#free blister packing

[langfordpharmacy]

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[faeriekit]

Playing around with the Electric Zine Maker! ⚡📝📓💗🐠

Made myself a little Blister Pack Zine from the first chapter, only using the tools from the Electric Zine Maker... I don't prefer how the program arranges text, but I usually just format the text on Canva anyway, and then download/upload the images Canva makes onto the Zine Maker. (Electric Zine Maker won't even let you italicize text...) Photopea might even do the same thing Canva does for me now, if I ever wanted to get used to how Photoshop-style text tools.

Anyway! Finished product of this lil' test 👀:

I was able to save it as either a png or a pdf, so in order to share it, it had to be a png. Ideally I'll print one out today and examine if the text towards the bottom of the pages gets eaten by the print border, so stay tuned! 💉👻💚

[mistydeyes]

half empty glasses with unchanging perspectives

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summary: You hated time spent alone as it encouraged all your past traumas to come flooding in. Seeking some semblance of relief, you find yourself drinking alone at the pub. However, you regret your decision when you lock eyes with Simon.

part i - behind closed doors part ii - hollow apologies and avoiding glances

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader (but like not even a pairing at this point lol)

okay real talk here and same psa as before but please do not read if you are not comfortable with ANY OF THIS! it is upsetting in all aspects!!

warnings: mentions of torture/violence/cuts/scars, swearing, abusive language, ANGST GALORE

a/n: PART III IS HERE! i busted this out after doing some studying but i hope you enjoy another dose of angst

 💌 @nadinesabre @casualunknownrunaway @originaldeerhottub @justpasssingby @missroro @josieguts @miss-i-ship-it @sicknasty03 @jojoblossom @azwong @shadofireshinobi @caramlizedtomatoes @deltottoro @kenz-ee @teehee-47 @tiredmetalenthusiast @hollowmasque

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

You crossed off the calendar marking another “successful” therapy appointment. “Only forty of those fucking crying sessions,” you laughed sardonically. Your hand was smeared with the wet red ink as you sat down on your uniformly made bed. Today was your day off and you fidgeted at the lack of obligations. Most of your colleagues had gone home or spent little time off base. You missed those days when you actually could let your guard down and enjoy the company of others. You sighed as you sunk into your bed, squeezing your eyes tightly as another migraine coursed through your head.

After months since your ordeal, you finally returned to base. Your eyes stung at the fluorescent lights in the hallway and the squeak of military-grade boots. "You alright, Sergeant?" the pharmacist asked as she dispensed a large bag of pills and blister packs to you. "Just a headache," you mumbled as you brought a scarred hand to your face. She had a pleasant smile as she put the bag on the counter "The paracetamol should help," she hummed and you thanked her on your way out of the automatic doors. That night as you counted out 7 different pills of varying size and color, you swallowed them hard with a bottle of water. "God, can't wait until I'm done with these."

Your hand searched for the pill case on your nightstand until you felt the large plastic container. You systematically counted your daily meds, each colored tablet making your stomach churn at the idea. "And another paracetamol for luck," you chuckled to yourself as you swallowed the handful. You continued to stare at the ceiling in absolute boredom. Part of the reason why you hated the silence on base was the creeping thoughts of that dark, cold room. You tried books, drawing, meditation, and even increasing your visits to the gym by twofold. Yet, every time you returned to your quarters, you felt yourself unravel piece by piece.

"Fuck this," you yelled at no one and got up to change into something more presentable. You tried to smooth your hair and poked at the almost naturally appearing eye bags that aged you immensely. Pleasantries of fragrance and accessories weren't your prerogative as you closed your door and walked to inform the appropriate officials of your last-minute decision to leave the base. You tried to suppress the rising anger at the surprised looks on your superiors' faces as well as the turned heads as you climbed into your car. You beat your fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel as you thought of your next actions with all the free time in the world. As your car crept slowly on the street, you took a right turn to the only destination you could think of: the pub.

As you found parking amongst the hundreds of cars, you smiled at the notion of finding solitude along with the drunken crowds and clangs of glasses. You pushed through the loud laughter and cheers as you ordered a single lowball glass of cheap whiskey. You threw your money on the counter and found a quiet corner to peoplewatch. Your throat burned as you swallowed the brown liquor and cursed the hangover you would have in the morning. Your wallowing was interrupted by the loud cheers of a certain group, one you never wanted to see again.

"SHOTS ALL AROUND!" you could hear Soap call as you observed him hand small glasses of a highly flammable liquid around. The group laughed and then slightly cringed at the taste of it. You could feel your hands tighten around the glass as you looked at the group. "So goddamn normal," you mumbled under your breath before you took another drink. You turned your body slightly and shielded yourself from their merriment. You tried to calm your breathing as you drank faster and faster. This was the last fucking thing you needed. "Slow down there, friend," the bartender winked at you as he watched you down the beverage. You rolled your eyes at the suggestion before you continued to look at the half-empty glass.

'You really should slow down," a voice said as he joined on the empty seat next to you. Your body tensed at the voice and you didn't even need to look to know it was your old lieutenant seated next to you. So much for enjoying a night out. "And what the fuck would you know," you shouted over the loud crowd. Your throat winced at the rising tone and ached from the liquor that burned your insides. "I know that those aren't good for the medication you're taking," Simon softly replied and you threw a hand at him in dismissal. "Now who told you that," you countered, "the same man who gave you the go-ahead to keep me in a room and torture me until I confessed."

There was a beat of silence, as for once, Simon was at a loss for words. He thumbed at his frosty glass, letting the condensation drip onto the counter. "Anyways what are you here for?" you asked sarcastically, "wonder how many bodies you boys left before you returned." Simon shook his head at your comment, taking another sip from his drink. He practically finished it, necessitating a refill from the overworked bartender. "What are you getting at, Eclipse?" he replied and you cringed at the use of your old codename. You let out a dry laugh as you casually sipped on the disgusting beverage. "Don't fucking lie, Simon," you said, venom in your tone, "you can come here, drink in victory, but I know how cruel you can be."

You sat uncomfortably for a few moments and looked on at the roaring crowds. The rest of the 141 had dispersed among the patrons but you could feel their piercing gaze on your scarred skin. "Nothing to say, Simon," you cynically laughed again, "god you really haven't changed." From the corner of your eye, you could see how he shifted in his seat and picked at the calluses on his hands. It almost felt relieving seeing the amount of power you held over him in this moment. This should have made you whole again. If not the previous altercation in the hallway, then this right here. But as you looked back down at your glass, you still felt the same painful wounds ooze open.

“It’s nice to see you again, Eclipse,” Ghost spoke, barely reaching an audible volume over the loud pub, “I’m haunted by the things I did to you.” At that, you couldn’t help but let your drink drop on the counter, sloshing a sickly reddish brown liquid across the wood. “Sure you fucking are, Simon,” you mumbled as you looked at the mess, “I hope you have nightmares about the shit you did.” He hung his head in response, taking another long swig of his all-too-expensive drink. “Will you ever forgive me?” he asked and you practically could double over laughing. “Gaz and Soap maybe but as for you and the Captain,” you said lowly as you got up from the stool. You leaned closely to his ear to reiterate your sentiments, “You would have to crawl across the earth for my forgiveness.”

[drunk-on-dk]

Tight Laced | Kim Mingyu (m)

Pairing: shop clerk!mingyu x afab!reader Genre: fluff, smut, roller-rink!au, 70s!au Rating: 18+ (minors do NOT interact) w/c: ~4.7k

warnings under the cut!

warnings: reader is on a budget and a bit clumsy; reader is called a square; explicit smut scenes; protected sex!; oral (fem receiving); sensitivity from multiple orgasms (fem); marking; public sex(?); mingyu hooking up on the job (?); desperate, whiny Mingyu; pls lmk if I’m missing anything; apologies as there may be some errors

a/n: I’m so excited to be back with a new post, especially as part of the 70s;teen collab with @svthub. I’m so thankful to be a part of another collab, it was so fun to really get into writing again and take some time to really enjoy writing a fluffier piece. Please be sure to go give love to each of the creators in the collab, they are all amazing, please go to this link to give their works a read!

Roller skates and Saturday night disco lights.

You wanted nothing to do with it, especially when most of your days were spent in your college’s library, trying to rack up as much spare change that you could with such a low paying part-time job.

Nevertheless, the job was arguably worth it. The library was peaceful, and the downtime allowed for studying. Other than classes, you really didn’t stray far from organizing shelves and spending nights at the cozy cavern of books that funded your education.

Which is exactly why it was shocking to your roommate, the outgoing and spunky Julie, when you strolled home at your usual time on Saturday afternoon and showed a bit more curiosity as she prepped for the night’s events. As per usual, her free-spirited attitude helped loosen you up after your morning shift, plopping down on your leather couch with a huff of relief.

“What’s so fun about going to the disco rink every weekend?” You pondered aloud, observing as she packed away her roller skates into her mini duffle, an anxious hand of yours reaching out to the pet rock sat on the end table.   

“Oh, c’mon, Y/N,” Julie exhaled with a smile, spinning around to show her typical skating garb, pin straight hair whipping around her shoulder like a movie star. As per usual, she sported nylon disco shorts and a fun colorful top. “It is so fun to get dressed up, skate around, socialize, and groove to some great music. You’ve got to try it one day! It’s freeing, and God knows you need some of that.”

You chuckle, unable to deny that maybe, just maybe, it would be nice for you to get out and let loose for once. It does seem like a good time, especially since Julie never misses a single weekend since the rink became the hot spot, but you know all too well that she is the most positive person you’ve ever met.

As if Julie can sense your consideration, she gasps, clearly excited to make her next suggestion. “Why don’t you join me tonight, Y/N?”

“I don’t even have skates,” you counter, but it’s a feeble argument, knowing that it won’t suffice as an excuse for Julie. “You also know I’m a klutz,” you add, whining, as if that makes it any better.

“Well, we can get you a pair. They are sold cheap at the shop in the rink, or you can rent them. Plus, if you end up falling, just hang around and enjoy the music. Don’t be such a square.”  

It’s a solid argument, Julie can practically see your walls crumbling down as you finally accept her invite to join her for the first time in the past year. It’s all a blur as Julie squeals, immediately dragging you towards her closet and holding up options for tonight.

As if you were Julie’s own personal Barbie doll, she quickly dresses you in what she finds suitable for your first night out. A pair of cut-off shorts and a colorful halter top to match hers. She doesn’t forget the finishing touches, pulling out a pair of thick socks for the both of you.

“Believe me, don’t forget to wear these,” she states, hinting at the risk of blisters, but they suit the final outfit regardless.

Before you have the chance to change your mind, you find yourself alone at the skate shop, considering if you should just purchase a pair of skates or rent them.

However, you were already enjoying yourself, the car ride to the rink with Julie’s friends was fun, and the appeal of the night was already becoming clear. Maybe it would be worth it to just suck it up and buy a pair. Julie had offered to stick around and help you with the skates, but you shooed her off to ensure she made the most of her night, promising that you’d join her sooner than later if all goes well.

You’re lost in your thoughts, the sound of ABBA reverberating in the background as you compute and make mental calculations on how much money you can spare to spend on a new pair of skates. That is up until a larger figure situates himself on the counter across from you.

“Aren’t they slick?” Dark, almost puppy-like eyes meet yours, the sudden presence of the shop clerk in your personal bubble snapping you back into reality.

It’s almost hard to speak, the clerk is a handsome man with fluffy raven locks, and, to be quite honest, you’re not so sure what he’s calling ‘slick.’ “Pardon me, but which ones are you referring to?”

“Oh,” he laughs shyly, his head flipping between you and the skates behind him almost nervously. “I’m not quite sure myself actually, I thought you may have been looking at the skates on the top right shelf, usually people just need some words of encouragement after they’ve been looking for so long.”

Goodness gracious, he is endearing, you think. There is something so boyish about his presence that makes you feel a bit more comfortable around him, even if he has looks of a Casanova actor.  Even if his arms are rippling as he shifts his weight on the counter in front of you.

“Well,” you pause, taking a second to read the name on his name tag, “Mingyu, is it?”

He nods, a little too eagerly and you’re almost worried he’s going to shake up all the blood in his head.

“I have been looking at all the pairs, Mingyu. Just not sure on the price, and I’m not so sure it’s worth buying a pair if I don’t even know how to skate. Any recommendations?”

Mingyu considers your situation for a minute before turning around to face the shelving behind him. You can’t help but blush slightly, finally noticing his tight corduroy pants that accentuated the length of his legs. He seems to settle on a pair quickly, dropping them on the counter in front of you with a satisfied look on his face. The slam of the skates on the counter pulls you out of another bout of spacing out.

“Alright, space cadet, I’d recommend these. They are great for someone on a budget, but the wheels won’t lock up on you and they look nice too,” he’s a good salesman, they do look nice, but you still find yourself worrying more than one should for a leisurely activity like this.

Mingyu senses your reluctance and decides to throw in one last sales pitch, “plus, if you purchase these now, I will throw in a free skating lesson with the one and only professional roller-skater.”

“Hmmm,” you hum, hesitant fingers running over your purse zipper as you wait for the punch line. “And who would that be?”

“Me! Who else would it be?” Mingyu exclaims, his bright smile immediately reflecting one onto your face. He seems so pure and kind; how could you even say no to the offer?

“You’ve sold me,” you laugh, finally diving into your purse and gathering up the right amount of bills to make the transaction.

Mingyu is swift with accepting the money, wasting no time to hand you the change before promptly starting on the laces, blabbering mindlessly about how you won’t regret your purchase. Honestly, he’s talking too quickly for you to even process what he is saying.

It was quite astounding how he so easily sold you on the skates. He could be twisting your arm for all you know, but his smile seems so earnest, so you’ll give it a shot.

Worst case, you’ll come back on another day when he isn’t working and attempt to return the skates.

“Are you ready? Let me help put these on you,” Mingyu asks, dropping a ‘Be Right Back in 15 minutes’ break stand on the counter and skating around through the back gate with your new skates in hand.

He guides you to a nearby seat and starts explaining the best way to lace up your skates. Mingyu asks for your name at some point, and all you can do is stutter out your name nervously in response. It’s all garbled after that, your mind going blank as it becomes increasingly difficult to focus as his fingers help lace up your new skates, large hand wrapping around your ankle and sending goosebumps up your spine when he deems they are laced tightly enough.

“Laces too tight?” He asks, the question innocent, but the way his eyes flicker up towards yours sends heat right to your lower stomach.

“Nope, all good. At least I think.”

Mingyu chuckles, sensing your nerves and patting your knee in support, “alright, well get up then. Let’s try them out.” He slaps his thighs before standing upright, holding a large hand out for you to take, and pulling you up with him.

Feeling like you were just born with new legs, you’re hesitant to start moving, and you quickly realize how precarious the skates are. Instinctually, you grasp onto Mingyu polo, and he is quick to give you tips on how to keep you balance.

Mingyu assists in guiding you towards the rink, reminding you of techniques on keeping balance, and letting you know you two will take a lap slowly around the rink first.

It doesn’t take long for Julie to notice you two, her jaw dropping when she sees you latched onto the stranger for dear life as he holds your hand, pulling you along the side walls of the rink.

She sends you a look from across the rink, hair flowing in the wind before she slows down her speed. You shrug, a blush coloring your cheeks as Mingyu attempts to regain your attention by tugging gently on your fingers.

“Sorry about that,” you apologize, almost stumbling and falling backwards as you redirect your attention, but Mingyu is quick-thinking to steady you. “I’ll focus better, I know your time is precious as a professional roller skater.”

It’s an attempted joke, and warmth fills your chest when he laughs, his eyes lighting up with joy as he does a little wiggle move in an attempt to prove his skills to you.  

“No worries let’s keep on truckin,” he winks, continuing the lesson without another beat passing. His hands stay linked with yours, skating backwards easily as he corrects your feet from a pigeon-toed position to pointing outwards.

Time goes by too quickly with Mingyu, he’s all too charming for you, and the wind that flows through his and your hair as you skate together makes it feel like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. You can understand why Julie loves Saturday night skates so much, the atmosphere is phenomenal, Julie occasionally slapping your behind when she passes by and thanking Mingyu for his help.

Skating also sounds especially appealing if Mingyu is here on these nights.

It’s disappointing when the night comes to an end. Julie has to practically tear you away from Mingyu’s skate shop, especially since he had to return back to the counter after a couple of laps, but he continued to spend the night and share tips with you. He even agreed to give you another free lesson.

Of course, you ended up joining Julie the next weekend for another skate, absolutely satisfying her as well. As exhilarating as it was knowing that you got to see Mingyu again, it was also exciting having more time with Julie, and being able to enjoy the hobby she loved so much with her. You’d even claim that some of Julie’s free-spiritedness was rubbing off on you finally.

Shockingly, you had denied picking up another shift at the library. Your boss wasn’t quite happy with your response, but Julie had encouraged you with a thrilled “stick it to the man” before dragging you out for another night.

Ultimately, Julie was right, skating was absolutely freeing, and you now had something to look forward to on the weekend other than spending hours of your life working.  

However, inevitably, weeks passed rapidly, and you surprisingly became quite good at skating after how frequently you’ve visited the rink.

It’s been about a month since first joining Julie at the rink. Now you’ve become addicted to the weekend, absolutely looking forward to the loud music of the disco rink, colorful lights, and especially having the chance to see Mingyu’s dazzling smile.

Now you find yourself gliding across the floor much easier now, Mingyu signaling a thumbs up each time you pass by the skate shop, looking proud of how well you’re able to keep up with Julie as she drags you beside her and sings along with the Bee Gees, ABBA, and Donna Summer songs.

Sometimes you even do a little spin on the skates to show your new and improved skills. It makes both Mingyu and Julie laugh, Mingyu shouting “groovy moves” towards you both as you begin to coordinate your spins.

Yet, there’s a twinge of disappointment inside of you, knowing you no longer have the excuse that you’re poor at skating, and will no longer require the assistance of Mingyu. Thus, no longer feeling the burn of his fleeting touches as he helped encourage you to skate faster. No longer feeling the flames erupt inside your belly as he held your waist to balance you. No longer feeling his hot breath on your neck as he spoke instructions near your ear, even if it was just so you could hear him over the blaring music.

The only thing that kept you fed was that he only seemed to smile at you each time you passed by, even when most rink attendees had their eyes on him as well.

Julie seems to catch onto your fleeting looks, nudging you as a slower song came on to cool the rink, the lights dimming low and the disco ball being the only light radiating the rink. Mingyu’s tied up helping another girl around your age at the counter, her flirtatious nature clear as she covers his hand with hers.

Mingyu seems unsure about this advance, withdrawing his hand, but politely helping the girl with her rental skates.

“You two are ridiculous,” Julie sighs, “he’s clearly into you, you’re clearly into him, and both of you are too well-mannered to say anything. Hold on.”

Before you can say anything, Julie kicks your ankle, it’s a light kick, but it’s hard enough that it makes you bend over in slight pain. Like the speed of light, Julie is stomping off and skating over towards Mingyu’s shop. You can’t tell what she says to him, clearly pointing towards you, and you’re already preparing for the worst by the way Mingyu’s eyebrows raise almost up to his scalp.

Julie looks smug as Mingyu rushes towards you, the look of concern on his face making your heart beat a little too abnormally as you grip onto the sidewalls of the rink for support.

“Are you okay, Y/N? Why aren’t you sitting down? Julie should have taken you off the rink,” he seems stressed, quickly making his way into the rink and examining your bent over state.  

“Oh,” you gasp when Mingyu’s arm wraps around your waist, encouraging you to lean all your weight into his broad body. “What do you mean? Julie just – “

“Your ankle,” he mutters, looking down at your feet worriedly as he finally sits you on a bench off the rink. “We need to get these skates off, come back to the shop with me really quickly, I have a med kit in the backroom, and I can wrap your ankle up.”

You don’t know what to say, unsure of the turn of events, shooting Julie daggers with your eyes as Mingyu carries you past her, but she looks all too smug for your liking.

Mingyu is prompt, carrying you into the backroom of the shop and propping you up on a small counter next to a sink. It’s a small room and it’s a tight fit for the two of you. The proximity is enough to make you feel dizzy as he searches for the med kit.

Mingyu’s deft fingers work expertly to unlace your skates, he sighs as his warm hands run over the lace marks left on your ankles where your socks didn’t cover. There’s also a clear red mark from where Julie had kicked your ankle.

“Does it hurt a lot? It doesn’t look like it’s bruising just yet,” He looks over your ankles worriedly, but quickly notices nothing is wrong.

“Um,” you quiver awkwardly, your cheeks becoming as bright as red roses as his soft eyes meet yours. “No, it doesn’t really hurt, but I didn’t injure myself. Blame Julie.”   

He chuckles, shaking his head in exasperation with a small smile as he begins to realize the set up done by Julie. “I knew Julie might have been bullshitting. I told her you looked like a pro out there, but I know how clumsy you can be, space cadet, so I thought you may have actually hurt yourself.”

You hadn’t noticed Mingyu’s hands running up and down your thighs in a comforting motion until silence fell between you two.

“Well,” you breathe out, the air escaping your chest shakily as you become increasingly aware of how close you really were to Mingyu now. The goosebumps that paint your skin didn’t help hide the effect Mingyu had on you as well. “I’m OK now, so can you just put my roller skates back on?”

Mingyu nods, warm hands now leaving your skin and leaving a burning spot behind as he picks up your skates on the ground. The slight whimper you let out didn’t go unnoticed by Mingyu as his shoulder brushed your knees on the way back up.

Subconsciously, your legs begin to move without second thought, opening a bit wider and allowing for Mingyu to slot himself between your thighs. The air around you two begins to feel suffocating as his fingers softly grab your ankle once again, just like the first time, and sending heat right down to your lower stomach.

“Are you sure you’re OK, Y/N?” Mingyu breathes out, his fingers wrapping around your right ankle and lifting your leg up a bit teasingly. “You seem like you can’t catch your breath? Are you sure it doesn’t actually hurt?”

You know he’s teasing you now, his voice dropping an octave lower as he stares directly into your eyes between his dark lashes. The way he massages your ankle hints that he knows damn well that your ankle is perfectly OK.  

“Yes,” you gasp as his finger dips into your sock, slowly unraveling the material and blowing on the exposed skin of your leg.

“Does it tingle?” He whispers, voice so deep that it practically reverberates through your head.

“Yes,” you’re practically whimpering as his hands run up your calf, past your knee, and over your thighs until his fingers reach the cutoff of your shorts.

“Good or bad?” His fingers dig at your skin gently, pressing into the sensitive skin as his lips close in dangerously towards yours.

“Good,” you sigh, you could practically feel his lips against yours at this point, your entire body tingling with desire as he closes in on you. It’s practically electrifying.

“Is this OK with you, Y/N?”

“Of course,” and with your consent, Mingyu presses his lips against yours, the soft buds melding against yours without much effort.

He’s quick to devour you, tongue sliding across your lips begging for permission. Of course, you oblige, accepting the deepened kiss needily. Mingyu’s fingers slide even further under your cutoffs, making the kiss between you two even hungrier as you feel his nails dig into your plush skin.

Mingyu whimpers into your mouth when your hands find their way into his hair, the sound of him driving you closer to insanity as he lets you lead the kiss for a bit. You’re amazed by how pliable he is, loving the way he presses closer to you with each gentle pull of his thick locks.  

Breaking the kiss for a moment, Mingyu hums, “can I take these off of you, Y/N?” He’s pulling at the waistband of your shorts now, the desperation of his tone making your entire body buzz with anticipation.

“Of course,” you sound winded, but Mingyu sighs in content, hastily working to remove your shorts after swiftly unbuttoning the waistband. He’s quick to capture your lips with his again, the hunger clear in the way he pushes into you, easily pulling your shorts off and discarding them on the floor.

Mingyu’s eyes are wild when he leans back to observe you, his look darkening as he focuses in on your bare thighs. He practically loses his mind when he notices a wet spot on your panties, the cotton slightly darkened and he’s dropping to his knees before you can protest.

He’s at a perfect height, large hands grabbing onto your ass in order to pull you towards the edge of the counter, his eyeline leading right where you’re the most vulnerable.

“Can I please taste you?”

“Please,” you beg, head throwing back in pleasure when he slots his mouth over your panties, nose nudging your most sensitive spot as he sucks at the wettened fabric. His mouth his hot on your clothed cunt, sending a ping of delight through you as he licks at the cotton. “Not enough.”

Mingyu moans as if to acknowledge your plea, one finger hooking at the fabric before his tongue dives between your folds. He’s immediately messy with his actions, tongue lapping passionately, tasting as much of your sweet nectar as possible as he works you closer and closer towards your first burst of overwhelming heat within your core.

Your hands are weaved in his hair again, encouraging him to lap and suck on your clit as the pulses of pleasure become even more unbearable to hold. He coaxes you to your first orgasm with one sharp suck to your clit, your juices spill out all over his tongue as he gladly licks it all up.

Mingyu doesn’t give you much time to recoup, standing back up to kiss you hungrily, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue as he begins to work at his belt buckle. With your help, he’s able to pull his corduroys off, reaching for a condom in his wallet before dropping the pants to the ground.

He’s unable to roll it on himself as you kiss and nibble at his neck, desperate whines escaping Mingyu’s mouth as you decide to take over. He feels a bit of relief when you work it onto his cock easily, the tight latex squeezing his aching length as you begin to slowly jerk him off.

Mingyu’s close to losing his mind when your hips buck in anticipation, your small hand still working at his length, and he stutter out a request. “C-Can I- please feel you completely?”

“Yes,” you moan, hips lining up with his as his tip glides between your folds, sensitivity sending a jolt through your body when he brushes your clit. “God, Mingyu, just do it.”

Mingyu’s length slowly enters you, your walls sucking him in without hesitation, waves of pleasure immediately warming you as his length and girth fills you all too perfectly.

Mingyu’s hands are gripping at your hips, his own muscles shaking as your walls take him in easily. You’re squeezing his cock in a way that has him moaning a bit too loud, your shushes reminding him that he is at work, and you are still in the rink. Even if the music drowns out your noises.

His thrusts are slow at first, ensuring that you can take every inch of him before he picks up his pace. Mingyu’s moans only get louder as your walls begin to pulse, squeezing with each unforgiving thrust of his hips, becoming groans as he dips his head into your neck, teeth sucking harshly at your skin as you breathe out in ecstasy.

He’s precise with each thrust, his tip nailing a spot so deep inside of you that you begin to see stars as your eyes roll back in pleasure. Your hands grip at Mingyu’s back, an attempt to ground yourself as Mingyu’s length fills you so deliciously, that you think you’ll be addicted for the rest of your life.

“Holy shit,” you cry out at one particularly hard thrust, the fiery heat building at your core, and you’re not sure how much longer you can keep quiet, nor how much longer you can keep your second orgasm at bay. “M-Mingyu.”

Something flips in Mingyu when you moan out his name, hand coming up to grab you chin as he forces your eyes to meet his. His pace quickens impossibly, his pubic bone brushing against your clit occasionally and bringing you closer to your breaking point.

He’s egged on by the wild look in your eyes, your swollen lips as his name falls from your mouth like a prayer, and he encourages you to come as obscene sounds come from the space where you and he connect.

“Make a mess of me, Y/N,” he pleads, even when he’s hammering into you there’s a hint of desperation in his tone, and all you can think about is making him fall apart himself. Your walls clench tighter around him, pulling yet another groan from him as the burning pleasure in your core explodes throughout your body, your thighs shaking as you feel the release spread like wildfire.

Mingyu is quick to follow, hot cum filling the condom inside of you, sending a second wave warmth throughout your core as his cock pulses. Mingyu’s canines dig deeply into your shoulder in attempt to hide his groans, only intensifying the sensitivity of your throbbing clit as he continues to thrust shallowly inside of you, riding out his high until the last second.

You’re like two naïve kids in love when he pulls his length out, tossing the soiled condom into the trash and making a note to really clean up the backroom before he leaves tonight. He giggles bashfully into your neck, observing the dark marks he left from his attempts to muffle his noises, but it only leaves him desiring this more and more. His nose comes up to nudge yours, pulling you in for one final sweet kiss.

“What about another lesson?” He whispers between kisses. “Looks like you’re a pro out there now.”

“I don’t think I’ll be needing those anymore,” you giggle, squirming as Mingyu fixes your panties back into place. He looks a bit disappointed, as if he’s unsure where to go from here. Slowly he helps you get dressed, buttoning up your shorts after he pulls his own pants back on.

“Y/N?” Mingyu tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and you nod expectantly. “You know I don’t just give out free lessons to anyone, right?”

You almost laugh boisterously, but you simmer down quickly as Mingyu’s lips form a slight pout. “Oh really?”

“Yes, really,” he says very matter of fact, “I only offer them to the most special of people. I even tied your laces extra tightly to make sure you wouldn’t twist your ankle. Yet look where we are now.”

“Well, I did learn from the best,” you prod, “I guess you didn’t teach me to watch out for Julie’s though.”

Mingyu chuckles, the same endearing sound you’ve grown used to. “That’s true, I guess no professional could have been prepared for Julie’s antics.”

“So, what now?”

“What about a date? Or a couple’s skate? Think you can keep up with me?”

You laugh teasingly, “how about can you keep up with me?”

“I should have never sold you those skates,” Mingyu jokes, pinching your nose, but his eyes give away that he’s in way too deep, absolutely head over heels about you. “Why don’t we go test that out? How about we test out that theory every weekend?”

Roller skates and Saturday night disco lights. How could you have ever wanted nothing to do with these two things?

[notjustjavierpena]

dying for you to right more of javi and reader!!! maybe them discussing having a baby or javi forgetting to pull out?? love the breeding kind from your last fic ❤️❤️

Fever

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: In my mind, this is a prequel to All Roads Lead To Someone. It was supposed to be cutesy, but it turned a little filthy too and suddenly it felt like he wrote himself. I hope you enjoy it, friend! 

Summary: The beginning journey of trying for a baby with your husband, Javier Peña. 

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader (no y/n)

Tags: +18 Smut (MDNI!), established relationship, you indulge in Javi’s breeding kink, daddy kink if you squint, unprotected sex, p in v sex, fingering, creampie, dirty talk, fluff & fun, domestic javier is sexy and charming and filthy, so much in love, riding, fingering, cumplay

Word count: 2.3k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48106387

Fever

Javier raised a brow as you presented him with an empty blister pack. He was sitting on your shared couch, waiting expectantly for an explanation to what he could only assume was a lousy gift.

Unsure of what to do, he took the blister pack from your hand, stared down at it with a puzzled look upon his face for a moment before looking up at you once again, “This is the surprise? You got me empty foil and plastic? Are you losing it?”

You had told him to sit down and stay seated as soon as he had arrived home from work, pulled at his jacket to undress him and pushed him towards the living room. There had been a snarky comment about how eager you were, though when you hadn’t straddled him, but rather left him again, he had drummed his thighs impatiently until you had returned.

“Shut up, I’m not losing it,” you bit back, snatching the pill packet from him again to which he frowned. 

“Hey, give it back, I was just starting to like it,” he teased you. 

You twirled the empty packet between your fingers for a few seconds, then took a deep breath, “It’s my birth control. All gone. I’ve not gotten any more at the drugstore. Like we talked about.”

Javier’s mouth fell open. He sunk further into the couch for a moment, trying to process what he had just heard and you allowed him the time it took to register the words you had spoken. 

After a few more seconds, he suddenly sat up straight again. He placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself to stand, not giving you time to say anything as he quickly closed the distance between the two of you to kiss you. You dropped the blister pack on the floor.

His hands came up to cup your face, holding you gently as he covered your mouth with his own. You responded by gently grabbing a hold of his wrist with your free hand, thumb rubbing soothing circles into his skin. 

“When can we start trying?” Javier asked when he pulled back to catch a proper breath. He was beaming like a little boy on Christmas morning, grabbing a hold of you to lift you off the ground and into his arms. He spun the both of you around once and you squeaked his name. 

“Well, the doctor said most people should be able to start trying already a month or two after stopping the pill, but he also said that anything could happen,” you explained when he put you down on the floor again, “Which means I’m open for business, baby.”

You leaned in to whisper the rest of your sentence in his ear, “Time to fuck a baby into me, Javier Peña.”

Then you pulled back with a satisfied smirk, because Javier was completely lost for words, and you found as you looked down, that he was also starting to get hard. It gave you reason to taunt him, “That gets you going, huh? To knock me up?”

“Don’t,” he groaned as a warning, holding his hand up to say stop. 

“It does,” you giggled cutely, but there was something more devilish about it. You reached out for the buckle on his belt, carefully undoing it until you could pull the belt from its loops. You let it fall to the floor with a soft thud, going for his zipper afterwards, “I think we should practice our magic; we have to do it a lot in the coming months.”

Javier said your name softly and when you looked at his face, you saw him with damp eyes. It caught you off guard, “What? What’s happening? Is something wrong?”

“You’re actually gonna give an old dog like me a family,” he stated tenderly, and your first response was to chuckle softly in disbelief at him. He found your eyes and furrowed his brow. 

“Hey,” you reached out to cup his cheek when you realized that he meant what he said, brushing it soothingly with your thumb, “Of course I am. Who else would be better than you? I can’t wait, baby. You’ll be the best daddy out there.”

Something shifted then. Javier leaned in to kiss you once more, this time with a little more confidence in the way that he carried himself. He reached for your clothes too now, pulling at your dress’ hem to lift it over your head, discarding it on the floor and finding your mouth afterwards again.

You pushed him backwards, mouth still on his, until the back of his knees hit the edge of the couch. You broke the kiss by pushing him to sit down again, stepping back afterwards to take off your shoes and socks, then undo your bra to slide it off your arms. 

“Gonna be such a pretty momma,” he said as he watched you undress except for the wedding ring on your finger, lifting his hips off the couch to shove his jeans and underwear down over his thighs until they hung around his knees. 

You hooked your thumbs into your underwear, pulled them down so you could shimmy out of them until they fell around your feet. Javier swore from his seat on the couch as you revealed your whole self to him. squeezing the base of his cock as he started hardening fully. 

“C’mere.”

You went to straddle him with a sweet little smile, hooking your leg over his thighs until you had a knee on either side of his lap. You were positioned right above him.

Javier placed his hands on the back of your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh whilst you grabbed at the backrest of the couch. He looked up at you with his brown eyes which had gone darker with desire, “Gonna take real good care of you, make sure you have everything you need and want.”

“Yeah?” You said with a dazed expression as one of his calloused palms slid around your body and between your thighs. He teasingly dipped a finger into you, but only to the first knuckle. 

“Oh yeah, so tell me what you want, mi amor.”

“You, Javi. Need nothing but you to cure me of this baby fever,” you moaned softly, gasping as he left you empty once more but even more so as he guided his cock into you in the next moment, “Need you to come inside.”

“Jesus,” he swore, finding your hips to fully push you down onto his length. You gasped at his generous girth, walls fluttering around him from the slight burn that it always caused as your body did everything it could to engulf him. You could feel his zipper gnawing into your ass, but it wouldn’t matter once you started moving on him. 

When you finally felt the front of his thighs against the back of yours, you stopped moving to breathe in through your nose to steady your heartbeat. Your pulse was skyrocketing at the feeling of being so close to him despite the years that you had been together. No one had ever made you feel like this.

You kissed him deeply. He pressed his thumbs into the front of your hips, digging all ten digits into you possessively just to hold you in place as you sucked on his tongue, pulled at his bottom lip and moaned into his mouth. You’d move soon, you promised yourself, but not before his hands started to hurt a little from impatience.

“Ah,” you whined as you pulled back, but only to rest your foreheads together. 

“Move your ass, baby,” he ordered with a slightly ragged breath, swatting your ass, “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

“Maybe I want you to,” you replied after gasping, but followed through on his command; lifted your hips off of him only to sink down dangerously slowly again. You moaned in unison, and whereas you would’ve liked to go so slow that you’d have him begging you to fuck onto him properly, your willpower to tease was gone at the first stroke of his cock inside of you.

You stared into his eyes, licking your lips as you wiggled a little on his lap. He groaned quietly, and you swirled your hips once and then twice, setting up a rhythm that had you both gasping soon.

“Yes, that’s it, use me, you look so pretty,” he panted as you lost yourself on his cock, leaning back a little to change the angle and riding him in earnest to chase an already climbing high; he always loved you milking him anyway. Plus, the sweet and domestic moment you had shared just minutes earlier was enough to have you both desperate for a hurried fuck. It would have you closer to your shared wish quicker than if you took it slow. 

You held on tightly at the back of the couch, daring to lean just a little further back until the angling of your hips made his cock nudge against the front of your walls. You ground your hips down to feel the thick head of his cock ram into your g-spot, and you cried out his name before speeding up.

You started bouncing then, and Javier followed you by bucking his hips up into you until you moved in a well-known unison. There was no doubt: You just fit.  

Pleasure tightened in your stomach as Javier fucked up into you, and you knew you wouldn’t last long. Everything about the situation and his body molding yours was intense. You needed to come, and you gave everything you had in you to reach your goal. 

The thing that sent you over the edge was when he buried his face between your bouncing breasts, his open mouth kissing your cleavage before moving to one nipple and sucking it into his mouth.

“Javi,” you whimpered as a last warning. 

And then you came, hard and fast, muscles clamping down on his stiff cock that responded by twitching inside of you. He was so close, and you egged him on.

“Fill me up, daddy, please,” you begged desperately, moving erratically onto his cock despite your sensitivity. 

“Chica sucia,” he praised with a groan, looking up at your face again, “Gonna—  mierda, gonna pump a baby into you… y-you want that?”

“Yes! Fuck yes, please,” you nodded, mouth hanging open from the sweet pain of oversensitivity. 

Javier spilled inside of you a moment later. You stilled your hips, letting him bury himself inside of you as he pulsed through his orgasm and coated you with himself from the inside. 

“You know— hah,” he cut off for a moment, catching his breath and leaning his head back against the backrest of the couch. He let go of one of your hips to run a hand over his face, fingers carding through his hair with a breathless chuckle, “I think that was quite the practice round.”

“We may have to repeat that, I think, just to be sure we were doing it correctly,” you responded, voice oozing with post-coital bliss. 

When you were just about to get up on your feet again, Javier took your hand and pulled you back down. He carefully laid you down on your back, “Not going anywhere. We need to make sure that it works, mi amor.”

“Someone’s been doing their homework,” you noted, but grimaced at him a second later. He had gotten up to tuck himself back into his boxers and pull up his jeans. You wiggled a little on the leather couch, “I don’t want to scrub come off the couch later, and you, mister, you just want to look at me being naked in your living room.”

“Is that a crime?” He asked, reaching for your dress on the floor. He slid it under your ass, “There.” 

“I’m not law enforcement, but I don’t think so,” you bend your legs and spread them for show, feeling his seed drip out of you and onto the dress. Javier sat down by your feet, looking at the mess he had made.

“I think the way you just behaved on top of me is illegal in at least one country,” he said absentmindedly, reaching between your legs to push his come back inside of you. You squirmed at feeling his fingers inside of you.

“Guess I’m a criminal then,” you moaned.

“Criminally sexy,” Javier turned his palm upwards to press his fingers against your g-spot, making a come-hither motion until you lifted your hips up from the couch at the stirrings of a second orgasm. 

“Some scientists actually believed that you increased the chances if you made your wife come after pumping her full of come,” he told you as if he was giving a lecture, “The pelvic floor muscles were supposed to contract and make it fucking stick.”

“Yeah?” Your breathing was speeding up again, clit throbbing despite being untouched. The wet squelching of his fingers in your cunt were filthy, getting dirtier as another wave of your wetness mixed with his come. 

“Yeah,” he was calm, working his fingers a little faster and more determinedly, “Come on, I can see you’re close, baby.”

“I’m coming, fuck— baby,” you suddenly announced, voice high-pitched as the first wave of pleasure washed over you. Your legs fell inwards and your hands came down between your thighs as if they could help with the intensity, but you cried as the world around you shrunk into nothing, but the feeling between your legs as you rode the wave. 

“That’s it,” Javier chuckled as he pulled his fingers out of you, wiping them on the dress. He let you breathe for a second before continuing, “Want a glass of water?”

“I can get my own water,” you started to get up, but Javier pushed you down on your back once more. 

“You better get used to this, momma, stay,” he got up from the couch, heading for the kitchen, “One water coming up.”

You cursed him with a smile on your face as you heard glasses clinking in the kitchen drawer.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[shotmrmiller]

Ahhhh here we are.

A sinner's thoughts

Masturbation, heavy religion theme, Ghoap!!

Catholic Johnny who dutifully goes to mass when he's at home with his family. He recites his daily prayers every day without fail, kisses the crucifix pendant that dangles from his neck, right under the collar of his shirt before every mission, and knows what is expected of him once he's done serving the country— settle down, find a nice, bonnie lass at church to marry, get a dog and buy a beautiful home for his children to grow in.

What isn't a part of his plan is to end up on all fours in his bed as he fists his leaking cock at the thought of his LT, Ghost. He can physically feel the look Jesus is giving him from the crucifix he's nailed to that hangs on the wall.

His cheeks positively burn but he can't differentiate if it's from the scalding arousal that courses through his veins or the blistering shame that rolls in his gut. His family would be utterly disgusted with him if they knew of the raunchy thoughts that pass through his head whenever he lays his eyes on Ghost. The barrel chest Johnny wishes he could rest his head on. Strong, muscular arms that he wants wrapping around him, in a lover's embrace. Waist so wide, he yearns to feel the burn of his inner thighs as Ghost settles between them.

Johnny's also had the misfortune of seeing what Ghost is packing. It hangs from the weight, it's as thick as Johnny's wrist and long— 8 inches. The fact that it's also uncut makes saliva pool inside of his mouth.

He knows better. He should be better. But he's only human, and what flashes behind his eyelids not even he can stop— not that he wants to, either.

Johnny thinks of the time Ghost grabbed him by the arm as he pulled him out of the line of fire. The rough, coarse fabric of his gloves, that were covered in dirt and dried blood. He wants to feel them grazing his scarred flesh, even skim over the fresher wounds he's got. He wants to run his slick tongue right on the zygomatic bone of the skull mask as Ghost rubs both of their cocks together in his large hand.

Johnny tightens his grip around his cock almost painfully, wishing it was Ghost touching him instead. His hand is smaller than Ghost's, but it does the job well enough. He sits up on his haunches and uses his free hand to cup his heavy balls as he continues to stroke himself, smearing his desire around his swollen head with his thumb while concurrently fondling his sac.

His head dips forward, eyes clenched as he feels the somewhat familiar tug at the base of his spine. The hand around his balls starts to roam lower, inching down little by little. This is unchartered territory; he's never explored his own body like this because it's been instilled in him that sex is a means to an end. It's supposed to be about cock in pussy until he finishes, and he and his wife clasping their hands together in orison— praying it takes.

But this new sensation has the course hair in his arms rising on end, it's sublime. Timid fingertips skimming over the sensitive skin of his perineum. He doesn't want his cock in a hole, he wants a cock in his hole.

Johnny's never touched himself back there but that's never stopped him from looking up porn for it, during the witching hour— when the devil comes out to play so be sure you're asleep by then, his ma always said. But he can't do that, not when he's out on a mission in a foreign country, nor when he's in a safe house with the rest of the 141, waiting for exfil. It was during those times that he fell to temptation when the snores of the group reverberated against the walls, yet he couldn't sleep a wink. He'd pull out his phone, only when they were sure that they wouldn't be in danger over using one, and look up videos with men that resembled Ghost the most.

He craves for Ghost to spit on the furl of his arse, and gently push a finger in, maybe two, just like he's seen, but too afraid to do it on himself. He wants to bite down on his pillow at the stretch, wants his eyes rolling into the back of his skull when Ghost finds the gland that'll have him coming in seconds.

Johnny's cock twitches when his fingers reach the crevice of his arse because he wants. He wants, he wants, he wants so badly that he'd almost give up anything for a taste— a morsel of the fruit that hails from the tree God told humanity to avoid at all costs.

The burning in his loins slowly begins to spread, slithering through his body like tendrils of liquid fire flowing over his nerve endings. He grips the middle of his aching length that weeps from the tip and starts to roll his hips, fucking himself into his hand.

Ecstasy licks up his spine, making him fall onto one hand as he arches his back. He thinks back to the times that Ghost called him by his name, his real one. The gravelly voice that says his name with an authoritative tone in his Mancunian accent, orders him around like a dog. A faint whimper falls past his thin lips when the flared head of his cock accidentally touches the bedsheet once, thrice— the material scraping his nerves raw.

He's so close, he knows it. His flushed, sweaty skin is starting to tingle, a gentle prickle starting from his round shoulders down to the very tip of his socked toes. Johnny can barely hear the slick, lewd noises coming from his cock or the springs of his mattress creaking over the thrum of his blood rushing in his ears, the heart that beats in his chest sounds like it's in his head.

Johnny squeezes even harder, the edges of the pain instantly curling into pleasure, and everything freezes. Time, space, his very existence. A moment that feels like an eternity—

God forgive him.

His back bows, his forehead pressed onto his bed as he comes violently. His loud groan is stifled by the mattress, cock spurting rope after rope of warm, thick seed over his sheets. There's a ringing in his ears that's got nothing to do with the mild tinnitus he's already got, spots flashing in his blurred vision, a vignette along the sides of it.

Johnny's drooling, mind hazy, brain turned to mush as he rides his high. He trembles with the aftershocks, the occasional twitch that seizes him as his soul settles back into his body.

He sluggishly pulls himself up off the bed, breathing harshly, raggedly, and unsteadily lowers himself to his knees on the edge of it— mouth already shaping the words he's about to say.

"Heavenly Father, O Lord Almighty, hear my prayer..."

[keesdarlin]

☆// merry and bright (MDNI, 18+)

info! 141 + könig + keegan / fluff, established relationship + gender neutral reader

cw! no CWs

prompt! their favorite christmas/holiday activities

notes! i'm not big on christmas usually, but this seemed cute so i thought i would do a little bit of writing for it. hope you enjoy :]

KÖNIG

könig's favorite holiday activity is going to see the lights. he'll take driving through the neighborhood in a car if he has to, but he really likes making a whole night out of it. to him, going to see the lights is an entire event. you'll dress up all warm and stop on the way out to grab some hot chocolate or tea or whatever it is you fancy along with some warm snacks. then you'll find a nice neighborhood, probably packed with all the other people who had the same idea as you, and just walk through it. it's a nice way to just get out for a little bit, to bask in the fresh air and that winter chill. a nice excuse for him to spoil you a little bit with some treats and sugar. he keeps a hand on you so that you don't get swept away in the crowd and is ridiculously attentive to you. asks if you want him to go get you more hot cocoa when your cup empties. pulls you closer into his side when you complain about how cold it is. looks at all the displays that you point out and smiles for every picture. it's all very sweet, really. he just loves seeing the way your eyes shine while you're looking at all of the pretty lights.

GAZ

kyle loves taking you present shopping. he mostly likes it because you like it. window shopping, putting so much care and attention into choosing gifts for someone else, trying to figure out what you want for yourself. it's even more fun when you're doing all of the shopping in one place, preferably the mall. it's convenient and lively and full of energy. the lines are kind of a pain, but it's a little bit less annoying when he has you to talk to. he buys you whatever snacks you want while you're shopping. stopping for lunch is the best because that's prime time for people watching. you guys will just sit in the food court while listening to other people's conversations and commenting on them. makes sure that you're as comfortable as possible before you leave the house -- good shoes, comfortable clothes, hair tie on hand just in case you need it. he brings along band-aids in case you end up getting a blister. he also takes note of things that you like. he can't resist getting you a little gift or two to slip you when you're at home later.

SOAP

soap really likes the parties. really he just likes any excuse to see you all dressed up, especially for a party. add in some alcohol and he's having a great time. in his defense, what's not to like about a good party? music, free food, and some scheduled time to hang out with all of your friends, maybe catch up with some people that you haven't seen in a little while. he likes how clingy you get at parties too, all in the spirit of cuffing season and everything. you guys are basically joined at the hip, you either hanging on his arm or his arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders or waist, keeping you pulled to his side. he likes the whole deal -- the themes, dressing up, having an excuse to dote on you a little extra, the coziness. he's super down to get lost in the moment of course, but he's always paying attention to you as well. all making sure your cup is full, making sure you have a plate of snacks if you're hungry or a sweater if you're cold, making sure you have someone to dance with if you feel like it. the whole event just gets him going.

GHOST

ghost really enjoys the lazy days that the holidays allow for. he just likes having the time to just exist with you. of course he loves planning dates when your busy schedules allow the both of you to see one another, but that can get a little bit high-pressure from time to time. if you're lucky enough that he's home for the holidays when you also happen to have work off, he really prefers to stay in with you. his favorite part is probably getting to sleep in late with you pulled to his chest. there's no risk of him waking up to an empty bed because you had to run off to work or go buy milk before an appointment or whatever else life throws at you. even if he wakes up before you, he can just hold you to his chest and find comfort in the sound of you breathing (and you can do that same. just listen to the beating of his heart as he sleeps beside you). when you are both finally awake, the morning is still slow to start. you stay in bed for another hour or three and take your time convincing each other to get up and start the day. it's usually simon that caves first, getting up and dragging you out of bed along with him. you both trudge to the kitchen, enjoying the coziness of your little apartment as you make tea and scrape together a lazy breakfast. from there you spend the day in your pajamas, cuddling on the couch and watching movies under a few blankets, dozing off and on, occasionally grazing on snacks.

PRICE

price usually enjoys being in the kitchen with you around the holidays. this usually consists of him being your little helper or leaning against the doorframe and rambling while you cook whatever you've set yourself to. he'll stand with you and make jokes or talk about random stuff while you roll out sheets of cookie dough or work on cooking something for dinner. to keep him occupied you'll assign him ingredients to dig through the cabinets for, really just so that you don't have to do it yourself. he'll probably find it with maximum efficiency too just so that you're not left waiting on him. he hands it to you, waits for you to measure it out, and then puts it back so that you're not losing any counter space either. and he's always bugging you for a taste of whatever you're making whether it's cookie dough or soup or whatever, but especially if it's some kind of sweet treat. if you're making cookies, you can guarantee that he'll sneak one off the cooling rack when you're not looking. would absolutely insist on making the most absurd gingerbread house with you (and would probably end up either painting you with frosting or eating it all).

KEEGAN

i'd like to think that keegan's favorite part of christmas is the snow. anything to do with the snow, really. during the first snow of the season, he drags you out to see it. it doesn't matter if you're working or sleeping or what, but cue keegan shaking you as gently as his stifled excitement can muster to come out and see it. if he's not with you when it finally start snowing, he'll call you and leave a short but sweet message about it. he loves playing in it; it's one of the only times he lets his guard down. loves snow angels, building igloos and snow men, having snowball fights, sledding. the whole nine yards. he just has a blast with it. he also teaches you how to make snow creams when you guys have the time for it (firm believer here that keegan would like his snow creams with chocolate chips). sometimes he'll go outside by himself and just sit in the snow for a little bit or stick his hand in it and feel the way it melts on his palms. it helps ground him, helps clear his head. no matter the case, he's more than happy to be able to share it with you.

[skylarsblue]

✦C.o.D Call Sign Inspo✦

(I've been having a bad writer's block, but, I do have some mini ideas that I can't flesh out. But, I know some people struggle with names/concepts for Y/N's/Characters. So! I'm giving them out for free in hopes it'll inspire something in someone so they don't go to waste!)

✧Somno; Gender Neutral. A y/n that's main trait is being a hyper insomniac. To the point they always seem tired, constantly consuming caffine, etc. But even if they're falling asleep where they're standing, they have incredibly fast reflexes. Could lead to some funny scenarios of finding them asleep in weird places, or, a cute concept (them only being able to sleep when they feel completely safe; ie: with one of the c.o.d characters)

✧Mama; Feminine. Pretty on the nose, but it could also be translated into a different language to match a country of origin. The concept is basically just...an aggressively maternal lieutenant/captain. Because I feel we don't have enough strong MILF's in this world, let alone in this fandom. This could also be used platonically because 141 specifically could use a mom type. Ghost & Gaz specifically.

✧Saint; Gender Neutral. Can be used for a character that's incredibly self sacrificing. Which would make for good fluff & good angst, plus, I think a lot of us can relate to feeling. Partially inspired by a random line I thought of - "If I die protecting you, that's far less frightening than you being gone when I could've protected you. Dying once for you is a peaceful passing, rather than dying every day you're not with me."

✧Salvadora/Salvador; Fem or Masc. Disclaimer; when I had this idea I imagined a woman. An alternative to the cartel story line in Las Almas. Y/N runs a civilian resistance against the cartel and has commandeered a village to keep citizens safe. It's basically a paradise in the crime ridden city. They've been providing sneaky support for Alejandro's men. (Honestly, this concept is pretty specific, and more detailed, and I might break it down more/write it on my own if possible)

✧Copycat/Mimic; Gender Neutral. A y/n that's incredibly skilled at mimicking voices. Whether in different accents or actual voices.

✧Mirage; Gender Neutral. Disclaimer; I imagined this also as a woman because I like powerful ladies. Similar to the one above but instead of just voices, they're just great at disguises in general & particularly sneaky. Like they "fade out of existence" if you look away at the wrong time.

✧Lynx; Gender Neutral. For a small, deceivingly cute looking character that's actually super deadly and quick. Do not trust the toe beans.

✧Nessie; Gender Neutral-Fem Lean. Pretty self explanatory. A character that's illusive and great in water. Bonus points for Scottish rep.

✧Sparks/Fuse; Gender Neutral. Just a fuckin' pyromaniac that can make their own bombs, super impressive and intricate ones. Thought of a scene where they're all in the heat of battle, low on ammo, and Y/N brings up randomly that they were a troublesome teen who almost had a criminal record. Price asks what the charge was and they just light something that doesn't look at all like a bomb, with a giant grin. "It was arson!!" And then they throw a fuckin' devastating bomb.

✧Iris; Gender Neutral. A character known for a very intense/intimidating stare. Inspired by those clips of people losing to Angelina Joline's femme fatal stare. Also, them being able to read a shocking amount about a person purely through eye contact.

✧Sage/Blister/Morphine/Plaster; Gender Neutral. All names for a potential medic!Y/N. (Plaster, for us Americans, is a word for bandaid in the UK. I know y'all prolly know that but just in case)

✧Bee; Gender Neutral. For a Y/N that's visibly smaller than those around them but packs a real hard punch. Also good if they're particularly good at physical combat. "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee."

✧Sugarcube/Honey/Cupcake; Gender Neutral-Masc Lean. I think the idea of a big buff, visibly masculine, intimidating dude being named something like 'sugarcube' is super funny.

✧Lasso/Big Mac/Stallion; Masculine. Isn't it obvious? Big cowboy man who's aggressively American even if he's actually been a UK citizen for years.

✧Bessie/Cowgirl/Chick; Feminine. Once again, aggressively southern Y/N. But, for fem!y/ns.

✧Tex/Stars/Anthem; Gender Neutral. See above, but this time, neutral. Cause I'm about equality in this bitch.

✧Cobra/Mamba; Gender Neutral. For a y/n that specializes in poisons to kill enemies, as well as a character with any association with snakes. Could be interesting for Ghost to hear.

✧Doll/Dolly; Feminine. A more "spy type" for the classic femme fatal who gets intel through allure. If you've seen my two fic concept posts, this is the call sign I'd give to the Y/N in Price's concept.

✧Tech; Gender Neutral. Pretty basic, a character that's particularly tech-y. Good with computers and hacking.

✧Bunny/Hare; Gender Neutral. For a y/n that's small, but super fast & alert. Bonus if they got Hinata jumping powers.

✧Clover/Shamrock; Gender Neutral. Irish rep. Use this for a Y/N that is somehow the luckiest unlucky person ever. Constantly ending up in situations that are stressful/intense but making it out with barely a scratch. Can add some dissonance if they actually hate this call sign because it's not luck that gets them out of these situations, and instead is there skill.

[awkward-tension-art]

Darkness on Umbara Chp.5 (Rex x Reader)

Chapter 4. Chapter 6.

Beginning of the List

cw: Rex x Reader, Reader is a medic, incorrect military procedure, graphic descriptions of injuries, blood, swearing, death and battle, Spoilers for the Umbara Arc, Pong Krell is an asshole, reader insert, Reader gets shot, details of a wound on reader, stress vomiting, reader is gender neutral, no use of (Y/N), if i miss a tag LMK

Minors DNI,

After the Umbarans had attacked again, everyone was exhausted. It was either luck or divine intervention that the 501st managed to fight off the second attack. This time, Krell actually fought alongside the soldiers, since he had been caught between blaster fire. You’d give the Jedi credit, he was lethal with his lightsabers, making quick work of the adversaries in his path.

You still hated him. Many good soldiers had died in the fight because of his half-assed strategy. To make matters worse you and Kix were at your limit trying to keep everyone alive. 

The supplies in your packs were low, and thankfully the speeder had more. But they wouldn’t last forever if Krell kept up his plans the way he was. 

You had just finished patching up your sixth, ARF trooper Steele, when Jesse put a hand to your shoulder, “Doc. you're hurt. Since the retreat on the road.”

The haphazard bandages you put on your arm had fallen off.  After a quick glance to make sure the soldiers that needed medical care weren’t in a dire situation, you finally assessed yourself. 

Lifting your arm in your uninjured hand, your eyes roamed over the damage. 

Direct hit. 

The minimal armor you had on your upper arm was completely scorched. The fabric underneath had offered no protection either, revealing the internal parts of your limb. 

Your bicep and tricep had been destroyed by the shot revealing the humerus. Bone was stained black with the ashes of your muscle. The only reason your arm was still attached was by the melted, burnt remains of the tendons of your shoulder. The lack of movement in your hand was the result of the fact that, along with a majority of blood supply, the nerves had been entirely disintegrated. 

It was almost comical how the true agony of the wound set in as soon as you looked at it. Well, truthfully, you didn’t feel it. The nerves were gone, so the burn itself and all feeling in your wrist and hand was nonexistent. 

However, you felt everything next to the wound. After all, you still had the nerves that functioned in the area of your body right next to the blaster shot. 

White. Hot. Blistering heat. Your entire shoulder throbbed, each pulse sending a wave of agony through you. Your ears were ringing and your head was spinning. You bit your tongue and tasted blood. 

Your jaw locked up, and you couldn’t scream. 

Everything was shaking. Your breathing was heavy. But you didn’t make a sound. Wordlessly, you stepped out of view behind a thick, dark tree and wretched. Bile exited your stomach as you gagged and heaved. Black dotted your vision, muting the bright red limbs of the plants around you.

Jesse, bless him, kept a stabilizing hand on your back, “do you want me to get Rex?” he asked, waiting for you to get yourself together.

You shook your head and dropped your injured arm, using your trembling free hand to inject yourself with painkillers. After a second, you leaned closer to Jesse to speak, voice strained, “Do not draw attention. Do not make a big deal of this. But please get Kix.” 

All attention was on Rex and the surrounding area right now. No one was paying any mind to your situation. You’d prefer to keep it that way.

Jesse nodded and quickly stepped away to get the medic. He wasn’t going to argue with you. 

Your body felt hot and feverish. You leaned against the tree as sweat dotted your skin. It was mere minutes when Jesse returned with Kix. but it felt like hours.

“Hey,” you croaked, sliding down to sit on the ground. 

The medic was kneeling by your side in an instant. He pulled off his helmet and silently used everything at his disposal to try and save your arm. It was clear you’d need more than several tubes of bacta and bandages to recover, but…well, you knew Kix, he’d think of something.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, fingers becoming stained with the ashes of your upper arm. 

“I didn’t know.” You admitted, “I knew I got shot, I just didn’t know the damage until after the battle.” 

He nodded in understanding. He’s had tunnel vision before. Every soldier has.

You took a sharp breath as your medic friend cut away charred flesh, “I know I won’t die. So I’m gonna close my eyes for a bit, ok?” You nodded to him before addressing Jesse, “Thank you for getting Kix. You can go back to the others.” 

The trooper didn’t seem so certain, “I’ll be close by.”

Once he stepped away, you closed your eyes and rested your head back. The bacta felt cool on the remains of your arm. One eye cracked open, peering at what the medic was doing. He had soaked bandages and patches in bacta, and began to tightly wrap the pieces around your limb. 

Smart. You would have done the same.

“Tell me straight, doc, will I live?” you tried to joke, only to be met with the sound of a helmet hitting the ground. 

Your eyes shot open and you froze, staring directly at Fives. You tried to move, but were quickly stopped by Kix, “I’m not done.” He warned. 

“Listen, Fives. Before you say anything…” you tried to reassure him before the ARC trooper said anything, “Do not tell Rex.” which…sounded very suspicious. As if you had gotten in trouble or caught in a lie. 

It was futile. The two of them were close as hell, it would take a lot of convincing to get him to remain silent. 

“What?!” He nearly shouted, and you desperately tried to shush him, “Why?” 

“He’s going through enough.” You snapped, “I know it looks bad, but I’ve dealt with worse. The men have survived worse themselves.”

“This is different. You’re a field doctor! You warned Krell that you weren’t trained for the front lines with us.” He responded, kneeling next to you, “and he didn’t care. Now look at you!” 

“Both of you, shut up.” Kix snapped, tightening the bacta soaked bandages on the remains of your upper arm. 

You hissed, nerve endings getting irritated by the movement. Luckily the painkillers were strong, and you weren’t put down by the agony you should be in. 

It hurt like a bitch anyway, but you’d manage. 

“Don’t tell Rex.” You looked up at Fives, pleading with him. Fuck pride, your love didn’t need to know you’ve been hurt.

He picked up his helmet, mumbling, “You can’t hide that.” 

Oh, thank all the gods in existence he wasn’t going to tell Rex.

“I won’t. I’ll just…soften the blow.” You attempted to ease your ARC trooper friend. 

“I fucking hate Krell.” He spat before getting his helmet on, “Careless. Reckless. Heartless…”  There was a commotion on the other side of the tree cutting off his insults. “We’re getting ready to move out. Heading the capital.”

“Almost done.” The medic at your side said, helping you get a snug brace on. It was lightly padded, giving protection to the bandages that made up your skin for now. It also had a mechanism that allowed you to move your wrist and hand if need be.

You gave it a few experimental moves. You could close your hand but your fingers weren’t as precise. It would have to be good enough until your arm healed. Fives offered an open palm and you took it before standing, “Thank you, both of you.”

Back to work.

The three of you walked back to the main force. Luckily, Krell didn’t argue when you returned to the speeder. It had gotten much lighter since you and Kix already used nearly half the supplies. As soon as the men started to march you started up the vehicle and stayed at the same pace as everyone else. Despite your exhaustion, after about an hour, you stepped off and gave control to a limping trooper, Dawn, keeping one hand on the side just for stability's sake. 

Looking over the men, there were more injured than healthy now. Tup held his wrist as he walked. Appo had a bandaged thigh. There was a crack on Hardcase’s chestplate that was crusted with dried blood. Two soldiers, Ken and Rin, were laying damn near on top of eachother on the stretcher attached to the speeder. Both had taken severe burns all over their bodies, melting the plastoid to their skin in some areas.

But there were more dead than injured. You’ve been keeping count. Taking notes of the names that died in your arms. 

Fyre. Vim. Oz. Ringo. North. Gabe. Tro. Tess. Zeb. Sante. Reign. Pheon. Nim. Jamie.

You recited their names in your head. You had to keep track of everyone lost under your care. There were more. Those Kix couldn’t save. Those that died instantly without a chance to survive. Sadly, you knew the list would grow as long as Krell was in charge. Under Anakin, the list of dead wouldn’t even get to be half as long. 

Hopefully the city would fall soon, everyone in the battalion needed a bacta tank and therapy. 

A lot of therapy.

“What happened?” 

Rex.

Your lover had taken you from your thoughts and you snapped back into focus, “Just a graze,” you lied. At this point, you weren’t going to stress him out anymore than he already was. He’s been shouldering the weight of the Jedi's bad decision, and you refused to add to it. 

You gave him a soft smile, hoping to ease his worry, but Rex saw right through your lie. The amount of bandages on your arm and a brace wouldn’t be needed for ‘just a graze’. His shoulders shook with his breath, “Doctor, I need the truth. Your status is important to me,” He caught himself and added on, “and the men of this battalion.” 

Dawn, who was controlling the speeder easily, looked at you, then to Rex then back to you before looking away. He wasn’t going to be a part of whatever was happening next between field doctor and captain. Something you appreciated because you weren’t leaving the side of the vehicle.

With a heavy sigh you shook your head, “Sir, it's a blaster shot. Nothing more, I promise.” 

The two of you had to keep your emotions under professionalism. But…well the moment you and Rex were alone there was definitely going to be a conversation.

“...very well, doctor.” he responded, staring ahead, “just…be careful next time.” His tone indicated that this wasn’t done. When the both of you had privacy, he needed to talk.

You nodded and continued onward. 

That was, until you heard a ‘whoosh’ followed by several explosions to the left of you. 

Another ambush!

Everyone scattered, finding whatever cover they could. You didn’t take the chance to stay, instead, grabbing the trooper on the speeder and stepping on the vehicle. “That way, now!” you snapped, pointing at an opening. The balance was off since you were hanging off the side of the thing, but the soldier did a good enough job driving you and the injured out of the line of fire. 

You grabbed the steering, forcing a sharp turn and stopping behind a large root dotted with glowing red. Poor Dawn nearly fell off after your sudden control, but neither you nor the injured on the stretcher cared. 

This is what you had to do. Lay low, protect the medical supplies, and treat the injured. You were close enough to see the fight, but still far enough away that the Umbarans could easily miss you in the foliage of the dark jungle. The problem was that since everyone scattered, the battlefield moved slowly closer.

The trooper stepped off the modified transport and crouched behind the cover. He readied his rifle, aiming it over the root, “I’ll protect you and the supplies.” Dawn sounded resolute but you noticed the tip of his blaster shook ever so slightly. 

“Thank you.” you weren’t going to point out his clear terror, so instead, you focused on the leg he didn’t put much weight on. At the angle he rested his ankle, you figured that was the cause of his initial limping, “Don’t move.” you said, tending to it. 

Torn muscle. Fracture. Bone still in place.

Simple. Blessedly simple. Better than the usual gruesome burns, broken bones or fatal wounds.

There was another woosh overhead, and two more explosions that followed. You looked up, the Umbaran starship twirled once before lifting higher in the sky. Through the smoke, you saw the shadow of a soldier reaching up for help, so you ran to him. 

The battle was moving closer to your position as the 501st was pushed back. It didn’t take long for you to grab the trooper by the shoulders and drag him back to your cover. An Umbaran raised their blaster, intending to take you both out, but Krell deflected the shot.

Oh, the bastard found your position. Lovely…

“I got you.” you spoke to the writhing soldier as you removed his cracked helmet. Immediately you got painkillers into his neck and began to assess. 

Bleeding left ear. Missing left eye. Massive laceration on left cheek and temple. Awake. Conscious. 

“Talk to me.” your words seemed to do something for him, as he snapped into focus and kept his rifle up and pointed at behind your position. He handled the wound well, acting like nothing phased him.

“Vaughn, my name is Vaughn.” he responded, managing to aim steady and fire at an approaching enemy, “Is it bad, doc?”

“Your eye is gone.” you told him the truth as you kept your focus on him, “But you’ll be alright.” You tried to speak again, but your voice was cut off by more explosions. Those flying ships were causing too much damage. 

The fight had moved to your position, putting the injured and medical supplies at serious risk. 

Dawn jerked back with a sudden cry. He collapsed, smoking hole in the middle of his helmet. 

Dead. another name to add to the list.

Krell carelessly stepped over his body getting around you and Vaughn. He looked uninterested as he pulled out a holocomm. You stopped paying attention to the General as Kix brought you another injured soldier. And then a few more managed to bring themselves to your side.

At some point, Rex joined Krell. You didn’t even know when he had gotten to your cover, but it was a relief every time you saw him alive. Jesse and Dogma had joined him, the latter taking a step in front of you to defend you and whoever you treated. 

You and Kix managed to get about nine soldiers stabilized when the order came out.

“We’re moving out!” The clone captain shouted, “We need to move! Now!”

There wasn’t much time to help anyone else at the moment. You ordered a soldier to drive the speeder. Once you stood, you draped a soldier's arm over your shoulder and held his side as you walked. Kix literally threw someone over his shoulder, and took hurried steps to follow the battalion.

Your eyes were on Krell as you marched. He didn’t even bother to look back at those that were hurt or dying. He didn’t know their names. He didn’t care.

But you did. And you’d add every name to the list you repeated in your head.

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[luveline]

Jade, after the last zombie blurb I can’t stop thinking about like, r taking care of Steve’s knee. Poor boy does so much for everyone else and probably doesn’t think to take care of himself so r just wraps it for him or something. Feel free to use this as a prompt if you’d like, no pressure!!

thank you for the prompt beautiful, I thought it was a great idea!! steve zombie au — you wrap up Steve's injured knee and get ready to move out of your makeshift camp. tw for zombie apocalypse typical violence and gore

There's a misery in the air thick as coal dust. For five days now, you, Steve, and the rest of the survivors from The College have been holed up in an apartment building within the city that surrounds The Michigan–Indiana border. At first, you'd been scared that the raiders who ruined your community would follow the tracks and find you, but a handful of scouts doubled back to find the ruins of your community completely empty. Wrecked, but uninhabited. 

With no one to hide from, a new problem emerges. How are you going to feed this many mouths, support so many children who can't fend for themselves? 

You have to get back on the road. 

So people are packing up. You, amongst the injured, can only sit and watch, though your cuts and bruises get better everyday and this is more of a Steve-mandated bed rest than a necessary sit down. Meanwhile, Steve limps around on his hurting knee and pretends it doesn't hurt at all. You can see him across the room from you now, helping a young girl tie her borrowed shoes tightly. You'll be walking as far as you can tonight, which with little ones won't be very far, but to them will seem like miles and miles and miles. 

"How's that? Not too tight?" he asks, tying her laces.

"It's okay." 

"You need them nice and snug so you don't get blisters, I know it's not comfortable. You're being really brave, Debbie." 

"Is my dad coming home soon?" 

You're terrified for a moment that her dad is one of the people who didn't make it here with you, but luckily Steve must know who she means, and he says, "Any minute now, the river's not far. Do you want to come and sit with me and my girlfriend?" 

She nods to her left, where a book rests face down. "I'm okay. Thank you." 

"You're welcome. We're just over there if you change your mind, okay?" 

He points at you. Debbie and Steve notice you watching them, and you give them a friendly smile and wave. You know you don't look especially inviting. You have marks all over your arms, more on your legs though they're hidden by your pants, and your hair hasn't been taken care of in a week. Your wave falters, even as Steve waves back. 

You pull on the jacket you've been given and pull the hood over your hair before Steve gets back to you.

Steve sits down next to you and sighs.

"Ready to go?" he asks. 

"Yeah." It's not as if you have any possessions to pack. "Are you?" 

"For sure," he says, dropping his face into his hands. "No, god… I'm tired, I don't wanna walk. I wish we could stay here." 

"I know, I'm sorry." 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and straightens up. You haven't had a whole lot to talk about with one another lately, but luckily love doesn't need a lot. Your hands meet like magnets and your fingers thread together, his palm rough as yours but pleasantly warm. 

You sit like that for a while. 

"Here, the boon you requested," Robin announces, dropping a little white parcel into your lap. "Did you guys need socks? Sarah said she'd swap me four whole pairs for one of my hoodies." 

Robin being willing to swap one of her hoodies for socks makes you wanna cry. You smile at her. 

"We don't need any socks. You need to stop trading your things away," Steve says. 

"I know you'll find me another one." She looks between you both and bites her lip, hands moving up to her hair. She scratches through it. "Maybe we could stay here tonight, catch up with everyone else tomorrow," she suggests, eyeing you both thoughtfully.

"No," Steve says, kind but firm. "We're ready to go." 

"Okay. Well, I'm gonna go see if Chloe needs a hand with baby Ada," Robin says. She makes a heart with her hand and pushes it down at you. You make one back. 

"She doesn't even like babies," Steve says as she leaves. 

"She's amazing. Okay, take your pants off handsome." 

Steve blinks at you. "Excuse me?" 

You hold the bandage Robin brought you between your index and middle finger. "Time to wrap you up." 

"I'm not cut." 

"I know, but we're gonna be walking, and your knee still hurts. The compression will help." 

Steve knows you're right, even if he isn't eager to be looked after. You shake the blanket over his lap and he slides out of his pants, baring his purpled knee to you unhappily. 

"The bruise is worse," you murmur, unwrapping the bandage from itself in looser circles around your hand. "But it doesn't look swollen anymore. How does it feel?" 

"I was shit scared it was fucked forever, but it was just sprained. It's definitely getting better," he confesses. 

"And if it was fucked?" you ask. He told you it didn't even hurt. "Were you going to pretend forever?" 

"As long as a I could." 

You rub your thumb over his kneecap and wince at his wincing. "Lame… This is gonna hurt, I'm sorry, but not for long." 

"How d'you know it won't make it worse?"

"According to Sarah's copy of Field Medicine for Injury and Disease, it won't. I'm gonna start on top so it doesn't chafe while we walk, and I'm going to pull it really tight, so tell me if it doesn't feel right." 

"Can I ask you something?" Steve says severely. "Who the fuck is Sarah?" 

You wrap his knee. One round of white bandages at a time with a continued pressure, your fingers as gentle as they can be over the stain of his contusion. He doesn't make a sound the whole time, though you know it aches. 

"Did Robin give you her last quarter?" you ask. 

"What, the oxycontin? No, I think she gave it to Jonathan. His burn is scabbing over."

"Then you have nerves of steel." You want to call him my love, or my boy, but you're not often like that, and not in front of so many people. While nobody's watching, you lean down and kiss his knee. You're embarrassed as soon as you've done it but you can't take it back; you sit up and finish tucking in the end. 

Steve takes your face into his hand unexpectedly. 

He might call you honey, or baby, but he's quiet. You miss him so much and he's right here —you don't need The College if he's with you, but you'll miss your bedroom, because there he'd talk for hours about whatever he wanted. You'd give anything to be back there even for a second listening to him re-explain the plot of Fast Times, or try to convince you that cheese didn't even taste that good anyways so don't bother missing it. 

But you're here, and he's gonna be fine. One day he's gonna feel like chatting his nonsense again and you'll be there to listen. Until then, you'll do your best to take care of him.

"Thanks," he says, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. 

He looks so pretty. Brown eyes, the lingering purple and yellow of the shiner he suffered nearly invisible under the dark shadows beneath them. His hair is limp and a tiny bit longer than he prefers to have it, kissing his neck on both sides. He doesn't look clean, and it doesn't matter. 

"You're welcome. Now put your pants back on, Steve. We have places to be soon." 

He squeezes your cheek. "I don't think I can stand up." 

You help him back into his pants, the both of you laughing, and shuffle on your butt so you can sit hip to hip with him, your arm curled behind the small of his back. 

"Put your head on my shoulder, please," you say. 

Steve complies. 

You smile to yourself when he starts to talk quietly, "Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I went to Switzerland? Skiing?" 

"No," you murmur back. "What happened?" 

"I fell on my face. So, I was seventeen, and my mom…" 

—

if you’re reading this, thank you so much! I know some of you are dedicated readers of the zombie au and it warms my heart completely, it makes writing for them so so rewarding and I couldn’t be more grateful <3 if you have any requests for them let me know if you’d like to! but thank you again either way!

[danikamariewrites]

I have a Flynn request! There definitely aren’t enough out there for our crescent city males. Lol reader is out with friends at a bar and really drunk. She gets separated from her friends and some guy is really creeping her out and won’t leave her alone. She texts/calls Flynn to come get her.

My First Call

Tristan Flynn x reader

A/n: I HAVE FINALY FINISHED CC3 and Flynn absolutely deserves love bc it seems like he’s the only single Pringle left I volunteer as tribute

Warnings: drunk reader, aggressive behavior (not the frat pack), and not proof read sorry

Wobbling through the club on numb limbs you were jostled by the crowd of swaying bodies. Your mouth was dry but you were craving another fruity-vodka cocktail. As you made your way back to the table your friends were currently inhabiting this evening you tripped a little.

Only two of them were left. The other three having bailed earlier thanks to their work schedules. Who even makes their employees come in on a Friday for a holiday weekend? A crime honestly.

A male had joined the table, too busy flirting with Marcy to notice your presence. Taylor, your other friend, had noticed you cautiously walking back. “Hey,” she says enthusiastically with a small giggle at your drunken demeanor. You giggle back, falling into her arms.

“I want another drink.” Your words coming out as one long sound. Taylor just laughed in response. “I think you need to go home.” You groan at the blonde before remembering your bestest friends are waiting at home. The guys were probably still up. Either playing video games or having a house party in honor of the long weekend.

“Ok. Marcy! Come on.” Taylor commanded. Marcy gave the male one last kiss on the cheek with a look that promised she’d call him. She never called though. She just liked attention and free drinks. What pretty girl doesn’t though?

Letting out a sigh you move from Taylor’s protective grasp. Turning your back on your friends you start to move toward the exit. At least what you think is the exit. The crowd is definitely thinning out. Pushing open a door with peeling paint and rusty hinges you find yourself in a dimly lit alley. At either end is a bustling main street of Lunathion.

“Fuck,” you mutter. Looking from side to side you can’t remember which end of the alley the club entrance would be. “Fuck.” You say a little louder.

Letting out a sigh you start walking to the left, hoping to find your friends. Coming out on the sidewalk you notice a fancy restaurant and a closed cafe. Some business entrances, a bank, then the fanciest hotel in the city. The warm lights of the Regent of Lunathion looked so inviting. Plus they have comfy armchairs to wait in.

You start heading down the street in the direction of the regent. Now that you’re out in the chilly night air and not in the dark, crowded club consuming alcohol your body starts to ache. You hug your arms to your chest, cursing yourself for not bringing a sweater. Your chunky platform heels start to feel heavy with every step you take. The blisters starting to form on the back of your ankles and toes have you stepping gingerly.

Heavy footsteps quickly approach that have you tensing. Hoping it’s just someone on a late night run that will pass you. You move over slightly to not just be in the middle of the sidewalk. Runners in this city get pissy about that.

But it’s not a runner. No, something worse. A male in dark jeans and hoodie falls into pace beside you. “Hey,” he starts, “what’s a pretty lady like you doin’ wanderin’ the city alone?” You roll your eyes, not caring about the consequences. You wouldn’t have been able to hold the annoyed expression back anyway. “I’m not. I’m with my friends.”

The male looked around the almost empty street. “Really? Because I don’t see them.” “Yup.” You reply dryly. Urd, can’t males take a hint these days? “I’m meeting them.” A lie you were sure he saw through but didn’t care. You would say anything to get him away from you. “Well what bar are you going to? I know a short cut,” he says seductively, trying to grab for your arm.

You move quicker than the both of you expect. The situation sobering you up. You looked at him with bewildered eyes. “No!” You scream at the top of your lungs. Passersby staring for a moment before looking away and walking a little faster. Cowards.

Before the male can say anything you book it down the rest of the way to the Regent. The doorman, an elderly human man, gives you a curious look. Your words stick to the tip of your tongue. Not knowing how to form your plea for help as the alcohol still rushes through your system.

You look back down the street. The male looking pissed as he storms up to you. The doorman notices, an angry look now on his kind face. “Head inside miss. And please make yourself at home until your ride is here.” You rush past him with a grateful look. Pulling out your phone, ignoring the texts from your friends, you immediately go to Flynn’s contact and pressing the call button.

he answers in one ring. “Hey sweetheart,” his smooth voice relaxing you as you sink into the plush armchair. “Flynn, can you come get me. I’m a little lost.” From his sharp inhale you could tell he was trying to hide his laugh. “I’m already on my way. Taylor called me five minutes ago.” You let out a sigh of relief. “Wait, how do you know where I am?” “I have your location, sweetheart.” You can hear the smile in his voice.

Urd you love that smile. So suave but genuine. “Only for you,” he’d say with a wink that always made you blush like crazy. It was no secret you have a crush on the lordling. And Ruhn would argue that Flynn had a bigger one on you. Why neither of you had made a move yet was beyond everyone.

The male walked past the window of the lobby staring daggers at you. Your eyes went wide as you remembered why you were in the hotel lobby. “Can you hurry? There was a guy following me and I just wanna go home.” The silence on the other end of the line was deafening.

Flynn gripped the steering wheel so hard his tanned knuckles turned white. “I’m one minute away.” He stepped on the gas, just barely making the light before it turned red. He kept talking to you as he flew down the street. Telling you everything he saw before pulling up to the Regent.

Throwing the car in park, Flynn throws his door open. Passing the doorman he nodded at Flynn with a small smile. “She’s to the left.” “Thank you.”

Seeing you curled up in the chair clutching your phone like it was a life line made hims heart clench. You looked like a lost child. Flynn knelt in front of you taking your hand in his. “Hey sweetheart,” he coos, “ready to go?” It took you a moment to realize who was in front of you. Once it clicked you smiled widely at Flynn.

“Hey,” you drawl. Your exhaustion catching up with you. Flynn smiled back you. Overjoyed to see you unharmed. “Yeah let’s get outta here.” He stands to help you up but you just give Flynn a pout and doe eyes. “Will you carry me? My shoes hurt.” “Of course.”

He knelt back down to unbuckle your ridiculous shoes, holding them in one hand while scooping you to his chest with his other arm. Letting out a deep sigh you lazily wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, snuggling into his neck.

Flynn’s heart soared. He held you tighter, basking in your warmth and scent. Though he could smell the alcohol, that strawberry and honey scent he loves so much is still prominent to him. “I got you, sweetheart.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Gently placing you in the passenger seat and bucking you in Flynn breathed a sigh of relief. You were safe. Climbing in the car himself he quickly sends a text to Taylor letting her know you’re fine. The drive home seemed long but he didn’t care. Anything to spend time with you.

Your hand grasps his resting on the gear shift. You look at him, your lids heavy. Finally pulling up to the house Flynn looks down at you. “Thank you for getting me. My knight in shining armor.” Flynn blushes as he squeezes your hand. He brings your hand to his lips, pressing soft kisses across your knuckles. “I’ll always come get you. No matter where you are, sweetheart.” You give him a tired smile before your eyes fully close.

Carrying you inside, Flynn tucks you in making sure to take out your hair clips. He even takes your makeup off, gently scrubbing at your face. Just as he sets a glass of water down and a tonic for your headache in the morning, you stir slightly. Flynn froze as he saw you squinting at him. “Will you stay? Please?” You mumble.

“Sure, sweetheart.” You turn to face the side of the bed Flynn makes himself comfortable. He sits on top of the covers, leaning against the propped up pillows. Once he sits you instantly fall back to sleep knowing your safe.

[yeyinde]

ATROPHY | Joel Miller x F!Reader

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

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

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

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

MASTERLIST | FAQ | AO3

Complacency is a death sentence in a world like this. 

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

It doesn't exist. 

Shouldn't. 

And yet—

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

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

This should just be a fantasy. 

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

But this isn't a dream.

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

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

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

He's awake. Lucid. 

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

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

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

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

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

Real, he thinks. Flesh and bone. 

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

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

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

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

It's real. 

A paradox, then. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

She's a picture, he thinks. 

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

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

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

Hemingway would call her brutal. 

Cat in the Rain. 

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

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

A vixen. Hellion. Lilith. 

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

Dangerous. 

He doesn't know when this started. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But like him, it waned slowly. 

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

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

Joel understands the feeling. 

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

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

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

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

It gives the idea of safety. Of security. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

She'll bite someone eventually. 

(He just never expected it to be him.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel's always avoided broken glass. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Most people looked away. 

But she's not most people, is she? 

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

She makes men want. 

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

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

Hasn't made himself available.

And he isn't. 

Not since Tess. Not since—

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

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

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

(Somehow. Somehow.)

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

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

Not in your lifetime, sweetheart. 

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

And that was that. 

But she came back. 

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

"Wastin' your time, sweetheart."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad for anyone's health. 

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

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

It's enough. 

(He likes it that way.)

But she—

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

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

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

It's a bad decision. 

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

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

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

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

Rinse. Repeat.

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

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

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

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

Complacency begets comfort, security, wants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He likes that about her.

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

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

Then he dreams, and it's of her.

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

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

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

Death cap where her heart once beat. 

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

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

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

It's her he sees. 

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

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

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

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

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

He lifts the gun, and feels nothing at all. 

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

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

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

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

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

She stayed over last night. 

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

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

That's all. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

(She never does.)

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

"Really? Ain't that a surprise."

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

"Watch your mouth."

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

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

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

Still. 

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

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

Possession. Ownership. 

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

Mutual want. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything to him. 

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

"Joel—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Knock yourself out. 

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

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

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

So, he does. 

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

Force himself to do the same. 

But she doesn't 

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

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

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

(The only person she dims for is him.)

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

She leaves with him. 

He drinks alone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No one asked you." 

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

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

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

It doesn't matter. It doesn't. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes are cobra pits. Her teeth leak venom. 

But she won't push. 

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

Okay. 

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

And it's all moot. 

She never shows up at the gate. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She's—"

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

Don't— not Tommy, too—

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

In the palm of his hand sits a leaf. 

A leaf. 

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

"A fucking leaf—"

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

"You'll get in the way." 

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

Doesn't plan on starting now, either. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn't ask. 

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

He knows. Still: "that right?" 

"Gonna go see her?"

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

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

"She tell you that?" 

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

"We ain't." 

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

"What?"

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

"We done here?"

He doesn't go to her. 

Stubborn as an ox, she comes to him. 

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

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

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

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

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

It had to be done. Had to. 

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

Her tone is flat. Empty. 

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

He feels proud. 

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

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

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

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

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

She just murmurs, "I hope they suffered." 

Saccharine sweet. 

Rotten to the core. 

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

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

"They did."

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

And all for him.

Joel pulled her in close. Closer still. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's just sex, just—

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

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

Temporary made permanent. 

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

The curtain rustles. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a slip. An accident. 

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

He holds on a little tighter. 

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

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

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

It was never flirtatious, never complimentary. 

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

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

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

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

Joel isn't ready to acquiesce. 

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

"Fuck, Joel—"

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

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

But the way she says his name is pyrolysing. 

Cinder. Soot. Ash. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thinks of a slow burn. A candle wick. 

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

And that must be it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He never does. She leaves. 

(Rinse. Repeat.)

But now—

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

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

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

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

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

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

In response, she bites down on his pulse point. 

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

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

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

"Joel, oh—ah, fuck—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This, he knows, is new. Different. 

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

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

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

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

They're not themselves in this moment. 

The moor around him collapses. A sinkhole forms. 

He clings to her and drags her under with him.

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

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

More—

And just him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hears the click in her throat when she swallows. 

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

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

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

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

"Did you like that—"

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

"Is that what this was? A moment?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Tess left him whole. 

She devours.)

Consumes. 

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

(He thought her pull would happen quickly. Instantaneous. 

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

A slow descent into comfort, kinship. 

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

I'll outlive you, old man. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn't fit. She doesn't belong. 

But fuck—

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

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

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

[nivtee]

: ̗̀➛ HIPS. jegulus

james potter x regulus black

sexual tension ! leading up to smut ! swearing !

james is handsy, and regulus is all about james' hands

it was like touching fire, holding it in his hands and burning blisters into the spaces between his fingers. his body was warm, hot, like it had never been before.

regulus rolled his hips again, pressing himself down into james' lap, who could only groan at the action.

"fuck, reg." he breathed, pressing his mouth into the boys neck. "i need a second before you make me finish in my pants."

regulus paid the boy no mind, instead pulling james' curls into his hair and softly groaning into his ear.

no one would see them, almost the entirety of hogwarts was packed into the room of requirement, meaning they would be free to kiss and grind against each other with no wandering eyes to judge them.

running his hands up the back of his shirt, james' hissed at just how soft regulus felt in his hands, almost whimpering as the boy kissed down his jawline.

he would have hickeys but fuck was it worth it.

regulus could feel the tent in james' pants, matched by his own no doubt, but continued on with digging himself into the boys growing erection.

james might have burst, growling and flipping them over so that regulus was laid against the couch in the corner of the room, his shirt pulled up and his pants straining against his crotch.

james, who'd long since forgotten his manners, pressed himself onto the boy, biting down his neck and pulling open the button down shirt the slytherin wore.

"james," regulus whined, lifting his hips, "that was my shirt-"

"i don't give a fuck, reg."

james groaned, letting his head fall onto the boys chest and press their hips together, his hands leaving a trail of embers up regulus' chest.

"now be good, turn over and let me fuck you."

[faeriekit]

I haven't spent a day without reading after I discovered ffn in high school.*

I genuinely don't have any perspective a life looks like without reading. I used to smuggle library books into middle school math classes, and get all four of them confiscated, one at a time. In the second grade, I smuggled books out onto the playground so I could read longer. In between those years, I spent time taking out books from the 80s and 90s in my school library-- but once I could get free literature on my itouch forever, as long as I had WiFi? Game changing. GAME. CHANGING.

People like to knock on fanfiction and, fine, sure, there's bad stuff out there just like everywhere else, but there's been no greater treasure in my life than clicking open a tab wherever I am-- bus, dr.s office, work, in bed-- and knowing there is a story there for me, if I just adjust my ao3 settings. Fanfiction is a lesson and a story and a celebration of stories all at once. I learned how to write from the fanfics I loved. I learned how to refine my sense of grammar (for better and for worse). I learned what worked and what didn't in a story. I learned what people like, and why they love it. I learned what different shapes and sizes of love look like in different eyes. I learned how many people can well and truly love a story, entirely independent from the media conglomerates that designed it to be marketable. Thousands of strangers freely, happily, embracing a story. Telling each other stories.

And the TAGGING system on ao3 changed my life. Ffn? Awful to navigate. Even worse to search on. The crossover options were limited and the categories were slim. Ao3 is a love letter to fans, and from fans to the media they love. I'm getting sentimental. It's 2am. But I wouldn't trade a thousand hours in my school library for the gift of reading at my fingertips, everywhere I go, for the rest of my life. And it's all because a stranger on the internet wanted to tell me a story.

Anyway. Blister Pack hit 30,000 hits. I write this story for me. But when it means something to all the readers popping comments in my inbox, all I can do is be grateful that it touches something in you, too. I don't know how long it'll mean anything to anyone, but the joy of archiving fics means that there's infinite time in the world for us to find the story we need today. It'll still be there in the morning.

*(I don't think my ventures with livejournal counted. I was only on there sporadically.)

Edit: drafted 11/28/2022

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 2

Masterlist | Chapter 1 |-| Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18

AO3

Summary: Frankie's friendship with the men of the 100th continues to consolidate, even as her work takes its toll

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, language, me having no idea how B-17s work

Word Count: 4k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp

The pub was noisy as ever, a patchwork crowd of blue and green, British and American, filling the low-ceilinged room, the stench of cigarette smoke and stale beer thick in the air. It seemed to Frankie that she only ever managed to get that smell washed out of her uniform in time to come straight back here and acquire it again, but it was the only place they could manage to find some real fun - after all, there were no men and no booze allowed in their Nissen hut. Although both rules had been known to be flouted.

"Stop fiddling with that, you'll make it worse," George tutted, batting at Frankie's arm as she took a sip of her beer. When one of the forts had crashed in a ball of flames earlier that week, she had seared herself helping to clear the debris, a burn mark running across the palm of her right hand. In her moments of absent-mindedness, she often found herself toying with the bandage, which caused the nurses great dismay when the dressings inevitably frayed and needed replacing.

"I can't make it worse, it's already almost healed," She shrugged, plucking a cigarette from her breast pocket. The two women had long since learned that bringing a whole pack led to nothing but strangers begging for a smoke, so they each only ever brought one out with them - besides, a pleasant smile could always swindle a hapless soldier out of another, should the need arise. "Hurt like a bitch, but the nurse lanced all the blisters the other day."

George grimaced, wiping some foam from the corner of her lip. As she let her gaze wander to the next table over, the voices of the men behind them growing more audible by the minute, she sighed. "Oh, here we go."

Craning her neck to have a look, Frankie watched on for a moment, recognising the faces of Egan, Cleven and the others as they chatted with a few RAF airmen in less-than-friendly tones. A crooked grin made its way across her expression, and she wiggled her brow at George as she stood up, taking her pint with her.

"Frank, no," Her companion whispered, tugging at her sleeve.

"Come on," She giggled. The pair burrowed their way through the dense crowds that crammed the pub, breaking free beside the men's table, lingering momentarily behind the three RAF pilots.

"So, let me get this straight," One of them asked. "You're Buck, and he's Bucky?"

"Is there a shortage of nicknames in the 100th?" Another spoke, a smug smirk creasing his cheeks.

Frankie took another sip of her beer and spoke up, the sudden sound drawing the attention of all of the men at the table. "No, but there is a shortage of tossers, I'm sure you could fill the ranks," She said sweetly.

"Wa-hey!" Bucky cheered, a pink tinge on his cheeks indicating that he was already reasonably intoxicated. Wordlessly, he leapt to his feet, scrounging for a pair of extra chairs for the two women.

"Hiya, George," Biddick smiled dreamily, cradling in his in the palm of his hand. "How ya doin'? You look nice."

"I'm doing good, thanks Curt," George smiled, accepting a seat with a quick thanks to Bucky. Frankie let out a snort as she sat down beside her.

"Only thing we're short of is crews, gents," Egan sighed, taking his place between Frankie and Cleven and attempting to drape an arm across the back of her chair before she shoved him off.

"Hm. Pity," One of the RAF men said, condescension dripping in his tone.

"Pity what, exactly?" Frankie urged, getting the distinct feeling that there was a whole argument bubbling under the surface here that she had not been party to.

"Well, they'd have more if they flew their missions at night - as an RAF woman yourself, surely you must know that."

She raised a brow, talking over the rim of her glass as she took another sip of beer. She could feel Bucky tensing beside her. "Yunno, if the RAF paid me a bit more I might feel some loyalty to them, but I'm with the Yanks. You're the prick here, mate." George lifted her glass in a silent toast of agreement, a smirk curling the corner of her lips.

The Englishman's jaw clenched as he peeled his irritated gaze away from her to look at the men. "I think we ought to make some sport of this. Any one of you will do."

"Oh, don't say that, Frankie'll beat your ass," Bucky muttered under his breath, just quiet enough that only she and Cleven could hear, grins spreading across their expressions.

"Sounds like an excellent idea," Cleven rose to his feet to accept the challenge, but before he could, Biddick was up beside him, tugging at his sleeve. He spoke in a low voice, and Frankie couldn't quite make out what he was saying, but she pieced it together when Curt's gaze kept flickering from Cleven to George, who watched on with a frown. He wanted to take the fight - wanted to impress her.

Once it was settled that Curt would be the one to fight, the group moved swiftly outside, half-empty drinks long forgotten at the table as they hurried to watch the spectacle. The alley outside the pub was unlit, the glow from inside casting faint shadows against the cobbles as they formed a tight circle, watching on expectantly. Frankie's cigarette hung from her lips, a cloud of smoke rising in front of her as Curt and the RAF airman began to circle one another, fists raised.

George clung tight to her elbow, grinning in anticipation. The Englishman caught the edge of a wonky paving stone, stumbling slightly, and the two women let out unflattering snorts. Curt winked at them, and Frankie rolled her eyes, although even in the darkness she could tell George was blushing.

"What do I get when I win?" He called over, tearing his gaze from his opponent.

It was George's turn to roll her eyes now. "I'll let you buy me a drink."

His boyish face lit up, and it seemed he had been wholly distracted from the fight. The Englishman lunged forward to take advantage of this, but Biddick didn't miss a beat, knocking him down with a single blow. Frankie let out a raucous cheer of celebration, her friend clapping along as the men whooped and jeered at each other.

"Milady," Curt grinned, holding out his hand to George, who accepted gladly, allowing him to lead her back into the pub for another drink. Frankie let out a huff, smiling as she stomped out her cigarette and watched the other RAF airmen pick their fallen comrade up off the ground. Letting out another laugh, the sound of it erupting into the night air, she began to follow the men of the 100th, finally letting Bucky sling his arm around her shoulders as they wandered back towards the Nissen huts, singing and shouting in celebration of Curt's victory.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was not yet five in the morning as Frankie scrounged to tie her bootlaces in the dark, toothbrush dangling out of her mouth, unbrushed hair tugged back into a messy ponytail. The pilots were taking off shortly after daybreak, and as some of the most senior mechanics at Thorpe Abbotts, the job often fell to her and Lemmons to carry out the last-minute safety checks and refuelling to ensure they'd all make it back in one piece.

None of the other women in her hut were required for duty yet, so Frankie did her best to shuffle about in the darkness as quietly as possible, refusing to turn on her bedside lamp so as not to wake George or any of her other less forgiving bunkmates.

Standing up from the edge of the bed once she'd finished tying her laces, she groped around blindly for her key to the mechanics' hut, accidentally banging her elbow on the corner of her metal bedframe in the process, waves of pain shooting up her arm. Pursing her lips tightly together, her whole body tensed, Frankie managed to find the key, waiting until she'd left the hut so that the cool night air would drown out the sounds of her pain.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" She hissed as she scurried for her bike, waving her injured arm around wildly as if the movement could somehow dull the pain. She was so distracted that she'd almost completely forgotten about the burn on her hand - that is, until she clamped the handlebar with her injured palm and let out a yelp.

The sun was already rising as Frankie arrived on the airstrip, breaks squeaking as she wheeled to a stop outside the mechanics' hut, Lemmons already on site as he wrung his palms with one of the dirty rags they used to clean away excess lubricant. "You look like hell," He pointed out as she dismounted her bike, locking it up around the side of the building.

"Thanks, Ken," She replied sarcastically. "Rough wake-up call, beat myself up stumbling around in the dark."

Ken chuckled, handing over her toolkit. The pair had far few hours of sleep between them to chat as they worked, and it was all Frankie could do not to yawn as she checked the fuel tanks and oiled the landing gear. They'd been out for over an hour by the time the flight crews began to show up, the familiar sound of jeep engines pulling up behind her as she declared her job done.

"She ready to roll?" Bucky's voice rang out, and Frankie almost flinched as he clapped her over the shoulder, still reeling from the man's constant lack of volume regulation.

"All good," She confirmed. "Now get her outta my sight, and bring her back in one piece - can you handle that?"

He smirked. "Oh, you know I can."

"The number of wrecks you've given me would say otherwise, dear," Frankie teased, wiping engine grease off of her fingers with a rag as she turned on her heel, heading back towards the mechanics' hut.

"Hey!" Egan called, and she looked back at him. "You ain't gonna watch us take off?"

"The only thing I'm doing now is taking a goddamn nap," She laughed, feeling exhaustion tugging at her eyelids.

"Yeah, fair, you do look like shit," Bucky shrugged, recoiling as her filthy, oily rag smacked him in the shoulder as Frankie lobbed it across the airstrip. "Hey!"

"Respect women, you little bitch," She retorted, raising a middle finger as she wandered off, praying she could make the bike ride back to her bed without dozing off and crashing into a bush somewhere.

Frankie slept through the morning, right past lunch, and would've missed the cacophony of plane engines returning overhead had Lemmons not come to retrieve her, banging on the window above her bed. She peeled her eyes open slowly, waking with a start as she noticed the boyish face staring down at her through the glass.

"What the fuck?!" She asked groggily, voice raised so that he could hear her from outside.

"They're back, come on!"

Letting out a huff, Frankie dragged herself out from under the blankets, running her fingers through the knots in her hair for want of time to properly brush it. Stepping out through the front door as she finished fastening the top few buttons of her coveralls, Ken stood waiting for her, passing his weight impatiently between the balls of his feet.

"How's it lookin'?"

"Uh, all the ones we've got so far look alright. Although..." He trailed off, glancing awkwardly at her as they fetched their bikes.

"Although?"

"Biddick may have... crashed. In, uh... Scotland."

"He what?!"

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Once it had been established that Biddick was still, in fact, alive, Frankie had few kind words to say about the pilot's wreckless flying, mourning the loss of a plane and the strings they'd have to pull to find a new one. Fortunately, George had been in an especially persuasive mood that night, and had managed to rope her into attending the party that was being held for the airmen to celebrate the success of their mission.

"Watch what they're calling a success, I'm the one who's gotta figure out how to ship a wrecked plane back from fucking Scotland," Frankie muttered as they approached the building, muffled music coming from inside as she tugged at the shoulders of her jacket, trying to force it to sit comfortably.

"Oh, stop complaining," George scoffed, grabbing her arm and forcing her to stop as she reached up to fix a smudge in her lipstick. "Look on the bright side for once - he didn't die!"

"That's especially good for you with your lovey-dovey eyes, huh? 'Oh hiya George, how ya doin' George, you look real pretty today George'," Frankie teased, putting on an utterly terrible American accent as she attempted to mimick Curt. George punched her in the arm and went inside without a word, a natural pink flush visible through her rouge.

The band was in full swing as Frankie followed her inside, the mingling crowds a mix of uniformed airmen, plainclothed local women, and a few servicewomen she recognised from the neighbouring huts. She was struggling to pretend she had ever wanted to come, nose burrowed in a glass of whiskey as she managed to dodge the flirting of a few slightly intoxicated pilots. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy parties - she just preferred them when there was no mountain of work hanging over her head for the following day. It was just as well she'd slept through lunch, otherwise her mood would've been frightful.

Bucky wanted to sing. He could feel the music running through his body, his toe tapping involuntarily against the polished floor as he sat slumped in a seat beside Buck. His friend had never enjoyed Bucky's singing - and although he pretended not to, he understood why. He couldn't carry a tune to save his life, but dammit if it wasn't fun.

The consensus had been a resounding no. No, he could not sing. But that was no fun - that was no way to celebrate, not in Bucky's book. He had caught Cleven off guard as he bolted from his seat, just quick enough to break away before his friend could grab him by the shoulder and drag him back down again. Approaching the microphone, an excited grin creasing his cheeks, his gaze scanned over the crowd before stopping on an unfamiliar face.

If anything, his performance would only be enhanced by a partner.

Frankie was beginning her second whiskey, lingering by George's shoulder as she made small talk with one of the radar operators from the women's hut next door. Bucky had tried to call her over once, but over the music and the crowd, she hadn't heard. He paused for a moment, wracking his brain for a way to get her attention without giving up the microphone. If he stepped away, he wouldn't have put it past Buck not to have the thing removed so that he couldn't perform.

"Fran!"

She turned to him instantaneously, ears pricked like a hunting dog, expression contorted with the murderous promise to carry out the threat she had issued the last time he'd used the nickname.

"Sing with me," Bucky beamed, holding out his hand. A smirk began to spread across her face, and he could see George patting her shoulder, egging her on. With a grin, Frankie passed her drink to the blonde, crossing the gap between them and meeting him at the mic as he cheered. Cleven's head was in his hands.

"You know the words?" He whispered.

"Well enough," She affirmed.

Never saw the sun shinin' so bright,

Never saw things goin' so right,

His suspicion had been correct. Frankie couldn't carry a tune any better than he could, onlookers grimacing at the complete lack of musical talent the pair possessed. Occasionally the lyrics would collapse into laughter as Bucky noted the way she had to crane her neck to even reach the microphone, but there was not a hint of embarrassment between them.

Watchin' the days hurryin' by,

When you're in love, my how they fly,

She caught his eye for a moment, their grins audible in their voices as they fought to keep up with the quick pace set by the band behind them. Arms outstretched, the curls in her hair bounced with each tap of her foot as she leant into the mic, their cheeks practically pressed together. The whiskey had left her slightly flushed, the tip of her nose blooming pink the way it always did. Anyone looking on probably must have thought there was something deeper between the two - the way they stood so close, their cheeks flushed pink, unable to keep a straight face whenever their eyes met. Frankie loved Bucky, that much was true, but it was the kind of platonic love that veered more into brotherhood than it ever would romance. If he had ever tried to kiss her, she probably would have knocked him out.

Blue days, all of them gone,

Nothin' but blue skies from now on,

He seized her by her shoulders in a fierce bear hug, and she let out a guffaw, so loud and so close to the microphone that it sent a shrill squeak of feedback around the room, the crowd grimacing for a moment before Bucky tugged her away and the terrible sound ceased. George was unable to clap for the glasses she held in both hands, but she whooped and cheered from the side of the room, the only person in the place giving them the true encore they both believed they deserved.

"I think we have a future in the industry," Bucky muttered into her ear, making her laugh again as they swayed side to side, his vice grip refusing to let up until she began pinching the flesh on the backs of his hands.

"Major!" A man called, scurrying up to them. "Major Egan sir, you've got a call."

"Alright, comin'," He nodded, clapping her over the shoulder as he made his way to the bar, where Cleven was already standing with the telephone.

George stepped up once Frankie was alone, returning her half-finished whiskey. "That was really something," She chuckled, voice raised over the music.

"I didn't know I had it in me," Frankie shrugged. "Y'know, that much raw, untapped talent should never go to waste, it's a tragedy." Her friend laughed, but Frankie's gaze had wandered over to the bar again, where the two Majors chatted jovially to whoever was on the other end of the line.

"Is that-?" She muttered to herself, telling George to give her a minute as she marched up to the men, leaning casually against the bar. Flashing a calm smile, she nodded to Cleven as Bucky chatted away on the phone. "Hey, is that Biddick on the line?"

"Sure is, all the way from-"

Cleven never got time to finish his sentence before she had darted in between the two men, wrenching the phone from Egan's hand before he had time to even register her presence. "Wh- hey!"

"Did you crash my fucking plane, Curt?" She snapped, the man on the other end of the line letting out a tiny yelp of surprise.

"Frankie!" Curtis chuckled nervously. "How's Georgie doin', is she well?"

"Answer the question, Biddick, did you - oh, piss off, Bucky," Frankie spoke hurriedly, slapping at Egan's hands as he tried to pry the receiver away from her. "What were you thinking?"

"Y'know," Biddick continued, completely dodging the question yet again. "The Scottish - they don't like you English very much, Frank."

"Historically speaking, that's pretty fair," She sighed, running a hand across her face. "Just... ask whoever's with if they've got a truck that can bring your wreck back from... where is it again?"

"Mostly in the vegetable patch."

"Right. Good to know. Now get your ass back here or I'm gonna set George up on a date with one of the ground crew boys."

She pulled the receiver away from her ear, chuckling at the muffled sound of Curt's protests as she handed the phone back to Bucky, who snatched it from her with a look as if to say 'What the hell?'.

"Yeah," He nodded along to whatever Biddick was now saying. "Yeah, uh-huh, I promise I won't let her. Don't you worry, dear." Bucky shot her a sideways glance and she snorted with laughter, holding her hands up in surrender as she backed away from the bar.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The sky lit up a dozen shades of orange, red and blue, the faint thrum of explosions and gunfire rattling overhead as the anti-aircraft guns did their best to destroy the enemy's fight planes, high up through the clouds.

Frankie lingered outside the shelter, watching with her arms folded across her chest. Her pin curls never held for more than a couple of hours, and a halo of frizz encircled her head as a result of the night's commotion, eyes reflecting the stippling of lights above.

One of the airmen hurried past her towards the shelter, brow drawn inwards with anxiety, sweat visible on his brow even in the dark. He glanced at her, and almost went on his way, but back-tracked just as he was about the head down the steps.

"Uh, ma'am?" He urged. "We should really get inside."

"Yeah, in a minute," Frankie waved her hand, doing a double take as she realised the man looked familiar. "Hey, it's, uh - Crosby, right?"

He almost smiled. "Yes, ma'am. You're Ms Bevan, I believe - on the ground crew."

"Right you are. But call me Frankie, everyone else does."

Crosby didn't seem to know what to say to that, and settled for a simple, awkward nod. "We should really get in-"

"It gets a lot less scary when you're - what, three years in?" She paused a long moment before sucking in a breath, tearing her gaze from the sky above as she pointed at Crosby. "Hang on, aren't you the one whose vomit we keep having to clean out?"

Even in the dark, she could see his face turn beet red. "Oh, I am so sorry about it, ma'am, I swear I'm trying not to, it's just-"

Frankie chuckled, and he trailed off, clutching his uniform cap tightly with both hands. "Don't worry about it. I make the boys do it anyway, I don't touch the stuff," She grinned. "I'd probably do the same. I know more about planes than all of your pilots put together, but I've never flown in one before."

Crosby let out a huff at her confession, suddenly more at ease despite the chaos overhead. When he stared at it the way she did, the lights and sounds were almost beautiful. Almost.

"Why don't you head down below," She said. "Your COs will start wondering where you've got to."

He nodded, reaching the top of the steps that led down to the shelter and then holding out a hand, as if offering to help her down them. When Frankie just smiled, not moving an inch from her position, he took the hint, nodding as he began to descend.

"Oh, and Crosby!" She called. He doubled back, head peeking up over the wall. "Try chewing ginger root. Or a mint leaf. I've heard they help with the air sickness."

Crosby nodded again, firmly, as he took a mental note of her advice. "Thank you, ma'am - uh, Frankie."

She grinned. "Any time."