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dakusan · 28 days ago

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N O S A I N T I N K

Tattoo Artist!Han Jisung x Reader | He tattoos like an artist and eats like a god. You're ruined. Congratulations.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You just wanted a tattoo. What you got was a cocky artist with a praise kink, a filthy mouth, and the ability to make you cum so hard you forget your name. What starts as innocent skin-on-skin becomes texts at 3AM, breathless calls, panties on the floor, and getting ruined over a tattoo chair by a man who calls his dick “emotionally supportive.”

💌a/n: HELLO DEMONS. welcome back to my sin bin. and YES. i spun the wheel of filth™ again because i have too many prompts, too many requests, too many ideas and i am ONE feral braincell away from combusting. this week’s winner of the roulette: jisung x reader, tattoo shop edition. hence why this was posted late — i had no idea what to write and then accidentally birthed a full plotline, two orgasms, a man with separation anxiety, and the best dick of your fictional life. oops 😇 p.s. reblog this or i will haunt your mirrors at 3AM whispering “dumb little slut” in han’s voice. p.p.s. if you message me your fave skz member, i might drop you a mini filthy tattoo artist!AU ficlet just for them. no promises. only threats. p.p.p.s. light a candle. hydrate. send this to a friend

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » MOVE — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:32 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Late afternoon, Seoul.

The sky is bruising purple with evening haze. You’re standing outside a tattoo parlour in a tucked-away alley—NO SAINT INK—recommended by a friend who said, “Go there. Ask for Han.”

You’re nervous. Not just because it’s your first tattoo—but because your stomach won’t stop twisting with that type of anticipation. The kind you feel when you know something irreversible is about to happen.

The parlour looks nothing like the industrial, hyper-masculine shops you've passed before. It’s dark, yes—but with soft underlighting. Neon signs buzz low in the windows, one glowing "SINNER'S HANDS" in deep red. Another in cursive:

“we only leave beautiful scars.”

You push the door open, bell jingling. It smells like antiseptic and incense. Lo-fi hip hop pulses from hidden speakers. The walls are matte black, scattered with flash art—some delicate, some obscene. A few erotic, one absolutely feral. You step toward the desk—

And then you see him.

Han Jisung.

Slouched in a leather chair behind the counter, legs spread wide, one hand holding a sketchpad, the other spinning a tattoo gun idly between his fingers like a toy.

Dark, slightly wavy hair. A few strands falling into his eyes. Rings on nearly every finger. One silver bar in his eyebrow. Another glinting on his lip.

He's wearing a sleeveless hoodie, arms covered in ink—some intricate, some scrawled like afterthoughts. His forearms flex as he shifts, glancing up at you lazily, and then—

Freeze.

He smirks. Not the kind of smirk you’re used to. This one slides slow across his face like silk on skin—cocky, amused, interested. He sets the sketchbook down and stands, sauntering over.

“You lost, angel?”

His voice is warm gravel. A little teasing. He’s already clocked you as a first-timer.

You swallow. “No. Um… I think I have an appointment? For 5PM?”

He leans against the counter, gloved hand flipping through the schedule.

“Name?”

You give it. He taps the page. “First ink?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

You nod.

His eyes drag down your form and back up again—like he’s marking you before the needle ever touches you. “Cute.”

A pause.

“Alright. You’re with me.”

The moment he leads you past the curtain, everything quiets. Not literally—there’s still the low thrum of lo-fi beats playing through overhead speakers, and you can hear the soft buzz of a machine in the next booth—but something in the air shifts. You’ve stepped into his space now.

The room is dim, intentionally so. Not cold or sterile, but intimate. The walls are painted a charcoal grey, with scattered framed sketches and flash art displayed like gallery pieces. A small desk against the back wall is cluttered with ink bottles, gloves, stencils, and scribbled notes on napkins. There’s a chair in the center—sleek black leather, mechanical levers gleaming faintly under the spotlight aimed above it. It's positioned deliberately beneath a halo of warm light, like a stage for sin.

Han gestures for you to sit.

You do, heart already hammering harder than you'd like to admit. Your hands grip the armrests automatically, more out of nerves than necessity.

He sanitizes his hands in silence, then slips on a pair of black nitrile gloves with practiced ease. The snap of the first one makes you flinch. He notices.

A flick of his mouth—half amusement, half something darker.

“So. You still sure about it?” he asks, voice calm but low, like smoke over velvet.

You nod, holding out the reference image you brought—a small, simple design. Meaningful. Something you’ve thought about for months. A delicate poppy, petals slightly unfurled…But at the base of the flower, instead of a regular stem, it grows from the open mouth of a tiny anatomical heart.

Han doesn’t look at the paper right away. His eyes stay on you for just a moment longer than they should. Then he takes it gently, fingers brushing yours through the gloves.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, gaze flicking from the paper to your face. “Subtle. Clean lines… this’ll look good on you.”

You try to smile, but your throat feels tight. “Thanks.”

“Where do you want it?”

You hesitate. Then, softly: “Ribcage.”

That earns you an arched brow and the barest flicker of a smirk.

“Shy spot. I like that,” he says, turning to prep his materials. You watch the muscles shift as he reaches for a stencil pad. “Okay, shirt off. Just what you need, nothing more. I won’t bite.”

You freeze.

He pauses for a beat. Then tilts his head, eyes crinkling slightly. “Unless you beg,” he adds with a wink.

Your cheeks go hot. You laugh—nervously. It feels like your skin is already burning.

You carefully lift your shirt just high enough to expose the side of your torso, tugging the fabric over your bra, folding it under your arm to keep it out of the way. You're acutely aware of how much skin you're showing—even more so under that bright, direct light.

He kneels beside you with the stencil, gaze focused. You expect him to avoid eye contact, to be clinical—but Han is anything but.

His fingers brush your waist, and they stay there, warm through the gloves. His hand spreads slightly, holding your skin steady as he gently presses the cool stencil to your ribs.

“Breathe for me, yeah?” he murmurs, glancing up at you with a crooked smile. “I’m gonna press it right here…”

You suck in a breath, chest rising.

He places the stencil deliberately. Slowly. His face is close—close enough that you can see the curve of his lashes, the faint sheen of gloss on his lip ring. You smell cedar and musk on his hoodie. His fingers flex slightly against your side.

He looks up.

“You’re already twitchy,” he says softly, voice dropping just enough to make you forget how to breathe. “Gonna be a fun ride.”

You don’t know if he means the tattoo. And neither does he.

He stands and moves to the table beside him, switching out tools like it’s second nature. The machine buzzes to life with a sharp mechanical hum.

You tense.

He catches it immediately.

“First pinch might sting,” he says, voice suddenly gentle, almost coaxing. “I’ll talk you through it. You’re good.”

You nod again, trying not to clench your fists.

Then his hand is back on your body.

He anchors you with one palm spread wide over your side, right above your hip. It’s not forceful, but there’s weight to it. A possessive steadiness. The leather chair creaks faintly under the shift of your body.

And then the needle touches. A sharp, sudden sting. You wince.

“Breathe. Just like that. You’re doing so well, pretty,” he says, voice a constant hum in your ear. “Your skin takes ink like a dream. Fuck, this is gonna look good.”

You exhale through your nose, trying to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the burn.

It helps. But not in the way it should. Because Han doesn’t shut up. Not once.

“Don’t squirm too much… unless you want me to slip.” “You’re soft here. So fucking soft.” “Bet you’re the type who likes being teased, huh?”

You let out a choked laugh, more from panic than humor. He grins, eyes glinting.

The buzz of the machine, the heat of his palm on your skin, the constant commentary—it all blends into a haze. You’re dripping adrenaline and something else entirely. You feel like you’ve been stripped down far deeper than your shirt allows.

After what feels like both a lifetime and a blink, the needle slows. He lifts it. “Almost done. You’ve been such a good girl for me.”

The words land like a slap and a stroke at once.

He sets the machine aside, reaching for a fresh cloth. He wipes your skin slowly. Not rough. Not rushed. Every pass of his hand is careful, gentle.

You’re trembling now. Just a little.

He leans back finally and exhales. The air feels different. Like it’s shifted again—thicker.

“There,” he says. “Wanna see?”

You nod, throat dry.

He helps you up—guides you to a mirror near the corner. His hand stays on your back.

You look. And for a second, you forget how to breathe again. The tattoo is perfect. Clean, delicate, exactly how you pictured it. But it’s not just the ink that makes your chest ache—it’s the fact that it’s his. His hands made this. His touch. His art. On your skin.

“My work’s on you now,” he murmurs behind you, voice low and close. “You’re not gonna forget me, are you?”

You shake your head. You couldn’t if you tried.

The moment you slide your shirt back down, your skin feels… different. Not just because it's slightly tender from the ink, but because his touch still lingers. Like heat soaked into your bones. Like a fingerprint on your soul. You shouldn’t be this affected—he’s just your tattoo artist. Right?

You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, blinking as he finishes cleaning his station. His gloves come off with a snap, and he tosses them into the bin. You glance up, and—yep—he’s watching you.

Leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, hair a little mussed, rings catching the light. Smug as hell.

“You survived,” he says, voice bright with that chaos-riddled lilt again. “Didn’t cry. Didn’t puke. I’m impressed.”

You roll your eyes. “High praise.”

“I’ve had grown men pass out from rib pieces,” he shrugs. “One guy farted. Loud. Mid-linework. I almost dropped the machine.”

You snort despite yourself. “Well, thanks for not comparing me to the Fart Guy until the end.”

He grins, wide and gleaming. “No, no, you’re top-tier,” he says, stepping closer to grab your care sheet. “Didn’t even whimper. Except for that one part where your breath hitched and I thought—y’know, for a second—you might come on the chair.”

You nearly choke. “Excuse me?!”

“Kidding,” he sing-songs. “Unless…?”

Your glare is ruined by the flush racing up your neck. You stand and grab your bag in a hurry, trying to save face. “You’re awful.”

“I’m delightful.”

He leads you back toward the front desk, swaying just slightly with each step, like he’s got too much energy stored in those shoulders. You swear he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. It’s giving feral golden retriever with a tattoo gun and a praise kink.

You hand over your card while avoiding eye contact.

He hums dramatically as he takes it, flipping it over like he’s studying an ancient rune.

“You sure you don’t wanna tip in other ways?” he says, deadpan.

Your jaw drops.

He grins, swipes your card, and taps it dramatically against the reader before handing it back. “Joking, obviously. Unless that wasn't a ‘no,’ in which case, I’m free next week—Tuesday, after 7?”

You grab the receipt from the printer and scowl at him. “You flirt with all your clients like this?”

“Only the pretty ones who shake when I touch their ribs.”

You stare.

He smiles wider.

“Okay, okay—last line, I swear,” he chuckles. Then, softer: “Hey. Can I get your number?”

The way he asks it—it’s not sleazy. It’s bold, sure. But there’s this undercurrent of actual interest, like he’s asking for something more than just your digits.

You blink. “Why?”

“‘Cause I want it?” he says, grinning. “Also, in case your tattoo needs a touch-up. Or emotional support. Or if you just feel like sending me hot selfies. It’s a multi-purpose thing.”

You hesitate. Your pulse says yes before your mouth does. He notices. He always notices. You hand him your phone, and he immediately types his own number in, labelling it:

HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” JISUNG 🖤

He sends himself a text from your phone, winks, then gives it back. “Now we’re connected,” he says “Digitally. Spiritually. Carnally—well, not yet.”

You open your mouth to sass him. “You were so close to being cool,” you say.

“Close is my middle name.”

You snort and shake your head as you step toward the door. “Bye, Han.”

“See you soon, angel.”

You’re out the door.

The texting started immediately. Like, within minutes of you leaving the shop.

What began as tattoo care check-ins (“don’t scratch it or I’ll spank you—unless?”) turned into daily chaos. Then nightly chaos. Then a full-blown flirtationship spiralling out of control.

Han texts like he lives inside your brain—firing off filthy one-liners between jokes that make you wheeze-laugh at 1AM, switching between “you’re my filthy little secret” and “pls tell me I’m cute or I’ll cry.”

You finally cave after he begs you to get ramen at 9PM “as friends who have sexual tension.”

You show up. He’s already sitting cross-legged in the booth, hoodie sleeves rolled up, lip ring glinting, chopsticks twirling in one hand like he’s about to duel someone.

He greets you with: “You look edible. I meant that in a respectful way. Mostly.”

You try to play it cool. He doesn’t let you.

The whole night is full of dumb jokes, spicy noodles, and under-the-table foot nudging that turns into ankle grazing that turns into—

“You keep that up, baby,” he murmurs across the table, “and I’m gonna drag you to the bathroom and remind you what these fingers can do.”

You nearly choke on your drink. He laughs, head tilted back, so proud of himself.

You leave flustered. He kisses your cheek in the parking lot. Just your cheek. But his hand lingers at your waist. His mouth is right next to your ear.

“Call me when you can’t sleep,” he says, low. “I’ll make sure you get tired again.”

You almost trip on the curb.

The calls eventually started and slowly became routine. Especially those 1AM phone calls, they were like clockwork. You, in bed, breath heavy as his voice would melt through the speaker.

“You touching yourself yet?” “You want me to talk you through it?” “Want me to tell you what I’d do if I had you on my lap right now?”

He moans in your ear when you do what he says.

Filthy. Unfiltered. And when it’s over—when you’re breathless and ruined—he says the softest things:

“Wish I was there to hold you.” “You’re so fucking hot, but you’re also cute and funny and it’s unfair.” “You still like me, right?”

It’s not just lust anymore. It's want. Sticky, addictive, confusing want.

It started with a text.

Just one. Sent on a whim while lying in bed late at night, staring at the first tattoo he gave you—delicate black lines peeking from beneath your shirt, still soft to the touch even weeks later.

[You, 11:23PM] thinking about getting another one

You didn’t expect a fast reply. But Jisung’s name lit up your phone in under two minutes.

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤, 11:24PM] oh?? 👀 where when how much skin we talking is it just an excuse to see me again (pls say yes)

You rolled your eyes. Typed back:

[You] hipbone small script and maybe what if it was both

His reply came in a blink:

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤] come by the shop this friday after hours no distractions just me. you. ink. doors locked. lights low. …for professionalism, obviously 🙃

You stared at the screen for a long time before replying.

And then:

[You] see you friday.

Friday. 9:04PM.

Seoul’s city pulse is just starting to dim when you push open the door to NO SAINT INK for the second time.

The bell doesn’t ring. He told you it wouldn’t.

The neon signs are still lit—SINNER’S HANDS flickering a slow blood-red glow in the window—but the rest of the shop feels different. Empty. Still. Like something waiting to be touched.

The lights are dimmed. Only one small lamp buzzes near the back, casting long shadows across the matte-black walls.

Your steps echo a little as you walk inside. Then—

“Back here, pretty.”

His voice, low and smooth, floats from behind a curtain in the far booth.

You follow it. Pull the curtain aside. And there he is.

He’s already set up.

Tattoo machine prepped, gloves laid out neatly beside his sketch pad. He’s wearing an oversized black tee tucked loosely into ripped jeans, sleeves rolled just enough to show off the ink that curls around his biceps like living things.

He doesn’t look at you at first.

He’s focused on the script you’d sent him earlier—your design. A small phrase, handwritten in your own messy scrawl: “still hungry.”

When he finally glances up, it hits you like the first time all over again.

The way his lip curls. The way his eyes bite first and ask questions later. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something dark and fond. “Back for more.”

You lean against the booth’s edge, heartbeat already in your throat. “You said professionalism, remember?”

He stands slowly. Walks toward you. You can feel the heat radiating off him in waves.

“I lied.”

A beat. Then—

“Where’s it going again?”

You lift the hem of your hoodie just a little. Hook your thumb beneath your waistband and tug it down, just far enough to expose the sharp curve of your hipbone.

His gaze drops.

Stays.

He doesn’t speak for a moment too long. Just stares—like he’s trying to memorize you before he ruins you. “That’s dangerous, you know,” he says softly. “Letting me touch you there.”

You try to swallow. Fail. “You’re the one who said no distractions.”

He smiles. “You’re the fucking distraction.”

He gloves up without another word.

You lie back on the chair, heart slamming in your chest, every inch of skin suddenly too hot.

You’re not sure what you expected. Something casual? Familiar? But the moment his gloved hand touches your bare hip—steadying you, fingers spread firm and warm—the entire world narrows to him.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs, positioning the stencil. “Just like last time. You remember how good you were for me?”

You exhale shakily.

“You gonna behave again tonight, pretty thing?”

You whisper: “Maybe.”

He leans in. His mouth is close to your skin. His voice—barely a breath. “God, I hope not.” He’s still positioning the stencil.

And you? You're laid back on the chair, hoodie bunched beneath your ribs, waistband tugged low, every nerve ending on alert. The soft lamplight paints shadows across his jaw as he kneels between your legs, eyes focused.

And then—

“You know,” he says lightly, pressing the stencil into place, “I’ve seen a lot of hipbones. But this one might be my favourite.”

You snort. “Wow. So original.”

He grins without looking up. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“I’m sure you say that to all your clients.”

“Only the ones who sext me about popsicles and then block me for ten minutes.”

You go still. He finally glances up. Smirks. “Yeah. Thought I forgot about that?”

You mutter, “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he says immediately, like it’s a fact. “You want me to ruin your life. Slowly. Lovingly. With tattoos and aftercare.”

You cover your face. “Shut up.”

He laughs—a low, breathy sound. Then, softly: “I’m starting the line now. Hold still, baby.”

The machine whirs to life.

It’s quieter than you remember. Or maybe you’re just more aware—of everything. The way his gloved hand steadies your hip, thumb dragging along the edge of your waistband. The needle’s sharp kiss. The buzz settling into your bones.

And Han’s voice. God, he never stops talking.

“This spot’s sensitive,” he says, totally casual. “Most people squirm. But I like that.”

You tense. He notices. Of course he does.

“Relax,” he murmurs, dragging the line smooth. “You’re doing perfect.”

Another pause. Then—

“Don’t suppose you’re into pain, are you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He chuckles under his breath. “God, you so are.”

But then, just like that—his tone shifts. He quiets. Focuses. And the teasing melts into something heavier. “Almost done,” he says, more softly this time. “You’ve been so good for me again. Always are.”

You blink. Your heart skips.

He wipes your skin again, slow and reverent, then leans back to look. He’s still crouched between your thighs, eyes focused, lips parted slightly as he takes it in.

“Fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks up at you. No grin now. Just quiet, open admiration. “It’s gorgeous,” he says. “Like… stupid good.” He presses a kiss to his gloved fingertips and taps them against your skin.

“Still hungry,” he reads aloud. “God, I could write essays on that.”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Too late. MLA format. Double spaced. Thesis: you’re gonna kill me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re flushed. Breath shallow. Because now that the needle’s done…

He’s not moving. His hand stays on your waist. His eyes flick to your lips. Then back down. Then—

“You want me to touch you?”

The question lands like a live wire in the room. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t smirk. He just waits. Like he’s offering something sacred. Like he’d back off the second you said no. But you don’t. You can’t.

You nod. Barely.

His fingers tighten on your skin. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Say it. I want to hear it.”

You swallow.

“…Yes.”

“Yes what, baby?”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Jisung—”

“Use your words, pretty thing. Or I’ll stop before I start.”

You suck in a breath, eyes locking with his. “I want you to touch me.”

He moves instantly.

The gloves are still on when he presses his palm flat against your hipbone, fingers spreading possessively. His hand feels huge there—like it was made for this exact spot.

“Fuck. Been thinking about this since the first time you came in,” he mutters, voice dropping into something rough, reverent. “You looked so fucking good in that chair. All nervous and squirmy.”

He bends down.

Kisses the edge of your new tattoo, so soft it almost hurts. “My name’s not even on you,” he whispers, “and I’m still acting like you’re mine.”

Your stomach flips. You whimper.

And he grins, but it’s different now—hungry, not cocky. “Take your pants off.”

You blink.

He meets your eyes. “Let me take care of you.”

You obey—slow, breathless, trembling under his gaze. You slide them down and toss them aside. He leans in again, eyes tracing over the new ink and everything below it, slow and starving.

You’re not wearing much underneath, lacy pink panties, with a very obvious wet spot on your center.

He groans softly. “You’re already wet.”

You gasp when his fingers brush over you, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. “All this from a little needle?” he teases. “Or is it the artist?”

“Fuck you,” you breathe.

He laughs. One low, wicked exhale. “Oh, you will. But not yet.”

He leans back, peels his gloves off slowly—dragging each finger loose one by one, like he’s unwrapping a gift. Tosses them into the bin without taking his eyes off you once.

Then he lowers himself between your legs.

Spreads your thighs just a little further apart with both hands. You hear him exhale.

“Fuck. This is gonna kill me.”

He doesn’t touch you yet. Just leans in.

And presses a kiss right above your knee. Then the inside of your thigh. Then a little higher. And a little higher.

Your breath hitches when his lips ghost just beside the fabric.

“Soaked through lace,” he murmurs. “That’s so fucking pretty, baby.”

You’re shaking now.

He mouths over the wet spot—not even pulling them down yet. Just letting the heat of his breath and the drag of his lips torture you. You feel the scrape of his lip ring as he kisses you again, open-mouthed, right there.

“Bet you’d cum just from this,” he whispers. “My mouth through your panties. Barely even trying.”

You whimper. One hand fisting the edge of the chair.

His fingers slide over the wet spot next, slow and teasing. Two fingers rub a lazy circle, barely pressing—just enough to make your hips twitch. “I should leave these on,” he says, almost to himself. “Just push them to the side. Make you beg for it.”

You breathe, “Jisung—please—”

That does it.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband and drags them down—slow, deliberate, watching every inch of you get exposed.

He groans loudly the second you’re bare. “Holy fuck.”

Then he’s leaning in again, this time nothing between you. He kisses your inner thigh first. Then lower.

Then—

His tongue drags one long, obscene stripe up your center. You cry out, hips bucking—he presses a hand to your stomach, holding you still with an effortless command:

“Stay fucking still.”

Then he goes back in. He licks you like he means it—messy, slow, then fast and deep. His tongue circles your clit with practiced chaos. He moans against you, loud, like you taste like something sacred.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” he groans, voice muffled.

His hands spread you wider, his tongue dipping into your heat, nose pressed right up against your skin.

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your head falls back—gone.

“That’s it,” he purrs. “My perfect little slut. Look at you.”

Your hands tangle in his hair. You tug. He groans again and ruts into the fucking air, desperate for friction while he eats you out like he’s starving.

“You gonna cum on my mouth?” he growls, voice wrecked. “You want me to keep going or make you beg for it?”

You try to answer—can’t.

He pulls back for just a moment, lips and chin shining. “Use your words, baby. You know the rules.”

“Please—fuck—don’t stop, please—Jisung—”

“God,” he groans. “Keep saying my name like that and I’m gonna cum in my fucking jeans.”

Then he dives back in, faster now, tongue fucking into you, hand moving to circle your clit with soaked fingers while he sucks and moans like you’re his last goddamn meal. He’s everywhere—his mouth, his hand, the filthy hum of his moans vibrating straight through your core. He doesn’t pause to tease, doesn’t stop to talk this time. He’s all action now. Starved. Feral.

“Fuck,” he growls between licks, the words hot and wet against your folds. “You taste so fucking good. Gonna make me lose my mind.”

His tongue pushes in again. He flicks it fast, then slow, then sucks at your clit with a deep, wet moan that makes you cry out, back arching clean off the chair.

“There you go,” he pants, not even breaking rhythm. “Just like that. Give it to me, baby. Come on.” His voice is breathless, desperate—like he’s the one about to cum.

You’re shaking. Legs trembling. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Your hands are clutching his hair, holding him right where you need him, and he just groans louder, grinding his face deeper like he wants to live between your legs. His lip ring catches against your clit—again, and again—and your thighs clamp around his head instinctively.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch.

He just moans into you, hands gripping your hips tighter, holding you down as your whole body starts to unravel. You feel it in your spine. In your toes. In the fucking air.

“You close, pretty thing?” he slurs against your clit. “Yeah, you are. You’re fucking dripping—making a mess for me. So fucking perfect. All mine.”

That breaks you.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life—with a sob, a gasp, a full-body spasm that crashes over you like a goddamn tsunami.

You hear yourself. You scream his name.

Jisung. Jisung. Jisung.

And he takes it.

He drinks it down like a man possessed, moaning into you like you’re water in the desert, like he’s been waiting his whole life to taste you fall apart. He doesn’t even stop when you cum—he licks you through it, tongue softening only slightly as your body twitches and bucks and pleads for mercy.

It’s too much. It’s so good it hurts.

“J-Jisung—fuck—wait—too much—”

Only then does he pull back, chest heaving, face absolutely wrecked. His mouth, his chin, even the tip of his nose glistens with you. He looks dazed.

Blessed.

He runs a hand down his face and just stares at you—spread out, soaked, shaking, glowing.

Then: “Holy fuck.”

You blink up at him, still gasping, brain static.

He grins—wide, flushed, proud as hell. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. Best pussy of my life.” You try to sass him. You really do. But all that comes out is a whimper.

“Aw,” he coos, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Dumbed you out already?”

He brushes your hair back, kisses your forehead. “You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

“You want more?”

You nod. Desperately.

He chuckles, voice thick with affection and wrecked restraint. “Yeah, baby. Me too.” Then he stands up, undoing his belt with shaking hands, and murmurs: “Get comfy. ’Cause I’m gonna fuck you so good, you forget your own name.”

You’re still gasping. Still trembling. But your eyes follow the movement of his hands—shaking slightly as he undoes his belt, then the button, then the zipper.

He pushes his jeans down—

And your breath catches. You knew he’d be pretty. But not like this. Not this.

Thick. Flushed. Slight curve to the left.

And not just the look of it—the feel of it, even before he’s inside. You know instinctively it’s going to destroy you. That kind of snug fit that presses into all the right places and leaves no room for secrets.

He strokes himself once, slow and slick, precum already leaking from the tip. “Gonna be good for me, baby?” he asks, voice shaking as he fists his cock. “Let me feel that perfect pussy now?”

You nod. Dumb. Ready. So wet you feel it drip onto the chair beneath you.

He lines up—rubs the head of his cock over your folds, up and down, teasing your clit before circling your entrance. You’re still sensitive. Still twitching. And he feels it. “Still throbbing for me,” he murmurs. “God, you’re unreal.”

He pushes in. Slow. Deep. Too much. Too good.

You cry out—your body arching, your hands gripping the armrest and his forearm and anything you can reach.

Because he fits. Perfectly. Thick enough to make you stretch wide, gasp, feel it in your lungs. But not enough to hurt. No—just enough to ruin you.

“F-fuck,” he groans, head falling forward. “You’re squeezing me so tight—Jesus—don’t move yet, I’ll cum too fast—” He bottoms out, hips flush to yours. He stays there for a second. Still trembling. His cock twitches inside you.

“I’m gonna die,” he whispers. “I’m gonna die in this pussy.”

You laugh—a breathless, broken thing—and he grins like he’s proud.

Then? He pulls out halfway. And slams back in. Hard. And again. And again. Fast. Unhinged. Like he’s been waiting to do this for weeks. “Oh fuck, that’s it. That’s it, baby—keep takin’ it—so fucking perfect—”

He’s rambling now. Whimpering.

Each thrust hits so deep you swear you see stars. It’s a rhythm that shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t be real. Every stroke dragging against your g-spot, every snap of his hips making your thighs quake.

And he’s talking. So much.

“You feel that? Huh? You feel how good you make me?” “You’re all mine. This pussy? Fucking mine. Say it.” “Say it, baby, c’mon—tell me who it belongs to—”

You choke out, “You—it’s yours, Jisung—fuck, you’re so deep—”

He moans—wrecked. “God, I’m not gonna last—fuck—you’re too good—you’re too fucking good—” Then he bends down—mouth at your ear, hips still pounding into you like he’s trying to brand your soul.

“One more,” he whispers. “Just one more, yeah? Be my good girl and cum for me again—come on—cum on my cock—let me feel you—”

You barely get the chance to nod. Because then—he changes rhythm.

Not slower. Not gentler. Worse. He fucks you harder. Deeper. Like his body knows exactly how to hit every nerve inside you. Like he’s memorized your walls. And maybe he has. Maybe from the moment he first touched you in that chair, his entire brain rewired for this—for you.

“So fucking tight,” he pants, voice cracked open, almost panicked. “Shit—look at how you take me—look at that, fuck—”

He’s holding your waist again, but carefully—just above the fresh tattoo. His fingers dig into your ribs, grip locked in, not letting you squirm away as he slams into you, pace frantic, unrelenting.

“Can’t touch your hips,” he growls, “so I’m gonna hold you right here—just like this—until you fall apart again.”

Then his hand slides down. Finds your clit. And rubs. Fast. Tight.

You moan loud.

“Tell me what it feels like,” he pants, eyes locked on your face, wild. “Come on, baby—talk to me. You know the rules.”

You try. You try so hard.

“It’s—fuck—Jisung—it’s too much—I-I can’t—”

His hand doesn’t stop. His cock drives up into you like it’s chasing your orgasm, like he can feel it coming and he wants to drag it out of you with his bare hands. “Yes, you can. You’re my good girl, right? My perfect fucking baby—tell me what you feel.”

You sob. “It’s everywhere—it’s so deep—I feel you in my stomach, Jisung—”

That makes him moan—full, wrecked, helpless. “Yeah? That’s it, baby. You feel me stretching you out? You feel how hard you’re clenching around me?”

He’s unhinged. Fucking you like he needs to feel you cum on his cock. Like it’s his only goddamn mission in life.

“Don’t hold back. Let me have it. Show me how good I make you feel.” His fingers tighten, rub faster. His cock keeps slamming up into that perfect, perfect spot.

And you break.

You fall apart on him with a cry that splits the air—your orgasm ripping through you like a detonation, a white-hot snap that makes your whole body lock up and tremble.

You cum hard. Harder than before. Harder than ever.

And he feels it. Feels you clench around him like a vice, walls pulsing, soaked, squeezing every last bit of him until he’s gasping into your throat. “Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—baby—I’m—”

He slams in once, twice more—then stills. Buried deep. Groaning so loud it echoes. And cums. Hot. Fast. Deep. He fills you up with a desperate, whimpering exhale—head falling into the crook of your neck, fingers flexing tight on your waist as he rides it out, hips twitching helplessly inside you.

“Jesus—holy fuck—how are you real—”

You don’t know what you say. You don’t know if you’re breathing. All you know is he doesn’t let go. Not even after. His arms wrap around you, one hand sliding up to your ribs, the other cupping your jaw gently as he leans in and kisses your forehead.

Sweet. Messy. Possessive.

“I’m so fucking in love with your pussy.” he mumbles against your skin.

You laugh—wrecked and breathless. “You just came in me.”

“I did. I’ll take responsibility.”

“You didn’t even mean to.”

“That’s what makes it romantic.”

But then he goes quiet. Both of you do. Still joined. Still pulsing. The only sound in the room is your breathing—shaky, shallow, shared.

Han’s body is draped over yours, his skin hot and sticky, his face buried in your neck like he might actually die if he moves. He’s not even thrusting anymore—just lying there, full-on koala mode, arms around your waist, cock still twitching inside you like it doesn’t know it's over.

“I think I saw God,” he whispers.

You blink, still boneless and floating.

“Pretty sure she winked at me and said ‘Good job, Jisung.’”

You snort into the crumpled pillow beneath you. “Was she hot?”

He lifts his head just enough to deadpan: “She looked like you.”

A pause.

“Except taller. And clothed. And not full of cum.”

You let out a noise that’s half wheeze, half scream, face flushing as you try to twist away—but he tightens his grip, groaning as his still half-hard cock shifts inside you.

“Nooo, don’t move,” he whines. “You’ll make me hard again and I’ll die. You’re too powerful.”

You roll your eyes. “You just came in me, and now you’re being dramatic?”

He lifts his face, eyes wide. “I’m always dramatic. But now I’m dramatic and post-nut mushy.”

You smack his arm—lightly. He grins and kisses your shoulder like he’s never been happier in his life.

Then, suddenly gentle: “You okay? Need anything?”

You hum. “Water. A towel. A new pelvis.”

“I can offer you one of those things.”

He pulls out slowly, careful. You both wince a little, and he immediately fumbles for the nearest clean towel, muttering, “Shit, sorry, sorry—damn, we really did that, huh?”

He cleans you up softly, thoroughly. Tongue poking out in concentration, hands warm and reverent. You watch him in the dim light—his flushed cheeks, mussed-up curls, that stupid satisfied look on his face like he just won the lottery and the trophy was you.

He helps you sit up, eyes wide looking you over as if wanting to make sure you are okay and not just saying you're okay.

You smile at him, dazed. “That was insane.”

“You’re welcome.”

Then, quieter: “I really like you, by the way.”

You glance at him. He’s suddenly shy—voice small, fingers playing with the hem of the towel. “I mean—I know this was hot and wild and unholy, but like. You’re not just hot and wild and unholy. You’re…” He scratches the back of his head. “Cool. Funny. Gorgeous. Smart. And you have great pain tolerance and taste in art and—I dunno—your moans live in my soul now.”

You blink at him. He shrugs. “I just think you’re neat.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. You lean in, kiss him soft. He melts instantly.

Twenty minutes later, you’re both curled on the couch in the back lounge. Your legs are over his lap. You’re sipping water. He’s holding your hand and doodling hearts on your thigh with a sharpie.

“So,” he says, yawning. “When do you want your third tattoo?”

You give him a look. “Planning ahead?”

He smirks, smug. “Just making sure I get to fuck you again.”

You flick his forehead.

“Ow—okay, okay. For art. Not for horny.”

But you both know the truth. You’re absolutely getting another tattoo. And this man is going to absolutely ruin you again. With love. And dick. And filthy words. And then cuddle you like a little spoon with separation anxiety.

So the answer? Yeah. Yeah you will be seeing more of him. More dates. More dick. More tattoos. Guess it's fate.

#stray kids #skz #stray kids smut #han jisung #한지성 #han x reader #han jisung smut #filthy friday

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sheerfreesia007 · 4 months ago

Text

Hot and Steamy

Pairing: Lee Know x Reader

Word count: 1,304

Content warnings: Suggestive, Nudity

Summary: Han is a meddling little foolish matchmaker when it comes to you and Lee Know. You’re both set to hang out for dinner and a drama binge but when you arrive at their apartment you get more than an eyeful of Lee Know after he takes his shower.

A/N: Divider was created by @thecutestgrotto, thank you for sharing your dividers with tumblr!

Jagi: Sweetheart

The smell of dinner has permeated the whole apartment and Minho smiles proudly to himself as he looks down into the skillet on the stove top seeing that the dish looks just like the one in the recipe book that you had gifted him last month for his birthday. He carefully transfers the skillet into the oven to continue cooking and he sets the timer for an hour before he takes his apron off and begins walking through the kitchen towards the bathroom.

You are supposed to be joining him for dinner tonight for your weekly catch up hang out and he wants to wash up before you get there so that he doesn’t feel sweaty while hanging out. He checks his phone as he slips into the bathroom to see if you had sent him a text or something but as he sets up the bathroom speaker for his music he doesn’t see anything and quickly begins to get his shower ready for him.

As he steps into the shower he figures he’ll take a quick shower before you get here and when you get here you can take your own shower since you’re coming over straight from work. The bathroom starts to fill up with hot steam and he relaxes as the water slicks over his body easing his sore muscles until he’s practically melted under the hot steady stream of water.

You tiredly trudge up the stairs of Minho and Han’s apartment complex grumbling curses against the broken elevator. Work had been particularly brutal today and you were ready to just have a nice chill evening with Minho eating his delicious cooking and vegging on the couch together watching your dramas that you needed to catch up on. You always enjoyed these hang outs, they were the perfect destresser for you after a full work week and you always loved hanging out with Minho.

Ever since Han had introduced the two of you it had been like you were two magnets who were constantly attracted to each other whenever you were in the same vicinity. The two of you quickly became fast friends thanks to being friends with Han and then you both recognized that you had the same type of humor even if you weren’t as vocal about it as Minho was. There were times when he would say something that you found hysterical and when the two of you would make eye contact you’d burst out into laughter with him. It was nice to have someone who understood you even if the others had no idea why the two of you were laughing so hard or so much.

But as you continued your friendship with Han and Minho you had noticed that there was something more subtle in your relationship with Minho, something that was never spoken of between the two of you. Lingering touches from each of you that made your heart race or hugs that lasted too long than they normally would. YOu had started to notice and had tried to keep your emotions and feelings under wraps but Han had even started to notice the looks that you and Minho would give each other when the other wasn’t looking. And when he had confronted you about it letting you know that he fully supported this budding love you had told him it wasn’t like that and he had to be mistaken.

But he had been adamant that something was forming between you, you had tried to dissuade him and keep your hope at bay but lately you were having a hard time not letting the hope start to rise with each look and touch from Minho. Hence when Han had sent you the text earlier letting you know that he wouldn’t be there for dinner tonight you knew he was meddling and trying to play matchmaker. You had let Minho know that it’d just be the two of you and thankfully he hadn’t had a problem with it and told you that you both could binge the dramas that Han wasn’t a fan of then.

As you finally came up to the boys’ floor you sighed tiredly as you spotted their front door where Minho had placed a door mat that read If you don’t like cats go away. You chuckled softly as your eyes raced over the words knowing that it fit Minho perfectly and Han just went along with whatever Minho wanted at the apartment. Fishing out your keys from your bag you quickly picked out the key that had the cat ears on it and slipped it into the lock before unlocking the door.

The apartment smells wonderful and you hum softly as the scent of dinner assaults your nose. You set your bag down by the door before slipping into the fluffy slippers that Han had bought for you. As you walked through the apartment heading towards the kitchen you took not to how quiet the apartment was. When you peeked into the kitchen you found no Minho and you frowned softly before your eyes spied the timer on the stove counting down for the cooking meal in the oven.

”Minho?” You called out before walking towards the hallway that led to their bedrooms. “Where you at kitty cat?” You called out teasingly. Just as you come to the bathroom door it swings open and your eyes widen as Minho steps through the doorway with only a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair is wet and slicked back from his forehead as droplets of water from it fall onto his bare shoulders and race down his body. Your eyes hungrily rake up and down his half naked body and you feel your breath stutter in your chest. He’s so handsome it should be illegal you think as your mind suddenly empties of any other thought.

“Like what you see Jagi?” Minho asks sultrily as he smirks wickedly at you before he steps closer to you with a heated look in his eyes. You instantly feel yourself heat at his teasing question and you shyly look down at the floor away from him without answering. “I asked a question Jagi.” He says darkly to you in a soft tone and you gasp softly at his tone. A crooked finger comes up under your chin and guides your face up to stare into his dark lust filled eyes. “Jagi?” He asks softly. “Do you like what you see?” He asks you again while leaning over you in the hallway.

“Yes.” You gasp out to him desperately and Minho growls softly before gently pushing you up against the hallway wall and capturing your lips hungrily. You gasp at his actions as your lips move against his with hunger and desire. Minho crowds you up against the wall and your hands fall to his waist before gliding your fingers up his abs causing him to grunt and shiver against your touch. His arms come up to press his forearms into the wall on either side of your head as his mouth moves seductively against yours while your fingers explore the expanse of his chest without restraint.

Suddenly something damp hits your slippered feet and you gasp loudly against his mouth as you realize that it’s his towel falling from his hips. Minho doesn’t stop kissing you while crowding you further against the wall until the timer on the stove can be heard going off. Pulling away from you with a loud gasp of air Minho looks at you heatedly.

”Stay here Jagi.” He instructs you before strutting down the hallway naked towards the kitchen. You stand there against the wall gasping for air as your eyes follow his naked form while making a mental note to thank Han for ditching the two of you tonight.

SKZ Taglist: @kayleefriedchicken, @babigriin, @inlovewithstraykids, @channiesrightasscheek

#my writing #stray kids #skz #skz x reader #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #lee know #lee minho

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popponn · 1 year ago

Note

idk if you accept requests but i badly want to read the blue lock boys with the orange peel theory going around on tiktok 🥹

notes: anon, i was in a slump and then you come with this, please know i cant get it out of my mine for 2 whole nights. so, please have this, i hope u will enjoy it & your fave is there. also shoutout to @doobea for helping me with rin & barou esp <3 aso for standing my yappings. warning: none, post canon au in mind, reader's gender unspecified.

character: isagi, kaiser, bachira, chigiri, nagi, reo, rin, sae, barou + bonus

isagi

sweet boy will do it with a smile. is not the tidiest but you can now eat your orange while sharing with him. has a vibe that he is sort of used to doing this somehow. a total win still. if you do the same for him he will get flustered. also asking this is one of the quickest ways to get mr. egoist switches to mr. sweetheart boyfriend.

“Eh, why are peeling one too? I already… for me…?…I, uh—I see. Thanks… I—I am… give me a second.”

kaiser

you are the one who will peel for him—unless you throw a fuss and give him a silent treatment because this guy's pride is no joke. he can, he just doesn't want to. but to appease you and gain back his rightful spoiling, he will. afterward, at least, he learns his lesson and when you are about to peel one yourself, will take it and peel it beautifully for you like a second nature.

“…the fuck are you staring at? Just take it. You are about to eat it anyway, right? Then what's the big deal?”

bachira

yes, he will no question asked but is it worth it. probably will make a mess out of his energy. you will be laughing along with him somehow though so it is worth it. having the sunshine doing anything in front of you is a guaranteed smile-inducing routine. as for the orange, please do switch to other alternatives, for example: kisses, as suggested by him.

“Isn't this better than orange? Huum, huum! More healthy, sweeter too, right? Another one?”

chigiri

depending on his mood, you will either get a very cute orange peel or a half-peeled orange (at best) you have to finish peeling yourself. on the former, you get a smug bf who will feed you like it's a pocky stick. on the latter, you better be the one feeding him while hugging and cuddling him. multitask somehow. also, give him kisses because he is called a ‘princess’ for a reason.

“Ah, being in your arms being fed like this… yeah, yeah. I know don't worry. I will repay the favor.”

nagi

realistically, you will be the one peeling it for him and forcing him to eat one. because why would he even touch one? he is too lazy for that, nothing personal. but, let's say he really, really loves you: he still won't, he will just give you orange-flavored jelly in replacement. it does come from a place of love though, he genuinely thinks it's less troublesome to eat and, hence: better.

“Eating that is troublesome. It taste the same too. We can also do it while kissing. Mouth to mouth. Better right?”

reo

normally, will get a servant to peel it for you and him. though: can he do it? will he do it if it must be him? no question asked, absolutely will, all while chatting and staring at you with so much love. totally mr. k-drama male lead. you and your premium orange are in good hands.

“Oh, man, you are sometimes really …huh? Nah, I mean, I like doing this. It's just now I feel like I have to do this every time, so… yeah.”

rin

the first time, he will click his tongue and mess up. he will crush the orange. better never speak of it again, just know he loves you wholly despite everything. then a week passes and suddenly you will get a professional competitive orange peeler part-timer. without asking. just eat your orange. unless you are sick of it or it makes you actually sick.

“Did the orange taste good? … good. Nothing. You just look… nevermind. Do you want another one?”

sae

will he or will you. realistically, no? there are two possible reasons: 1) he can't. his whole stat is in soccer. 2) “you can't?” aka is it worth it getting judged by him. in case #2 though, just act cute and aim for his soft spot for you, he will fold and peel it with you pressed to his arm. he will grumble or glare but that's just itoshi-esque tsundere.

“You can't do something like this yourself? This will be the only time I’m doing this… Also who told you to move away?”

barou

our king. will peel the skin and the white fiber for you. tidy peels and if you know your way around his heart—you do just smile or blink and he is gone—he will also feed you. 10/10 execution no notes. probably will do this in kotatsu, dinner tables, and other domestic settings that are not bed while being a tsundere.

“I’m doing this just so you don't make a mess, got it? Also, scoot closer, your leg is kicking me—what do you mean I’m lying?!”

bonus

kunigami will, both before and after wc because you are his world. the difference would be in his expression only and there is that because his love for you would never change. shidou will but genuinely, please just peel it yourself. aiku will, not without teasing you though. gagamaru will either will or teach you how to eat the skin too. zantetsu wants to do it, but it will be really messy so please just don't. hiori will do it like a sweet boy, but if he is in his sadistic mood he will tease you for a bit before finally feeding you.

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ktjislove1119 · 8 months ago

Text

what they'd post on your birthday

-> p1harmony x seventh member! male reader, this was giving more platonic love but i think its still sweeeeeetttt

warnings : none , i think talk of getting old, i guess

rating : fluff 🙏

yoon keeho

- he loves including aesthetic pictures of you (and him) in his dump.

- he likes keeping the messages short and sweet on the internet, but trust the first thing you see and hear when that clock strikes 12 on your birthday is either: a lengthy heartwarming text from him or him just going to your room and smothering you in love.

- he probably will be the first member to greet you because he takes wishing happy birthday to people seriously (secretly holds grudges on everyone that doesnt wish him happy birthday in the first minute of his own) (he does not play when it comes to birthdays). but its because he thinks that theyre such important and sentimental dates.

- always makes it a point in each post and each year on your birthday to say that he can’t wait to grow old with you because he thinks that is one of the most raw forms of love and admiration you can have for someone. envisions a future with you constantly and just gets even more mushy and sensitive about it when your birthday comes around because it’s like, actually real and happening. you two are really getting older together and he just lowkey tears up at the thought of it.

- tries using his persuasive leader skills to get the company to give them all a singular day off to properly celebrate and will try his hardest to fight for this one day off, entirely for you.

- probably cries in his room about it too LMAO i just see him as someone overly sensitive and invested in the idea of growing old with his loved ones, which obviously would include you. thinks about how you two even first met and how you’re both so different now and it lowkey feels like a punch to his gut because the time really is flying so fast.

- keeps the fesitivities of the day wholly centered around you; whatever it is you want to do, he wants to do too! it’s your birthday, they’re all just coming along for the ride since it’s your special day.

choi taeyang

- makes it a point in his message every year to emphasize the fact on staying happy and prioritizing your happiness above else.

- never wants you to forget that you are one of his strongest pillars of support and motivation to keep him going and he very literally needs you to be healthy, happy, and content in order to have peace of mind. he places personal happiness of an individual above everything and really hopes you share that same sentiment so that you can put your own happiness above everything else, too.

- pics he drops of you are very bf-coded lmao don’t ask him if it was purposeful because it wasn’t, he just likes taking off-guard photos of you. he thinks that that is when you’re the most handsome to him, hence why he posts them because he wants others and p1ece to be able to appreciate those photos too.

- makes a lot of jokes on your birthday about how you’re getting old, but are still younger than him therefore a baby.

- i can just imagine him affectionately rubbing his hand on your head or up and down your neck and softly saying that you’re still so young. he feels like reminding you of that fact is important on your birthday, as well as just making you remember that just because you’re a year older doesn’t mean you need to feel rushed into doing something, such as obtaining your goals or dreams. he knows how hard you are on yourself and wants you to know that just because you’re older now doesn’t mean there’s now a timer on how “far” your dreams are now. pulls the “oldest is the wisest” card definitely when he gives you that talk because he’s speaking so articulately on it and solemnly trying to remind you of that fact.

- i feel like he’d be one to reminisce a lot on when you two were younger together, maybe when you were trainees together or just little things you experienced together that you can’t now due to whatever circumstances. speaks fondly of those times, but his heart does ache to see that time is passing by and how different things are now.

- in general, he tries not to be too sappy, but rather keep the mood uplifted and high. he wants you to keep a positive outlook on your life and will remind you that he’s always there for you, to talk or whatever it is you need him for.

choi jiung

- wishes you a happy birthday with the softest smile on his face and maybe even leaning in for a hug, and if he’s really feeling soft about it being your birthday he’ll even kiss the top of your head. it depends on the year, honestly, he’s only done it a total of five times for all the years he’s known you.

- kind of likes to be in control of what goes on on your birthday BUT NOT IN THAT WAY. he obviously doesn’t make the plans for you, chooses things for you — not like that. he just wants to make sure everything is perfect for YOUR day. so he likes to be in charge of cleaning up the place for the celebration, decorating the place, even little things like being the one to place the candles on your cake because he needs them to be perfect and he knows he can do that.

- genuinely will lowkey get pissed or annoyed if any of the members do anything to slightly ruin the plans that were made, shoots them a warning look if even the slightest thing is out of line. he wants you to have this special moment and memory in your mind of how everything was on your special day.

- likes to linger close to you, surveying all the surroundings to make sure it’s too your liking and everything is comfortable.

- in his birthday post to you, he likes mentioning some term of endearment just to show that, while he might not always physically show you how much he loves you, he still harbors such strong feelings of love, admiration, and care for you.

hwang intak

- intak is so incredibly loud and proud each year when it’s your birthday.

- after keeho, he’s probably the next member to eagerly wish you a happy birthday, smothering you in hugs and kisses, squeezing you tight as he proclaims how happy he is that it’s your birthday. jokingly will call you an old man at least once in the day.

- p1ece love his birthday post to you because he drops some of the most top tier pics of you, everyone say thank u intak.

- physically cannot be away from you for too long or else he will start whining about how you have to be near him for your birthday. likes holding onto your arm as an anchor in keeping you close.

- probably another member to quietly cry about how you’re getting older in the privacy of his room or when you all are around the cake, he just randomly lets a tear or two slip. but they’re happy tears, he swears! he’s just sososo happy that you’re life is continuing on for another year AND MANY MORE !!!!!!!! and he just feels so grateful to be able to see you actually grow into such a strong individual, becoming a man he loves and truly admires.

- scrolls through old photos of you and him from your pre-debut days and the smile on his face when he does is so unbelievably wide.

- just a smiley guy throughout the entire day, physical affection amped up to the max, and maybe a tear or two slipping,

haku shota

- the only person to explictly say that they love you in their online post to you.

- loves posting the silliest photos that you two have together, he thinks that that side of yours is one he loves seeing because it reminds him of how the two of you would goof off a lot when you were younger. obviously, having debuted there is almost always some level of maturity and professionalism that you need to show in public. but those silly pics he has of you two together are just cute ways of shota showing everyone, and reminding himself, that at heart, you’re just a silly guy.

- another latcher, along with intak. likes to just be on top of you the entire day, have fun carrying around two fully grown men around with you because these two seriously won’t be away from you for longer than a minute.

- incredibly vocal on your birthday, way more than he usually is because he just loves talking about how it’s your special day, how you’re getting older, but still remaining the same boy that was guiding him when he was a trainee, how much he loves you, how much he hopes you enjoy your day, how- the list goes on.

- will hand you your gift with an eager look on his face, wanting to see you open it right then and there because he was so particular in picking it out for you and wants to see if he did a good job (tell him he did because he did. do it rn. don’t be RUDE tell him or else.)

- definitely not the type to get sentimental though, he doesn’t like looking at birthdays like that. instead, he’s in a completely celebratory mood and outrageously positive the entire day. someone would think it was his birthday from how excited he is about today.

kim jongseob

- jongseob’s post about you is absolutely beautiful and it makes him bashful to read what he feels being made public, but he gets over it rather quickly because he knows that that is how he truly feels and that there’s no other way he could have worded it to you. he also wants people to know how deeply he cares for you and how much admiration he holds for you in his heart. it’s slightly embarrassing, but he gets over it when he hears you acknowledge how his words have touched you.

- he is taking pictures of you the entire day. his film camera, his phone, videoing you as well, he just really wants to commemorate this day and have something to look fondly back on.

- shows you privately, probably at the end of the night when everyone is more worn out, all the photos and videos he had taken of you from all your birthdays prior to this one, smiling into you as you hug him tightly and thank him. he squeezes you just as tight, softly whispering a happy birthday to you and pulling away with a wide grin.

- doesn’t really get sentimental PUBLICALLY, but understands why the other members would. he is secretly super thankful that he gets to be present in your life for each birthday you have had since he’s met you and whenever you blow out your candle, he is, again, secretly wishing with you that you have nothing but a healthy future in front of you. and maybe, also how he wants to be in your life for forever and be there to celebrate every single future birthday with you.

- the next day he looks at the special photo that he has of the two of you in his studio (the one from when you were trainees still — i mentioned it briefly in my other seventh member post) and smiles really sadly at it. realizes that you two will never be those kids again, but snaps himself out of his by reminding himself that he can’t take this present time for granted either.

- jongseob has an undying devotion and care for you that he translates into photos and videos captured of you, smiling softly at them whenever he is in his alone time and just feeling so lucky he gets to really be by your side as you grow older.

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affectionatecorpse · 1 year ago

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I'm once again getting overly philosophical over horror movies, so here's a study of the death angels from A Quiet Place as observed by a very enthusiastic animal loving veterinarian.

Every time people talk about death angels, it is, understandably, about how violent they are. These creatures are brutal and merciless, and will tear apart anything that makes too much noise. Hence the title of the movie.

Death angels are frankly terrifying, and show no empathy towards the creatures of the planet they invaded. No living thing is safe from them.

... so here's why they COULD be--

Look. Death angels are simply not suited for our planet. It's a noisy, chaotic place full of noisy, chaotic animals. From humans, to raccoons, to birds, to cats, nearly everything in our world is a potential trigger for a noise sensitive animal such as these.

But that's exactly what they are. Animals. And no one seems to remember that fact. People talk about them as though they themselves are sentient, anthropomorphic monsters, but the way these creatures act mimic many real life animals. Animals that don't belong here, but are trying to survive here. On a noisy planet covered in water, which they despise and cannot swim in.

Death angels are completely blind by nature, as seen in many other creatures such as cavefish, moles, and my personal favourite, the olm. Due to a lack of sight, they very clearly use echolocation in the film, to scan their surroundings and... well, not get dead. But echolocation is far from their only tool, as their ears are the strongest asset they have.

Their ears are INCREDIBLY sensitive. Just the slight ticking of an egg timer when heard from their perspective in the first film, is like a pounding drum in their ear. This is fine in a naturally quiet planet, but if a very subtle tick is that loud, then imagine the rest of the noise. Screaming. Explosions. Crashing. Little toy planes. Holy CRAP, that's gotta hurt.

Sounds that loud would definitely cause extreme hearing problems from pressure over time, and easily result in lifelong illnesses and disabilities such as deafness, infection, and so forth, if not stopped. It's going to be painful. It's literally bursting their ear drums inside their heads, and you can't explain to an animal why it hurts. You cannot rationalise with wildlife about treatment and self care. An injured and scared animal is always going to turn hostile, no matter how docile they may be normally. You can't explain to a lion with a knife in it's belly that you can stop the pain if it just doesn't attack you. You can't explain to a death angel that it needs to go somewhere more isolated instead of just destroying the source of the noise to shut it up.

Going to backtrack here a sec. Remember how I mentioned echolocation being another asset this creature has? Which means the slightest movement, the tiniest breath, can immediately allow you to be seen by it. With ears that good, too? It can see you from ages away. It knows you're there. Which means they DON'T attack for sport.

'Evil' is a concept rarely seen in nature. Yes, a lot of humans can be evil. And yes, many creatures can be too. Animals hunt for sport as well. Cats, for example! Although even then, I wouldn't describe it as evil. Calling the death angels evil implies they're attacking out of malicious intent, which just isn't true. In moments of panic, they'll destroy. But they are fully aware of humans around them.

Humans need to breathe, and can't stay perfectly still very easily. The death angels would be able to see our main cast at several points, even when they're being quiet. They don't attack whenever they locate a sign of life. For example, the scene in the basement. Being that close, whether the water was running or not, that alien absolutely would've heard Evelyn and the baby's sharp breaths. It didn't care. It was clicking at them almost curiously before it heard the bang of the silo, to which it ditched them to stop the sound.

This scene is a great example of why they don't kill for sport. Injured and young animals are especially easy prey for a creature built so strong and nimble. Evelyn is shown to be terrified of the mere presence of this thing, but it never actually does anything in the scene. It moves about. Ignores her movements in the flooding water. Investigates the baby. Clicks curiously at her while she backs away. It moves slowly and on all fours, when we know while aggressive, they will stand up on their hind legs (unless sprinting) and move very fast.

This implies it was in... well, not a submissive position, but a nonthreatening one. It wasn't baring it's teeth (as best it could), it had it's claws tucked up and unused, and was in no way in a primed-to-attack mentality. Until the silo made a loud bang. And even then, it could've quickly sliced up the two in the basement before running off, but it DIDN'T. It just left, without a moment of hesitation.

Let's also acknowledge the anatomy.

This is a carnivore. With sharp teeth for ripping apart prey, sharp claws for defence, and thick armour for protection from it's natural climate, as well as strong, long legs for running, this is absolutely a meat eater. The fact it's so well equipped makes me wonder if their natural prey is just as dangerous as them, which is why they have such tough skin. Or if they themselves have something above them in the food chain.

They seem to be pack animals, as usually others aren't far behind when one is about. Such as the trio by the Abbott house, the few at the docks, the ones by Emet's hideout, and even that group sliding down the building in the Day One clip I keep seeing as a gif. With their knack for running included, I wonder if they function like lions? Blending into their environment back home, clicking to hear prey, then the whole pack going on the chase when their target is vulnerable, in a way.

I got distracted. My point was, in a year, all the bodies from past victims vanished. All those people in the town who were swiped left and right just vanished from the town. They couldn't have decomposed in such short time, which means something moved them when it was safe. Something like a carnivore needing food after it felt comfortable in the silent aftermath. The argument that they do it for sport is one I see all the time, and it's just not true.

Everything needs to eat. Carnivores need to eat. Animals need to protect themselves from suspected danger. They never eat on screen because whenever they're on screen, they're surrounded by noise and are DISTRESSED. Have you ever had a sick pet? Most of the time, it won't eat when it's ill because it's too stressed, uncomfortable or in too much pain. When having their ear drums assaulted, a death angel isn't going to sit down with a cup of tea and a grilled cheese. Also, I won't add it because there's blood, but in the scene with the old man screaming in the woods, after it attacks, you can actually see it go back on all fours and sniff about the aftermath, like a hungry predator catching prey to eat. This was probably the first and currently only on screen proof of my claim.

By all means, not all animals are meant to be tamed. Jordan Peele's Nope said that best. Yet I can't help but wonder about the individual. Every animal is completely unique. Some will tolerate more than others. Due to their realistic nature and the similarities to actual animals, in specific circumstances, could they be befriended?

Anyway keep an eye out for A Quiet Place 4 where someone has a pet one that wears doggy ear protectors and accepts meat in exchange for pets-- /j

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theaawalker · 27 days ago

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Steps to Write 1K Words a Day (with a tight schedule)

follow for more tips 💋 || request writing tips 💌

1. Establish the Foundation

Know Your Why: Clarify your reason for writing daily by finishing a novel, building discipline, therapeutic expression, etc. Purpose keeps you going when time is tight.

Pick a Project & Stick With It: Avoid hopping between too many ideas. Commit to one main project to prevent decision fatigue.

Set a Realistic Timeframe: Determine how much daily time you actually have. Even 30 minutes can be enough with focus.

2. Shape the Writing Routine

Set a Daily Writing Slot: Choose the same 20-60-minute window each day, e.g., early morning, lunch break, and right before bed. Consistency beats chaos.

Break It into Sprints: Divide writing time into 2-3 focused sprints (10–20 minutes each) with mini-goals (e.g., 300 words per sprint).

Use Micro-Moments Wisely: Jot down scenes, lines, or dialogue in short bursts during downtime, e.g., commutes and between classes.

3. Build a Writing Habit

Create a Ritual: Start with a cue (tea, playlist, app launch), write, and end with a reward. Conditioning helps it stick.

Track Your Progress: Use a word count tracker, habit app, or physical calendar to visualize your momentum.

Aim for “Done,” Not “Perfect”: Don’t revise mid-draft. Keep the focus on finishing today’s 1,000 words, not editing yesterday’s.

4. Define Your Writing Environment

Eliminate Distractions: Silence notifications, close tabs, and let others know you’re “off the grid” during your writing window.

Use Tools That Work for You: Whether it's Google Docs, Scrivener, Word, or a distraction-free app (like FocusWriter), pick what helps you stay in flow.

Keep Materials Nearby: Outlines, scene notes, character sheets. Have them within reach to avoid losing time to memory gaps.

5. Develop Content Efficiently

Outline Briefly Before Writing: Know the scene’s goal, characters involved, and 1–2 key beats. This cuts down time spent thinking mid-writing.

Use Prompts or Templates: If stuck, use writing prompts or scene formulas (e.g., conflict ↣ tension ↣ resolution) to keep moving forward.

Lower the Stakes for First Drafts: Treat your draft as clay, not marble. Write fast, revise later.

6. Reward Yourself Consistently

Use Immediate Micro-Rewards: After each sprint, give yourself a small treat: a stretch, snack, meme scroll, or a favorite song.

Build End-of-Day Rituals: After hitting 1K, reward yourself with a guilt-free indulgence:

- A hot drink

- 30 minutes of gaming

- A mini-episode of your comfort show

- Reading time

Track for Bigger Rewards: Hit a streak (5 days? 2 weeks?) and treat yourself to something bigger: new notebook, movie night, favorite meal.

Celebrate Wins, Big or Small: Even if you only wrote 300 words, that’s progress. Celebrate effort, not just perfection.

7. Develop a Sustainable Arc

Adjust as Needed: If 1,000 words becomes overwhelming, drop to 500 and scale up again. It's better to be consistent than burned out.

Build in Break Days: Choose 1-2 buffer days per week for rest or catch-up. Remember, your brain needs recharge time.

Reflect Monthly: Look back on what worked, what didn’t, and what to change. Writing daily is a living habit, not a static rule.

Tools That Can Help

Timers: Pomodoro apps (e.g., Focus Keeper, Forest)

Trackers: Pacemaker Planner, WriteTrack

Writing Tools: 4theWords (gamified), Google Docs offline, Scrivener

Voice-to-Text Options: Google Voice Typing, Otter.ai

Examples of People with Tight Schedules Who Write Daily

Octavia Butler: Wrote early each morning before work. Do what she said, “Persist.”

Brandon Sanderson: Wrote in sprints between teaching and family time.

Toni Morrison: Wrote after her children went to sleep, hence treating every moment as sacred.

You (Eventually): With the right systems, even the busiest writer can find their rhythm.

Follow || Like || Comment || Repost || My Novel ⇚⇚⇚

thank you, i am farkle :)

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zapreportsblog · 2 years ago

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Could you do something with the Cullens where the reader has a meltdown at school and they find out it’s because they have diabetes and their blood sugar dropped and they can’t find their juice box they packed just in case

❝i need a juice box❞

✭ pairing : cullen siblings x reader

✭ fandom : twilight

✭ summary : (y/n) has diabetes and their sugar intake tends to drop quite a bit hence why their always remember to bring a pack of juices with them everywhere, not only does it help but it’s tasty too. But then one day her juice boxes bust in her locker, so what does any frustrated person do? Have a mental breakdown like it’s the end of the world, luckily some classmates of hers has her back

✭ authors note : Ayo ignore that juice part that says no sugar added 😭 i used the first picture i seen of juice and those shits be bustin. Ah and I’ve been watching anime lately so i apologize in advance for the lack of writing I’m putting out

✭ twilight masterlist 2

(Y/N) had always been well-acquainted with the delicate balance of her health. Diabetes wasn't just a condition for her; it was a family legacy. With half her family members wrestling with the same ailment, it was almost a rite of passage.

The sun had barely risen over Forks as she hurriedly got ready for her first day at Forks High School. This new beginning was daunting enough, but it became even more challenging with the knowledge that her diabetes would be a constant companion throughout the day.

As she zipped up her school bag, she made sure to slot in her lifeline - a package of juices. These juices were her safety net, ensuring her blood sugar levels stayed within a safe range. She had diligently followed this routine every day, her tiny insurance policy against hypoglycemia.

With her backpack securely on her shoulders, (Y/N) headed downstairs to the kitchen. Her mom greeted her with a warm smile, understanding the importance of this daily ritual. "Don't forget your juices, dear," she reminded.

(Y/N) grabbed the chilled package from the fridge and slipped it into her bag. "Thanks, Mom," she said, returning the smile. Her mom's familiarity with diabetes had always been a source of comfort.

Minutes later, she was out the door and on her way to Forks High School. The campus buzzed with excitement, but (Y/N) couldn't help feeling a bit of trepidation. New school, new faces, and the relentless specter of diabetes were a lot to handle.

History class was her first stop, and she found a seat next to a boy named Jasper. They exchanged polite nods as she settled into her chair, trying to focus on the teacher's introduction.

Then it happened. A discreet but insistent beep emanated from her wrist. Her watch timer, meticulously set to remind her when to take her juice, had gone off. This was the crucial moment to maintain her blood sugar levels. With practiced ease, she reached into her bag to retrieve her juice, only to discover her heart-sinking realization – it wasn't there.

Panic started to creep in, her fingers trembling as she fumbled through her bag in desperation. Jasper, noticing her distress, leaned closer. "Is everything okay?" he asked in a concerned whisper.

(Y/N) could feel her face flush with anxiety. She mumbled, "I think I left my juice in my locker. I need to go get it."

The teacher, Mrs. Thompson, glanced their way. "Is there a problem?"

(Y/N) stuttered, "I just need to grab something from my locker. It won't take long, I promise."

Mrs. Thompson nodded, granting her permission to leave the class. Her heart raced as she hurried out the door, fervently hoping that her juice would be where she thought it was.

(Y/N) practically sprinted through the hallways, her heart pounding in her chest. The idea of waiting another four hours until lunch without her juice was unbearable. She needed to retrieve her lifeline from her locker, and she needed it now.

Finally, she reached her locker, a sense of relief washing over her as she yanked it open. But that relief quickly turned to frustration as she stared at the sight before her. Her textbooks had fallen over and, in a cruel twist of fate, had crushed the juice boxes. Their colorful packaging was torn and sticky liquid seeped from the ruined containers.

"No, no, no," she muttered in frustration, tears welling up in her eyes. It felt like the universe was conspiring against her today, and the overwhelming weight of her situation crashed down on her shoulders. Her mind raced with thoughts of how she would make it through the day without her juice.

Just when it seemed like her world was spiraling out of control, a voice interrupted her thoughts. "Hey, are you okay?" It was Rosalie, a girl she barely knew, but one of the few familiar faces in this new school.

(Y/N) blinked back tears and explained what had happened, her voice quivering with anxiety. "I don't know what to do. I can't wait until lunch without my juice."

Rosalie glanced at the sticky mess inside her locker and then at Emmett, who had joined them. "That's totally not cool," he said, sympathy in his eyes. "I'll grab you something from the vending machine. What do you want?"

(Y/N) opened her mouth to protest, but before she could utter a word, Emmett had already taken off down the hallway. She looked helplessly after him, torn between gratitude and a sense of intrusion.

Rosalie placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry about it," she said with a warm smile. "Once Emmett's made up his mind, that's that. He's a bit overbearing at times, but he means well."

(Y/N) couldn't help but smile through her frustration. In this unexpected moment of crisis, she had found a glimmer of kindness and support. Sometimes, it took a helping hand to make a bad situation feel a little more manageable.

Just when (Y/N) thought her day couldn't get any stranger, Emmett returned with a comical surplus of juice boxes in his arms. He had not come back with just one or two; he had brought what looked like a small grocery store worth of them.

"Emmett! What are you doing?" Rosalie exclaimed, smacking him on the back of the head. She looked at the impressive stack of juice boxes with a mix of amusement and disbelief.

Emmett shrugged, a sheepish grin on his face. "I didn't know how many she wanted, so I just grabbed them all."

(Y/N) stood there, stunned and grateful. She couldn't believe the lengths this stranger was going to in order to help her out. "Thank you," she managed to say, her voice filled with genuine appreciation.

Emmett chuckled. "No problem at all. It's better to have too many than not enough, right?"

Rosalie rolled her eyes but wore a fond smile. "You always do this, Emmett. How are you going to carry all of them?"

Emmett scratched his head, looking a bit perplexed. "I'll just carry them around until we see her again at lunch. She can take what she needs now."

(Y/N) couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. "I don't even know how to thank you both enough," she said, reaching out to take a handful of juice boxes, about six of them. It was a bit heavy, but she could manage.

Emmett grinned, his good-naturedness shining through. "You're welcome. Anytime you need help, just let us know."

Rosalie gave (Y/N) a playful shove. "Girls gotta help girls, right?"

With her backpack now considerably heavier with the added juice boxes, (Y/N) felt a newfound sense of belonging. These two strangers had shown her kindness and support when she needed it most, and she couldn't help but feel that Forks High School might not be such a daunting place after all. As they walked her back to class, she couldn't help but smile, grateful for this unexpected friendship.

Lunchtime arrived, and (Y/N) entered the bustling cafeteria with her stack of juice boxes, feeling a mixture of gratitude and nervousness. She looked around, wondering where to sit when she heard a familiar voice booming across the room.

"Hey, juice girl!" Emmett called out, waving enthusiastically from a table on the other side of the cafeteria. His infectious energy drew the attention of many students, and a few curious glances followed her as she made her way toward him.

A warm smile stretched across her face as she approached Emmett's table. He had saved her from a diabetic crisis earlier in the day, and now he was offering her a seat at his table, as if she were already part of their group.

"Thanks," she said, taking a seat next to Emmett, her stack of juice boxes settling beside her. She couldn't help but feel a sense of belonging that she hadn't expected to find so quickly in this new school.

As she settled in and started unpacking her lunch, (Y/N) couldn't help but feel grateful for the kindness of her new friends. It was a small gesture, but it meant the world to her, and it made Forks High School feel a little less dauntin

Emmett introduced his siblings to (Y/N) with a playful grin. "This is Rosalie, my lovely and sometimes overly responsible partner, and this," he gestured dramatically to a young man who had been quiet until now, "is Edward, our resident brooding poet."

“Partner?”

“It’s complicated,” Rosalie says but she gave (Y/N) a warm smile, and Edward nodded in acknowledgment, his expression more reserved.

Emmett couldn't resist a teasing grin as he turned to (Y/N). "And, of course, you already know me, the one who saved the day earlier—your trusty juice retriever." He emphasized the last part, a playful twinkle in his eye.

“Then there’s Alice and jasper but I’m not sure where those two are at the moment.” He added.

(Y/N) couldn't help but laugh at Emmett's description. "Yes, my hero," she replied, her gratitude evident in her tone.

Edward, who had been observing the interaction quietly, couldn't resist a smirk. "Emmett and his heroic acts. Quite the storyteller, he is."

Emmett chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "Well, I just wanted to make sure our new friend here didn't pass out from low blood sugar."

(Y/N) felt a sense of warmth and camaraderie settling in at the table. These strangers had quickly become friends, and she was grateful for their support. With a newfound sense of belonging, she joined in the conversation, feeling more at ease in this new school than she had thought possible.

#x reader #x reader one shot #x reader oneshot #twilight imagine #twilight imagines #twilight x reader #twilight masterlist #twilight x y/n #twilight x you #rosalie hale x reader #jasper hale x reader #emmett cullen x reader #twilight scenario

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stvrgxsm · 7 months ago

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afterglow | joel miller [5k]

“what am i then?” “you’re the only thing worth living for.” or joel is an asshole until he isn't.

c: smut mdni, 18+. angst. abandonment. miscommunication.

a/n: i figured i would put this out here again. please let me know what you loved and what you didn't! enjoy:)

the thing is, you really shouldn’t be surprised.

he is not yours; has never been, will never be. he is completely his own man, and he has never lied to you about that.

but sometimes, when his body curls into yours late at night, and you can feel his breath ghost over your neck– when he tucks his worn boots next to yours under the bed and smiles sheepishly when you point it out– when a woman glares at you and he pulls you closer– sometimes you pretend he’s yours.

of course, all these lovely moments are tempered by his perpetual frown. he always seems to troubled in spirit about something.

today it was some FEDRA agent overstepping the law and facing no repercussions. yesterday it was tess being cagey about the dropoff for the smuggled contraband.

joel miller is a bitter man. but sometimes he lets himself soften, and you cling to those moments like a raft in a torrential flood.

you hum as you cook dinner– it makes you feel a little better about life. these days it’s been a struggle to look forward to the next day, the next meal, the next shift. when everything in life just seems to propel your demise, nothing seems worth it.

hence the humming.

joel isn’t home yet– probably won’t be for a while. he takes extra shifts whenever he can. you’ve learned by now to not expect him home by 5.

you haven’t lived together for very long. when tess started taking on bigger jobs, she insisted she needed a separate space. she got her own apartment, and you took the one she shared with joel. at first, he insisted on taking the couch and letting you have the bedroom, but then it became an issue of too little space. with joel sleeping in your only shared room, neither of you felt comfortable with the other. you fought about it.

after that you took the left side of the bed.

it’s hard to believe you haven’t known him for that long. you’re a new addition to their team– it’s not longer just him and tess. you don’t join them on smuggling trips, but you like to think you make their lives easier with the soft things you provide for them. like your garden. or dinner.

the timer you set for the chicken dings, and you jump to pull it out of the oven. it’s beautifully cooked; the bread crumbs you’d spread on top had browned just how you wanted. you love this– the playing house. it allows you to feel like all those expensive cooking classes your parents paid for before the outbreak are finally worth something.

the meal is all prepared and set out. now it’s just the wait for joel. he’s usually home by 6:30, so you tell yourself you’ll wait until 6:45 to start eating. he’s told you time and time again not to wait for him.

you glance at the clock. 6:24. it’s not really time for him to be home yet, but it’s getting there. you eye the bottle of red that tess returned from the last trip to bill and frank’s with. you had wanted to share it with joel, but it’s getting late. surely one glass won’t hurt.

you’re tipsy, and the chicken is cold on the counter when you check the time again. 6:48. still not technically unusual. you finish your plate.

the bottle is half-gone when you finally stumble into bed. your eyes catch the clock again. 8:35. you don’t even register it.

you wake to darkness.

for a moment you lie there, trying to remember why your head hurts so bad. then you remember– the chicken, the wine, joel.

you feel around next to you for his comforting warmth, but there’s nothing there. you sit up. he’s not there. you’re alone.

“joel?” you whisper into the empty apartment.

nothing.

you swing your legs out of bed and stand on unsteady legs. your head still hurts a little, but you weren’t blackout drunk. you can expect a mild hangover, and that’s exactly what’s happening right now.

the clock reads 3:42. even if joel took the late shift, he would be home by now. even he is not so foolish as to think he can risk missing curfew by this much. something must have happened to him.

it doesn’t even occur to you to wait for him. you’re just grabbing your handgun and stuffing it into the waistband of your pants. the metal is cold against your skin, but you’re so buzzed with adrenaline and worry you barely feel it. you pull on a light sweater and open the door.

he’s not in the hall. he’s not in the stairway.

in fact, you walk the full length of your street before you’re certain he’s not there. you stand alone on the end of the street and sigh, planting your hands on your hips.

at the end of the day, what do you know about joel miller? where would he go in case of an emergency?

tess, you finally decide. he would go see tess. so off you go, across the QZ, to tess’s apartment. it’s a long walk, but you know the patterns FEDRA follows, and you know where to hide. along the way, you see no one, but you hear lots.

moans, mostly. some singing. crying. the sounds of a broken city.

tess’s apartment looms before you, and you’re suddenly struck with uncertainty. what if he’s not here? before you can stop yourself, you raise a fist and knock softly.

tess opens almost instantly, not even looking tired. her blonde hair is pulled sharply away from her forehead, into a bun at the nape of her neck. her brow furrows. “what are you doing here?”

“joel,” you whisper. “is he here?”

she steps out of her apartment and looks left and right. then back at you. she hesitates. “why don’t you come inside?”

“what happened? is he in here?” you ask as you cross her threshold. she closes the door behind you. “tess. where is he?”

she seems almost distracted as she closes all the curtains. “joel. he didn’t come home last night?”

“uh, no. look, should i be worried? i mean, i am worried! where is he?”

tess looks straight at you. “i don’t know. we did a job yesterday. nothing big– just a few pills. he kept talking about you… he was all smiley.” she frowns in thought. “there was one weird thing.”

“yes? what was it?”

“when he dropped off the pills, the FEDRA bastard asked about you.”

you’re taken aback. you don’t interact with any FEDRA officers. “i don’t even know any of them!” you protest, as though she’s accusing you of something.

“no, i know,” she’s quick to assure you. “it threw us off, too. joel kind of… lost it. i’ve never seen him like that before, and i hope i never do again.”

you hesitate before asking, “what did he do?”

tess grimaces. “let’s just say FEDRA’s down one agent.”

“oh.” you’re breathless for a moment, which confuses you, but you shove it aside. for now, you have to focus on your missing roommate-slash-partner-slash-whatever-you-are. “so where is he?”

“after that, he just ran. i thought he went home. i guess not.”

the worry that sprouted earlier is now blooming fully in your chest. it bursts out of your mouth with every breath, every word. you’re choking on it.

“where– where might he have gone?”

tess thinks for a moment. “there’s a speakeasy he talks about sometimes. it’s down by the old port. do you know where that is?” you nod. “do you have a gun?” you nod again. “do you want me to go with you?”

“no, no, it’s fine. i’m good at staying out of trouble.” you force a brief smile and start walking towards the door. she follows you out.

“will i see you tomorrow?” she asks.

it’s a double-edged question. she’s asking not only about your safety, but also about your allegiance to her and her organization. “yes,” you finally answer. “yes, you will. with joel.”

you share a smile, and then the door is shut and you’re gone. you know exactly which speakeasy tess is talking about. joel has taken you there a few times. you’ve enjoyed it every time, but he likes it more than you. you’re clinging to the hope that he’s there through the short walk, all the way up to when you rap out the code on the door.

you hear a lock unclick. faint music seeps out from under the door. FEDRA must pretend this place doesn’t exist. sometimes they turn a blind eye to something good.

your theory is proven right when you spot several FEDRA agents lounging at the bar. the dim lights help hide the block letters on their uniforms, but it seems you’re looking for trouble tonight.

your gaze immediately lands on him, and your lungs empty in one relieved gasp.

joel is in a corner, surrounded by his coworkers. he’s smiling. he’s… laughing. his hand grips a beer bottle by the neck, and you shift your weight, flustered against your will by the sight. he doesn’t see you, but in your happiness you don’t register this.

you’re at his table in mere seconds, smiling broadly despite your exhaustion. it’s 4 in the morning, but you couldn’t be happier.

then his eyes meet yours, and your stomach drops.

“what are you doing here?”

it’s joel, yes, but something’s different. he’s drunk. that’s the biggest thing. but also, he seems angry. your smile from before is gone, replaced by an angry scowl. one that has never been directed at you before.

you take a step back before you realize what you’re doing. “i… i was worried about you.” your voice sounds so small.

the men sitting around joel laugh. he doesn’t stop them, and your heart twinges in your chest. suddenly the worry from earlier is gone, replaced by a burning anger. it flushes your cheeks, it stains the breaths that spill from your open mouth. you’re blinded by it.

you’re frozen there until he speaks. he holds all the power.

finally, he looks at you. it’s almost like he’s condescending to you. “get out, little girl,” he says. it’s nothing, it’s not even a real acknowledgement of you. but his voice isn’t slurred, which tells you he hasn’t had as much alcohol as you originally thought.

“what?”

he rolls his eyes. “i said–”

“i know what you said.” you can hardly believe yourself. you can hardly believe joel. he’s never done this kind of thing before. “i waited for you. why didn’t you come home?”

joel shoots you a withering glare. “we’re not family, you know,” he finally says. “you’re a burden. you are a responsibility. i owe you nothing.” he doesn’t spare you a second glance, just turns back to the others at the table and reaches for another bottle.

you stand there for a moment, frozen, but when it becomes clear he’s done with you, you leave. the walk back to your shared apartment feels longer than usual. you’re in your head, trying to figure out a plan. what could you possibly do when joel always has the upper hand?

then it hits you. if joel wants you gone so bad, if he really wants you out, you’ll give it to him. you’ll give it to him until he chokes on it.

that night, you take all of your stuff and bolt.

you’re aware of the time constraints you’re under. joel might be drinking, but he’ll still want to be home for a shower before he goes off to work. it’s a little before 6:00 when you’re finally done. all of your things are stowed in tess’s apartment for now, until you can find your own place.

you stand there, surveying your new home. it’s bigger than the one you and joel shared, but it’s also not as comforting. you scan the kitchen and living area multiple times before you realize that it feels different because joel’s record player isn’t there. in the place where you had stored his records, tess has a cabinet of clothing.

you heave a sigh. it’s not perfect, but then again it’s not forever. just until you find an apartment. and a job. preferably one that doesn’t involve seeing joel fucking miller every single fucking day. you wonder if you can include that on the application.

tess is off doing… whatever it is she does during the day. she’s left you with a spare key and instructions to not let anyone in. the day is yours. you spend it sleeping.

you unpack when you can. it takes a few days to get fully accustomed to the new living space, but that’s normal. you’re in an entirely new home.

speaking of which… you’re not entirely sure how to thank tess. a card doesn’t seem like enough, but a cake is too much. she’s assured you multiple times that no thanks are necessary, she’s just doing what anyone would do. but you both know she’s not. the boston QZ inhabitants are not known for their generosity or charity. quite the opposite, in fact. before you fell in with tess and joel, you got your ass handed to you pretty regularly.

there’s so much you have to thank her for. you don’t even know where to start.

on your fourth day there, tess doesn’t have any plans. normally she “works”-- whatever that means– but today apparently she’s off. she comes out of her room looking fresh, clean. you begin to suspect she only showers when she has time.

but now her hair is pulled back into a bun, and her sharp face is softened with some light makeup. “hey,” she greets you with a nod.

“don’t you look nice. where’s the party?”

she laughs good-naturedly. “all dressed up with nowhere to go, i guess.” tess has a glint in her eye. you’re a little suspicious.

“what are you looking at me like that for?”

“no reason.” but she doesn’t stop.

“no seriously, come on.” you rise from the couch, setting aside your knitting. “what are you thinking?”

“i’m thinking you should go out tonight.”

“...oh.”

“with me! we’ll go to some speakeasy and drink cheap liquor that men buy for us. it’ll be fun! plus,” she adds, smiling widely, “you need a rebound.”

you groan and throw your head back. “oh, come on, what does that even mean?”

“it means you’ve been sitting on this couch for way too long. so he broke your heart.”

“it was way more than that.”

“okay, so he crushed your chance at ever finding happiness.”

“getting closer.”

“but you can’t let that define you!” she plants her hands on her hips. “what better way to show joel he was wrong than to hook up with someone else?”

“i’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“what better way?” she asks again.

“it’s way more complicated than that and you know it!” you stop to collect your thoughts and find yourself thinking of joel and his smile. “diseases.”

“what?”

“diseases! stds! i don’t know!” you’re gesturing wildly with your hands now, and tess is bent at the waist from laughing so hard. “it’s a real possibility!”

“that was true with joel, too!” she points out.

you’re silent for a moment. it’s only been four days– not nearly long enough for you to “get over” him. “i miss him.”

tess stares at you with wide eyes. “what?”

“i miss him.”

she sputters, “i thought you hated him!”

“i don’t hate him! he just…”

“he broke your heart! stomped on it! in public!”

“yes, i know. i was there. but, i just… i just miss him. i can’t shake the feeling that he didn’t mean it, that he wasn’t in the right state of mind.” you shrug. “maybe i’ll never know. but i just don’t feel right hooking up with someone else when i’m still in–”

you barely stop yourself in time. tess catches you anyway.

“you’re in love with him? no way.” she’s shaking her head aggressively, emphatically. “no dick is that good. no dick is worth that.”

“it’s not about his dick!” you sink back onto the couch and bury your face in your hands. you feel hopeless all of a sudden. “what if he was the one and i fucked it up?”

“you can’t fuck up the one.” she kneels in front of you and takes your hands in hers. “listen to me. if you want to go back to him, i’m not going to stop you. but he doesn’t deserve you. and if he keeps acting this way, he never will.”

you suppress a groan. it’s all so complicated, and it makes your heart ache. why isn’t love ever simple? in a world colonized by evil, why does even this have to be tainted? “i’m not going back to him,” you swear. “i just… i just miss him. i don’t know.”

“we don’t have to go out if you don’t want to.” tess shrugs sadly. “i get it if you’re like, i never want to go out again.”

“no, no, that’s not it. i just… i’m just tired.”

she gives you a knowing look. “right. well, i’m going to at least get a drink. i’ll be back later.” then she laughs. “i really will, i’m not going to curse you out in public. sorry sorry sorry so sorry i just couldn’t–”

you’re both laughing as you jump up to shove her out the front door. she shouts apologies through frantic giggling even when the door is closed behind her.

meanwhile, joel is getting his ass handed to him.

“you’re a fucking idiot,” tess scoffs. “you know she’s the best thing that ever happened to you, right?”

he frowns. “she didn’t happen to me. she was just someone else i had to take care of.”

tess stops in her tracks, forcing him to slow down. “what the fuck even is that, joel? did you even go home that night?”

he shoots her a desperate look. there are dark circles under his eyes from a lack of sleep. he never could sleep as well without her. “yes, okay, i did! i did go home! i meant to go apologize, but she wasn’t there. so i went to wait for her at one of the markets she mentioned. she loves cooking, so i figured– look, it doesn’t even matter. she doesn’t want to see me.” he runs a hand through his already-messy hair. “i don’t know what to do.”

“apologize, dickhead!”

“how can i apologize when she won’t even see me?” joel is getting more and more distressed as he talks about it. it suddenly hits him that if you refuse to see him, he won’t have anyone.

sure, there’s tess, but he would never tell tess about his day. he could never tell tess what he wants for dinner.

if there’s no you, who is he supposed to talk to?

tess is gesturing wildly with her hands. she does that when she gets excited or nervous. “you love her, don’t you?”

“how can i say i love her? i obviously don’t.”

“okay but you did, right?”

he hesitates. it feels wrong to say this about you when you’re not even there. “i loved her as much as you can love someone you’ve only known for a few months.”

she doesn’t waste even a second. “so then why’d you do it?”

it spills out like a broken bottle of whiskey. “she got close, tess! i was putting my boots under her bed! she gave me a massage. she told me she likes hearing about my day.” saying it out loud, joel’s beginning to realize how big a mistake he’s made. “i loved her. i love her, i just don’t know how to fix it. i’ll end up hurting her no matter what i do.”

tess stares at him. for a long moment, neither of them say anything. then he keeps going. “the last thing i want is for her to think i hate her. i don’t. i just… i miss her, and i don’t know how to fix it… i can’t fix it on my own.

“i want us to be happy,” he concludes.

well, mostly he wants you to be happy.

your happiness just happens to correlate with his.

it doesn’t often rain in boston, but when it does, it pours.

on this particular evening, you’re alone, tess having left hours earlier for something work-related. you’re still not entirely sure what she does on these work-related outings.

you’re just about to curl up on the couch with a cup of weak tea and your battered copy of pride and prejudice when there’s a brisk knock on the door. you freeze. tess has always told you never to open the door for anyone. in fact, that was the first rule she established when you moved in with her. apparently tess is something of a target, and so now you are too.

but this knock sounds familiar, and when you look through the peephole, you know why. you yank the door open.

“are you insane?”

joel just stands there, shivering. he’s soaked to the bone. “i’m so sorry,” he says. “i don’t want to waste your time. i’m so sorry.”

“what?”

“i should’ve come home, and i’m sorry that i didn’t.” his teeth are chattering from how cold it is, and part of you wants to let him inside. but the other part clings to your pride. “i’m sorry that i let them laugh at you, and i’m sorry that i said you were a burden. you are… anything but.”

you don’t say anything for a long moment. “what am i then?”

joel doesn’t hesitate. “you are the only thing worth living for.”

“what does that mean?”

“i love you,” he blurts. your eyes go wide. “i love you desperately. i love you hopelessly. i loved you as you left me, and i loved you even though i knew you would never come back to me. i loved you then as i love you now, and i understand if you want nothing to do with me. you don’t need to accept this, or even tolerate this, but i need you to know. you must know. i—“

“stop, stop.” he does. “what are you doing?”

his brow furrows. “i’m apologizing to you.”

“yes, but why?”

“what do you mean?”

“what are you trying to get out of it?” you refuse to let him back in again if it’s just to break your heart. you need to hear him say it– say anything, really, that would give you an excuse to close the door.

“i want you to be happy,” he says. like it’s as simple as that. like he really does just want you to be happy.

“i am happy,” you blurt out.

he nods. nods again. “i’m so sorry,” he says, and then he turns away.

before you know what you’re doing, you shout, “wait, no! joel!” you let go of the doorframe and reach out for his shoulder. “joel, i’m not happy. i miss you. i love you.”

you manage to pull him back towards you, and then his arms are wrapped around you and you’re burying your face in his neck. “i’m so sorry,” he whispers into your hair. “i’m so sorry.”

“i forgive you,” you breathe.

joel pulls back just slightly, still keeping his arms around you. “come home,” he murmurs.

you nod immediately, and then shake your head. “i have to leave a note for tess, she’ll be so mad if i just leave.” you drag him into her apartment with you. he follows dutifully as you search the kitchen for a sticky note, and waits while you scribble out a quick explanation.

joel came by. went home with him. thank you!!

“do you think that’ll be enough?” you ask, holding it up for him to see.

he squints at it. “i don’t know, baby. maybe just a little more.”

you flush at the petname, but if he notices, he doesn’t show it. he’s moved to your hand, clinging tightly to it as you lengthen the note. (he apologized). “is that good?”

joel hums his approval. “good job, baby.” you shift your weight, and this time you know he notices, because a smirk dances on his lips. he doesn’t comment on it.

it’s still raining by the time you leave tess’s apartment, though not as hard, and because it’s still before curfew, it’s safe for the two of you to walk home.

home. for so long joel’s apartment felt like an in-between space. a place to go to at night. it took so long for you feel safe there, and then it all fell apart. now it’s no longer a room with a bed, it’s no longer just a refuge, it’s a home.

he loves you. just thinking about it makes you smile, even as the rain pours down. joel is holding your hand, he’s calling you baby, and he’s taking you home. you don’t know how this could get any better.

and then suddenly it does, because as soon as you get home he’s kissing you in the doorway, pushing you against the door and fumbling with the lock. your breaths are labored, and you can hear his own desperate panting as he shoves the door open. he mouths his way down your neck, and you suppress a moan.

somehow, joel maneuvers the two of you into the bedroom, where he lays you down with breathtaking gentleness. you stare up at him, wide-eyed. maintaining eye contact, he slowly kneels and pulls your shorts down to your ankles, where he leaves them and looks away, choosing instead to eye your core, glistening with your slick already. he drags one finger through your folds. when you don’t say anything, he adds another, this time pressing into you lightly. you choke on a moan.

his hand retracts, and you can’t restrain the whimper that tears from your throat. “joel,” you cry. “please.”

“good girl,” he soothes you, rubbing circles into your inner thigh with his thumb. “don’t hide your noises. i want to hear how good i make you feel.”

another moan slips free. a grin stretches across his face. then he’s burying his face in your thighs and your back arches off the bed, his name spilling from your lips with reckless abandon. he’s messy with it, smearing his spit and your slick across your folds and thighs.

you know the walls are thin, but in your bliss you don’t care. all you can think of is joel, joel, joel. joel who loves you, and who is unfurling you on his tongue.

you’re so close, and then he presses his thumb to your clit and his tongue to your fluttering hole. by the time his tongue breaches your core, your orgasm overtakes you, lifting you up and away. you fall silent for a long moment, but joel doesn’t mind.

he pushes himself up to your head, kissing you through the high, bringing you back down to him. “shh, shh, shh, baby,” he coos. “you’re so good for me.”

a soft smile graces your lips, and you pull his lips back to yours, kissing him slowly. “i love you,” you whisper, and though you can’t hear it, you feel his lips mouth it back.

he shifts up, spreading your legs wider, and you know what’s coming. he keeps his mouth pressed to yours, swallowing your moan as he slides home, filling you up just right. your mind goes blank, but you’re dimly aware of how deep he is, how full you feel. if you could speak, you would tell him these things.

but as it is, all you can manage is a quiet affirmation. “you feel… you feel so good,” you whimper, eyes squeezed shut. he still hasn’t begun moving, just staying sheathed to the hilt in you. “yes, joel.”

he makes his first thrust softly. “that’s it,” joel says. “my beautiful girl.” he quickly establishes a rhythm, sliding in and out to the tune of your whines and cries.

“please, joel, please,” you whisper, fisting the sheets in your hands. “please kiss me.”

you don’t have to ask again. instantly, his lips finds yours. he groans into your mouth and braces his hands on your hips, holding you there while he pushes into you over and over.

it’s not that long before you can feel your orgasm approaching again. “joel, i’m– i’m gonna come,” you say, eyes squeezed shut.

“go ahead, baby,” he commands. “come for me.”

with one final thrust, he’s spilling into you as you come apart around him. “joel,” you mewl. he’s still buried deep inside you, his forehead resting on yours as you both float down.

when he pulls out, it’s cautious and gentle, and you can feel his love for you. your eyes drift shut, and you’re dimly aware of him walking away, but for once it doesn’t bother you. you know he’ll come back.

he loves you.

as it turns out, he does come back, holding a warm cloth. he wipes you clean and helps you to the bathroom so you can rinse off. he follows you into the shower wordlessly, pressing kisses to your shoulders and forehead.

that night, as you lie in bed and feel him curl into you, you don’t have to pretend anymore. he really is yours.

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