#Memory Storage Products

[eternal-reverie]

I have drawn a many khux thumbnail and this one I dug up tonight is just :D

[darshanan-blog]

Automotive and Mobility Track at #TiEcon 2025 - Future is here

TiEcon, the largest #entrepreneurship conference to take place in Santa Clara, CA, August 30 to May 2, has several exciting tracks that will give us a glimpse into the future. One such exciting track is automotive and mobility. Where is the future of automotive and mobility? There are several innovations shaping the future of automotive and mobility. In the world of science fiction, we would be…

[furiouslovepolice]

Dear Math Calculator - Best Calculator for School Students

[systick-tech]

The Evolution and Convenience of Buying USB Flash Drives Online in India

Today, USB flash drive plays an essential and multi-purpose role for everyone in the digital world we reside. These gadgets are very friendly due to their compatibility, portability, and durability which has changed the whole concept of data storage, and transmission among other functionalities. Therefore, USB flash drive for computer and USB flash drive are now within easy reach and more convenient to buy with the advent of online shopping – particularly in India where it has seen an increase in use.

The Ubiquity of USB Flash Drives

USB flash drives, also called thumb drives, pen drives or USB sticks are everywhere today because they are easy and convenient for use. These devices come in different memory sizes: from the smallest which is 4GB up to a really huge one amounting to 1TB; it suits everyone’s demand. They serve as portable warehouses storing files ranging from text papers to live videos regardless of your status, whether a student, a working person or just a leisure consumer.

Advantages of Online USB Flash Drive Purchases

Competitive Pricing:  online retailers provide competitive prices and frequent discounts making it easier for consumers to get good quality USB flash drives at rates that they can afford. In addition, online shopping is more attractive due to quick sales, festive discounts, and special offers.

Convenience and Comfort: When people shop online for a USB flash drive, they do not have to visit more sotores. They can just browse, compare and finally buy goods as they sit back comfortable in their houses thus saving some of their time to use elsewhere. What is more, websites offer details about the goods, reviews by others and ratings on their goods for an informed decision.

Easy Comparison: When purchasing products online, it’s easy to compare different ones including brands because you get to see them all at once without any hassle, this makes it even easier when you need a good USB flash disc. Also, there are reviews for it too which may help pick out the best and compare prices readily available under ratings made by previous buyers.

Secure Payment Options: Acclaimed e-commerce platforms provide clients with multiple payment modes that are considered safe. This increases security levels during transactions on them.

Current Trends in USB Flash Drives

High-Speed Storage: There is a need for High data transfer, which has caused the introduction of USB 3. 1, and USB type C flash drives. Approximately these drives help to cut down the time taken in the transfer of big files n times.

Increased Storage Capacity: Because there is increasing demand for data storage devices, USB flash drives that come with 512GB and 1TB are developing into common storage devices.

Compact and Stylish Designs: Currently, there are many styles and designs available to consumers, so most of the new products developed by manufacturers are characterized by smooth and elegant forms not only providing the USB flash drive’s utility value but also serving as a fashion accessory.

Conclusion The ease of purchasing USB flash drives online in India cannot be compared. Due to the variety of choices, the low prices, and well-organized offers, it has been easier to select the specific type of USB flash drive that would suit the buyer’s requirements. Whether you simply need a unit for storage or a large capacity, the fast-drive selling site has what everyone is looking for. Order the right USB flash drive right from the comfort of your home.

[starsandsuch]

Taurus Through The Houses: What Things Do You Collect? 💎🎨🛍️

The 2nd house & the archetype of Taurus represents possessions and resources we own. It is the metaphorical storage closet / pantry where we put away and organize our possessions. The house you have Taurus shows the material goods you collect based on the themes of that house.

Taurus 1H: you collect things that make you look or smell good: clothes, perfume, hair products. Having a lot of clothes, makeup, that are limited edition or rare.

Taurus 2H: collecting money, assets, valuable things like art, rare clothing items, rare makeup. When a brand has a limited edition items, you buy them. Likely to have different savings accounts/emergency funds etc. Collecting different forms of currency, having cash, digital currency etc.

Taurus 3H: you collect pieces of media: photographs, magazines, cards, posters, vinyls, etc. This placement reminds me of someone who still has their iPod touch or wire headphones. You collect journals, things you’ve written. You have a lot of pictures in your phone, you have receipts of everything, having screenshots, screen recordings. Collecting stationary. Collecting information. Digital information. Leaving all your old posts up and never deleting them.

Taurus 4H: you collect things that remind you of childhood: books, clothing, posters. You hold on to your items for a long time before letting them go. Collecting home goods: cutlery, dishes, bedding. Having alot of plushies.

Taurus 5H: you collect art, designer items. You collect items that will be valuable in the future. Fond of collecting money and wealth in general. This is someone who enjoys achieving financial milestones: increasing credit score, opening retirement accounts, having investments. Keeping a lot of things from your childhood. If you have kids, you collect their belongings like their first blanket, toys, shoes etc.

Taurus 6H: collecting things that relate to health and healing: tincture’s, oils, rare health foods. If you have pets you collect a lot of things for them: toys, treats, clothes etc. Can collect pets in general.

Taurus 7H: collect stuff you get through relationships. Gifts, money, jewelry, precious items you received. Once you get married, you start collecting things or have the money & space to do so. You collect things on behalf of your partner or you share a collection together.

Taurus 8H: collecting things that were once owned by something else: art, jewelry, clothes. Like how Kim K bought Marilyn Monroe’s dress (Kim is Libra Sun, Taurus is the 8th sign from Libra). You collect things that are taboo or occult, rare occult books or items: crystals, pendulums etc. collecting rare designer items that are vintage. You tend to collect a lot of things and keep them for a long time. Collecting secrets about other people, collecting blackmail.

Taurus 9H: collecting books, magazines, journals. Someone to collect academic titles and degrees. Collecting knowledge and information: through reading, watching documentaries, conversations etc. Prefers “collecting experiences”. Collects things from other countries like souvenirs, flags, spices, perfumes, clothing etc.

Taurus 10H: collecting achievements, accolades, awards. Achieving things then having the physical symbol of it: like the shoes you wore in the first track meet you won, saving medals, trophies, putting them on display.

Taurus 11H: collecting memories from your achievements. Like having your first trophies you won, your cap and gown from graduation. Scrapbooking different memories. Collecting vision boards, Pinterest boards etc. Collecting friends, social connections, followers online.

Taurus 12H: collecting things that are old, ancient or antique. Collecting secrets from other people, collecting their secrets or having blackmail on them. Collecting spiritual tools like tarot cards, crystals, pendulums etc. Collecting spiritual or religious iconography like figurines, posters, statues of different deities.

Divider credit: @uzma-qureshi

[angelicgirlmj]

100+ angelic christmas gift ideas

𓂋

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

i adore christmas - its one of my favourite holidays! so beautiful and wintery, the lights and decorations, mugs of hot chocolate, childhood memories and so many traditions make it such a special time of year for me. i however, often struggle with knowing what to ask for or what i want for christmas, so i created a little inspo list to help me and anyone else! whether this is for a family member, friend, partner or even yourself im sure this will help you know exactly what you want (or at least give you some pointers in the right direction). these are all obviously just suggestions and vary in price so please put down in the comments what you are asking for this year! enjoy angel!!

uggs

victoria secret pjs

cozy fluffy socks

laneige lip balm

lush body lotions

rose quartz gua sha

glossier makeup

dior lip oil

sonny angels

yoga mat

silk pillowcases

litre water bottle

candles

jelly cats

cute claw clips

ear warmers

books

cute planner

posters or tapestries

camera

philosophy body washes

makeup bag

sylvanian baby blind bags

slippers

matcha

records or cds

five minute journal

desk or wall calendar

eye mask and bonnet

fluffy blankets

large candles

benetint lip tint

rare beauty products

cuticle oil and glass nail file

gold jewellery

silver jewellery

knee high boots

colourful/printed tights

pocket mirror

mugs

house plants

hair band or cute hair clips

gisou hair products

highlighters

charlotte tilbury makeup

pretty nail polishes

salt lamp or other lamp

tea bags (chai, green etc)

wallet or purse

bag charms

dyson hair wrap

your fave chocolates

makeup bag

quilt

vintage room decor

fluffy/patterned rug

new phonecase

slippers

headphones

rings

belt

portable speaker

crystals

fuzzy scarf and gloves

patterned tote bag

dried flowers

fairy lights

jewellery box or trinket dish

photo album

bath oils

incense

locket

bows or pretty scrunchies

sunglasses

mini crates or storage boxes

lululemon clothes

new bedsheets

laptop case

cute pillows

hair curlers

alarm clock

vintage/thrifted clothes

picture frames

snowglobes

miniature trinkets

personalised charm bracelet

makeup brushes

diffuser

face masks

lego

coffee table books

skims

tea infuser

reusable straw

warm jacket

sports bag

keyrings

jumpers

heels

charity donation

thank you so much for reading angels! this season is such a wonderful time of year because of the ideas and ethos surrounding it; one of giving. this winter should be about our loved ones and those in need. whether you do something as simple as donating old clothes to charity or making christmas cards for the homeless, i would encourage everyone (myself included) to make it their mission to give back in at least one way. remember - angels are kind and generous inside and out! as we plan our gifts or think about shopping and the fun things to come let’s all take a moment to reflect on how we can give back.

love, m.

p.s it’s never too early for christmas!

𓂋

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[wildgeese98]

@jonmartinweek Day 1: Pets & Cats // Feelings Realised

[CLICK]

[FOOTSTEPS CRUNCH OVER UNEVEN GROUND]

[THE FOOTSTEPS STOP]

MARTIN: Is that...?

ARCHIVIST: The next domain, yes.

MARTIN: What's this one? oh lord it looks like a hospital. It's not another horror hospital is it?

ARCHIVIST: No, well that is to say, this one's a lot less gory.

MARTIN: [suspiciously] what does that mean?

ARCHIVIST: There aren't actually any treatment rooms. It's all waiting rooms.

MARTIN: Waiting rooms?

ARCHIVIST: Filled with people waiting to hear about the condition of their seriously ill loved ones.

MARTIN: Ah.

ARCHIVIST: Yes, that horrible fear that twists their guts every time a nurse or doctor comes through the doors to the hall. Anticipation to finally hear some news waring with the sinking certainly that it will definitely be terrible. [Starting to get going] Most can't even remember who they're here for. A parent? A sibling? Spouse? All they know is-

MARTIN: [urgently cutting him off] Jon! Jon! Not now!

ARCHIVIST: Wha-? Oh... Sorry

MARTIN: At least wait until we actually get there

ARCHIVIST: Of course

MARTIN: Can we try to get through this one quickly, just that description is already bringing back some less than pleasant memories.

ARCHIVIST: Ah, o-of course, I'll do my best. I'm sorry I didn't even think about that, with your mum and all.

MARTIN: Well yes I suppose, but I was more talking about you.

ARCHIVIST: Oh, ah, y-yes, after the unknowing...

MARTIN: And after Prentiss, I thought you and... and Tim might both be dead,

ARCHIVIST: Oh, o-of course. You know that feels like a lifetime ago.

MARTIN: Tell me about it

[PAUSE, FOOTSTEPS]

ARCHIVIST: Were you really that concerned about me after Prentiss?

MARTIN: What!? Of course! Jon you were riddled with worm holes, you looked like minced meat when they pulled you out, not to mention the oxygen deprivation...

ARCHIVIST: Yes, yes, I-I just mean... I was just your boss at that point. Your boss who'd never been particularly, uh, pleasant to you.

MARTIN: Jon, I was completely gone for you the moment you offered to let me sleep on your cot in document storage.

ARCHIVIST: Oh.

MARTIN: I may not have admitted it to myself then but after that I was completely hopeless.

ARCHIVIST: I don't know that I realized you started having... feelings like that so early on.

MARTIN: What? Really? I know you had other things on your mind but I wasn't really that subtle.

ARCHIVIST: I'm not the most observant about that sort of thing.

MARTIN: You've got to see the irony in that.

ARCHIVIST: [dismissively] Yes, yes,

[PAUSE, FOOTSTEPS]

ARCHIVIST: I'm not sure there was a moment like that for me.

MARTIN: What, no sudden miraculous realization?

ARCHIVIST: Well I suppose there was.... [He trails off in obvious embarrassment]

MARTIN: Was what?

ARCHIVIST: [hurriedly] nevermind, it's silly,

MARTIN: No come on, now I have to know.

ARCHIVIST: Martin...

MARTIN: Jon.

ARCHIVIST: Fine! When you lent me your neck pillow.

MARTIN: What?

ARCHIVIST: When I flew to America.

MARTIN: Okaaayyy??

ARCHIVIST: A-a-and I... appreciated it...

MARTIN: [laughing] What so that's all it took? would have been nice to know earlier that the secret way to your heart was a 15 pound Tesco neck pillow.

ARCHIVIST: I-It wasn't just the pillow it was the t-t-though behind it and...

[PAUSE]

MARTIN: Aaannnd...?

[SILENCE]

MARTIN: And what Jon?

ARCHIVIST: [mumbled] nevermind

MARTIN: No, no you don't get to wriggle out of this one, you're blushing too much for me to let this go.

ARCHIVIST: It's n-nothing, it doesn't matter, really Martin...

[ONE SET OF FOOTSTEPS STOP]

MARTIN: Nope, no take backs, I'm not going anywhere until you tell me.

[THE OTHERS FOOTSTEPS STOP]

ARCHIVIST: [exasperated sigh] Come on Martin we don't have time-

MARTIN: [interrupting] aren't you the one who keeps saying time doesn't work anymore?

ARCHIVIST: [trying to put on his stern Head Archivist voice and not quite getting there] Martin you're making a whole production out of nothing, really, this is ridiculous.

MARTIN: [Stubborn silence]

ARCHIVIST: Martin

MARTIN: [Silence continues]

ARCHIVIST: [A sigh even more exasperated than the last]

[THE SOUND OF FEET SHUFFLING UNCOMFORTABLY]

ARCHIVIST: Fine! Fine...

[MORE SHUFFLING]

ARCHIVIST: [mumbled] it... it smelled like you

MARTIN: What? The pillow did?

ARCHIVIST: Yes, a-a-and it was...

[TORTURED PAUSE]

ARCHIVIST: Comforting

[A SOMEHOW EVEN MORE TORTURED PAUSE]

ARCHIVIST: And t-that's when I started to realized how, uh... comforting I found...you

MARTIN: Oh jon

ARCHIVIST: [trying to sound irritated] There are you happy now? You- oof!

[HE'S CUT OFF BY MARTIN PULLING HIM INTO A HUG, FABRIC RUSTLES]

[AFTER A PAUSE THEY PULL APART]

MARTIN: Alright, I'll stop torturing you with questions about feelings.

ARCHIVIST: Thank you

MARTIN: I'm not going to let you forget about this though.

ARCHIVIST: [agonized groan] Martin,

MARTIN: No that little tibbit was too hard won. I'm holding on to it forever.

ARCHIVIST: Alright, alright... you absolute fiend.

[THEY BOTH CHUCKLE]

MARTIN: [sighing] Alright let's get this over with.

[FOOTSTEPS START UP AGAIN]

[CLICK]

[almostempty]

Look at this photograph

(joel miller x f!reader)

The second installment of Never made it as a wise man

WC: 3.5k | Part 1 | Part 3| Other fics | Rating: 18+ 

Summary: you open Joel’s dick pic and (after examination) decide to give him a call

Note: it’s me ya boi (gn), back with more divorceddadrockdilf!joel bc you guys get me. i know y’all want them to fuck, and I want them to fuck too. unfortunately, this flowed through me first, and I am merely a vessel for the spirit of buttrock joel. 

so, until they get their freak nasty on, please enjoy this as a chapter 1.5, with gratuitous dick pic art critique and crankin’ it over the phone <3 don’t worry, he’s still a lil pathetic. mistakes and bad jokes are all on me. 

Tags: au no outbreak modern joel, divorced dad rock dilf joel x f!reader, picks up right where ch.1 ended, dick pic descriptions, alternating pov, dirty talk, phone sex, masturbation, it’s all just phone sex, but edge yourself through it with fond memories of ch. 1, still crackish, but i am still dead serious about it being hot so idc

inspo playlist i found on spotify: Divorced Dad Rock: BANGERZ

thanks: to @hellishjoel for hosting the #hotdilfsummerchallenge and to everyone who enjoyed part 1 

@gothcsz i promise fuckboy!joel is cookin, he’s just in the crockpot rn. he’s gotta tenderize like a white lady’s pinterest recipe for pulled pork. 

* i tried to tag everyone who wanted more, but if you don’t wanna be here i’ll remove it <3 or if i missed you and you want to be tagged next time pls let me know

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you blurt out after opening the message from Joel. The vulgar dick pic sends a prickly worm of arousal slithering down your spine. 

Without thinking, you tilt the phone down toward your chest, and your eyes shoot up like you’ve got to make sure nobody saw your naughty message. Warmth blooms on your cheeks as the flash of embarrassment starts to dissolve. You don’t need to hide. 

You’re in your bed, in your apartment, wearing Joel’s grubby Creed t-shirt. The one that smells like Degree Sport and a Jiffy Lube break room. You're free to look at all the dick pics your heart desires. And that’s what you’re going to do. 

The wiggle of bashful energy turns into a squirm as you shift your hips, seeking a comfy position in bed. The t-shirt bunches up under your back and you wonder if the unique Joel scent of it will linger on your pillow beneath your shoulders. You knew pilfering the shirt on the way out the door was a good move, and now you get to enjoy your trophy. It makes it feel like the broad-as-a-barn-door DILF himself was still close enough to touch you. 

It gives you another bright shudder when you think about the noises he made when he came in your hand earlier. The disappointed grunts of “fuck, wait” and how he tried to choke down the throaty groan that came from deep in his chest. Fuck. The perverted gremlins that have a permanent residence in your mind have been roused by the digital dick, and now they chitter and squawk at you. More! More! More!  

You reopen the message, and seeing it gives you another rush. You save the picture to your phone storage. For your personal collection. Mine now, big boy. Your chin starts to dip towards your chest. It’s like you’re giving your phone the Kubrick stare with the ghost of a smirk. You’re free to take your time with this one. And you can be as much of a creep as you want. That makes you sigh softly and sink deeper against your pillows. 

Before this afternoon, it was titillating when Joel would pop up in your mind's eye with his slutty slo-mo scenes. The one where he was bent over your car's engine like Megan Fox in that Transformers movie. Or, that damn happy trail tease with the t-shirt-sweat-rag move. You had just enough imagery to let your dirty thoughts take the wheel. 

And, god, you had a good production team in your mind for projects starring Joel. Adding this will give the team a whole lot more to work with. You can hear them crashing around your conscious like the Animaniacs on the Warner Brothers lot. Horny chaos goblin mode activated. 

Now that you have time to study the image, from the luxury of your microfiber sheets and lamplit bedroom, you let it get pervy. It’s your first real, lingering look–earlier today, you were so busy trying to rile him up in his jeans that you didn’t even pull it out.

It had somehow been even more delicious that way. Having him all needy and unable to stop himself from making a mess in your hand. And not just the noises, but the erratic thrusts into your tight fist? The heat of his pulsing length as he forgot himself? Yeah, you’re gonna remember that one. 

But now? Now you need the visual. If the devil is in the details, you have a new neighbor with horns and a tail. 

You zoom in on everything. Holding your phone closer to your face than necessary, like how do we enhance this bitch? 

And holy shit. 

Drool pools in your mouth and between your legs. You have the knee-jerk reaction to lick your phone. 

You can hear Joel’s voice from earlier today. All husky and grumbly, arguing that you really were a slut for him, like, “You are, aren’t you, though? You came all this way in this excuse for a shirt just to see me?”  He might be touch-starved enough to cream his jeans, but you just know he’s got a nasty mouth in bed, and you’ve got to find out firsthand. Soon. There’s no reason not to, right? 

You pause when a flicker of reasoning tickles the back of your neck. 

You’re back to looking in your review mirror in Joel’s driveway. The last-ditch attempt at checking your ego before you marched to his front door like a Halloween hoe bag version of Betty Crocker. 

You had told yourself you weren’t trying to fuck your (almost) friend’s (sort of) dad. Told yourself there was nothing to pursue, and even if there was, you wouldn’t bite. 

You like Ellie. She’s been (mostly) welcoming to you. You told yourself not to fuck anything up with the only person that’s got a single one of your jokes at your new job. 

You were just bringing some food as a friendly gesture. The fresh visuals to add to your spank bank reel were supposed to be a harmless bonus. Okay, maybe it was a stretch to say you had rolled up to Joel’s driveway with pure intentions. 

And it was an even bigger stretch–when he added that third finger while he finger fucked you on the kitchen counter—wait, no. It was an even bigger stretch when you had told yourself you probably weren’t his type anyway. 

Like, that guy? With the fridge full of Coors Banquet? With those ugly Oakley sunglasses that you know are featured in his only picture on social media that isn’t a car or truck? The guy with all the words to Buckcherry’s “Crazy Bitch” and Puddle of Mudd’s “She Hates Me” memorized? 

Nah, deep down, you knew. You knew there was no way that middle-aged bachelor would turn down any action. But you hadn’t planned on actually making a move, especially not a handjob in the middle of the kitchen. 

That’s on Joel for leaving the door open while trying to rub one out to some bimbo on Brazzers. And for barking at you in that sexy, angry voice. And for teasing you with the bulge in his oil-stained jeans. What were you supposed to do? 

Something must be really rotting in the logic department of your brain. 

Hey! The gremlin voice in your head is still shouting at you. Hey!! Why are we not tasting that dick yet?!! You’re back from your daydream and the excuses you crafted for your behavior, back to laying in your bed with Joel’s dick pic emitting a bright glow in your hand. 

You still do want to lick the screen. 

Fortunately for your immune system, you control your tongue. The critical part of you expels a sigh when you zoom out and take in the picture. 

It’s undoubtedly a nice cock, but the image as a whole? Yikes. 

Why do men have to be so fucking thick? And blunt? Wait, now you’re just describing the slightly blurry boner lighting up your face. Thick as in dense. How can men be so dense? 

No imagination or creativity. No patience. 

You shake your head slightly, scoffing. No wonder you caught him hunched over his cracked phone screen. It was probably the first video loaded on the only site he had saved. 

No sweet, sweet, buildup, setting the mood, or getting cozy. Just whippin’ it out midday or snapping a photo in some ratty sweats. 

Like you’ve never been that touch-starved or down bad?

You ignore that voice to continue your art critique. 

The photo you sent is… sexy. 

Sultry. A flirty tease. It says, “Look who has your shirt? Am I wearing it in bed? Do you think I'm wearing anything else?” 

It’s all implied in the look in your eye and the picture's composition. The tease of the soft curves on the underside of your breasts, asking if he remembers what they felt like. Your hand bunching up the shirt, asking if he remembers the slide of that fist around his cock. If he remembers those fingers, the ones you sucked his sticky spend off of. 

Such delicately crafted imagery. Personalized erotic fine art.  

But men are so crude about it. He sees your tasteful, sexy pic, and immediately, the best his caveman brain can come up with is: send her ur dick! STAT!! Hard cock! Now!!

And, of course, he did. Taken in the dark with the flash on, making ominous shadows in the background. His old charcoal gray sweats are pulled down just enough to expose everything he’s offering. 

The color is slightly blown out from the flash, and it’s a touch blurry where his phone didn’t autofocus quickly enough. His hand looks like it’s straight up, just choking the base of his cock. It’s jarring. 

But that’s really the “man” of it all, right? Nothing subtle or demure about a rock-hard erection jutting towards you, reaching like it could get to you on its own if it just could get a little bit harder. No, there’s nothing coy about the raw thoughts of a man with no blood left in his brain who’s just aching to get inside you, either. 

And fuck if that doesn’t start to override your critical analysis. 

The glare from the flash reflects in the beads of precome rolling down his rosy tip. Mouth wateringly delicious. Your blood rushes to your pussy, filling your tender sex with heat and a deep, needy itch. It makes you dopey and silly. Not cock drunk, but like, dick pic buzzed. 

You know it felt sizeable in your hand earlier, but you aren’t an expert at estimating size from a through-the-pants handjob. You try to recreate your own grip around nothing to estimate the size. 

You giggle to yourself when you realize you're just a woman in her bed staring at her hand, jerking an invisible cock. The horny goblins aren’t amused, though. They’re sick of the daydreaming and distractions. They’re picking fights with the rest of your mind. Throwing rocks and sticks, shrieking and hissing. 

The part of your brain that was griping about how men used to write love letters and respect the art of romance is getting quieter and further from your faculty for caring. You can hear its muffled shouts, and you assure that voice that you won’t give it all up this easily. Then, you completely tune it out. 

The last brain cell with a complaint has you rolling your eyes. You have to be ovulating or something because it’s wholly debased the way this guy is doing it for you. 

He’s just shameless with it. 

You sent him tasteful underboob, and he gives you jumpscare dick-in-the-dark! How is this supposed to escalate? He gave it all up immediately! You send another picture, and he sends you his money shot? What’s he gonna do to give you more? Send you an asshole shot? That one makes you snort. You bet he would do it, too, if you asked. 

Oh, that gives you a better idea. He’s not getting another picture from you at all. You tap on his name and tap the call icon. Of course, this horny motherfucker answers immediately. You aren’t sure it even rang before you’re connected to his porny bedroom voice. 

“What are you wearing, dollface?” 

“I already showed you. Call me dollface again, and I’m hanging up.” 

You can hear his breathing like he’s got the mic on his phone in his mouth. That would typically drive you fucking nuts, but right now, you wanna hear his heavy breath against your ear and feel it hot against your skin.

“All right,” he speaks slowly, distracted. You know why. “You wanna be my slut, instead?” 

Fuck. That has you throbbing between your legs, but he doesn’t get to know that yet. 

“I already told you,” you keep your voice low and soft, “you don’t get to call me a slut for you, not with your behavior.” You strain, trying to hear any other noises, but his mic is probably clogged with dust from his shop or lint from the pocket of his sweats. You can just hear his fucking breathing. 

“What behavior, baby?” he rasps.

“You always jump straight to sending a picture of your cock?” 

You hear the soft snort through the phone. Followed by a deeper, throatier noise. A noise that makes you go cross-eyed and has you running a hand down to your naked lower half to tease yourself. 

“You always steal a man’s clothes after you come on his fingers?” 

You don’t really care what he asked. His voice makes your tongue go numb. Your mind goes blank. You start slowly, coating your own fingers in your slick arousal and drawing circles with a light touch. 

You hum a noncommittal response into the phone. 

“You look good in my shirt, baby, fuck,” he trails off breathlessly. The idea of you in his clothes gets him too close. 

You don’t answer, and he’s too far gone to wait and tease. 

He’s been wound up since you took off this afternoon, and it doesn’t feel like a coincidence that you sent him that pic when he had just gotten into bed.

It had taken ages to get his brother out of the shop this afternoon, and then Joel completely fucked up when he mentioned you and the lasagna. He had to begrudgingly host Tommy for dinner when he couldn’t come up with a better excuse than saying, “I’m gonna need you to fuck off so I can deal with the aching balls I’ve got from your surprise visit scaring away the woman I had my fingers knuckle deep inside.”

But when he was finally alone, it was like fate; your text came through right after he flopped onto his bed. His semi-stiff cock had sprung to full mast at the sight of you. The shirt he knew he didn’t fuckin’ lose, your soft curves, and the expression on your face. Like a vixen. Your PG-13 tease would do more for him than any X-rated video. 

Knowing you were thinking about him and that you wanted him to know? That had him throbbing. He already knew from the desire in your eyes earlier today that you wanted more.

He could swear his fingers still hold the lingering flavor of your wet cunt. The visceral memory of you has him on edge. When he wraps his hand around the base of his cock, he has to pause, holding firmly in place. His body screams and aches for release, but he’s determined to keep it in check. He doesn’t want to blow his load until he gets a response from you. 

He fights his urges, trying not to fuck his own fist in a frantic race to come. 

But, fuck, it’s difficult when he can imagine the sounds you’d make as you sank onto his cock for the first time. The face you’d make. Your tight, wet walls hugging him just right. Like, he’s where he’s meant to be. 

And the way you would look, bouncing on top of him. Your tits, your blissed-out face, the way your soft lips would part when you called out his name and cried for more. 

Those lips. 

The way he’d love to see them swollen and slobbering around the base of his cock. Fuck. His hips buck reflexively, and he hisses out a breath through his clenched teeth. When his phone lights up with your name, he answers before it can make a sound. You’re so bold. He likes that. It plasters a saucy grin on his face. 

And now, with your breathy voice crackling through his janky phone speaker, he’s not gonna last long. You've got him losing his composure for the second time in one day. His whole body is rigid. His toes flex and snap unconsciously, and his jaw tenses. He hears your soft moan, and his thoughts are overflowing. He has no filter left. 

“Yeah, baby? You moaning for me?” His hips punch up into his fist, and he gives in, allowing himself firm, severe strokes. “You’ve got me so hard. You moaning for my cock?” 

You are so not gonna answer that one. If the next words out his mouth are, “Yeah, you like that?” you’re gonna block him for that. But it is undeniably hot to hear him already so worked up. You just know he’s gonna be coming all over himself again for you, and that really does make you moan just for him.

Your noises earn you another growly groan from Joel that you’d kill to hear again. The more uninhibited his noises are, the louder you get in response.

“You using your fingers, or you have a toy?” his question is punctuated with a grunt. 

“Mm, just fingers,” you purr, finally granting him an actual response as you roll your hips. Having Joel on the line gives you a heady sense of satisfaction. Wondering what’s going to come out of his filthy mouth next gives you a shiver of anticipation. 

“I know that sweet pussy is just achin’ to be filled again.” Correct. 

“Yes.” 

“S’right, baby, I know.” 

Joel whimpering on the phone for you is absolutely going to get you off. Your hips chase your own fingers. You switch your phone audio to speakerphone and drop it on your pillow so you can use both hands. Pinching at your own nipples as if it were Joel’s big hand under your smuggled shirt. 

“Tell me,” he pants, “who do you need to fill it for you?” 

“You, Joel.” 

“Fuck,” he chokes out, “you wanna ride this cock, huh baby?” 

“Mhmm.” Bingo. Right again. You wish you could feel the pressure of him inside of you, massaging and soothing away the agony. The weight of his body atop of yours, so solid and secure. You can just about feel the pressure of his pelvis grinding into you. The friction from the coarse curls at the base of his cock getting you closer and closer. 

“Know you’d do so good,” he cuts himself off with a low noise, “so damn sexy.” 

“What else would you do with me?” You wanna hear it. For your own fantasy and to know what he’s into.  

“I’d have you taking me down your throat til you’re crying on it for me, fuck,” a primal noise erupts from him.

Face fucking. Of course. You can’t deny that when he says it, your body responds instantaneously. Your pussy floods eagerly at the idea, and your cheeks burn hot from the visual he gives you. You swallow down your moans, and you can imagine the weight of him on your tongue and the strain of trying to swallow around his cock. 

“You wanna come down my throat?” As if that isn’t a fucking siren song that would make him steer a fleet of ships into a cliff? Your salacious words are too much. 

“Shit. Yeah, baby, wanna watch you swallow for me.” You let all your moans and gasps flow freely for him to hear. “I’m so fuckin’ close,” he can’t stop the words from spilling out his mouth, “let me hear it, baby,” he can’t stop his pending bliss either. “Please, baby, I can’t, oh f-fuck,” he cuts himself off with another primitive grunt, and that’s precisely what your cavewoman cunt wanted to hear. 

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” The horny goblins chant out loud this time. You can envision sweaty, pleading Joel lurching toward a reckless, full-body climax. 

You’re far from grace when the crude sounds he lets out turn you into an uncivilized beast. You hear him gasping, growling, and whining for you. It plunges you into a staggering orgasm. Rolling waves of ecstasy leave you panting and sweating.  

You lie in bed, chest rising and falling beneath the Creed logo. You’re left stunned at the intensity. A dreamy smile spreads across your face, and warm contentment, like honey, pours slowly over your muscles. Relaxing you as your tension softens and you turn to pick your phone back up.

Why was it so wholly consuming just to listen to him? Imagining the mess he made again,

because of you. 

Maybe you’re just made for each other. 

You and Joel. 

Oh, god. You should start listening to Alanis Morissette and Evanescence and trade your car for a 1990s-era Toyota 4runner and a pack of Marlboro Smooths. Really lean into matching his freak and the divorced alt-rock vibes.

You laugh softly into your phone before a deep sigh possesses you, and you nearly fall asleep. You stretch and smile, letting your heavy eyelids rest. 

He’s muttering something at you, catching his breath from the stress of being that fucking horned up for you all evening. And the overexertion of lasting long enough to hear your sweet cries of release. 

“You’re unreal,” his smoky voice rings with awe. “Got me shooting loads like a fucking teenager.”

You snort at the juxtaposition of his tender voice and crude comment before ending the call with a whispered, “Goodnight.” 

It shouldn’t make you smile. 

But he’s somehow such an enticing disaster. A cliche lonely bachelor, a cocksure idiot who knows he’s got a big dick and a generous guy who was willing to fix a stranger's car. 

You shouldn’t be trying to justify it, but you know he had you figured out earlier. 

You may be sated tonight, but you won’t be able to rest.

Not until you get your hands on that DILF – or rather, your pussy on that dick. 

-> Part 3

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[slimybeth69]

Hungry Man

Chapter Two: God The Animal

Series Masterlist | Chapter One

Chapter Summary: “…made me think about what it would be like if God the animal bit me with his razor-sharp fangs. God has huge poisonous fangs and he loves to bite people who follow the rules. If you follow the rules, God's going to kill you with his long teeth ; and I love knowing that.”

warnings/tags: DDDNE, smut, overstim, extreme dub con, coercion, lying, dubious ethics, Mister-man being sneaky as hell, reader is struggling, hearing voices.

a/n- hello, this chapter is mostly smut but with lots of little things important to the story. I hope you all enjoy <3

Mister opens the front door of his home for you with his hand pressed gently into your lower back. The smell of him hits you, like you hit the ground after falling out of the rafters– how many days have even gone by since then?

That happened yesterday– earlier this morning, technically. 

That doesn’t even make sense and you refuse to process that information because it’s ridiculous. That all happened days ago, maybe even weeks ago. You are actively fighting the memory of being inside your favorite, most safe and special place less than twenty-four hours ago. 

Why did you ever stop fighting him?

He adds weight to his touch on your body, and carefully forces you inside. Your feet shuffle along the hardwood floor just inside the entryway, his warm hand guiding you. 

The door closing makes you shudder, and a cold sweat beads at the nape of your neck. His house looks like a normal house. It looks like a house you would have seen before the outbreak, before the loss of everyone you had ever known. Before the infected, the terrible living conditions in the quarantine zones–  before the real monsters emerged from the rubble of what was civilized once. 

Mister-man’s house looks… 

Safe. 

It does look safe. It looks warm, inviting, and familiar. It’s like you’ve been here before and know your way around even though you’ve never once stepped foot inside a house in almost 12 years. The closest you’ve gotten was a dry goods storage shed the raiders used to lock up shelf-stable food products. 

Look at you, been in two houses today and you’re perfectly fine. 

They’re all trickin’ you, and you’re fallin’ for it.  

There is a fireplace and it's already lit, keeping the house nice and warm. There are stairs that lead to a second floor, and you wonder what’s up there before your eyes wander into the kitchen area. 

Joel lets his hand fall from the small of your back. “Y’like it?” He shrugs the coat off his shoulders and hangs it up on a coat rack by the door.

You shrug your one working shoulder silently as he stands in front of you to unzip your jacket. Your eyes don’t meet his, they can’t right now because they’re too busy taking in everything else. 

Joel slips your coat off carefully and hangs it up beside his, “Go on and take a look around. Get familiar with it all,” he motions for you to keep walking, go further. 

Curious feet carry you deeper into his home to inspect what Mister-man has. “Where is Puddin’?” You still don’t look at him, you just keep wandering and taking in the sounds of the logs crackling in the fireplace and the texture against your fingertips as you brush them along the wallpaper. 

His kitchen is uncluttered and smells like it’s been cleaned recently.

Make a mess. Ruin his things. Burn it down. 

“Somewhere ‘round here. Hidin’ probably.” Joel explains from behind you. “Makin’ a mess, I’m sure.” 

Puddin’s probably gone. Ain’t ever gonna see him again.

“Where’re ya’ thinkin’ he might be?” Your blood pressure rises at the thought that you’ve been lied to, that Puddin’ isn’t here and was let go in the woods shortly after you left with Maria. 

Or worse. 

The dining room smells like him too, and you wonder if there is a part of the house that doesn’t. His table is big enough to seat four and all the chairs match. There is a china cabinet with nothing in it. A few decorative pictures and knick-knacks on the wall. 

It’s a normal house. The bad ones didn’t look like this, or Maria’s. 

Traps don’t always look like traps. Tricks don’t always feel like tricks. 

“I dunno. I ain’t really pay attention to where he ran off too when I let him off leash,” Joel sighs while he follows behind you only two or three paces. You can feel his eyes boring holes into the back of your head. 

You suck your teeth rapidly several times and then call out, “T’mere Puddie-boy. T’mon,” you call in a high-pitched voice. He doesn’t come running to you like he normally would, but he’s probably just as scared as you are in a house. Puddin’s never ever been inside one!! You try not to think about it– just hope that Puddin’ is hiding, and will come out soon. 

The kitchen opens up into his living room where the fireplace is. You can see the door that leads outside where you and Mister-J had just been standing just a moment ago. 

Run. 

The couch faces the fireplace, and there is a wooden rocking chair with an overstuffed cushion to sit on adjacent to it. 

A nice place for you and Joel to sit and talk. 

Which is exactly what you wanted in the first place. All you wanted was someone to talk with, not at, or to, but with. Someone who would show interest in the things you wanted to show them, and that was Mister-J. 

“Do you wanna see the bedroom?” He asks as the backs of his fingers ghost against the curve of your ass. “Finish what we started earlier,” he adds, an octave lower than just a moment ago.

You do want that. 

Mister and his incredible cock, his large, strong hands that grip you and pull and pinch your skin while he thrusts into you. His facial hair scratching at your inner thighs, warm and muscular biceps and forearms wrapped around your middle. 

You turn to face him, eyes finally darting up to meet his gaze. “Do I get to sleep there,” you pause, expecting him to start laughing at you for having such an absurd thought, but he doesn’t, he’s quiet and waits for you to keep talking. “...or do I have a different room– my own room?” 

Somehow, for whatever reason, you want both. You want to sleep with Mister and also, have your own room away from him to go to whenever you want. 

Just like at the mall. 

The idea that you could have both makes your heart skip a beat.

He’s not goin’ to give you shit. 

With the way he’s acting, you’re not so sure about that. 

He looks slightly amused, but not annoyed, and then he slips his fingers into the waistband of your jeans, using it to pull you closer into him. “You can sleep with me,” he leans in until his lips are almost pressed against yours. His and your breaths mingle momentarily before he says, “I could make up the other room for ya’,” he growls and kisses you quickly. “I’d rather ya’ sleep with me though,” he finishes with another kiss, but this one lingers a moment longer than the other, and there is force, and pressure that hadn’t been there with the first. 

It feels like there is something behind the kiss, but that doesn’t make sense. There isn’t a word you know to describe what it feels like because it’s foreign. It makes you shiver– the little hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up. 

It’s all a trick. Just wait ‘n see, stupid girl. 

You stare at him inquisitively during the entire interaction, “Whaddya doin’?” You tip your head to the side and wrinkle your nose, one eyebrow raised after a minute of trying to learn his unspoken, untranslatable language silently in your head. 

It feels foreign because it’s new, no one has cared about you in a long time. It doesn’t feel normal, but it’s okay.

Joel snorts, shakes his head once and then grabs your right hand, pulling you gently in the direction of the stairs. “Gonna show you the bedrooms,” he’s explaining as the two of you climb to the second floor. 

You ain’t ever leavin’ this house again. 

That sweet voice is laughing at you, almost cackling. It feels horrible to be laughed at, especially by the voices inside your head. The ones that got you into this mess in the fucking first place. Without that sweet and lighthearted voice, you might not have done the things you did out in the woods. That voice was your courage, your enabler, the one who told you that you could do anything. 

Thought you could, sug. Guess I was wrong... 

You’re only human, honey. 

The hallway upstairs is dark, and long and feels more ominous than you expected it to. Part of you is screaming to turn around and leave, the other part of you is morbidly curious about the outcome if you stay. So you freeze, yank your hand out of Joel’s and stay glued to the spot at the top of the stairs. 

Mister whips around, his stance looks like he half expected to take off running, knees slightly bent and arms twitching like he’s ready to grab you. But he relaxes when he sees you standing still, your one working arm wrapped around yourself. 

“Why’s it so dark?” You ask nervously, glancing around for the light switches on the wall but you see none. 

Mister glances up, and then points to the ceiling. 

Your eyes follow, and notice the broken light fixture above you. “Oh.” 

There isn’t a sense of urgency, which you’re surprised about. You expected him to rush you, to want to get you into a room as quickly as he could. Instead he moves slowly like the snails that lived on the banks of the river near the mall. 

“You scared of the dark or somethin’?” 

You can’t tell if he’s taunting, or playfully teasing, or being serious. Nothing really makes sense anymore– one side of you is pulling towards the stairs again, itching to get to the front door; not before lighting Mister-man’s house on fire. 

The other side of you, the side closest to Joel feels like it’s magnetized and he’s your polar opposite. It’s hard to escape the draw that is Mister-J and his half-smirks and deep voice, the way his arms feel wrapped around you. 

“I ain’t scared,” you lie sassily, the words stitched with apprehension. “Just can’t see where m’goin’.” You are frightened by what could be hiding behind these doors in the darkness.

Probably a lil prison just for you– ‘n Tommy helped him fix it all up for ya’. 

That is a possibility. This wouldn’t be the first time that you’ve been tricked by someone being kind to you. Mister-man and his nice tone, and his kisses. His sultry voice talking about fucking– he absolutely might be trying to trick you. 

You wait for some reassurance from the dark voice– but it doesn’t come. 

Stupid girl. Why did you ever stop fighting him?

Mister snaps his fingers in front of your face and it makes you flinch. 

Instinctively, your right hand swats his fist away but he grabs you by the wrist and pulls you close to him again. 

“Where were ya’ just now?” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper. His grip on your wrist tightens as you try to pull away. 

His question confuses you because you haven’t moved from this spot since you got to the second floor. Before you have more time to think about what he could mean, he adds on more words that continue to puzzle you.

“You do that a lot,” he adds as he begins to take steady but deliberate steps backwards, further into the darkness, closer to those mysterious doors. The void starts to envelope Mister, the shadows licking and dancing across his face as he pulls you further down the hallway. 

It’s ya’ last chance, Sug. 

It’s hard to breathe, and Mister-man is crowding your every sense. His once welcoming, comforting smell is now overwhelming and makes your mouth hot. Saliva pools under your tongue and you can’t remember how to swallow. 

Gotta make a run for it. 

Where is the dark voice!? You need it now more than ever to calm these nerves, to make this boulder in your stomach revert back to the pebble it was only moments ago. 

You just have to trust, honey. 

Can’t trust not one thing, not nobody. ‘Specially not a Mister-man. 

There are too many sounds inside your brain, and too many feelings happening in your chest. Your heart and lungs and everything else hidden behind ribs, tendons and flesh have been replaced with a hive of angry hornets. You’re buzzing, and in the worst way. 

“Hey,” Joel’s voice sounds like it’s so far away, like it could be coming from the atmosphere. 

The sound doesn’t grip you, or pull you back from floating away from him. The darkness is suffocating; too much and taking over. 

Joel watches you slip further and further away, his eyes adjusting to the dark quicker than yours. He’s more accepting of the things hiding in the dark than you must be. Joel isn’t afraid of the dark. He’s afraid of what he can see, once a brain processes something– it has to work hard to get it out– and some memories are etched so deeply that they never leave no matter how hard the brain works.

Some memories are never forgotten.

“Hey,” Joel cups your face with one hand, your chin resting on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. Your brow crinkles, but you don’t respond otherwise– you don’t see him and you’re not trying to. You’re disappearing back inside of yourself and it’s strange the way it happens so fast sometimes. “Hey!” He tries again. This time he lets your wrist go, and your arm falls limply to your side and dangles there. 

Joel snaps rapidly in your face. 

You flinch and retract from him, trying to free your face from his grip but he holds you tight enough to keep you from backing away. 

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t–” you’re mumbling, barely audible. “I can’t, I sh-should, I won’t, I want to. I c-can’t. I ca-can, can’t.” 

“What’re you talkin’ ‘bout?” He wraps his free arm around your waist and pulls you close to him. Two stumbled steps and you’re crashing into him; he has to hold you upright as your legs betray you like a newborn foal’s would. 

“Trust him. I can’t trust him-” You’re on the verge of tears. Your eyes are wet, red and distant; looking right at Joel, but not truly seeing him. 

He doesn’t know where you are inside your head, or what you’re putting yourself through, what you’re forcing yourself to relive. “Trust who, babydoll?” He knows. He knows before you tell him, he can feel it dripping out of your pores in the form of a cold sweat. He needs to hear you say it, though. He needs to hear your sweet, soft voice say it. 

“Ca-Can’t trust… anyone,” you snivel quietly. “‘Sp-specially not a– a M-Mister-man,” you’re hiccuping now, unable to catch your breath. 

Joel comes to a stop with his back against something solid, he keeps you held against him with the arm still around your waist, the other slips behind him and he searches blindly for the doorknob. “That ain’t true. You can trust Mister-man. He ain’t ever gonna hurt ya’.” 

The door opens, and light spills out into the dark hallway, illuminating your terrified face and bleary eyed stare. 

The light snaps you out of it, the light brings you back to him, but you stiffen and push your right hand against his chest, brows pulled together angrily. 

“Get off me! No, no, no, no, no!” Your once sadly sweet voice is now deep and angry, eyes once again, looking right at Joel but it’s like he’s not even there, looking at someone else possibly. “Get off’a me! Don’ fuckin’ touch me!” You shriek. 

Oh, someone is gonna be hearin’ all of that– wonder what they’ll be thinkin’...

His body reacts before he can think about what else to do, how else to calm you down. Joel spins you around in his arm and then slaps one hand over your mouth as you continue your loud protesting. 

Whatever was holding you together, snaps… and violently. Your arms punch and flail in every direction, legs kick and slam into his shins as he drags you further into his room. 

Joel is too old for this, too tired to be dealing with this shit. “Enough’a that,” he’s straining as he’s pulling you closer to the bed. “

From behind his palm your loud muffled objections are now only his to hear. 

You know what she needs. You know what’ll make her your pliant lil pup. 

The back of Joel’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he sinks down into it, bringing you with him. Joel presses the side of his mouth to your ear as he pushes himself further up the bed with his boot clad heels until his back touches the headboard. “Here we go,” he murmurs to you as he settles. His palm still rests over your mouth, his other wrapped around your waist.

You sob silently behind his hand, your fists are pathetically punching against his thighs and hips in protest, body slowly going limp in his grasp. 

Wonder when the last time she slept was…

He feels like that’s slightly condescending- you’re not a baby that needs a nap to stop being grumpy. He knows that you’ve been through things that have traumatized you, that have helped shape you into who you are today– good and bad. 

“Hey– ya’ sleepy? Need a good night’s sleep next to Mister?” He mumbles against the side of your face. 

It’s been something that’s been eating away at him for days. Since he broke the news to you about Harley Quinn and Joker, and how their love wasn’t what you thought it was– you had skipped out on him. 

For almost a week you had been gone, or hiding somewhere that Joel couldn’t find you. There had been nights in the mall that he had sworn he could feel you there with him, but you weren’t in the bed or even the mattress store at all. You were avoiding him, and that made him feel two things. 

Furious. So angry that he was sure the next time he saw you– he was going to kill you no matter if it took his life too. How could you just leave him with no weapons? No extra supplies, a fucking opossum to look after. Where the fuck did you run off to? 

He felt something else too, but he’s still not exactly sure what it was; he wasn’t just furious, something else was woven into the fibers of that anger, and he just couldn’t identify its origin- or reason. 

He kisses the top of your head as he adjusts the two of you to sit more comfortably, with you in his lap rather than just laying between his legs with your back pressed against his stomach. 

Now with your back against his chest, his legs pinning yours between together gently. “You gonna be a good girl for Mister? Remember where we’re at?” He rubs his hand across your stomach slowly, moving it up to tease the valley between your tits and then over your collarbone before repeating the motion back down your body. “Ain’t no one gonna hurt ya’, or get ya’-- not while I’m here, ok?” 

With scrabbling fingers starting to grip his jeans under your thighs, you nod your head slowly, and Joel removes his hand over your mouth. You don’t tell or scream, or start to fight him, but you don’t make any other sounds or move at all. 

Joel wasn’t sure what to do now– he honestly hadn’t really expected all this to happen. He had expected you to explode once you found out how many people were really in Jackson, he expected you to act crazy once the patrol people found the two of you. He had expected you to fight when Maria and Tommy wanted to split the two of you up. 

He thought once he got you inside, through the front door– he was in the clear. If you were going to fight him again– it should have been outside his house. 

Now he’s got you back, and he had planned to fuck you into this mattress, make you love him again and then, just keep you preoccupied enough until you forgot about the mall completely. 

“Whaddya need from me?” He whispers, continuing his slow tracing movements across the front of your body, the tips of his fingers brushing along the waistband of your jeans mindlessly. He’d give you anything you asked for. 

There is only the sound of both of you trying to steady your breathing, trying to slow your hearts pounding. He can feel yours with his hand every time he moves it across your chest, and he knows you can feel his thudding against your back. 

“W-Wanna–” you hesitate, and you’re trembling against him now. 

Joel has to push the unprovoked rage down because you haven’t said you wanted to go back to the mall yet, but he knows you do. It’s all you said on the way here, and if you start asking again after the deal he made with you– he’s going to lose it. 

“What? Wanna what, babygirl?” His hand moves down one thigh and then back up, over your jeans covered mound, down the other thigh– an addition to the pattern he had been tracing before. 

The trembling turns into full on shaking, he half expects you to start crying again, but he brushes the backs of his fingers of his other hand across your cheek gently, and he tips your head to the side, and leans forward to look at you. 

“What’re you shakin’ for?” 

Your eyes meet his, watery and red still, chin trembling softly. “Wanna know you’re not mad at me,” you say it fast, high pitched and strained, face twisting as the tears fall. “That you’re not trickin’ me ‘n aren’t ever gon’ let me go outside again, ‘n keep me all chained up—” you choke back a sob as Joel wipes the tears off your face, not saying a thing. “Th-That you didn’t hu-hurt Puddin’ or let him go–” 

Joel interrupts you, “I wouldn’t ever hurt Puddin’,” he shakes his head and shifts forward an inch more when your sobbing takes over, the words no longer coming out. He wonders if you even heard what he said, or if you’re being sucked back into your own head again. “Puddin’ is here in the house somewhere. Probably in the basement– I’ll go look for ‘em if that’ll make ya’ feel better,” he offers. “Would seein’ him make you feel better,” he asks over your crying. 

You’re trying to reel it in, piece yourself back together. You nod, sniffling. Joel pinches your nose together gently, clears your nostrils and wipes his hands on the back of his shirt. Your eyes meet again, “Yeah, that would make me feel a lil better,” your voice wavers, still unsure of the situation around you. 

Joel hooks his index finger under your chin so you can’t look away, “I don’t wanna do any of that stuff to ya’,” he shakes his head from side to side. “Brought you back with me so ya’ could see what this place was like,” he rubs his thumb under your plump and worried bottom lip. “See that it ain’t like where you came from,” his eyes can’t help but flicker down to your pout before he’s back to looking into your eyes. 

“What if I don’t like it?” 

“I told ya’ what would happen if ya’ didn’t like it– but we haven’t even been here two hours,” Joel gives you a knowing look. 

Your body shrinks back into his and your bottom lip starts to tremble again. 

“You gotta give it a chance– a real one. Gotta try– ‘cause why?” He raises both eyebrows at you and waits. “What’re you gonna make a good effort for?

You blink once and then drone back to him, “‘Cause the only way Mister-man will love me is if I try.” 

The deal makes complete sense to you. There wasn’t a thing that didn’t make sense. You still feel wrong as you speak the works back to him monotonously. “‘Cause the only way Mister will love me is if I try.” 

‘Cause it ain’t ever gonna fuckin’ happen. He’s never gonna love you. 

He was never going to love you at the mall, he couldn’t love you there. 

Joel waits for more, waits for the rest as if you maybe had forgotten the most important part of the deal. 

“And if I really don’t like it…” you trail off and wait for him to produce a collar with a lock on it, and a chain that attaches because you’re not sure if he meant it. It felt too good to be true. “We can go back.” 

Joel looks proud, his eyes are crinkled at the corners, and he’s got his familiar half-smile that warms you from the inside, out. “Good girl,” he gives your chin a gentle pinch before he leans back against the headboard and pulls you into his chest again. “You wanna go look for Puddin’ with me?”

The idea of being in here alone, where he might lock the door on you once it’s shut– trapping you inside for however long he wants. 

This whole time you had been in this room, fighting to be free, accepting your horrendous fate– whatever it may be– being comforted by the man you had assumed to be your captor. 

He is your captor– are you fuckin’ thick?

His room looks normal and clean, it looks like something you’d see out of a catalog from the mall when you first got there. A nice comforter with corresponding pillowcases. Two bedside tables with matching lamps sitting on both. The walls were painted a familiar beige that made you feel small, and helpless for some reason. 

Mister slides his hands down the front of you, exploring you, feeling you. Everything about it makes your head spin. 

“We could go look for ‘em later,” he murmurs suggestively in your ear as he palms your tits over your shirt gently. “Never got my chance t’finish makin’ you feel good earlier.” Mister’s accent drawls on as he continues to grope and squeeze at your chest with insistent fingers. 

When you had been ambushed earlier by the group of patrolies, Joel had been trying so hard to calm you down in the only way he knew how– to make you feel good. 

All the emotions from the day- from possibly losing Mister-man, thinking you were going to die, then being dragged through the woods on a leash and being zapped to shit every time you tried to make a run for it, or fight him- boiled over right as the lights from the settlement or compound, or whatever it was fucking called, started to show in the distance. Then you fell apart. 

Joel was just trying to put you back together. 

Trying to trick you, play games with your head. 

Mister presses his mouth against your neck, one of his massive hands sliding down your stomach and to the waistband of your jeans. “Just like makin’ you feel good,” he murmurs as his fingers slip between your skin and the fabric like he’s practiced this before. The pads of his ring and index finger trace the seam of your cunt slowly.

Your head lols back against his shoulder, legs instinctively falling apart as he dips those same two fingers into your entrance. “I know,” you’re whispering with a dry mouth, nodding in agreement. Your eyes flutter while he slides his thick digits into you slowly. 

The both of you groan in unison at the way your body molds around him as he pushes deeper, the “Might be the only thing I know how t’do right anymore,” he almost growls into your ear. His forearm grips you around your torso, his hand still cupping and pawing at one of your tits as he holds you close to him. 

You groan in displeasure as he withdraws from inside you, turning your head to look up at him with your brows pinched together. “What’re ya’--”

Mister’s lips crash against yours, and his mouth opens; his tongue licks at the inside of your cheeks the minute you part your lips like he’s late for an appointment. Then he’s moving between your legs, hovering over you, leaning you back gently against the pillows. He pulls away from the kiss and looks at you with dark, blown-out pupils that make his eyes appear almost completely black. His chest is heaving, and so is yours as you try to catch your breath, but he’s staring at you like he could tear you apart piece by piece. 

He’s going to. Sink his fangs into you and rip you open.

Silently, his deft fingers pop open the button on your jeans, and his calloused hands push them down your thighs, and then he pulls them off your body completely. Now you’re bare– exposed to him from the waist down. He still says nothing while he takes in the sight of you like this, his knuckles ghosting along the inside of your thigh as he trails it up towards your core.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he speaks quietly, almost so low you can barely hear him while he gazes down between your legs. “She’s mine,” his eyes flash up to yours as two fingers find their place buried inside you, his thumb rubbing lazy circles around your now throbbing clit.

You respond with a quiet moan, and a slack jaw as he curls his fingers up towards your stomach, against that perfect spot nestled inside of you that makes you warm everywhere. Everything is right and incredible, and there isn’t anything that could make this bad– not one single thing. 

That’s why he’s doin’ it– so you feel like this. Tryin’ to trick ya’, ‘n you’s fallin’ for it. He’s poison.

Mister thrusts impossibly deeper, jolting you, almost pushing you backwards with the force of it, demanding you to look at him, really see him while he pulls back and then thrusts forward again. “You heard me?” He questions as every muscle inside of you tries to keep him inside of you. 

“Wha–” 

He doesn’t let you finish. He pushes the heel of his hand against your clit while he curls his fingers rapidly inside of you, “I said,” he leans forward and braces one hand against the headboard just above your shoulder. “This pretty pussy is fuckin’ mine,” he growls and switches back to plunging his fingers into you again, as deep as he can. 

It’s so hard to keep your focus when he’s making you feel so fucking good, your eyes close as the pleasure closes in on you- but Mister lets out a loud, sharp whistle that makes them snap open. 

He’s shaking his head already, a mischievous smile on his face. “Nuh-uh. Y’know better– you look at me,” he pulls his fingers from inside you once again and sucks them into his mouth. 

“M’sorry,” you whine quietly, desperate for his touch, desperate for that release that you’ve been denied for so long. Mister chuckles as he laps and sucks at his digits, ravenous for your taste. “She’s yours– you’re right. She is.” You nod in agreement as you babble.

Mister releases his fingers with a loud, wet pop and then reaches for his waist. “Oh, I know she is,” his belt jingles as he gets it open and he pulls his zipper down. “Needed to make sure you know,” Mister pushes his jeans to mid-thigh, watching you watching him in amazement as he lets his hard, angry looking cock slap against his lower stomach. 

Your mouth starts to water at the sight of him, every vein is throbbing, and the dusky skin of his shaft now red and the tip of him is almost purple and drooling. 

All for you. He’s yours, too. 

“S’all for me?” The blood is pounding in your ears, and your eyes flash up to catch him nodding at you. 

One of his thick hands grasps the base of himself and squeezes tight. He settles on his knees, your legs draped over either of his thighs as he scoots himself closer to you. His voice rumbles in your ear as he slaps his shaft against your folds, and you feel how thick and heavy– how ready he is for you. 

What he says doesn’t register. How could it when you’re watching him drag is cock up and down your slit, coating himself in your slick. He rocks his hips back and forth, the friction on your clit is delicious and you arch your hips up to meet him. 

Joel uses his free hand to hold your hip, and he squeezes, digging his fingers into your skin. “Y’aint fuckin’ listenin’ to me,” he barks at you, halting his movements and pushing you back down into his bed. 

Your eyes meet him once again, and he’s unreadable- he’s not exactly the same man you met in the mall. There is something new, something unknown about him now. It’s like he’s taken a mask off and you recognize his voice and his touch but you don’t know him anymore. “Sorry–”

Mister stares at you while notching himself at your entrance. “No need t’be sorry,” he breathes out as your aching hole flutters around the tip. “Just listen to Mister,” he pushes in a fraction of an inch and you’re not sure if he’s teasing you, or trying to make it last longer. 

A sigh leaves you as the burn from the stretch settles inside you, the pain mixed with the pleasure. The pleasure mixed with every other emotion. All of it is so good. “M’listenin’ now,” you nod your head, fighting the urge to look down at where you’re joined. 

Joel nods his head in approval, and rubs circles on your hip with his thumb. “You’re mine,” he rasps out as he pushes forward again. “All of ya’.” He lets go of the base of his shaft and uses that hand to hold your other hip. He pulls you against him while thrusting into you, and bottoms out. 

You let out a loud, filthy groan as the tip of him kisses your cervix immediately. Your right hand reaches for him, wrapping around his wrist as he keeps his grip on your waist. “Oh f–fuck.”

He is perfect. 

“All mine,” he grunts and holds himself inside of you, allowing you to adjust to his size, to mold to him like you always do. “Ya’ hear me that time or do–” he cuts himself off with a low groan as he pulls back an inch and then pulls you back down onto his shaft. 

“H–heard ya’,” you moan, nodding back at him in additional confirmation. “I’m yours.” Your walls clench around him, body reacting to the idea of being his. A new, wet wave of arousal coats his cock while he’s still inside of you. 

Joel snickers, feeling your immediate ratification leaking around him. “Oh ya’ like that, babydoll? Like bein’ mine?” He growls pridefully, his hips picking up speed. 

You barely recognize that you’re a real person when he’s inside of you, when he’s close to you like this. Everything makes sense while also meaning nothing at all. As long as Mister is here, as long as he wants so badly it feels like he needs you. “Uh-huh,” you babble, eyes finally closing and resting back against the pillows. “L-Love it.”

Joel leans over you, bracing himself on one forearm, “Yeah… I know,” his other hand keeps its grip on your hip as he continues his crescendoing pace, fucking you open for him and dragging the defined ridge of his cock against that spot– that place only he knows how to reach and touch over and over again. That place that makes you breathless and leaves you sometimes sobbing underneath him.

Tonight you’re moaning loudly, on the verge of potentially being too loud– but no more tears, no more fear inside of you. It’s just Mister making you feel like you’re weightless: he is the source of all your pleasure and you’ll never find a feeling like this again without him. 

Joel presses his temple against yours and you feel him; slick with sweat and warm like the day you met at the tail end of the summer last year. “Feel so fuckin’ good,” he half whispers, half grunts into your ear.

The room’s filled with the sounds of his ragged breathing and skin slapping against skin. There is something primal about the way he’s touching you tonight. His teeth graze the skin of your cheek, and then he nips at you, pinching the skin hard enough to make you whimper.

His hips never falter, sawing back and forth, cock slamming into you like this is a punishment, like he’s angry with you, like he hates you– “S’my turn,” he murmurs with his lips pressed to the shell of your ear. “Take care of ya’,” he grunts as his hips snap into yours, punching the air right out of you. “Keep you safe now.”

His words resonate with you, almost doing more for the intense coiling in your belly than the feeling of him inside you. “P-Please don’t stop,” His sentiments do more than the way he hitches your leg up on his shoulder and suddenly reaches parts of you that feel devastating in the most incredible and blissful way possible.

“S’my good girl,” he pants into your ear at your pliability. His deep voice praising you has your walls clenching around him. “Fuck,” he groans breathily, feeling you flutter around him. 

His hand leaves your hip and slides it between your bodies to rub circles around your clit again, slow but deliberate, meaningful and precise movements that have your back arching off the bed. Ministrations he’s learned that you like– and remembered them so he can make you feel this way over and over again. That tight, hot ball of goodness is growing in your lower stomach, and it’s tearing desperate, ragged noises out of you that you didn’t even know you could make.

“Don’t stop– Don’t stop,” your right hand slides up the curve of his shoulder and behind his neck before your fingers card through the thick mess of gray and brown curls. His voice is going to push you off the precipice. 

Mister incredibly increases his speed and you worry for a moment that you’re going to be fucked up the headboard behind you until you feel his hand on the top of your skull, sliding down to cup your head close to him. 

“Talk– please t-talk,” you plead airily against his neck. “Don’t stop talkin’.” 

Joel presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, his hips hammering into you still. You can feel him grinning against your skin for a moment before he pulls his chest away from yours. He holds your leg against his torso. He suddenly looks like he’s in pain, but the grimace disappears from his face just as quickly as it had shown up. 

“You–” You’re about to ask if he’s alright, if he wants to switch positions but he Mister cuts you off. 

“Shut up–” He rasps, hand exploring your thigh and shin, lips pressing into your ankle. It’s a familiar picture. He kisses you there whenever he fucks you like this. 

At the mall sometimes he would bite you there, nipping at the bone, and then the sensitive skin on the top of your foot before he pulled out to finish on your belly.

Tonight it’s different. Everything in the room feels charged– ready to zap you dead if you touched anything but Mister. He’s grounding you, keeping you safe right now. 

“Lil pup needs me, huh?” He sounds like he’s teasing you, but the words go right to your core and you clench around him again, tighter and more rapidly your walls flitter and constrict. 

You let out a pathetic whine because yes, you do need him. That scares you and makes your cunt throb at the same time. 

“Say it,” Mister continues his touch on your sensitive clit, rubbing in faster, sloppier circles. It doesn’t matter how precise his touch is anymore because you’re so close. 

Everything inside of you is taught and ready to explode. “Y-Yeah,” you pant nod your head rapidly.

“Need what?” Mister purrs deeply, seemingly already satisfied by the fucked-out look on your face, or the actual, desperate need behind your eyes that has been building for him and him alone. His thumb rubs furiously around your nub, his leaking tip pushes so deeply inside of you that you swear you can feel it in your stomach. 

Your mouth hangs open silently as your impending orgasm shoots sparks from your lower belly to the rest of your body. 

Joel’s palm connects with the side of your thigh hard enough to hear the smack echo off the walls of his room. The sting settles into your flesh, and you bite your bottom lip to suppress a whimper. 

“C’mon– lemme hear your pretty voice say it” Mister’s voice is low and demanding– just what you needed to tip you over the edge. 

Your chest heaves, and you sob loudly, “Need you, need you, need you!” Everything is hot, and good- your legs twitch as the waves of pleasure crash over you again and again. The stress and the worry that had been building up a hard shell around you being eroded away with each broken moan that leaves your raw and tender throat. 

Mister-man doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop his brutal pace he set. He instead begins to rub your clit rapidly with four stiff fingers. “Atta girl” he growls into the side of your calf. Then he sinks his teeth into you. 

“Oh fuck–” you groan, letting your head fall back against the pillows again as the bliss courses through all the nerves and veins you have. “Oh my god,” you keen loudly, back bowing off the bed dramatically. 

Mister sucks on the spot where he just indented marks of his teeth into your skin. His tongue laves at the sore, tender skin like he’s hungry for your taste. “S’right– so fuckin’ pretty when you come on my cock,” he’s grunting, fingers working feverishly over your clit to bring you there.

Your shoulder hurts as your arm moves so you can try and sit up on your elbows to watch him, but you don’t care– it’s not nearly as bad as missing out on the view of him splitting you in half, watching the way you obscenely stretch open for him. You whimper at the sight.

Mister’s forehead is damp and his hair clings to it, the column of his throat is red and also stippled with beads of sweat that drip down behind the fabric of his flannel shirt. His forearm holds your leg close to his chest as he rests his head against the side of your foot, gazing down at you. 

He’s handsome and loves to make you feel good. 

It’s all a trick. 

It doesn’t matter right now if it’s a trick, or if he’s genuine with why he’s doing what he’s doing- it feels so good– teetering on the edge of being too good. Too much. All at once it hits you like a tsunami. 

“Ok, ok, ok, ok!” You’re squealing and half trying to crawl away from him, but he holds you tight by the thigh and keeps up the speed of his fingers on your clit, his thrusts pummeling you into near blurry vision. 

He doesn’t care, he loves this, loves to see you like this. He whispered it to you once late at night in the darkness of the mattress store after he made you feel good over and over, again and again. Mister just chuckles at your useless, and half-hearted begging and his thrusts slow, but each one is deep and touches the furthest parts inside of you. 

It’s going to happen– your legs are shaking and your fingers dig into the sheets below you to hold on to something because it feels like you’re about to float away and explode all over again in such a different way. 

Joel grunts again, his thrusts becoming more erratic and clumsy, his fingers dip into the flesh of your upper thigh and you watch his knuckles go white. “C’mon– know ya’ got one more in there for me.” His voice is strained and you can tell he’s close too. 

And of course you have another one for him, you always do and he knows it. He knows how to draw it out of you and make you gush. 

The only sound you can make is a strained whimper as you come again, this time all over his lower stomach and pelvis. Joel groans loudly, and keeps his fingers strumming your clit rapidly while he knocks your leg off his shoulder and pulls out. 

He strokes himself with his free hand a couple of times, chasing his own release now that he’s given you more than you could ask for. He drags the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip, looking down at you with hooded eyes. “Good fuckin’ girl,” he groans again, his fingers finally give you some much needed relief as they leave your clit. The pad of his thumb presses into the top of your slit and he pushes up– pulling you taught as he rubs the tip of his cock against your red, puffy and swollen lips. He moans loudly, hips bucking forward, fucking his fist as he splashes his cum against your cunt. 

You watch in fascination and adoration as he rubs the head up and down as he throbs with each release. He milks himself, and coats the outside of your pussy in his spend before he gives the side of your thigh another slap, gentler and more appreciative this time. 

“You stay there,” he pants softly, and begins to crawl off the bed. 

All the good feelings leave you immediately and fear rips through you again, “Where ya’ goin’?” You ask, scrambling after him, hissing loudly when your shoulder screams in protest. 

Joel turns around, already stuffing himself back into his Jeans with his finger pointed at you sternly. “I said stay there,” he’s firm when he says it, and gives you a look to match. 

You stifle the whine that builds in your throat as he stares you down– unblinking as he waits for you to lay back down. “You comin’ right back?” You ask, settling yourself back into the soft pillows behind your back. 

Joel nods silently, and heads into the bathroom attached to his bedroom and disappears. 

Then you are all alone in his room.

You hear the water turn on, and then off and he’s back in the doorway, his shirt partially unbuttoned with one hand still working on it and then a wet washcloth in the other. 

“Open’em,” he orders gently, much more gentle than he had been only a moment ago. His tone is inviting, and calming– caring. 

You let your legs fall apart, and Joel looks up at you, catching your eye as he rubs you clean, not too rough and careful of your oversensitive parts. 

“Thank you,” you whisper to him, blinking slowly in admiration of his handsomeness, even with his messy hair and scratched face and black eye. That you gave him. “Sorry for hurtin’ ya’,” you add just as quietly even though you mean it. 

Joel shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head softly. “Know you didn’t mean it.” 

You nod your head, “Was just a lot goin’ on, ‘n I got all confused–”

“S’like you didn’t even see me,” he starts, finishing undoing the buttons on his shirt. “-but you were lookin’ right at me.” He’s done cleaning between your legs and tosses the washcloth into his hamper. 

You feel the embarrassment crawling up your chest and neck– growing behind your cheeks. There isn’t anywhere to run to, or to hide. There isn’t a distance far enough away that Mister can’t reach you now, and that’s terrifying. 

“Almost like you went somewhere else entirely,” he keeps talking as he pulls his flannel off, leaving him in a white t-shirt. “Did it earlier out in the hall.” He gives you a look, like he knows but he doesn’t really understand. “Where do you go?”

If only he knew.

Try and explain it to him. 

He’ll think you’re crazy. Crazier than he already thinks you are. 

You avoid his eyes, and look for something to cover your lower half with instead. Joel notices and goes to his drawer and tosses you a pair of his boxers. 

“I had pants from–”

“We are very grateful for Maria and her charity but you don’t need it– don’t need her clothes, or her help. I’ll getchya everything you need, don’t worry ‘bout that.” He shakes his head as he watches you struggle to put the boxers on with one hand, and laying down. 

“She was just bein’ nice–”

Joel cuts you off again, “She was very nice to let you shower ‘n borrow some clothes, yes.” He agrees with you, but you can tell there is more to come. And you’re right. “I’m fully capable of gettin’ you everything you could need, and so we don’t have to take nothin’ from Maria and her donation box–” he pauses for a moment and sighs. “--when it could go to someone who really needs it. Ya’ don’t really need it.” 

That sounds very nice of Joel, very kind and protective– but there doesn’t feel like there is any truth to his words. It’s confusing. 

Something in your brain is itching to ask why Maria doesn’t like Mister and why Mister doesn’t seem to care for Maria. But you don’t. You keep quiet and just nod your head. 

“Do you wanna come with me ‘n look for Pud?” Joel asks, pushing his hair back away from his face with one hand. He looks tired, and you feel badly for him– feel badly for how you had treated him the last week before the raiders came. 

“We can wait ‘till the mornin’ if you wanna go to sleep,” you offer softly, scooching over to one side of the bed to give him room. 

Joel’s eyes flick between you and the space next to you and he sighs softly. “I know seein’ him would make you feel better- probably sleep a lil’ better too,” he rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting back to you after a second. “He’s here. I promise I didn’t leave him– or hurt him…” Joel shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do somethin’ like that to you or Pud.” 

Those words sound genuine. He means it, and you know he’s telling you the truth and that warms something inside of you, eases some of the ache and tension. 

“‘Kay. Can ya’ help me–” You don’t even have to finish before Joel is reaching over and helping you unclasp the sling your left arm is still in. He helps side your arm out, and then he unbuttons the shirt you have on. 

“Got a shirt you can wear t’bed,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing against the curve of your tits as he slides the flannel off of you. 

He tosses the shirt you were wearing down to the floor with the jeans and heads back to his dresser. He comes back with a plain black tee and helps you slide it on as painlessly as possible. 

“Ready?” He asks, crawling into bed beside you– sleeping on the wet spot you made like it’s his preferred sleeping method. 

You nod at him, and push the comforter down with your feet and let him cover the both of you back up. He turns the light off on his bedside table, and reaches over doing the same to yours. 

When you sleep with Mister, you normally curl up into his side and he wraps an arm around you– but tonight that hurts and you opt to lay on your back. 

He’s next to you, throwing an arm over your waist and draping his leg over one of yours, pulling you close to him gently. “This good?” He asks softly in the dark. 

It’s more than good– but you still feel dread buried deep within you and it’s clawing its way through the fleshy parts inside. “Yeah,” you turn your head and press a soft kiss to his forehead.��

“If you try ‘n run away– I’ll come lookin' for ya’,” he whispers, kissing at your jaw as you turn your head to look at the ceiling. 

“I know,” you’re quiet like he is, running your fingers along his forearm. 

“And you won’t like what happens when I find ya’.” 

tag list: @probablyreadinsmut @lilac-boo @pedrospookie @ghoulettesinspace @itwasntimethatdidit40 @itsokbbygrlbutworsethistime @baronessvonglitter @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @joelmillerisapunk @pastelpinkflowerlife @tateypots @toxicrecs @the-orange-tabby-cat @gothcsz @almostempty @cubiclehoe @codenamekitten @shivispunk

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[rainsoughtflowers]

lifesaver

tw/cw - smoking

a/n - a snippet of my new story

pairing - kang woo-young x reader

it doesn't take you long to find him. 

after wandering the perimeter of the school, the smell of cigarette smoke hanging thickly in the air is what led you to the alleyway just outside the gym building. and sure enough, as you approach the clearing, you spot kang woo-young among a group of guys seated on empty containers and old wooden stools. 

your noise scrunches slightly at the scent, which burns the inside of your throat and the surface of your eyes. and even worse, you're suddenly overcome with an uncomfortable sensation. one that's difficult to ignore. 

it takes every ounce of restraint within your body to remain planted on the ground in front of them, ignoring the need to flee from the scene. the feeling of your muscles seized by fear, the scarcity of your breath, both are a product of the memory that surfaces when you spot the object hanging limply between deft fingertips. 

it reminds you of that dark storage room you find yourself in far too often. the suffocating smell of smoke. the pain that follows the scent. so much so, you need to avert your eyes to focus on a different point just to calm down enough to remain rational. 

the people he surrounds himself with ignore your existence. they give you no more than a passing glance, their attention easily sliding away from your figure to something more interesting or noteworthy.

but not him.

not once do his eyes leave your own. they lazily slide to your face, and it strikes you again. that crawling sensation down the length of your spine from the way he considers you. carefully, deliberately, in ways you are not used to. 

"you need something?" he mutters out, not exactly rude, but not kind either. just...there. 

you swallow hard, then force the words out, "can you help me?"

something shifts in woo-young's expression. you aren't sure what it is, but you recognize it. it's that same look he regarded you with sometime before. one that pierces through your defenses, as if he's seeing you for the first time. not the empty shell of yourself. not the ghost of a girl carrying something she cannot bear anymore. 

he doesn't say anything, which you take as a sign to continue. 

"i heard you'll beat people up for money."

slowly, a smile curls woo-young's lips. it stretches wide across his face, deepening the lines around his cheeks and creasing his eyes just slightly. an amused chuckle slips past his teeth as he leans back, taking a drag from his cigarette, "for the right price."

"how much would i need to pay you to help me get revenge?"

your question must catch woo-young off guard. he blinks, his smile faltering just barely. this time, when he studies you, it's with a smudge of curiosity. his eyes drag across every inch of your face, like he's trying to understand you, and you don't miss the way his attention lingers on the healing scab on your lips.

"what kind of revenge?" he finally inquires. 

the corner of your mouth twitches. whether it was to form into a frown or a smile, you'll never know, "the kind that would make someone miserable for the rest of their life."

read the rest on wattpad or ao3 !

[kangals]

two years later.

the first night I brought Boone home I ended up sleeping on a dog bed next to him all night long to stop him from crying the moment I was out of sight. I had a miserable uncomfortable night full of anxiety about how I was ever going to be able to live with this dog, and the moment the sun rose I took him for a long walk around the city to ease my mind.

the last night I spent with Boone I slept on a dog bed next to him all night long, because I knew he would die the next day and I couldn’t bear to not be with him every minute. I took a picture of the last sunrise and the way the light touched all the overlapping planes of limbs and body and blanket. knowing that something is ending makes you search for significance in everything. I did the math: 77,736 hours in between those two sleepless dawns. and all I could think was god, please, just a little more time. it’s too soon. I’m not ready.

he died as peacefully as he could have. at home, on a beautiful day, head on my lap as I clung to him in a silent panic. I have never in my life been as terrified as I was while watching the doctor push a syringe full of poison into his IV.

it needed to happen and it was quiet and gentle and the air smelled like lilacs but it was the scariest thing I’ve ever done and it replayed in my head for months afterwards over, and over, and over. what a privileged life I lead to be traumatized by a peaceful euthanasia!

it took me a long time to realize that my grief had changed from a productive healing process to something more akin to emotional self-harm. that it was ok to let go of the sadness and leave it to trail behind instead of holding it close. despite everything time has kept moving forward and the wounds have healed over. there’s still pain - I’ll never stop missing him and I’ll never forget the misery of that day. but god, 77,736 hours and I refuse to only remember the final few. there was too much love to be covered over like that.

I’ve been pretty good about moving on, of wiping away the old stains and re-using the leashes and bowls. one of the last things I was struggling to put away was a linen storage bin where I kept his coats and pajamas. I don’t have a use for them anymore but the thought of giving them away was abhorrent. the colors and patterns and textures - soft fleece, black and white houndstooth, blue camo - were in so many pictures and memories it was like his second skin. I couldn’t put them away.

I brought them up to the attic this morning, carrying it on my shoulder like a pallbearer. i remembered my grandmothers funeral last year when I tossed a shovelful of dirt into the grave. the rabbi described the act as “the greatest mitzvah you will ever do.”

shutting the attic door behind me sounded a lot like dirt hitting the top of the casket.

[systick-tech]

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[symbiomancy]

LAUNDRY —ryomen sukuna

summary: Step-brother Sukuna finds your panties. He's only borrowing; you'll get them back later.

cw: stepcest, masturbation, panty stealing

wc:. 1,2k

also on ao3

Coexisting with you is unbearable.

You’re everywhere, he can’t escape the traces of your existence. What was once just his room and Yūji’s room with a small guest room (that they moreso used as a storage space than an actual bedroom) on the second floor of the house, is now their rooms and yours.

He can’t escape. The lingering smell of your perfume—strawberry—and an array of body and face products, make-up, hair items littering all surfaces of the second-floor bathroom. Time and time again he removes your shampoo and conditioner bottles from his shelf in the shower only to find them there again within the week. You leave your clothes all over the place, all of them skimpy, barely covering your chest and ass when you prance around the house—he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you wearing a bra, always averting his eyes from the stiff peaks underneath your cropped shirt whenever you breeze by.

Sukuna stares at yet another pile of clothes on the bathroom floor. Fuck, you’re messy, leaving your stuff everywhere that isn’t your room. He’d folded one of your black shirts with his laundry the last time he ran the dryer, had grabbed your strawberry yogurt from the fridge because it was right next to his unflavored yogurt and the cartons look exactly the same—fuck, he’s essentially been walking you to and from school like some sort of bodyguard or a lame boyfriend for nearly two months because his father had asked him to show you the way the first week or so.

Coexisting is unbearable and yet it is utterly impossible to escape your presence.

He grabs the crumpled clothes, intent on throwing them at your head when he walks past your door to his room but something catches his eye. Right there, in the middle of the pile, nestled between what he thinks is an unholy union between a skirt and a pair of shorts and a shirt that’s more zipper than fabric. He pulls it out of the pile—underwear—hot pink, lined with frilly lace—and runs a thumb over the seat of them. Still warm, only barely so.

He pockets the offending item and drops the rest of the pile back onto the floor where he found it. His cock is straining uncomfortably against his boxers as he slips out of the bathroom, glancing down the hall to check you’re not there, one hand in his joggers’ pockets, twisting your panties around his fingers.

He kicks his door closed and throws himself onto his bed, pulling down the waistband of his pants and boxers. His cock springs out, already hard, and slaps against his abdomen. It leaves a dribble of sticky precum on his skin. He thumbs the slit at the tip with a low hiss from the back of his throat, then drops his hand to circle the head in slow, deliberate motions.

His mind conjures up an image of you in nothing but one of those skimpy excuses for a shirt you’d pulled out the moment the season turned to mid-spring, and the pink panties in his hand, dragging them along the length of his cock. A shudder rocks through him and—no, no, that’s—that’s not his imagination, but a thinly-veiled memory of your early days in this house. He’d thrown the bathroom door open one morning to find you sitting on the toilet lid, elbows resting on your knees, brushing your teeth, white dribbling from between your lips. You’d stared at each other for a few long moments, his eyes dipping to your cleavage in the nearly see-through white shirt, your nipples perked. He only barely avoided the shampoo bottle aimed at his head.

That’s right; you’ve been a tease since the day you moved in, walking around in shorts so short he sees more cheek than fabric, not locking the bathroom door when you shower—he’s barged in to piss while you’re in the shower more times than he can count. He’s let his eyes wander from his reflection in the mirror to your figure hidden behind the opaque shower door when washing his hands.

His hand twists and curls in rapid motions around his cock, the texture of your underwear a welcome change of pace from just his hand, even though they barely qualify as underwear with how little there is to them. Yeah, you’ve seen him, held eye contact with him in the middle of the night when you’re leaned over the table, ass up, eating a sandwich while the TV played a rerun of some shitty vampire show in the background. A flimsy shirt, halfway unbuttoned, giving him a clear view of your cleavage. He didn’t miss the way your eyes dipped to his gray sweats, lingering there for a moment too long to be considered an accident. He’s not insane, no, he’s seen the lingering looks you’ve been sending him ever since that night, noticed the way you press so close to him when you need anything in his immediate vicinity, tits straining out of your shirt, caged between your upper arms as you lean over to look at something.

He’d bend you over the kitchen table if he could, plunge his cock into your wet, tight heat, and take you right there with the curtains drawn back so that anyone walking past the house could see him claiming you, filling you up with his cum.

His cock twitches in his hand and thick ropes of cum spurt out. It splatters on your panties and his joggers, and a few drops land on his chest. His chest is heaving, thin beads of sweat decorating his forehead as he breathes in the stale summer air. His muscles relax, your panties sandwiched between his hand and his softening cock, and he sinks into the mattress. A pleasant haze settles over him.

He’s a fucking pervert. Holy shit, he’s a disgusting, sleazy pervert.

Sukuna drags his free hand down his face with a long exhale to recalibrate himself.

His bedroom door opens with a flourish and you lean inside, one hand gripping the doorframe for balance, mouth open as if you’re about to say something before you abruptly stop. Your eyes dart from his face to his cock still fisted in his hand, some of the hot pink frilly lace peering between his fingers. Your face goes blank for a moment, then you manage a smile, something too saccharine to be genuine.

“I was looking for those,” you say, pointing a finger towards your underwear. “I’m doing laundry. Throw ‘em in when you’re done but don’t take too long!”

The door slams on your way out and Sukuna is left there, staring after you, jaw slack. He sits up in a flash, lets go of his cock, and hikes his pants and boxers up with one hand, the other clutching the cum-seeped pair of underwear. He almost trips over his rug in his haste to the door and throws it open.

You pause at the top of the stairs and raise an eyebrow at him, your small laundry hamper under one arm. Sukuna shakes out the tension in his shoulders and throws the balled-up underwear and you catch the pair with ease.

You stare at the pair in your hand, run a thumb over a glob of cum and press it into the fabric. Then, you look at him, smile that too-saccharine smile again, before disappearing down the stairs.

divider & banner from @/cafekitsune

[heavenlyyshecomes]

For the interested reader, diaries and notebooks can be placed in two categories: in the first the text is intended to be official, manifest, aimed at a readership. The notebook becomes a training ground for the outward self, and, as in the case of the nineteenth-century artist and diarist Marie Bashkirtseff, an open declaration, an unending monologue, addressed to an invisible but sympathetic ear. Still I’m fascinated by the other sort of diary, the working tool, the sort the writer-as-craftsperson keeps close at hand, of little apparent use to the outsider. Susan Sontag, who practised this art form for decades, said of her diary that it was ‘an instrument, a tool’ – I’m not sure this is entirely apt. Sontag’s notebooks (and the notebooks of other writers) are not just for the storage of ideas, like nuts in squirrels’ cheeks, to be consumed later. Nor are they filled with quick outlines of events, to be recollected when needed. Notebooks are an essential daily activity for a certain type of person, loose-woven mesh on which they hang their clinging faith in reality and its continuing nature. Such texts have only one reader in mind, but this reader is utterly implicated. Break open a notebook at any point and be reminded of your own reality, because a notebook is a series of proofs that life has continuity and history, and (this is most important) that any point in your own past is still within your reach. Sontag’s notebooks are filled with such proofs: lists of films she has seen, books she has read, words that have charmed her, the dried husks of completed endeavours – and these are largely limited to the notebooks; they almost never feed into her books or films or articles, they are neither the starting point, nor the underpinning for her public work. They are not intended as explanations for another reader (perhaps for the self, although they are scribbled down at such a lick that sometimes it’s hard to make out what is meant). Like a fridge, or as it was once called, an ice house, a place where the fast-corrupting memory-product can be stored, a space for witness accounts and affirmations, or the material and outward signs of immaterial and elusive relations, to paraphrase Goncharov.

—Maria Stepanova, In Memory of Memory, tr. Sasha Dugdale (emphasis mine)

[cameronspecial]

Fading Memories

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings:  Mentions of mother's death.

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.4K

Summary: Ward's first wife died long before Y/N came along and Y/N wants to help bring Rafe's mom back to life for him.

Masterlist

After the death of his wife, Ward Cameron got rid of every memory he had of her. Her personal items and pictures of her were all packed away and sent to a storage unit where the location was unknown to his children. Rafe often recounts his memory of his mother to Y/N, but he also tells her about the fact that he is slowly forgetting what his mother looks like. And it kills him. So as his birthday is approaching, she knows exactly what to get him as a present. Finally, studying to become a forensic artist is coming in handy for her real life. Since she has never seen Ward’s first wife, Y/N draws a variety of options as to what she can look like based on her children. She worked for weeks with Sarah to try the get the likeness as best as she could. On his birthday, she has a product Sarah says is almost identical to their mother. 

Y/N rolls on her feet in anticipation of Rafe opening the gift. His hand twirls the rectangle prism in his hold to get the rest of the wrapping paper off. The frame is downward on his lap, so he can’t see the picture until he flips it over. His eyes scan the features of the face before him, recognition forming instantly. “This is my mom,” he whispers, his nose bringing air in with a slight wheeze. “How did you find this?” The frame now rests on his chest, over his heart. She gives him a shy smile, “I actually made it. I looked at your and your sisters’ features and came up with different possibilities as to what she looked like. Then Sarah helped fill in the gaps as to what I needed.” He looks at her with awe. She went through all of that trouble to give him back his childhood. The drawing helps him replace the almost fading memory of his mother with a full-blown coloured photo. His memories of her become so much more vivid and he loves it. He doesn’t hide his tears as he pulls Y/N into a hug, staining her shirt with wet globs. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Y/N. I love you,” he cries. She kisses his cheek, “You’re welcome, Rafey. I’m glad I can give you a piece of your mom back. I love you too.”

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @victory-in-the-llama

[scalefeathers]

Thinking once again about how Nobuo Uematsu and Masayoshi Soken are both completely amazing composers but in completely opposite directions let me explain

Disclaimer I am not a music theorist; most of music theory is black fucking magic to me. I barely know what a chord is and the circle of fifths makes me quake as though before an Elder God. I just really like both of their works and sometimes I have thoughts about things. Also this is all just my opinion, it's fine if you don't agree, etc.

So: Uematsu is first and foremost, in my opinion, an absolute master of melody. I believe it's what makes his work so iconic and makes so many of his pieces so instantly recognizable. The Final Fantasy theme, the chocobo theme, Dancing Mad, Vamo'alla Flamenco, fucking One-Winged Angel--Just from seeing those names, you've probably got one playing in your head already. You could start humming it right now. Maybe you are already.

And it makes perfect sense when you consider the era he was working in, because back in the 8-bit and 16-bit era, the melody was all you had. When you have such a tiny amount of storage space to work with, you can really play only one, maybe two notes at a time. You can't do anything that's layered, because you only have one layer to work with. I think that's why so much video game music from that era is so memorable and iconic. It's not just because you played so much Street Fighter II when you were a kid that the music is indelibly seared into your brain (though that probably doesn't hurt); it's also because Yoko Shimomura wrote really solid melodies that had nothing else competing for your aural attention (apart from the in-game sound effects, which are probably also seared into your memory). (Yoko Shimomura, btw, also composed the music for Final Fantasy XV, the entire Kingdom Hearts series, and like 50 other games over the past 40 years, another fucking icon).

But back to Uematsu: like I said, melodic genius. Even when his work is upscaled into full orchestral arrangements, that core melody is always front and center. And his affinity for melody makes even more sense when you consider that before he got into video game composing, he was writing commercial jingles. (Younger folks may not be aware, but there was a time when practically every product had to have its own theme song, and the best ones were short, snappy, and instantly memorable--and for that, again, you need a strong, simple melody. Ba da ba ba ba, I'm lovin' it.)

Compare: Soken. Soken only started at Square 12 years after Uematsu, which isn't that long in human terms (to me at least, cos I'm old), but it is a long fuckin' time in video game years. By the time he started composing for games, there was so much more you could do with game music in terms of layering, complexity, and sound, and you can tell from his work that he takes full advantage of that. His work is complex and dense, a rich layer cake of themes and motifs, all beautifully merging and weaving together, often to extraordinary effect.

And again, if you look at his pre-music career, it makes a lot of sense that he'd have that approach to music, because he first got into the games industry as a sound designer; I believe that he is the sound director for all the FFXIV expansions, as well as being the composer. So of course he'd be very aware of not just how a sound (or piece of music) works on its own, but of how it fits into the greater whole, and of how to layer and balance lots of different sounds to create something greater than the sum of its parts. And of course it makes sense that he'd bring that approach to his compositions as well.

As a consequence of this approach, though, his music often lacks the memorable melodies that characterize Uematsu's work. Like, I ground (grinded?) Dun Scaith a lot the last time it was on the Mogstone rotation, I know all the boss themes extremely well and can recognize each of them instantly. But if you asked me right now to hum one? I don't think I could. (This isn't a deficiency, to be clear; music doesn't need a prominent core melody in order to be good.)

And that's also not to say that all his music lacks iconic melodies. His vocal tracks, pretty much by definition, have to put a single melody front and center; and then on top of that (or rather, behind it), you have all that trademark Soken richness and depth. Which is probably also why his vocal tracks go so fucking hard.

I think that's also why, out of all the expansions, I like Heavensward's music the best. Most of Heavensward's score is written by Soken, but the main theme is Uematsu's, and you may notice it's basically a tasting menu of like 5 or 6 excellent, very recognizable melodies, one right after the other. And basically every piece on the Heavensward soundtrack incorporates one or more of these melodies. So it really does give you the best of both worlds, and gives the overall score a cohesion that I don't see as much with the other expansions.

TL;DR, Uematsu and Soken are both amazing composers with very different and complimentary styles that reflect their differing backgrounds and the different eras of games in which they have worked and I just think that's neat.