up the door to the nearest bathroom, pushing you against the wall the moment the door closed behind you.

his glossy lips crash against yours, the lipstick you’re wearing smearing on your lover due to the aggressive and almost sloppy way he kissed you. his tongue prodded against your lips before entering your mouth—strings of saliva and heavy breaths being exchanged between you two for what felt like minutes.

“ah, fuck. i wanted this so bad,” satoru moans against your mouth, sucking on your bottom lip, “..since the moment i saw you in that dress.”

his big hands were all over your body; groping and grabbing onto your flesh, from your ass and thighs to your tits.

“mhhh— ‘toru, god,” you sigh, feeling yourself get wet from just his confessions, “you can have me, all of me.”

your lover grunts at your words. they were exactly what he needed to hear. he roughly pulls the hem of your dress up, revealing your white panties. his all time favourite. a small, lustful grin instantly appears on his face. he always thought that you looked extra innocent in those; and that by ripping those off, that he’ll corrupt that ‘pure’ image.

and don’t let him start on how many times he’s used that specific pair of panties to jerk off. he vividly remembers how his sticky cum covered the cloth afterwards.

“haah—fuckfuckfuck,” satoru curses repeatedly as his fingertips tremble out of pure desire, “can’t wait any longer. you’re gonna walk around the avenue with no panties later on, ‘kay?”

“sato-” your eyes widened and before you could even protest, you hear the fabric of your underwear tearing. the ripped off cloth falling down onto the cold floor.

“there we go,” he mutters in delight, his eyes gazed at your exposed pussy. his fingers rubbed over the skin, grazing the wet folds. a deep, breathy chuckle echoes throughout the bathroom, “this pussy’s just ready to be filled, don’tcha think?”

you nod feverishly and nibble on your lower lip at the way satoru was teasing your clit. his hand slowly cupped your slippery cunt, his palm covering the area entirely before slapping the velvety flesh. three small smacks, each making your limbs tremble.

“ya hear that?” satoru hums, completely overtaken by his desire for you as the squelchy sounds ring in his ears, “so ready to be stretched out and fucked.”

“hnnnh, ah, baby—please just, just fuck me.” you whimper; feeling the pressure of his hand’s thenar against your clit while his fingertips traveled across your vulva.

“oh, i definitely will.” satoru responds with a grunt as he undoes his belt and zipper with his free hand. his trousers and underwear fall down to his ankles, revealing his cock to you.

your mouth watered at the sight as it slightly slapped against his lower abdomen due to the speed at which satoru took his boxers off. the moist drops of thick pre-cum coating his pink tip, the slight curve of his big shaft and the veins covering it—you needed to have him in you.

when satoru thinks that he prepped you enough to take his cock, he removes his hand from between your legs. of course, he isn’t going to waste a chance of tasting your slick that gathered on his skin.

“turn around,” he orders after licking off his fingers and you do as said, “ass back towards me, pretty.”

one of satoru’s hands was on one side of your hips to hold you steady against the cold tiles of the bathroom wall, the other occupied with stroking his cock. satoru was already contemplating on where to cum; in or on you. he’s obsessed with spurting his sticky cum on your plump ass, however he also loved stuffing you full of it.

“deep breaths,” your boyfriend reminds you as he prods the swollen tip of his cock at your entrance—despite the prep, it was always almost impossible to avoid a slight discomforting sensation in the beginning. that man’s length was no joke.

“ahhhh, fuuuck! satoru!” you hiss and your fingernails try to dig into the wall you were pressed against. you felt your folds being forced apart to fit his cock inside of your small cunt.

“shiiit.. you’re fuckin’ tight.” satoru grits his teeth. no matter how many times he breaks your pussy in, you still feel as tight as ever, “..mmh—relax, princess.”

satoru pushed in, inch by inch, until he bottomed out and you both took a deep breath. a sloppy kiss was placed against the back of your neck as reward for taking him in. it was his habit of doing so every time the two of you get intimate.

“‘m gonna start moving. that alright?”

a simple nod coming from you was plenty to let satoru begin with slow, soft thrusts which soon enough turned into deep and firm thrusts—the pounding sounds echoing in the bathroom, “there we go—ahh, yeah— fuck!”

“mhhhg, s’good! ngh!” you slur your words a bit as satoru started to speed up the tempo, feeling his heavy balls slap against the skin near your clit every time he drove his thick cock into you, “mmph! more, wan’ more!”

neither you nor satoru could care anymore if your desperate mewls or the harsh skin-to-skin sounds were heard outside of the dimly lit bathroom.

satoru was slowly losing his mind as he gazed down at your ass and the way you moved your hips back to meet his rough thrusts—he never got enough of you in that position. his hands held onto your hips before moving to your lower back to deepen your arch a little. his eyes were in a trance; he needed to see more of that chubby ass and the recoil of it.

“i swear—you’re gonna make me,haah, cum already,” satoru moans as he tried to find a way to distract himself from the pleasure building up to a breaking point. he decides to gently bite onto your shoulder, running his tongue over the slight mark he left and then continues to suck on the flesh.

“hmmmh, haah, yes! need- need your cum in me, please- please, ‘toru!” you beg in such an erotic tone that satoru can’t help but bite down harder on your shoulder.

“princess—y-you can’t say that-” he swallows a lump in his throat as he forces his cock so deep that you felt it hit your cervix repeatedly, “please- don’t say that.. don’t, oh god—“

satoru was the one begging this time; his voice sounding more whiny than it had ever been during your little session. he can’t help it when it comes to you. he had desired to fuck you since he saw you and now that he was finally doing it, his senses were utterly overwhelmed.

“nonono,” you hear your boyfriend curse as the strokes inside your tight cunt turned harsh and quick, like he was on the verge of his climax, which he didn’t want. he didn’t want to cum in under two minutes, but he’s just so weak when it comes to you. so damn weak.

“ahhh, fuck— s-sorry, baby— can i cum? can i cum in you? please?” he bites his lips, shutting his eyes so tight that he could see colors.

“please, please, let me. mnghhh, please let me cum in you. wanna fill you up.” satoru repeats his words like a chant in your ear. you were as lost in the feeling of ecstasy as your lover was and just nodded at his whiny pleas.

“mhmm, yes, do it—cum in me!”

your permission was all satoru needed and not a second later, you felt ropes and ropes of hot cum flood your cunt and some drops gush out of your pulsating hole.

satoru was quivering slightly as he kept moving his hips in slow pumps, fucking the cum deeper into you. you were full of surprises; he didn’t know he could cum in under two minutes until right that instant. you really had him wrapped around your finger.

and the best thing? he was already starting to get hard once again.

satoru slowly pulled his dick out of you and only let the tip stay a few centimetres in you. one hand went to grab onto the base of his length and he started to tap and move the tip in tiny circular motions in your cum-filled pussy—making sure every single drop is dumped where it belonged.

“fucking greedy, ain’t ya?” satoru hisses as he feels you clench onto his tip like you were doing to his cock earlier, “your pussy just wants to milk me dry.”

you whine and push your hips back a little in attempt to push his cock further into your needy cunt again, “wan’ more.. please, ‘toru?”

gojo satoru was a weakling.

he slammed his cock fully inside of you again and didn’t care if you expected it or not; he was fucking you like there was no tomorrow. his hands were kneading the flesh of your ass, spanking it every now and then to feel you tighten up more around him while his hips were working full time.

“yeah? gonna take another load in your slutty cunt again?” satoru groans as he feels your pussy gripping onto his throbbing cock like it was pleading to be stuffed, “haaah—you’re incredible, nhh, never had anyone make me cum this quick and hard before.”

your body squirmed and shivered each time you felt satoru spank you, ending up in a repeated cycle of you tightening up around him and him smacking the fat of your ass, “yes, yes, yes! want it, please!”

it was incredibly difficult to hold back your own orgasm when satoru was whispering filthy things in your ear, pounding into your creamy pussy while also stimulating your clit.

satoru instantly caught onto the fact that you were nearing your climax. you always started to get more noisy whenever you were close, “aah, mhm—cum on my cock while i dump another load inside of you. c’mon, you can do it.”

satoru’s words made your stomach fill with butterflies, the coil inside of you threatening to finally snap.

“‘m gonna.. gonna cum! gonna cum!” you cry out between ragged breaths, eyes rolling into the back of your head once you reached your long-awaited climax.

the sight of you arching your back even more while you came was the hottest thing satoru’s seen. he rushed his thrusts, becoming more precise to hit your cervix over and over again.

“mhm, jus’ like that—tighten up more.” your lover hisses and his nails dug into the flesh of your hips while he felt your pussy throbbing from overstimulation, “milk me dry, pretty—fuck!”

your mind was foggy with that euphoric feeling after reaching your orgasm. but also due to satoru continuing to bully his thick cock all the way in you, seemingly needing to drain his balls inside your cunt.

“mhhhhnn, ‘m gonna fill ya up again,” he whimpers a bit into your ear from behind while sweat drips from his forehead, “take it all like a good girl, yeah? don’t—haah— waste a drop.”

and with that he spurts and squirts strings of cum into your womb once more. it felt like there was no ending to it as his semen just continued to pump out of the tip.

“fuckkk! got more for you,” satoru almost sobs out, his tongue peeking out from behind his lips as his muscles tense up. he came so much into you that even more of the liquid drizzled down on the floor beneath you, “take it—yeah—jus’ like that.”

a few more deep and chaste strokes and satoru was done. he exhaustedly rests his chin on your shoulder, white locks clinging onto his forehead and his cheeks colouring a reddish hue.

“haahh.. that was amazing.” satoru sighs deeply, trying to catch his breath while wrapping his arms around your waist. he buried his face into your neck, leaving small pecks there while mumbling about how good you were for him.

your eyes were closed as you rest against the wall, enjoying the affection from your lover while you feel his dick go limp inside you. satoru slowly pulls out afterwards, biting his lip as his gaze lingered on all the fluids leaking down your trembling thighs.

“hold on,” satoru murmurs gently, “gonna clean you up, princess.”

his own legs were shaking slightly as he quickly put his boxers and pants back on. your boyfriend grabs a few tissues from a nearby dispenser, kneeling behind you afterwards.

your eyes followed his fingers as they held onto the wipes and started to clean you up slowly. the comfortable silence—excluding the muffled sounds of chatter and music from outside the bathroom—was perfect for you to catch your breath.

satoru was diligently sliding the tissues over your skin, making sure to not be too rough.

as much as he tried telling himself not to get turned on again from the sight of your ass and sopping cunt in front of his face, he just couldn’t.

your lover was breathing heavily and stopped cleaning you up for a second. he really tried his best to stop himself over and over, though the title of being the strongest didn’t apply to his self control.

his large hands came up to hold onto your ass, spreading the cheeks apart which made your lips part in shock. you looked over your shoulder at him and sensed the resurfacing lust in the air. not only that: his warm breath hit your sensitive pussy as he panted in a hungry way.

satoru lifted his head up to meet your eyes, flashing you a (not so) apologetic grin;

“sorry, pretty. i need to get my dessert.”

#sttoru writes.#jjk smut #gojo smut #jjk x reader #satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x you #gojo satoru smut #gojo fic #banner by cafekitsune

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evilminji · 6 months

Text

I've seen references to it in other Prompts?

But unironically? Paulina should Heckle superheroes more.

Like? Look at her AS A CHARACTER. You think she respects Authority? In their Tacky suits and with their weak ass boundaries she's been stomping over her ENTIRE LIFE, largely unpunished? Because she's Pretty and gifted in the Social Grace's department?

Granted, rarely USES them on most of these needs. But she HAS them and CAN. Why do you thinks she THE popular girl? Looks? Please. There are plenty of pretty girls out there. SHE can make you feel like you're the most important person in the whole world. Her BEST friend.

SHE put in the work to have flawless skin and a complexe social network based on future networth and political significance. A cute butt. Socials beyond reproach.

And SHE? Is so, SO fuckin PISSED.

Her Boo (don't judge her, it's a cute pun) is being SHOT at! Is run in to the ground EXHAUSTED. Doing jobs that CERTAIN people should be getting off their asses to do. CERTAIN people keep making pretty little speechs and getting good PR, while out here HER BOO is getting LAZER HOLES punched through him!

He should be of DATES. Laughing and going for flights. Sitting in the bleachers of cheer practice, safe and silly and shouting tips even though he doesn't know the first thing about Cheer. Getting to be YOUNG. In love!

And Paulina? Always on her phone. Their socials are just... RIGHT THERE. Oooh, Mr. "We protect everybody, aren't we such GOOD GUYS~☆" Her favorite flats! And, maybe, yeah, it's the pain from getting THROWN from the top of the pyramid they were practicing by that fucking GIW explosion.

Maybe it's the fact that Phantom hand to shield her with his BODY and those bastards SHOT at them. Could be the squad egging her on, furious and phones out. But how the weather in Metropolis, Supes? Enjoying up in your little ivory tower? Guess only city kids matter, huh?

Fastest man alive to ignore a genocide, HUH, Flash?

Nice Speech, Wonder Hypocrite. Guess "all woman are Amazons" until they're DEAD. Then you can do what you want to them?

Just. These Pretty, Bland, Offend No One, We're Aiming For Good Sport Colleges And Know They Check These accounts? Going NUCLEAR. All pretty, made for TV faces too. The sort of thing that makes for GREAT news segments and terrible PR.

Because? If Paulina is doing it? Well, A Lister solidarity. Jocks gotta have their back. They've been holding back some Opinions(tm). Time to throw um to the web.

And the blockades? Doesn't do SHIT. Because the GIW forgot one simple factor(well, MANY factors).

Cheerleaders have Away Games.

Paulina and Company? If they can't text INSIDE Amity? Fine. They'll cue them up. Release them at Amity VS. Whatever loser they're crushing next. Rah, rah, go teeeeam! Guess who has internet nooooooow!

GIW may have access to high tech devices and authoritarian control... but they're IDIOTS prone to easily avoidable human errors.

Meanwhile? Most of the JLA is metaphorically ON FIRE.

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #paulina sanchez #danny phantom

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comfortless · 2 months

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Only Other

chapter two of three.

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of violence & gore, more groping, allusions to abduction, dubious consent to a nonsexual genital inspection, animal death, minor character death, masturbation.

wc: 10.6k.

<- previous.

Everything feels unsound, a thicket of heavy vine curling it’s way up from the dirt to settle over you, in your belly, hair, anywhere. Sharp thorns and sap so thick you could drown.

Gaius is here, again, poised with his arms folded over his chest. You swallow thickly after you ask him to repeat what he’s just said. Something about eyes and ears between every crevice, beneath every board. He had a litany of reasons to believe you were not the sweet little maiden he had promised a halfway decent life to.

Careful as you thought you were, sneaking past the gate to roll in moonlight with the giant men of myth and smell the beasts and their pelts past the wall… The following morning had been the downfall of bliss. People take note when wolves begin to sniff around their cattle, and it’s no surprise that König was noted doing just that when he brought you back here on his horse with some sort of bloated pride when he named you his ‘Göttin’.

“Disrobe,” Gaius commands for the second time. The voice that comes from cracked lips and weathered jowls never falters: always so self-assured, stern, and where it may have sparked an interest in you from anyone else, here… it only feels vile. He’s the embodiment of the city itself: worn, cracking, splintered filth, left alone to wind and twist out of control.

You imagine he must have taken up the demeanor during his days as a centurion, but your head clouds when you try to recall the many times he’s monologued those times to you. Like his proposal, the dowry and arrangements, all of it feels blurry in your mind. You lose yourself to it when the strap is slipped down your shoulder, your body goading you do as asked for the sake of fewer future headaches.

There are no lemures looming over your shoulders these days, they only guide his hand, his voice. They haunt you in the shape of Gaius, an old hawk that screeches the commands you’ve no place to refuse.

The stola drops to your ankles with a dreadfully slow sweep, a century passed in a bolt of lightning. It pools down at your feet in a river of white. Graciously, Gaius doesn’t prompt you to remove the breast band where the truth of your bout lies embedded in little bruises, the mark of teeth scraped right by your areola in a rolling fit of passion.

Your betrothed boxes you in against the bench until the backs of your knees meet the wood, guides you down with weighty palms until you’re seated: feet pressed onto the seat, knees brought back toward your chest. In earnest, your stomach froths with a displeasure and embarrassment, but this is not the first time that the man had taken to inspect your pussy as if it’s your only worth in the world.

Whichever malady he possesses to make him like this… you could only hope that König did not have it. This weak, old soldier would be nothing short of a toothless dog should your bull take to charge him.

What was a dull glimmer of longing for his safety immediately sours to a wish for his goring when those cold fingers tug your loincloth aside and you’re laid bare for him right there on the bench.

The old creep inspects your cunt as though he were a medicinal woman. His fingers part your parched labia, not so much as a dewdrop of arousal there— completely unlike how your body had only seemed to melt and sing its pleas for König. He doesn’t whisper his pleasures in Latin about how pretty it is down there, doesn’t capture your mouth in a kiss that scorches you right through, only probes and prods at your slit to see if there’s any give.

Of course there isn’t.

It wouldn’t have mattered if you let the entire barbarian camp take their turns with you; you wouldn’t be any more blooming for Gaius. Men like him didn’t have the slightest idea of how to make a lady soft and dewing, they only thought that they did.

You knew with a certainty that this wasn’t normal by any stretch. After the first instance, asking the women nestled against their open windows, humming to sleeping infants curled on their chests only prompted sympathetic stares. “Have you no midwife?,” one had replied, face paled as she looked to you: the pitiable woman who had been inspected like a strange fish just for bartering with a man at his market stall for bread. Gaius had not found a thing then, and you had only begun to doubt his intelligence.

… Did he even know what a hymen was?

You will keep your secrets, and he will always play the fool. That’s just how peace would operate once you did share a roof with him.

“Well?,” you prompt, shifting a little in your seat when his cold fingers move to grip the plush of your parted thighs, examining closer with a low, raspy gasp.

A feint that earns no response.

Seemingly satisfied by a lack of a shimmering semen trail or whatever dullards like Gaius sought, he scowls and backs away, hands falling to his sides. There’s no bulge stirring beneath his toga, either. There’s an absence of anything that would make your relationship seem anything more than some strange transaction.

If anything at all, you have become a kept dove, clipped wings and cooing in a gilded cage. No more a wife than a pet or a pretty, glittering jewel. Something meant to waste away its days possessed.

You didn’t even know why he had chosen you, a lady with no gold, silk, or land to her name. Everything you owned he had given to you. Father, mother… whether or not you even had siblings, you were uncertain. Trying to remember only stirs up another aching in your head and you’ve had more than enough to worry about lately without the added sting,

“You’ve done no wrong.” It’s decided in a cold tone of voice. There’s a belief there, but only because the truth of the matter would make him look entirely the part of the fool that he seemed to play without notice.

“As I said.” You won’t run pleading to Juno for her forgiveness this time, or ever again. For the goddess of marriages and women to bless you with… this. Surely she never favored you very much at all.

You wouldn’t waste your bronze coins on fortune tellers anymore, either.

“Mind your words, girl.” He pats your cheek, feigning an affection that has never been present in this villa, in this city at all. You feel little more than like one of the slave girls— not whipped into submission, their plight was always far worse, but if you looked into their eyes for a moment too long, you knew you would find a part of yourself held there.

You nod your head and carry on puppeting yourself as you always have. Conversation comes stiffly as he wanders about your little home, noting what would need fixing before the night of your wedding, checking your food stores and even helping himself to a bone cup filled with wine. Even with it offered to your lips, speaking with him does not come any easier.

Finally, you utter the words that have nagged at the back of your throat since the day of his proposal, “Why do you want for us to be wed?”

The man pauses as he sets the cup aside, finger drumming at the rim momentarily as he regards you with an upturned brow.

“Your father’s dying wish was for us to be married.”

“Yes, but… who was he?”

“A great warrior.” That’s the only explanation you ever get, even when the confusion paves way to a simmering concern. How could you not remember your own kin? It seemed so unfathomable. Seeing so many large families walk these same streets as you… and yet you only had Gaius, hardly better company than a corpse.

“That’s all that you ever tell me.”

“… You will make a great wife.” He concludes the conversation, gives you a firm kiss on the cheek and leaves you to stew in the nothingness that haunts this place as though it were an ancient tomb.

Your days remain the same, nothing ever changing in your eternal cage that only grows ever-colder, more and more like a crypt.

Stitching, weaving, flowing. The animals needed tending, the marketplace was always bustling, and you’ve stopped listening to the poets. Their words only make you feel colder now.

You have met the things that lurk beyond these walls, and they do not speak of bubbling creeks and your gods; they soak their weapons in you, whisper like the trees and bellow like the mountains, ride their horses into battle without a scrap of armor on their hides. They don’t even fear the lemures or Jupiter’s lightning strikes. Maybe not even the changing seasons; harvests must be plentiful when your home isn’t surrounded by chalked clay and ivory.

You don’t turn to Juno any more, but you do turn to Mars. You pray not for the empire, but for his bastard.

Her altar had been tucked away to a corner of your room, replaced now by a stagnant cup of wine you dutifully purge and refill each night, a stray dagger you had acquired from a thieving child on the street, and a strip of red fabric torn away from an old tunic belonging to your betrothed.

When night comes and the weight of it all curls over your shoulders, you find yourself tugged down to the floor on your knees, whispering great fortune for that arrogant beast who had promised to take you to bed when next you meet. It always starts the same, your voice pleads to Mars, only to dither off to murmurings of a different name.

Though he remains distant, barking and bleeding out prey far from you, some semblance of him remains tucked between your ribs. A small echo, one that only seems to grow into a roar when your eyes close and you dream of wolves and their sharp-fanged promises, wisps of wind through low-hanging branches and not paved streets, dirt giving way beneath your feet.

He holds you in those dreams, whispers to you about your false gods when you stand over a stream, points out the only two in existence amidst the reflection with a curled finger.

In those dreams, you think you hear the voice of Mars, a fluttering leaf on the breeze detached from what he’s come to be: it tells you of thyme and rosemary, a foreign glade, of death and longing, and never does it breathe fire.

Then, you wake, ripped from the Elysian and back to wander Orcus with a heavier weight upon your soul.

— — —

Mars answers your prayers in the late autumn.

You do not wake to the sounds of horses or crackling fires outside, only something quieted and peaceful. The street beyond your window is silent as you stretch out to see what’s stirred you; not an animal or a man lies in wait, only the cool gloom of the moon tucked beneath clouds above.

Time only seems to pass more viciously these months. There’s a wedding to be had when the seasons changed; your yellow-red veil had been stitched with trembling fingers nicked several times over by needle, the lectus had been prepared and set on the first floor of the villa. The red cloth covering the modest couch seemed a threat in itself. You don’t hazard it a glance when you wander out of the door to take to the street tonight.

Dim moonlight does little to guide you, only making each shadow seem to stretch and warp in mocking, uninvited guests to set your shivering heart spinning.

There is just no time anymore, not here.

There, sits an owl atop a roof. Its dark wings stretched out as if to begin another flight, to coo its retribution to the sleeping city. You don’t dare to attempt to capture it, there would be no ritual tonight and no care if some harbinger brought doom to this place. It regards you with shimmering yellow eyes, and you think, for just a moment that you see the same feral look in them that you saw in your warrior. The bird wasn’t always the omen that others may claim, sometimes it’s only a sign.

The son of Mars has returned, his horse is waiting to take you upon its broad back and carry you to the mountains and the sea.

The chill on the breeze only guides each step you take as you clamber through that chipping hole in the wall and flee to the field once again. Strangely enough, the air even feels different out here, colder still but devoid of the shadows that climb and crush. The soldiers usually stationed outside the wall are not present now. You only reason that it was rare that they ever were, anyway, always too bathed in wine and kisses from flighty little women slaves to focus on the scape just beyond.

And there, further out from the opposite bank the stream, you see the glow of a fire.

It was strange to see the Goths had returned before your city’s own soldiers. Perhaps you had slept through their march, tucked away at some vast banquet filled with pillaged riches, the finest of wines and the most fresh of smoked meats before you had even begun to stir. Peculiar thing, being so accustomed to the rituals of men that for the most part you had learned not to even bat an eye. It mattered not, anyhow. What you sought was not another Roman to steal away your aspirations to take you as his woman.

Your pace is light and tentative, feeling the earth sink and mold around your bare soles. The thorns risen up from grass dare not poke you with their spines, the owls lurking in the trees do not chase or call, and the horses in the pastures seem at ease.

Even in a world bathed in black and silver, you feel golden, warmed from temple to ankle by that someone other lurking just beyond reach. The other gods could be condemned— it was Mars at your side all along.

The barbarian camp is in a similar state to when you had first seen it, just as you are with the ends of your gown drenched in water from the stream.

There are fewer to their numbers now. You count only three: two busied away with roasting meat over the fire, one running his blade over a flat stone at the mouth of his tent. You recognize them, somewhat, as you step closer, each just as imposing as the first with thick hair and wild eyes, but there’s no sign of König, not here in the open.

You’re stricken by fear immediately, clouding your head with doubt and worry: not for your own safety, but at the thought that your warrior was left to rot in the forests beyond, struck down by some other barbarian king.

You’re stood at the edge of the camp when your breath grows thin, pulse racing as your veins try in earnest not to burst with panic.

One of the men rises from the fire, gruffs something at you in his mother tongue, a deep rumbling like the rocks of old mountain and the timber of trees: like König. He stands before you, a wild mane of dyed hair atop his head, so deeply crimson and maroon you would even think it had been colored with blood from sheep or man, perhaps both.

He claps you on the back with a strong hand, the shove nearly enough to send your shivering form tumbling to the dirt, before you’re righted with a strong grip on your wrist. Then, he laughs.

“Come. König,” the man barks in his heavily accented voice, tugging at your wrist as if you were a mere calf to herd.

Your panic dulls somewhat, enough to wriggle out of his grip and shoot him a glare you had only previously reserved for your betrothed. Intent on playing the part of some strong yet benevolent noble woman it seemed, as you straighten yourself out and ignore the way that the mud and blades of grass stick right to the dirtied hem of your loose robe.

“He is here?” You ask after a moment, feeling a bit misplaced as this other, less familiar giant stares down at you. His eyes are not blue, but gold when the light of the fire pit illuminated him.

This one does not understand as much as you had hoped, because he only murmurs more incomprehensible words and pushes your forward with a palm placed right between your shoulder blades.

You don’t trip, but you had half a mind to hiss at him then, until you realize he is only leading you towards that same ugly tent from before.

The pelts have been changed out, somewhat. There is less gray now and more brown, hides from deer and boar alike, taken from their months of travel. The maroon fabric remains, layered beneath in such a way that seems to make it only seem more alive and bleeding this time.

“Keep warm.” The man speaks up again, and there is no mistaking the amusement in his voice. Insulting, what he dared to insinuate with those two words, yet… there’s a cloud of fuzzy, warm excitement billowing up between your breasts all the same.

The flap of the tent is held up by your own trembling hand, elation tinged with an anxiety, a clustering song played without harmony in your very bones. Though, it settles so easily when the light of the moon mingles with the candles within the cradle of wool and leather.

König is sat, recognizable from his very being, laden with scars and coarse light fur, vast as he had always been. However, his face has changed. Gone is the bleeding shroud you had seen upon him before: the cloth has been tossed away on the mattress, revealing a face that both chills and heats you to the very base of your being.

His face is not unlike others you have seen, maybe upon gladiators a time or two once the helmets were discarded and the dancing with beasts and men alike had subsided. There are scars there, too, a broken face revealing a menagerie of pain from the bump upon his nose to the chip in his tooth as he smiles. His eyelids are still smeared in darkened mud used to make him seem that much more sinister in battle, streaking down his cheeks not unlike the carmine that tended to use to paint your own.

Those eyes though… they stand out above all else, heart wrenching and sullen, and still, they rise to crease at the outer corners when his stare meets your own.

A man with more polish would have concealed the state of himself from a maiden; turned his face away and covered his nudity in the furs lining his mattress. You’re thankful that König is not like those men. His stare is as open as his body’s own articulation: he only lies back into the bed and beckons you near with a curl of his fingers to his calloused palm.

“I made offerings for you.” To you, but thankfully that phrasing doesn’t make its way out. You take your place on his mattress, carefully placing a palm over his chest just to feel— to touch, to be nearer to your god in some way. The time apart hasn’t been entirely cruel, but ‘kind’ would never suit it well either.

Your touch is answered by a heavy grip around your forearm, a gentle yet demanding tug that leaves you sprawled across him like some tiny animal gripping onto a tree: your head presses against his bare stomach, one hand tucked to your chest while the other is quickly pulled up to meet his mouth. König kisses you, right on your palm in some peculiar sort of reverence.

“Your blessing was enough.” You feel his mouth stretch, the brush of teeth against your flesh as he grins, something you’ve missed.

It’s a ruse; there are winding strips of fabric haphazardly tied over his chest, thick with the stench of iron. The blood is dried, but you could only imagine the state of the wound beneath it. Months upon months of travel with a chest wound… your heart crumbles, struck with worry then.

The seax sits intact, however, propped up against one of the wooden poles keeping the shelter in place. Even sheathed, you could assume with how dutifully the barbarian cared for his blade that it had been cleaned, sharpened and greased to keep rust at bay. Though the benevolence he had coaxed from you had not saved him, a part of you was almost pleased to see the weapon unscathed.

“You’re hurt,” you hear yourself say, far away, out amidst the turning leaves that surely watched him take a spear or a dagger, maybe even an arrow, toward his beating heart.

“Hm…? Men get hurt in battles, meine Göttin,” he says, so nonchalant, as though the fear of dying out amongst the trees and hungry animals did not exist for him at all. “You worry?”

You pull your hand away from him when he playfully nips at your fingertips; even wounded König seems more inclined to bite and make you squeal than settle into this expanse of fur to rest and heal.

Of course you’re worried, men fall to mere scrapes in time: grime coaxes its way in, wounds fester with an almost laughable ease, infection paves way for fever and…

“Take care of me…?” König’s voice comes soft, the softest you’ve heard. Gone now is that boyish, mocking lilt, replaced by something akin to trepidation. Fear for him does not come from the shouting of men with blades held high, but in small whispers begging for affection.

“Sure…”

The ruddy bandages are pried away from his chest by gentle hands, uncurled and left on the dirt floor to the side of the bed. The wound in his chest is not as severe as you had expected, a few centimeters deep, jagged as it curves upward… whoever had done this had not had the opportunity to properly pierce him before the offending weapon had been pried from their hands. Crushed. Followed by what you could only imagine was the attacker’s fretful shrieks when König advanced upon him.

Your fingers brush over the wound, gentle, as you inspect the blaze of red around its edges. There’s no clear indication of infection, but when a clay jar of honey is plucked from König’s belongings and brought to your hands, you dutifully dab the wound in its sweetness.

You tell him how it will heal, using the phrases you’ve only heard from the physicians about the city, failing to mention that you had not tended to someone like this before. He breathes his appreciation in a soft rumble when you wrap his chest in strips of cloth, tightening it comfortably just to tie at his side.

“Did you kill the man who did this?,” you ask once you’ve stripped yourself bare, shed your clothing to lie in a heap with the ruined bandages he had previously worn. Your body rests at his side, arm curled over his middle. A woman’s warmth was necessary to heal a warrior… perhaps it could remedy a forgotten god, too.

“All of them,” he hums into your hair, a whisper of a voice harboring words that should chill you to your very bones. König only appears pacified as he speaks, never minding his own madness, nor the blood caked beneath his fingernails.

You ask him what these men were like, who could have been capable of wounding a man as mighty as himself, and in turn he laughs. Surely, the gash must ache, but his voice never falters when he gathers you in two treelike limbs to pull your body ever-closer to his own.

He tells you that they were familiar, that your men in their dye red tunics held their spears and struck down some of his men but could not hope to best him.

He tells you of the cowardly ambush, how the warriors of your city turned upon his own with shouts and anger after a slave woman had been released. The way the woman spoke… as if she knew more about you than you ever had, how he could not bare to watch her suffer when she even resembled you in some ways: older, but still so very much like you. He had felt killing her captor to return her to the forest was the only way he could keep your favor.

While you listen in a stasis, stuck ridged against him as your mind drifts, pulls memory from the darker corners within your skull, he strokes at your shoulder, presses his nose right up to yours.

The man who had struck him was smaller… weaker, he had not survived König’s first blow, but… There’s a frothing madness in his eyes like the sky threatening storms when he tells you that he could not bear the thought of a man that would think to harm anyone like his goddess finding a way to return. His attacker was ripped limb from limb, body burned with the rest of those that followed his order.

You remain entirely silent, taking in this whispered tale as though it were breathed from the mouths of the gods themselves.

You never needed to pray to Mars, to Juno, to Vulcan…any of them. The embodiment of fear lies as a welcomed presence next to you, stroking along your back as though you were a mere kitten while he breathes this gory story against your lips. The smile returns when he finishes, pets at your jaw as if awaiting a reward for his perceived good deed… and you allow his madness to slip right past your teeth.

The touches brush over you like the featherlight breezes of the past spring, fingertips grazing from your waist to neck, nails leaving lightened stripes over the flesh he carefully claws at, gathering your skin, the meat from your bone, to roll between each pad of his digits. There’s further worship, a desperation to ensure that you are still here as he pants into your mouth, grips at your hip to pull you closer to where he aches the most.

There’s no pelt sprawled over his groin to hide himself from you, no thin linen to protect where he wishes to reach most. All you have is your words, and a thumb delicately rubbing over his bandage. When the kiss breaks, only then do you think to speak.

“When you’re better.”

The man makes his protests, gives his cock a few strokes as he hisses into your ear about promises, the horse, how long he’s dreamt and waited. You don’t need to be convinced, but now… your mind is riddled with what’s occurred in your months apart. Though the tension remains thick and wafting in the air between you, the physical could wait until you’re both sorted.

While you remained stuck and forlorn, struck by longing and misery, he had only found some semblance of meaning for all of what has eluded you, slayed every man who he could envision bringing you- anyone like you- harm, came back with another wound to fold over into a puffed scar.

You’ve only been waiting for your own sentencing.

Your warrior softens when your eyes begin to swim, fragile and overwhelmed as you’re tucked away beneath him. He only holds you, protective with an unwavering grip as the moon sweeps through the tent with its melancholic comfort that finally pulls the tears right from your eyes.

“Meine Göttin…,” he whispers against your temple, before you press your face into a broad shoulder, hiding tears and frail hiccuped sobs. “I prayed only to you.”

The words come barely audible, though they were never truly necessary.

You feel them in every touch, every hurried whisper as he coos his apologies in that keening voice, every kiss pressed over your warmed face when relaxation snares your limbs, and you do bloom further against him. The comfort and adoration is near staggering, taking you in and pulling you under, further below than even the rivers of your dreams and the ocean just out of reach could ever hope to.

As though this were the most natural thing…

The altars of your villa before were mere practice for the worship of lying next to your own deity; bastard son or Hercules, a wolf or a wild boar, none of it mattered.

He sighs, cups your face to kiss you just once more, something far more chaste than what you’ve come to know from him; the small peck to your lips holds more weight than the clatter of teeth and tongue from before. When you begin to drift off to a dream of a glade filled with nymphs where the trees breathe sap that tastes of honeysuckle, all bathed in the glow of starlight, you only feel the need to silently pray for one last thing: that he will never let you go.

— — —

It’s only on the seventh morning that you come to a realization over a breakfast of figs and water from the stream just below the hill— one that you haven’t been home. You feel at home enough here. The stuffy villa seems only a distant memory when you’re seated across from him, the giant who showers you in so much love it feels warmer than the great flames of Vulcan’s own fury.

No one has come to seek you out, either. Gaius had to have had an idea, should he have even bothered to search for you in that now desolate home. The few soldiers you have witnessed on their patrolling across the field never seem to turn an eye to the barbarian camp. You fill your pots with water, taking aid from König’s men, and never once have they turned to you.

Judgment always seemed so swift with all apart from destiny. You reason that this is surely what it must be, a destiny painted high above in the stars on nights where the mist does not curl up to conceal them from your gaze. You watch them sometimes, when König relaxes his grip in sleep: you turn to the outside of the tent to stare up at the expanse of stars and hear the stories of this nameless king from the mouths of the very men who have braved each storm with him.

They tell you in shattered language of stories you know with a certainty must not be entirely true. They range from talk of the hundred wives König supposedly had that he released all when he met you, of the temples built in his name all lined with gold and the names of jewels you had never once heard spoken, of how he had even slain your great god Jupiter… You have always listened with great amusement, wondering just how highly he must speak of you to have his men lie for him so brazenly.

Laughter follows you back to König’s tent each night, waiting to hear the cries of their king expending his love upon you that never come. You tend to his wound, observing its healing as the days come and go, and with each rebirth of the sun, his touch only seems to grow more imploring, his words sweeter than even the fruit held up in your palm.

In the haze of the morning sun spilling in from the parted flap of the tent, his eyes seem alight with an unnatural flame when he pulls you in to seat you upon one of his muscular thighs, far too rowdy for an injured man. You think not to refuse him when he laps at the juice from the fruit that has trickled down your chin.

“I love you.” He professes his devotion in that same pleading voice, an arm curled around your middle to keep you securely in place. Another thing that you never needed the words spoken to know.

You bring a fig up to his mouth, feed him with a kiss to his cheek and a whispered confession of your own. From the moment you saw him tending to his seax on the bank, your heart had become a howling, skittering animal in the cage of your ribs. You murmur words stolen from the poets against his jaw, about love and flowers, the mating dances of beasts and gods alike. With each word spun, he clutches you tighter, echoes them in his mother tongue.

The confession ends in a kiss that leaves you cloudy, aloft, a union of tongue and soft panting that leaves each nerve thrumming rapidly. The bowl of fruit slips from your lap, left to scatter over the ground forgotten.

König lowers you to lie back on the bed, teeth nipping and raking down along the column of your throat, over your pulse… back to your breasts that he caresses in two large palms.

“Not yet,” you remind him. His touch grows more insistent, thumbs pressed to your nipples to roll over them until your back arcs and your thighs tremble. “You’ll open your wound…”

“I am fine,” he huffs when he releases you from such delicious torture. “Let me…”

You can not bring yourself to tell him the true reasons as to why you can not. Not yet. You’re a mere stroll away from the city’s beckoning gates, from the place where you’re set to be wed only a fortnight from now. The mouth of Orcus that will drag you back in and keep you caged away from him… it would be too bittersweet to make your passions clear when your doom still imposes upon you with just a glance outside. If it ever comes… and you silently begged to any greater thing that it never would.

“When you’re healed… when you take me away from here,” you promise.

König listens in his own way. You see a flash of mischief when he separates from you with one final generous squeeze to your breast. This isn’t just the casual acceptance that comes with children being scolded, but an urgency to contend your words, a desire to prove himself buried in those shimmering eyes.

“Meine Göttin thinks that I am weak, hm?”

“That is not what I said.”

“I will show you.”

All at once, König rises from the mattress, casually shedding the bandage over his chest to discard it. You want to protest to whatever it is that he’s doing, but you knew very little of the minds of these men, their proclivities and desires, only that above all his intentions only seemed to be to prove himself worthy of worshiping at your feet, between your parted thighs…

As if to taunt you, the stiffened cock between his own legs bounces, drools when he stands. Your head spins as you force yourself to sit up and look into his eyes instead.

“What are you doing?,” you ask when he gathers his seax from the place he’s left it propped up, followed swiftly bu the pelt he usually donned around his middle with its leather straps and worn, gray fur.

“We will go on a hunt, hm? I will show you how…” He trails off with a grunt as he fastens the straps, finally conceals the pale, proud pillar when the fur comes to cover his groin. The seax follows as it’s tied to his narrow hip, the pommel glinting in low light as he approaches the opening of the tent and gestures for you to follow.

He should not be going on a hunt, and you… still did not even possess a weapon to aid in such an endeavor. Still, the thought of seeing him actually in the midst of a heated battle stills your breath for a moment, spurs you forward to follow along behind him.

The men around the camp speak with him for a time, prattling on in their mother tongue, gesturing out towards the trees with grins brimming with excitement. They all seem enticed by the prospect of felling some noble creature to drag back to their camp, make a true sacrifice for the goddess made mortal that lurks here. König dismisses them with a wave of his hand, clearly intent on being the only one to gift you such an offering.

He barks an order to the man that led you to his tent, and within moments this other man brings a Roman spear to your warrior, recognizable by its intricate engravings and barbed tip. König weighs it in his hands for a moment, glances back at you with a grin that simply screams his satisfaction of holding a trophy pried from the grip of one of your own detestable soldiers.

You follow after him through the dense forest bordering the clearing. The trees have long since shed their summer green, replaced instead by reds and golds, the dead falling to bathe the forest floor in bronze and brown. König walks slowly as to not cause too much sound to pass beneath the weight of his bulky body, encouraging you to do the same in a hushed demand with each crunching leaf beneath your soles.

Finally, he comes to a halt overlooking a small ridge that overlooks a small clearing. The brush and thickets rise high here, no doubt the birthing place of brambles and thorns, ground passive and untouched by all except the animals hiding within trees and bedded down in burrows. One still walks, awake and alert, a brilliant red stag with antlers more vast than even the horns of the bulls sent off to play war with the gladiators.

The creature is stationary, chewing cud with each movement of its dainty little jaw. It’s tail twitches, ears flicking on occasion when a bird swoops too close or the sound of a snapping twig out in the distance echoes through the forest. It’s a beautiful, delicate thing, but still strong and sturdy. The stag looks perfectly at peace here, not noting the wolf that watches over the ridge.

By the time that the deer does catch sight of König, it’s already too late. The arm holding the long spear is already pulled back and raised high. When the creature moves to resume its prance, the weapon is sent spiraling through the air, twisting and spinning in the absence of a breeze like a living thing until its point is found bedded in the stag's protruding belly.

The creature bleats in pain, writhes and kicks as it comes crashing down to a bed of brittle leaves that clamor beneath its weight. You close your eyes when you see the ground painted with blood from its seeping wound, and König begins to descend upon it. There are other sounds that follow, thudding blows in quick succession that leaves very little to your imagination; you’re only grateful he brought such a pretty thing a swift death.

You walk ahead of him on the way back to camp as he carries the animal’s corpse, politely telling him that if you look, you will not eat.

He gives his spoils to the other men once you’ve reached the camp again. They cheer, readying their blades to carve the creature up for a meal of venison and whatever amount of wine remains in their stores. The rations had been cut off since the others had failed to return, it wouldn’t be long until there was no wine left without one of them fetching work for coin within the city and purchasing it himself; still, König ensures that your cup is filled to the rim with it’s tart sweetness, grape with notes of something earthy, a mixture of thyme embedded into it to bless it with scent like a pomander.

You seat yourself in his lap, looking every part of a pretty earthen goddess as he presses his face to your bare shoulder, traces shapes into your hip while you sip from your cup. His men do not stare, either, regardless of your state of nudeness. There’s respect here, embedded into their flesh, their beliefs, and you only feel the part of a noblewoman when you take note of it. You are not just any man’s woman, but their leader’s most revered treasure.

The others pick apart your harvest of flesh, hang the skins to dry for further use, the antlers and bone left in a heap to be cleaned, then sharpened and carved. Your stare is appreciative as you watch them work away, never having seen this side of things from your modest villa. A fire is stoked when the usable meat is peeled away from what remains of the bones, ribs and femur, others that you could not hope to name.

“See?” König chimes as he takes hold of your hip, squishing you closer, tighter amidst the space of his palm. “Not weak..,” he hums into the hair at the back of your neck.

His touching grows more persistent, eager as the tips of his fingers graze your inner thigh; though appeased, you were not keen on the idea of straddling him before the eyes of his men as though you were only a breeding pair of foxes, screeching your passions into the forest for birds and bears to hear. When a throb resounds from his stroking, you wind yourself away to sit at his side instead, jaw resting on his knee and cup raised up to hide your breasts from his field of view.

“I did not say you were. Just hurt.”

He gives an impatient grunt in response, but allows you to linger in this new position, taking to stroke at your face and shoulders instead.

When the meat is cooked to their standards, still bloody and near raw to your own, the men chatter away between mouthfuls and thick swallows of their wine. You try to keep up, forcing yourself to commit some of their more common turns of phrase to mind— obvious yeses and nos, the way that they call one another, the names that would sound strange on your tongue but suit the others all the same. When your expression falls to confusion, König whispers translations into your ear; they’re discussing the Romans… what they will do if their rations are cut entirely, something about a deal struck before your interest summers and you resort to eating the venison you hood in silence.

It is not that you feel out of place, only lost. These men live in a separate world entirely: there is no talk of ironed out politics, organized festivities, of weddings an plotting for farmland. There is laughter here, even song when one of the trio seated across from you and König begins to bark out a loud chorus from a tune that your warrior so sweetly explains to you is about a woman who ventured out to elope with a cave-dwelling bear. Peculiar wild men that they were, you don’t even bother to question how that could ever possibly work.

When the afternoon sinks into the coziness of evening, you walk hand in hand with König back to his tent, and just as with any other night, there are cheerful, foreign goads and tedious little sounds elicited behind you. The wine had you peaceful for a time, but its haze has since passed. Your sheepishness is apparent at the implication, but the wolfish grin König shoots back at his men is anything but.

You know he expects to fulfill his promise entirely— make you his lover, wife, whatever he seems to see you as. That could not happen… as much as you thrum for him with each brush of his warm palm against your backside or upon your face, eternally gazing up at him with your dumb and doting stare.

To your credit: when his gaze crawls over you to take every bare expanse of flesh in, he only sees a beauty that he seemingly can not comprehend. The tells range from the tightening of his jaw, the twitch of each digit when they meet your skin, the way his nostrils glare and eyelids sag. His profession from earlier was anything except just that: it was a truth.

As he strips away his pelt and sets his blade aside, your hands rise to press against his shoulders, forbidding him to go any further than this simple reveal. And you speak true, explaining your exasperating engagement with the foul man who made certain you were spied upon, your distaste for your life within the walls itself, and lastly the marriage that would occur once the seasons did change.

Your eyes feel nothing short of pure liquid when you seat yourself upon his mattress for what you assume would be the very last time. Your voice tapers when you reveal that those very reasons were why you had come to him that night for the horse, why you came back even now.

König listens until your voice is reduced to a somber whisper, broken up by weak sniffles. The flirtation in his gaze is lost, and there’s no grin that splits apart his thin lips. You think that, if he asked you if you felt similarly to him then, that you would break down in full, but he doesn’t.

Instead he hisses something in his mother tongue, a singular word: “Scheiße.” Then, another laugh is coaxed from his throat, the dozenth that you must have heard this night alone. He seems fully unperturbed, unbothered when he descends upon you as if you were nothing more than the very deer he had slaughtered earlier.

“It is fine. Alles gut.” He covers your face in kisses, biting at your cheek when you squirm against him. “I can fight him, hm?”

Stupid… so terribly impulsive and cute. You sigh as if exasperated with him, but envelope him in your embrace anyway.

“I just want to be free of all of it,” you explain in a hushed voice.

“Then we will be free,” he confirms. We. No longer just yourself, and you almost bring yourself to ask if he has truly meant it before you're reminded of his declaration with a swift kiss that punches the air from your chest and leaves you shivering.

You hold him tighter still, fingers weaving into his hair to massage at his scalp and draw back in a tug when his head cocks to nip at your jaw. Again, always, he encompasses you, pulls you down into darkened water that warms and thumbs around you. You lose yourself more and more with each touch, thumb brushing over the pulse of your neck, teeth nipping at your clavicle, the brush of his groin as he rolls his hips to meet the plushness of your thigh.

You ache, cry when he guides your nipple into his mouth, languidly lapping over you until his salivating is evident over your tit. He only grows less patient the more vocal you become; one hand remains played to the side of your head while the other steadily slinks down past your naval, trails off to grasp at you hip and steer you closer before descending lower, where only his blade had dared venture before.

“I have dreamt of this, meine Göttin,” he purrs when he shifts his hips. His cock rests heavy over your thigh, weeping the sheerness of its own demand to paint your flesh. He guides your hand there to palm at his steadily growing arousal, curls your hand around his length and guides it up to stroke.

His chest rumbles his pleasure as he groans against your cheek; the sounds are somehow more surprising than the ones you had heard outside the brothels. Before König… never had you heard a man voice his pleasure, and though it may have been emasculating to some, it only makes you wet, there where his fingers reach to pet once he’s satisfied with the pace you’ve set as you pleasure him.

Your thumb grazed over the flushed tip, smearing the preejaculate that drools from it, his hips buck then. Your own sounds join his chorus when he ghosts a fingertip over the hood of your clit, buried his middle finger into your cunt. The entire ordeal is lazy, lazy as the slow kisses that connect your panting mouths.

With each twitch of your wrist as you milk his cock, you’re met with a finger probing deeper. At some point, one becomes two, a try for three before he draws back and realizes you’re too close to begin to take anymore.

“Tight..,” he appraises in a low voice, tongue lapping over your teeth as you writhe at his side.

You pick up pace at his praise, adoringly offering him your love with quickened sweeps of your hand, of your thumb over the weeping head, until he begins to throb in your hold. König mutters a curse against your jaw as he struggles to keep his hand steady then, bludgeoning you with his fingers, circling your clit until you begin to whine.

The heat builds within you so quickly you begin to see the night sky beneath your eyelids— an expanse of stars, of glowing blooms, and all at once the heat becomes too much. You curl into yourself, struggling to keep the demanding cock in your grip as you grind your hips down upon his hand to ride out your orgasm, bleary eyes and weakened by the intensity of it all you merely muffle your cries against his waiting mouth.

It takes no time at all for him to finish then, thick spurts of white seed paint up from your mound to your belly, coating your fingers in its stickiness. He hurts his teeth through it, intent on stifling the desperate little sounds building up in his throat, kisses you with even more fervor when you bless him with another tug to milk out every last viscous drop as it kicks and throbs in your hand.

He settles briefly, trailing kisses from your jaw to shoulder, then rises to part your legs with a strong grip around each thigh. For a moment, you almost think he’s prepared to fuck you proper, but the thought dissipates when he gathers his own seed over the head of his still hardened cock, settles it against your cunt, and grinds his seed against your salivating hole.

Your whine is clipped and almost pained when he brushes over your clit, hips rising to pull away when you feel the tickling burn of overstimulation. It doesn’t last; satisfied that he has left his spend close enough to your pussy that he may as well have laid claim to it, he crashes down over you, head pressed between your breasts.

König’s breath still comes in a pant while he huffs his affection for you: praises, those three wonderful words again and again. His tone is tender, reverent, as he tells you that he loves you… immediately following it with a stout and crude declaration of how roughly he will fuck you when the time does come.

“Do you mean what you said…?” You find your voice when he finally stops whispering the filth of his fantasies to you, when your cunt ceases its pleading for more. Right now… it would not be as special anyhow. Your fate still lies in the grasp of another, and as much as you wished for it to align in full with him, that simply was not so.

“Ja,” he answers immediately, no hesitation when he commits himself in full to you, the Roman woman who had tamed him down with her silly whims and ache for him. “I will take you to the mountains, the sea, …the stars if you ask.”

You comb your fingers through his hair, filled with mirth as he speaks of such impossibilities. There is no place in the stars for two misplaced lovers, but you don’t dare say that. The things that fill your imaginations would leave even the poets balking, scrambling for the words pretty enough to describe a love so peculiar.

— — —

You had not questioned why they remained, that was your folly.

You had never thought that you would even care should you see the city fall. Though… dread immediately strikes your heart with ice and silver when you’re bolted awake by the sound of shrill shrieks and loud crumbling. There’s a war just beyond the veil the tent provides: loud sounds of heavy feet, shouts, even the clash of metal upon metal if only for a single stuttering beat of your heart.

Vulcan has descended, rode right through on flaming steeds with flame rising from his open maw. You know it with a certainty without even approaching the opening to look. But you do. You do move away from the empty mattress, finding the space where König had slept against you, snoring softly and tugging you closer in your bliss, entirely devoid of any warmth. The air is warm, tinged with the heat of coursing flames, but the bed is cold, frigid like the fear that cinches at your heart and steals the breath from fluttering lungs.

There’s ash in the air, falling like the first snows of winter when you make your way out of the tent, coughing into your hand as it clasps over your mouth and nose. The air is so thick, noxious and darker than even the backdrop of velvety sable marking the horizon. Your eyes track the twisting, feathering pillars of flame as they rise even higher than the wall: a gold and red death.

Shadows scramble across the field— men, women, then the horses, the bulls, that come thundering past. The animals trample and shriek: broken bones, hooves driven through skulls to erupt into mush, leaving twitching, scorched corpses in their wake.

Fire billows up only to fall and rain down, back onto the murderous beasts in some abstract punishment. You watch the puppets writhe and squeal; perhaps your own cries join them, wailing and crying out as all you’ve come to know is engulfed, smothered, destroyed. What the fire does not take, the shattering structures do.

Amidst it all is glee.

There are shouts of men on horseback that come out as the victory roars of men amidst battle, yipping and howling as all is reduced to rubble around them. Your feet do not guide you toward the chaos, they do not bring you to peace either, only far— far as you can go.

The smell alone makes it worse than it ever appeared in your dreaming. Blood, oil, cinder and ash that plummets deep down into your stomach, pushing back up to purge what became of the deer. You feel how that creature must have: alone, terrified, certain that death was biting at your heels. If you had fur it would bristle, antlers would plow through the brush to carry you to safety, but… you do not. You’ve only the ability to gather yourself enough to fall. You descend down the hill in a painful roll as your legs give out beneath you.

You want to close your eyes, to sink into the stream and bid the fire away with desperation alone. When you lower to the grass to wretch, fingers digging into the earth, your gaze snaps back to the scene just beyond the stream.

You know, know dreadfully well that the people here that have managed to escape were hunted down in a veil of inky blackness. The ghouls of myth could not compare to this… This was very real, real as the scent of cooking meat and hair and wood.

And you watch and wait for the fire to burn out, for the animals to cease their rampage and fall back to a calm that never comes.

You stand to your feet, meekly trembling before the wrath and chaos, and you wait with splintering nails clawing at your thighs and unshed tears blurring your vision. There was always a price to pay for freedom, you had seen it time and time again in gladiator pits, monetary and dull, but never this…

And you know the price for yours was paid in fire and vengeance, promised before you ever even had the notion to disappear at all. There was always tension between the Goths and your people. This was bound to come about sooner or later, but the guilt of potentially being the catalyst to it all brings you back to your knees.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring out into the abyss in silenced fear, but eventually all that fills the quiet is the dull roar of the fires still burning and the dull sounds of a horse’s trot growing nearer. Just across the bubbling little stream, untouched by the death beneath the full moon, is König atop his sable steed. The creature huffs just as König cocks his shrouded head, prompting you in his silence to say anything— deliver your blessing, your thanks, your kisses.

Yet, you can not bring yourself to deliver anything but a weak, anguished wail.

The stream is crossed before you’ve even the time to raise your head, limbs gathering you up to pull you against the broad chest of your god in the cruelest tenderness. You feel limp there, atop this frustrated horse, in the arms of the man who had sacked this city. They will come for him, kill him too… You will be alone with nothing and no one, and stupidly, you find yourself longing for the comfort of calling to Juno in that bedroom you would never see again. All of this just for pleading for the very horse you now perch upon.

He lets you cry as holds the reins in one hand and carries you away from this desolation. The horse walks further than you have ever even seen. The stream before the barbarian camp is not the only, there are orchards and glades and fields of tall grass even further beyond it. You take in the beauty as the city becomes a glimmering speck far behind you.

König only remains silent, stroking your back with his free hand, so lovingly and gentle you find it almost impossible to believe him capable of such cruelty. Your mind is tired, limbs weighty and chest aching from breathing in so much smoke. You do not even realize your exhaustion until you find yourself in a fitful sleep.

There are no dreams, no wonderful comforts, only slow breaths and pained whimpers.

When you do wake, the sun has risen in full.

You’re lying on your back amidst withering grass, a pelt thrown over your body and a figure sat at your side. There’s no longer the stench of smoke, no drab gray clouds hanging over your head. The air is light and tinged with the tartness of buckthorn. There are white, puffy clouds hanging up in the vast blue of the sky, and as you blink, a thumb moves to stroke at your cheek. Soft, so soft and even tentative when it rises to your temple.

“You should have slept longer.” König’s voice comes, not reprimanding, but in a gentle surge of breath. He sounds as exhausted as you still feel.

You’re angry… but you know not why. It feels performative, almost, when you shove his hand away. You want to wail for what you’ve lost, but that voice never comes. Gaius? A home you never liked? The lectus that would be used as a stand to consummate a marriage you had begged to avoid for months on end? What was lost?

“You are going to die.” Your whisper comes strained, tight and tinged with your own misery.

“You worry for me again?”

You shake your head at that, fierce as you turn on your side and away from him again. The dying grass digs into your flesh beneath the fur, scraping like claws, like König’s very touch.

“We are not going to die, little one,” he continues as he moves closer to you, trying to gather you up into his arms in an act of comfort. Your tension rigidly leaves you, though you try to force yourself to remain closed off, it does not happen. You mold against him when he lies at your back, hand splayed over your stomach.

“I never said we. Just you,” you huff. Your hand meets his wrist as his thumb begins to stroke at your naval. The desire to push him away again only dissolves when he winds out of your grip to take your hand into his own, forced lower to feel the cold earth and the warmth of each digit beneath your touch. “They will hunt you down.”

“Then I will die at your side.”

You don’t respond to that, finding his desire to further prove whatever this was entirely incomprehensible now. It is not endearing, you force your mind to reason. This man was more than just tedious at times, but dangerous to… To burn an entire city on a whim then curl against you like this… You whimper, keening and sorrowful as you squeeze your eyes shut— force the macabre thoughts out.

“You are like me,” König continues, a low rumble as he lowers his head to press his cheek to the side of your neck. Even amidst the chill of winter, he’s so warm, so soothing, enough to make you melt like wax from candles… perfumed by his own sweat and the ash he left in his wake, so earthy and lofty all the same. “Kleine Göttin…”

“No… I’m not.”

“You come from the mountain,” he urges with a kiss to your shoulder. His grip around you becomes more insistent with each muttered word, the pads of his fingers pressed further to dimple your skin. “The slave woman told me so.”

You didn’t know the woman he spoke of, you didn’t know anyone still living apart from himself and his men. You want to yell, to drill it into his very skull with your words, but even more than that, you want this comfort.

You want to feed him figs, allow his tongue to sip the wine from your own, and to fall asleep against him with his breath tickling at your scalp. More, to share the life with him you once promised to a deceased man buried in ash…

Truth be told you were not even sure of your standing, Roman or barbarian… Though you had never told him that, his resolute tone leads you to believe all of it. You had always longed to bathe in rivers rather than crowded bathhouses, to crest the tops of mountains and taste fresh honey on your tongue… The titan promises you all of those things and more with his tight hold and in a purred, breathy, “I love you.”

All that you could not prevent dissipates in a plume when you twist around to bury your face against that chest, curl your fingers into his hair and breathe out your resistance in its entirety. The most pitiful of surrenders.

#könig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig #konig x you #cod fanfiction #f: only other

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thelastofhyde · 1 year

Text

i. the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.

warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!

word count. 12.9k

hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it

taglist. @kayleezra @newavenger + add yourself to the taglist here !

read on ao3 ! ( capitalization available )

distaste is not new in the life of joel miller.

in particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. he is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. the years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.

if anything, he’s made himself more empty.

rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.

an apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. the man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that miller guys passed between cowardly members of fedra and the keep away from mr. miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.

this plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become dead-weight.

“so that’s all i am to ya, huh? dead-fucking-weight?” his brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving joel to do what joel does best: endure.

somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the dead-weight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.

she was an exception, his tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. they’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.

she never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.

which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of tess’ foot against his shin.

“... and then,” frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. with a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. we were finding paw-prints for days!”

joel’s unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. as if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the german shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

“which means i was cleaning paw-prints for days.” bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.

frank is quick to shush him.

“i’m sorry, again, bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “i’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”

there you sit, parallel to him.

the sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. it hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.

you catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.

the threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which joel can account for, mouth to keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. the battle ends swiftly as you surrender to bill’s hardened stare, and frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.

“you, sit. no one should have to clean up the food they made.”

they get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.

silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and painting you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun hind a large cloud that causes such a thing.

being alone, with you, is something joel’s never mastered. the affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.

were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.

something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. the dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.

just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.

the ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. he’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.

the pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.

“he likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.

as if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.

to envy a creature that licks it own shit off its ass is a new low for joel.

“thinkin’ he might like ya more, sol.” the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.

“most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.

he takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and tess have made.

“you’ve got a whole load in common, you know? i think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”

“how the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” there he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. it helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.

“well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. he’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “and have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”

he’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.

discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘s easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”

with you as its protector.

he doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. he watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.

survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.

but i could keep you safe.

he toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. it’s not the first time he’s thought it. truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.

his memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just bill, frank and you. a few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was frank who’d prompted the question. “where were you all when... this started?” tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’ll never meet.

he never imagined her working in a bank.

bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” he’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. she was barely out of school. “i knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.

joel had always been a good listener. being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. all this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of bill.

but you weren’t smiling.

he watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.

the desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. with each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. he’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“you’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “those we remember never truly die!”). he’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘could keep you safe. there, then, the thought did cross his mind.

he’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.

“-could fix it, you know. i’m good with my hands.”

he almost chokes on his own breath.

i'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. and he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.

“what?” the question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. in the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.

the mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face joel once more.

he sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.

“your watch, it’s broken.”

“hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “don’t need ya to fix it.”

you pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. confusion.

“don’t you want to know the time?” you ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and joel miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.

“i don’t keep it for the time.”

you smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.

the german shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.

he’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. it’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-

“ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” you’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “i’ve never heard any of the joel miller backstory, this should be-”

“i get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”

nature falls silent.

skies grow dull.

you juggle sadness.

there’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. the dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.

joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

“sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. only, the gates have been shut in his face and joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “but you’re wrong. i don’t like everyone.”

“‘s that so.” his eyes roll. the hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal joel will always be wiling to place you on.

“yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “i don’t like you, joel.”

the hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.

we’re staying, for tonight. tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the qz for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day

the nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading bill and frank- mostly frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. if only joel could remember which door leads to yours.

the two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.

tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a fedra agent’s wife, you whisper that frank and bill had been fighting again recently. the memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly bill and frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.

at some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. at another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-n’t tell me you’re a virgin.

the words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

a protest rings true in his head and his ears.

was gonna say. knew you were young, but not that young.

it’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“god, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. it was alright, i guess. i just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

he’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. a groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“not much to miss?! sweet christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” he’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken tess. each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. there’s no need to bother opening his eyes, joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “i’d give up a hand for some head!”

you must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of tess’ renewed shock fills the room. he wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“you’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“it bores me!”

“it bores you!?”

the couch beneath joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp tess gives. the last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

the crueler part of his mind replays your voice, i don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

you like tess. love her, even. it’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out finally someone with a pair of boobs, i’m bored of the sight of my own. joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“must not have been doin’ ya right,” the bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. you’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. it’s oddly endearing, you think no one has noticed. “this fella of yours.”

joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

he does so, regardless.

“well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “we were each others firsts.”

“that’s no excuse! trust i left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time i went down.” tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. no discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

you scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “what, are you offering your services?”

this he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which tess had raised you to heaven while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘as sure as i am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you i like my women a little older than you.”

he knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the qz. it should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. but he can’t, and he won’t.

and you’re the one to blame.

you, with the glow of a thousand suns. you, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. you, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

his own self being the first he’d need fight.

joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

the next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

he’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. some small, meaningless little things, that ripple joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. others, tsunamis. big, angry, all imposing. they’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. but the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. they catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. in the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

the currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

this evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. he reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. the gentle, barely-there croon of a sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. across from him is tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. snoring comes from below him, where joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

you take up no space of this room.

neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

there are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

he should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. a good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

he could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure frank wouldn’t mind. bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the qz.

he would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. he imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

i don’t like you, joel.

those words stop him from trying.

he tells himself it’s for the best.

with a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. he swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. the door’s already half-opened, and joel nearly thanks christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. the darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

the refrigerator.

it’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. a subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

she never lived long enough to get either.

he catches something move beneath the artificial light. cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“why aren’t ya sleepin’?” the words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

beneath the light, you shrug, “could ask you the same thing, texas.”

he curses tess for teaching you such a nickname.

he curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

you’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, joel remains unaware.

he grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. the door behind him closes over and give the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“i asked first.” you laugh, at him. full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. the corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. he hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you, bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘s so funny, huh?”

“nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “just never heard the joel miller say something so childish. you’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

you make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. a fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. uncouth and unbothered, joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“you know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” you call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. the thirst does not budge. he hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

by the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“i’m making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “make sure you take some with you when you leave. tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. he’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

i don’t like you, joel.

of course you would do the same. not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. all words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. they violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over joel’s entire persona.

he straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. the sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. his hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, and the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of tess, and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what joel hears.

i don’t like you, joel.

over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. you’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

and, suddenly, joel’s angry. at you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. the fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

a hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise joel gifts you.

you may leave your marks emotionally, but joel’s will always be physical.

“why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “don’t ya like me?”

if not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “why do you care?”

he scoffs, “i don’t.”

“hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody tess was playing in the living room. “sure sounds like you do.”

“yeah, well, i don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

joel knows he cares. it’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to bill and frank’s.

what joel doesn’t know is why he cares. there’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. he’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

not one bit.

joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. his feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. his chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

he inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“for the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘s like how i sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. no part of him should ever be compared to you. “i don’t like ya either.”

he’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

the knife never ceases its movement. back and forth, back and forth. chop, chop, chop. blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. it’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

the hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“that’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point.

it’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“you only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. his wandering touch halts. “a little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what i think.”

this strikes a nerve. fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. the realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “d’ya know what i think?”

even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“no, unlike you i don’t care what you think about-” joel tugs on your hair once more.

“i think you’re a brat. a silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” you could. he’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

“you’re hurting me,” you whine, joel growls.

animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. his gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

your dress- red, a colour joel miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“you like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“no, i don’-” dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “joel.”

he retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. whoever joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and tess. the blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ talkin’ bout your past.”

he doesn’t specify.

he doesn’t need to.

you give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. his hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “i wouldn’t.”

you say nothing. joel pulls harder.

“too bad i’m-” you cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. with a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, joel watches you like a hawk. the twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. the want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “too bad i’m not offering you the chance.”

joel miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. with notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“who said anything about an offer?”

the descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

a part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

the other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. you’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs longer than any tree in the amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the himalayas. arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, joel knows how to read people. and, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

you breathe in, you breathe out.

one knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. he revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

inhale, exhale.

your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. all he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. with the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “don’t move.”

where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. one flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. a wet patch, your wetness. the stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

curiosity gets the better of him- one day, joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers curling themselves in the waistband of your panties and the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

in and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

the lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. a heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. he makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. there’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. he wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. he thinks it must hurt.

his fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in joel’s peripheral vision.

“shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “people are tryin’ to sleep.”

you scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘s that an invitation to see how loud i can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. this, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “or a challenge?”

“it’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

as coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. so he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. he awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

it’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“you’re drippin’” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. the view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘s actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. is it cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

he can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

but first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

it happens so sudden, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of tess. he wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

so he does the same.

working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. he breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“so now you shut up. ‘s the matter, huh?” he’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “am i too borin’ for ya?”

“you’re the most infuriating man i’ve ever- oh!”

a tongue meets skin.

the knife clatters onto the counter.

you lurch forward.

his hand pulls you back.

“tess was right, ya know?” he can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. he pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “that boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

the common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better, if you’d just let him.

‘could keep ya satisfied.

that’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. he’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? what ya need is a man, a man like me!” the softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension, god it’s never sounded sweet, and joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. he imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “but if ya insist.”

diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. the tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure.

he’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by only experience that comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. you’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

he’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

what a perfect excuse you are, for joel to remaster the arts of lust.

it’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. it’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. it’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever days he shall possess on his knees before you.

and all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass.

his only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. it does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“n- ah,” you can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “no, don’t, not there.”

next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. the sound of whatever record tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

and, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

his eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within bill and frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. there’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time tess tells him they’re due a visit.

except, the oven door is made of glass.

glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. you, with hands gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

and then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

the image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“d’ya touch yourself, sol?” you don’t answer him, but that’s okay. in a sweet change of pace, joel miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “yeah, bet ya do. late at night, right? once you’re all alone in bed. ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

you back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “let me do the honours this time though.”

you don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. he imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

he’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

you’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. your expression, he can’t quite read. not sad, not happy, not mad.

your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

the discomfort of trekking back to the qz will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

he swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. he’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“that,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. he pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “shouldn’t have happened.”

joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

people once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. as sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. not today, however, and joel miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

it chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. there’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

that dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

he cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “no, not again. my back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the german shepherd’s head. it whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. a scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “not so bad, are ya? huh?” never in a million years did joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and tess had set out for their routinely visit to the bill and frank’s. never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

he hears you before he sees you.

“you planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, texas?”

he tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

the world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

so instead, it sends you.

peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than uv ray could ever be. he’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. a few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. at the very least, he considers, i’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

the smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. when he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. he does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. you’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

a queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. he’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “no problem, thanks... for feeding tess and i.”

“no worries!” you’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. he can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “oh, actually, that’s why i came out here, i was looking for tess-” of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “hold on!”

you shoot off back inside so quickly that otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. with an idle pet to his head as you pass by, joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. in your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“i wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. he can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “i know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

you show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him, “there should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

it’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

so he tries again, louder.

“why don’t ya like me?”

“and i’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

he grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "answer me." like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"for someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. you don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “you sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"answer the damn question, girl.”

“or, what?” you’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “you gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

joel says nothing.

“how about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and bill make.” inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “you get me something, i’ll tell you what you want to know.”

he grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “what d’ya want? ‘cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. i ain’t messing with none of bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“a dress.”

“a dress?” the statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“yes, and don’t look at me like that!” it’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “i need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

unaware he’d even began to lean closer, joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time.

“joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

neither of you dare to break eye contact. again, his name is yelled. this time, he manages to identify tess as the owner of the voice. habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of tess or you.

his feet remain glued to the ground.

tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “think you might be needed inside, macho man. your missus is calling.”

“she ain’t my-”

“you two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. in her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. you approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms.

“i should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. he decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “go check on the food, before it burns.”

you’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

tess and him hit the road by noon. earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. the bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun heating the world with its rays. he walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from tess and racking his brain for answers.

answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the qz. answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven bill’s created. answers to why you don’t like him.

i don’t like you, joel.

it motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. if he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

till then, he needs to find a dress.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller oneshot #joel miller fic #pedro pascal smut

3K notes · View notes

cryptidghostgirl · 3 months

Note

Heya! I just found you and I knew that I immediately had to put in a request!! May I ask for Alastor x chubby reader?? With hurt and comfort?? Where a random demon makes her feel bad for being chubby and Alastor comforts her AND CONFESSES that he's in love with her 🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️ and then in true Alastor fashion he rips the demon apart for making reader feel bad PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

A/N of course!! this is good vibes. yes. 11/10 for the adorable scale. I've been writing so much angst,, the fluff request is so welcome. ALSO THIS GIF I FOUND FOR THE IMAGE OF THIS STORY IS SO CUTE WTF.

Sweet (Alastor x Chubby!Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Warnings: Hurt//comfort, tw for body image stuff/issues, gore but make it cute, uh... fluff. Sickeningly sweet fluff. Extra TW body image stuff. May or may not have channeled some of my ten years experience with eds into this one besties, sorry about that.

Word Count: 3,330

Master Lists:

Master Lists

Hazbin Hotel Master List

The truth of it was: Y/n knew exactly how pretty she was. That didn't keep it from hurting when people made unprovoked, snide remarks about her weight. More than one thing can be true at the same time.

She was kind of used to it by now. People in the human world had been rude on occasion, she'd had doctors occasionally act discriminatorily towards her because of her weight, a shitty date or partner or two who told her to lose it, but it had been nothing in comparison to Hell. It was Hell after all, home to the worst of the worst. Y/n tried to toughen up, thicken her skin. After a life on earth and another fifteen years down below she couldn't help but feel like it shouldn't hurt anymore. It still always did.

This one had been particularly bad. Y/n had stepped out of the hotel, intent on meeting a friend for lunch. She'd gotten all dressed up for it too, in her favorite outfit with her makeup done all pretty. She hadn't just felt good stepping out, she'd known she was hot. There had been a spring in her step and a coy smile on her face as she lowered her heart shaped sunglasses from the top of her head.

Five minutes, four blocks. That's all it took.

"Jesus, who let you outside in that?" the man had laughed, "Cover that shit up, I'm gonna vomit."

Y/n had sent her friend a text, saying she wasn't feeling well. She had apologized and asked to reschedule. Y/n had gone home.

Angel Dust had tried to approach her as she had stormed into the lobby but, she had brushed him off, rushing to her room. Y/n hand't meant to be rude. She had every intention of finding him later to apologize, the tears had just been pressing hotly behind her eyes and she needed to be alone. She loved Angel, trusted him, through of him as a brother but god, she did not want to cry in front of him. Not right now anyways, not over something so... so... stupid.

Y/n slammed the door to her room harshly behind her as she entered it, throwing herself onto the bed and burying her face in the pillow. In the comfort of pinks and piles of stuffed animals, she sobbed.

It wasn't even the comment that was getting to her anymore, although it had been a particularly awful one. No, what was upsetting her now was how she'd let it get to her. She felt stupid and weak and more than anything in the world she just wanted to rip the clothes off her body along with her skin and disappear from the physical world.

Her shoulders shook harshly, the pillow now damp. She was sure her makeup was a mess but didn't care. It wasn't like anyone was going to see her anyways, not until tomorrow at least. Y/n was trying to get redeemed but she wasn't trying to get made fun of. If she could keep this to herself, she was going to.

It wasn't that she didn't trust the others in the hotel. Y/n actually trusted them more than about anyone she'd met in Hell up to this point. They were kind and caring, invested in themselves and one another even if they pretended they weren't. There was just the fear. There was always the fear, the internal need for perfection, to show no weakness.

Almost as if the universe was fucking with her, as if it could tell exactly what she didn't want, there was a knock at the door. Y/n groaned audibly into the pillow. Of course, just when she wanted to be left alone. The knock came again and she slowly sat up, still sniffling and hurriedly wiping her eyes.

"Uh, yeah." she called, trying her best to keep her voice from trembling and praying she didn't look too much of a mess even if it was probably just Charlie or Angel, "It's open. Sorry."

Y/n's eyes widened slightly in shock as Alastor opened the door. Out of everyone in the hotel, he was probably the person she knew the least. She made the effort of course. Despite knowing his status and his history, she tried to play nice and make friends. It was he who avoided her, not the other way around.

To be perfectly honest, Alastor made Y/n a bit nervous. It wasn't because of his reputation. They were in Hell for heaven's sake, everyone had one of those. No, it was the way her heart beat a little faster when he was in the room. It was the way that every time she looked at him, she secretly hoped she'd catch him looking at her too.

Alastor had never been in Y/n's room before. It was all satin and pink and lace. He couldn't help but think it suited her to a t. It was all perfect, she was perfect. Except here she was crying, just as Angel had said she might be.

What had happened was this: Alastor had over heard Angel saying something to Husk. They were at the bar, Angel was drinking as always, and saying he was worried about Y/n. Alastor had pressed and when Alastor pressed, he always got his way. Apparently Y/n had come back to the hotel mere minutes after having left to go get lunch with a friend. Angel said she had seemed really agitated, genuinely upset.

That had made Alastor angry. Not normal angry more delicate than that, more minute. It made him upset, he hurt for Y/n in her theoretical pain. He wasn't used to this whole feeling things thing. His body on autopilot, Alastor himself had been surprised when he found himself before her door, poised to knock.

Y/n watched him, her eyes glassy and her cheeks flushed. There were dark circles of mascara beneath her eyes that matched the stains on her pillow behind her and her pretty dress had a few wrinkles in it.

"Whatever is the matter, my dear?" Alastor asked, stepping fully in to the room.

"Oh, nothing." Y/n tried to brush him off, looking away towards the window as she pulled a stuffed animal into her lap.

It was her trembling lip that gave her away. Alastor let the door fall shut behind him. Y/n turned as she felt the bed dip beside her, her mouth slightly open.

"I would advise you not to lie to me."

He hadn't meant for it to sound like that. He saw the way Y/n stiffened instinctually at his words, at his tone. Alastor didn't know how to exist in a non threatening way, its how he'd lived his whole life in this world and the one before it. It was how he protected himself. He took a breath.

"What I mean," he slowly corrected himself, "is that you don't need to lie. I..."

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the way he was forcing himself to be honest. Honesty was, however, the only option. He saw the way Y/n's gaze was distant, her body tense. For the first time in his life, he wanted to help someone else. It was strange. Alastor submitted himself to the oddity of it all, the discomfort. It was his gift to her.

"I'm here to help."

"I..." Y/n trailed off, big wet tears pooling in her eyes, "It's nothing. I'm okay, really. It's stupid."

With a gentleness that surprised both of them, Alastor lifted a hand to her face, wiping a stray tear. He held it on the tip of his finger before his eyes, examining the way a jeweler would a diamond.

"If it's upsetting you this deeply, it's not stupid."

That was the last straw. Y/n, unable to hold herself back any longer, collapsed into his chest. Her body shook with sobs. Alastor held his arms out, unsure of what to do with them. It took him a second to comply with her unspoken request, wrapping them around her. He found himself rubbing small circles on her back, trying to soothe her.

There was a reason Alastor avoided Y/n and it was that the demoness made him feel things. Things he was unaccustomed to feeling, things that felt dangerous in their warmth and care. Bubbly little things that got caught in his chest and tied up his tongue. If he had thought about his actions, he wouldn't have come to her side but he hadn't and so, here he was. This was all unknown territory, he felt blind and alone in the dark. Alastor didn't like that.

They stayed like that for several minutes until Y/n was finally able to regain some control of her breathing. She calmed herself methodically, as if it was a ritual she was well practiced in. Alastor found himself wondering how many times she had felt like this, reacted to something in her life like this, and had no one there to hold her. He didn't like that thought. He couldn't decide what was worse, if no one ever had been there or if there was someone else who she wanted in times like this, someone other than him. Someone better, more well versed in the delicate intricacies of emotion.

She lifted herself from his chest, his arms falling from her back to his sides as she wiped the last few stray tears.

"I'm sorry." she half laughed, "I don't know what came over me... and I've ruined your suit."

Alastor looked down. There were indeed black stains from her running makeup on his jacket. Normally such a thing would irritate him to no end, anger him even. It was Y/n who had made them however and so, he didn't care. He turned back to her, shaking his head slightly.

"Nothing a wash can't fix. Now, why don't you tell me what happened?"

"It's stupid." Y/n shook her head, her eyes finding her hands in her lap.

She still held the stuffed animal there, a rabbit. She fiddled with it's ears absent mindedely, twisting them and rubbing them in a practiced manner.

"Y/n." Alastor gently warned and she sighed.

"It's just... something someone said to me. That's all."

Alastor's brow furrowed slightly at the notion.

"What did they say? Who was it?"

The words had fallen from him quicker than he had meant them to, more earnestly. He was grateful Y/n seemed to stuck in her own world to notice such a thing.

"Just some asshole making a comment about my weight. Saying that I shouldn't wear what I wear, saying the sight of me made them nauseous. The normal dickwad stuff. I should be used to it by now, I've been chubby all my life but... I don't know. It still just makes me want to disappear. To rip myself apart by the fistful, you know?"

Y/n looked up at Alastor when he didn't respond, her cheeks red with embaressment.

"I told you, it's du-"

"Who the fuck said it?" he asked through gritted teeth, trying his best to remain calm.

"Alastor, it's fine." Y/n sighed, "I don't know why you're getting so worked up about it. Like I said, I've heard it all before."

She made to turn back to the plushie in her lap but before she could, Alastor cupped her face gently in his hands.

"Al... what are you..."

"Y/n, you are stunning."

There he went again, not thinking. Y/n was dangerous, to be avoided. She paraded around in her sweet sundresses and angelic disposition, practically unfit to have been sent to Hell in the first place. She was the simple syrup in lemonade, she was the best mixed drink.

Her tongue ran gently over her lips, an innocent and thoughtless gesture on her part that sent his mind reeling as she mulled over his words. Her brow furrowed.

"Alastor, I-"

"You are the most beautiful person I have ever laid eyes on, living or dead."

There he went again, his tongue a million miles ahead of his brain. Y/n let out a light laugh, her head still in his hands.

"What?" Alastor asked, feeling the heat rush to his cheeks, "I mean it."

"I thought you hated me." Y/n confessed.

"Far from it, my sweet."

His voice was barley more than a whisper. Y/n looked away.

"You drive me to distraction."

Her presence was like some strange truth serum rushing through his veins, now he had started, he couldn't seem to stop.

"I've never... You're unlike anyone I've ever met. You shine in this dark place."

"Alastor, this is a lot." Y/n admitted after a moment.

"My apologies." he let go of her face, his heart sinking, "I did not intend to make you feel worse."

He should have known. Alastor, in his foolish frenzy, had forgotten himself, his legacy, his persona. How could someone as sweet as a sun ripened strawberry stolen straight from the bush feel anything towards him save fear?

"I'll go."

Alastor made to get up, had every intent to actually leave and give Y/n her space. At the felling of her small hand on his arm, he paused and turned back to her.

Y/n's face was bright red, she refused to meet his gaze. Her arm not holding him was wrapped tightly around her stuffed animal like a charm.

"No, please." she took a deep breath, meeting his eyes once again at last, "I... I think... you're rather... handsome... as well."

Her speech was halting, uncertain in its anxiety. His smile widened.

"You do now, do you?" he asked, lifting her head a little higher with a finger beneath her chin.

"Oh hush." she scolded him, "If anyone was going to lie out of the pair of us, I'm pretty sure it'd be you. I am trying to be redeemed, in case you've forgotten, and you probably just want my soul or some shit."

"How can I prove to you that the only way I want your soul is given willingly and out of contract?"

Y/n laughed again, a genuine joy.

"Pinky promise me."

She held up a hand and Alastor quickly locked pinkies with her.

"I meant every word I said. I've had... eyes for you for a while now. You are the rosy fingered dawn. You are... you're you. You are Y/n."

"I am Y/n, aren't I." she smiled cockily back.

It was a relief to see her return to her normal confident self.

"I meant everything I said too. I've... I've had eyes for you too, or whatever."

She looked away, her cheeks even brighter pink than before. Alastor let go of her pinky and, leaning forward, pressed a soft and tentative kiss to the top of their head. Y/n immediately snapped her head back to him. Before he could register what was happening, she had tackled him in a hug, throwing them both to the bed.

Looking down at him from her perch on his lap, she smiled brightly.

"Can I kiss you?"

The question took him by surprise. He had never kissed anyone before save the tender kiss on the cheek reserved for dear friends and close family. He hesitated in indecision, in uncertainty.

"You're allowed to say no." Y/n followed up, noticing his apparent discomfort, "I don't want to move things too fast for you."

Alastor shook his head, the truth of his own desire unexpected even to him.

"No. You can."

Y/n's smile widened as they dipped down, pecking him on the lips. His cheeks warmed as she straightened herself up again, her hands pressed flat against his chest.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that for."

She smelled sweet, she looked sweet, god, she probably even tasted sweet. His tongue darted out of his mouth across his lips jus ever so slightly, the flavor of her strawberry lipgloss fueling his infatuation.

"Do that again."

It didn't take long for Alastor to track down the demon in question that had sent Y/n spiraling that afternoon. After their promise had been made and she had agreed to the date he had proposed for the next day, she had spilled everything. Her head in his lap as he had run his fingers through her hair, she had complained liberally about the demon. Her complaints had, thankfully, included a full description of the man.

Once the hour was late and he was sure she was fast asleep along with everyone else in the hotel, Alastor had slipped out onto the streets. The demon was, of course, easy to locate. He was loud and distinctive. Alastor found him drunk in a bar harassing a woman. He watched, waiting patiently until the man left and when he did, Alastor followed him.

He cornered the demon, sending his shadows to torment the man. He was on his knees close to tears by the time Alastor finally decided to join in on the fun. He leered down at the demon, grinning from ear to ear.

"I heard you said something rather cruel today." he hummed.

"I didn't!" the man pleaded, "I swear!"

"Not even to a pretty little demon in heart shaped sunglasses?"

The man's eyes widened slightly in obvious recollection.

"I... fuck, I didn't know. I swear, I didn't know who she was. I didn't know she was with you!"

Alastor stretched in the darkness of the ally, his horns growing thorny and tall as he entered his true demon form. The man trembled in fear. It was pathetic, truly.

"It doesn't matter. You ruined her plans for the day and so, in return, I am going to ruin you."

With those final words, he pounced. The tongue of the man was the first thing to go, ripped with great force from his throat and tossed to the side.

Next were his ears, Alastor tore them from his head slowly. The man screamed, a choked and guttural sound through the blood in his throat. Alastor laughed shamelessly, his claws finding a home in the demon's stomach next.

He disemboweled the man with ease, careful to keep everything connected so he was still alive. Then, he went for the eyes, gouging them out in harsh slashing movements. Alastor straightened himself, looking down upon his mess of a creation.

"I would say that next time you will think before saying something like that again but, I think we both know there wont be a next time."

A strange sound left the demons throat, obviously a plea of mercy. Without a tongue, he could not articulate his wishes.

"What?" Alastor asked, putting a hand to his ear as he slowly returned to his normal appearance, "I am sorry but could you say that again? I couldn't quite make it out."

Another strangled, desperate sound left the man's throat. Alastor laughed.

"Well, I've given you a chance to beg for your life and you have chosen not to take it." he taunted, leaning back over the man, "I supposed that means you have opted for death. Very well."

In a single, swift movement he tore the man's throat from his neck. The demon twitched under him for a few seconds longer before at last stilling in death. Alastor examined his work for a moment before pulling himself to his feet. Without a glance back towards the body, he straightened his jacket and let his shadows take him from the ally.

Y/n was under his protection now. He had tried so long to avoid the call, the weakness, her charms pulling him in. At long last, he had succumbed and under his watch, no one was going to ever make her feel anything less than perfect ever again.

----

A/N This is the first time I have ever written something like this, I hope it was okay.

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