#i HIGHKEY wanna write fics about them

[sga-owns-my-soul]

Asking for our unhinged crack(?) Ship. Teyla/Daniel

(Also mcshep, obviously. If you haven't done it yet)

ship bingo

omg teyla/daniel my BELOVED (if you don't know go read Beautiful Disaster it's a beautiful fic of daniel going to atlantis and him and teyla develop a BEAUTIFUL relationship and i'm obsessed)

they're SO <3333

and mcshep my beloved 😌😌

[cinnamon-bunni]

Once More, With Needles

Rating: T Word count: 4.3k Relationship: Gen (Medic & Scout) Warnings: Canon-typical gore (like, as much as you'd expect from Medic), body horror

Read it on Ao3!

Hey there! This fic was written for @a-scary-lack-of-common-sense's AU, their Job Switcheroo AU! I was heavily inspired by this AU and just fell in love with the characters, so of course I just had to write something <3 I decided to go with Medi-Scout and Engie-Med, as they were the first ones i fell in love with (but honestly, all of the characters are already so good <33) If you haven't, i definitely recommend checking out the AU, as well as OP's art in general! He makes some great stuff :)

I really hope you enjoy! &lt;3

Medi-Scout watched the baseball game that was played on the small TV that sat precariously on his medical cart–Boston Red Sox versus Detroit Tigers–with vague interest. In all honesty, with the way his cap was pulled down far enough that it obscured half of his view, and how he slouched in the cheap office chair with his feet propped up on his medi-pack, he was on the verge of just falling asleep due to boredom. Other than the few times the Tigers did some outrageous play against the Sox, the game really couldn’t keep his attention all that well. He was bored out of his mind–hell, he wouldn’t even mind having someone to dissect; just open them up a little bit, poke around a bit, until his boredom was cured by something else.

Thankfully, his favorite patient (read: the one who always tested his patience) knocked on the open door before letting himself in. The clicking of his boots against the cement ground had warned Medi-Scout before his voice could say anything. He raised his cap upwards a bit to see, and sure enough, Engie-Med was there, creepy-ass smile and all, and was fast approaching him.

“Germs, good morning!” the man greeted. His hands were behind his back as he approached, until he planted himself next to the operating table. The overalls he wore were drenched in dried blood–which was hard to tell, because they were already a brown color, but the splashes of red of fresher blood made it easier to tell. They’d been like that for a few days now from what Medi-Scout had seen, and he wondered how long the newly named Engineer had been working on himself. His face, other than that huge fucking smile, portrayed unease. Ludovic always seemed to know how to creep someone the fuck out. “I hope I am not interrupting anything?”

Germs’ eyes darted back to the TV. “Sorry man, but as you can see, my time is being used up with some very important work. Have a full schedule over here, if it ain’t obvious.” The sarcasm didn’t drip off of his voice, it was fucking pouring off of it.

“Good!” Ludo replied, voice ever chipper, “Because I need a medical professional to look at something for me–a bit of a problem in my hand, you see.”

Germs sat up and stretched his hands overhead. “‘Kay then, just take a seat on the table, I’ll take a look at it.” Ludo complied, lifting himself onto it, while Germs stood up to stretch his legs. The newly named Medic always did enjoy seeing what monstrosity Engie-Med would create with his own body. The man, last Germs had seen, was cutting himself open to stuff in some titanium in his body, as well as drafting blueprints for more complicated contraptions he wanted inside of him. It was interesting, in kind of a weird, fucked-up morbid way, but a part of Germs kinda enjoyed to see the work Ludo would do–even if it did always had to be him to clean up the mess.

“Alright then Ludo, lay it on me: what sorta damage did you do this time?” he asked, walking over at a leisurely pace. “Did you put some more things in that arm of yours? Let me guess–mini saw blade? Another pair of scissors? How about a can’a Bonk for me?”

Ludo laughed and shook his head. “No, I am afraid to say it is a bit more…complicated than that. You know, blood problems, things like that.”

Medi-Scout frowned, and made a motion for the other to show him his hands. “What, as in problems with circulation or somethin’? What could’ve you done that woulda done tha–holy fuck what the fuck happened to your fucking hand?” 

Ludo’s smile never faded, but more creases of worry appeared on his face. “Aheh. Well, you see, as I said: blood problems. After doing a bit of work on it last night it seems that the hand has lost blood! And a lot of it.”

A lot was an understatement. Ludo’s right hand, after what seemed to be poorly done jobs of setting and resetting the bone, was crooked from healing incorrectly. His fingernails were nothing but shortened and cracked from obvious miscare, and the cuticles were all bloody and ripped to shreds, open wounds that bled from mistreatment. There were pieces of metal that came out from underneath his skin on the back of his hand, only to dip and go back, without a doubt for the weird experimental shit that he had inside of his hand that went up all the way through his arm. All of that, however, was not the worst part. The entire right hand was shades of a darkened purple and gray. The fingers looked the worst, with a dark, almost-black color filling them instead of a normal, healthy color that a person should have. Holy fucking shit.

“What the fuck happened to the circulation? You do know you need that, right? That you need blood for your hand to work? Because it’s kinda essential for your hand to work, you moron.”

Ludo scoffed, but there was no anger in his voice, or anywhere on his face. “Of course I know I need it! That’s why I came to you!”

Germs stared at the hand for a few more seconds, then looked up to the other man. He wasn’t quite sure what emotion he was feeling, but his quiet “what the fuck” was the best explanation to what was going through his head. He gently grabbed the hand, the slow movement giving room for Ludo to say anything, before turning and examining the hand. From the wrist he could see large, horribly done stitches to keep the skin together–not from injuries or cuts that were healing, but because those were the spots the items would pop out of from his arm, and it was a way to keep it closed until he needed something like a knife to come out from the contraption that was inside of Ludo’s arm.

Germs pushed up the sleeve–he struggled a bit, the buttoned-up cuff that was too form fitting being hard to push up against the fucked up forearm, but Ludo used his other hand to properly grab onto the dress shirt sleeve and bring it all the way up to his shoulder, to where it bunched up against his red sweater vest.

The engineer’s arm wasn’t in any better condition than his hand. It was littered with long, fucked up stitches, in similar condition of his wrist. All of course were there for the same reasoning, to have a spot where the tools could come out of his arm, but jesus fuck was it hard to look at. The purple-gray tone to his arm certainly didn’t make anything better.

“Well, my guess–just a thought, by the way, just a random guess here–is that you have a bit too much shit in your arm. Just a bit.” Germs poked and prodded at the arm, feeling around the stitches. “And this stitching job is great, by the way. Better than mine, yeah?”

Ludo’s smile never faded as he crooked his head to the side. “You are being sarcastic.”

“Of course I’m being fuckin’ sarcastic! Dammit, it’s like everyone here is useless without me.” He sighed, and let go of the arm. “I don’t even know how you expect me t’fix this. Unless you already got some sorta plan-”

“I do, actually!” Germs watched with a blank stare as Ludo fished out folded up, bloodied blueprints from the front pocket of his waist apron, held down by a belt. He then held it out for the medic to grab, a friendly yet terrifying smile on his face. “I began drafting them this morning,” he said as Germs started to unfold the print, “and I finished it just a few minutes before coming here.”

The blueprints were hard to read. A mix of the folded creases, bloodied spots, and poor handwriting made Germs squint to read it. He soon realized that the majority of the writing–what he could decipher, anyway–was in German. The only English that was written went along with the circle that was around the design of the machinery and an arrow pointing at it, reading “put around + in upper arm!” which was finalized with a crudely drawn smiley face.

He looked back up at the engineer. The smile on his face was wide, and the creases of worry grew. “Well, I never said the design was well-made, but I assure you that the real thing will be better in quality. It will simply just direct more blood into my arm and hand and sort of–aheh, push its way into my hand. It will work, trust me.”

“It better,” he said, handing the blueprints back over. “I ain’t putting some faulty machinery in you because you think it might work.” But in all honesty, Germs wasn’t all that picky; he trusted Ludo, believe it or not, and if he said it was safe enough to use, then Medi-Scout wouldn’t have too much hesitancy with stuffing random shit into the man’s arm.

“So, how ‘bout this,” the medic continued. He pointed at the top of the upper arm. “I put your weird machine thingy here,” he trailed down the arm, “and all the weirdo blood-pumping-slash-forcing-blood-in lines inside. And then I can even fix up your shitty stitches for you! Free of charge.”

“Yes, how kind of you,” Ludo replied, “truly, I’d be useless without you.”

It was sarcasm, but Germs still smirked at the praise. “Yeah yeah, I’m amazing. Now go get that thingamajig already and let me see it.”

The pair worked well into the evening. Dinner had been missed, with Mikel knocking on the clinical doors and shouting that they could get leftovers in the kitchen once they were done. Ludovic yelled back in acknowledgement as he sat on the medical table, and Germs was busy opening up his arm. From his wrist all the way up to his upper arm, Medi-Scout cut him open, and Ludo only twitched a few times in pain.

“I stopped feeling things in that hand after the first few implants. Especially in the fingers,” the engineer explained with a smile. “Probably should have thought there was something wrong. Oh well!” Germs had no idea how the hell to put Ludo’s contraption into the arm. Germs kept looking for the right place to start, bringing it close to the shoulder, only to bring it back to him again. “It’s simple enough, Germs. I made it with you in mind, afterall.”

“Yeah okay, thanks chucklefuck. That makes everything easier for me.” Germs stared at the arm for a few seconds before giving a low grumble. The main module of it–a circular thing, with a clasp that let it open and close with ease, and a shit ton of wires connected to it–was supposed to be on the arm, right below the shoulder, where it could then do whatever the fuck it’s supposed to do with Ludo’s blood. The main problem Germs was finding were the wires; he was sure there was some sort of intricate way Ludo expected him to place the wires, and he didn’t want to fuck that up.

He quickly changed his mind about this in about three seconds though, as Ludo gave a quiet, “any day now, Germinoma.” So, Medi-Scout clasped it on the arm, and started shoving wires just about everywhere and anywhere he’d felt would need the blood. Which were a lot of places. Jesus fuck the arm hadn’t even bled for the whole ass five minutes it’d been open. Again: cool, but in a fucked up, morbid way.

Hooking up the blood circulation system and making sure it actually did its job was a bit of a pain in the ass. In the end the wires and other mechanical bits were just about everywhere–many pieces not so much inside of the arm anymore, but out in the open, with metal openings back into the arm and to hold them in place, where everyone could see. It was not a pretty sight, not at all; the stitches had disappeared thanks to the work of the medi-gun, but they’d only come back after a few uses of the arm. It was still a disgusting color, but they watched with bated breath, and both released it with mirroring sighs when Ludo’s arm went from a purple-gray color into a slightly less purple-gray.

Plus, his cuticles started to bleed. Which was only a good sign.

“Wonderful!” Ludo exclaimed, hopping off of the table. “Danke, my friend. You have helped me a great deal.”

“Yeah yeah, I know, I’m pretty great,” Germs said. He couldn’t help the proud smirk he had on his face–he supposed in the same way Engie-Med couldn’t help the crazed smile he always wore–and Medi-Scout, not for the first time since he picked up the job as the resident medic, felt a satisfied feeling deep in his chest. One that told him that this was right.

“Just come back over if it gives you any trouble. Or if you find some other way to fuck up your hand again.”

Ludo rolled his wrist in slow movements. “I might just take you up on that offer,” he said. He shot Germs one last creepy-as-fuck smile. “But for now, good night. Hopefully dinner was kept warm for us.”

Germs waved the engineer off before turning his attention to cleaning up the infirmary a bit; he could get dinner afterwards, once he was done shoving the medical utensils back into random drawers and kicking the medi-gun back into its place of being right in front of the TV. It didn’t take all that long really, and he was able to spend the rest of his night in blissful boredom. He was also able to spend the next day the same way. A quiet day-in was nice, if not a little slow. But he had the whole day to himself, and Germs spent that day without anyone busting the door down. It was pleasant, if not boring. But those days were few and far in-between, so he relished it as much as he could.

It was only the day after that did Ludo knock on his door again. As a formality of course, as he entered right away once he did.

“Oh. Back already?” Germs asked. “Two days–that must be a new record or somethin’.”

“Aheh. Well, what can I say? I’ve been busy.”

“Which is great for me, by the way. I loved so much how I had to jury-rig your blood system thing, that I am ecstatic that I have to do it again. Really brightens my day, you know.”

A forced laugh came from Ludo. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but I’m afraid it is my other hand that will need attention.

A sigh left Germs. “Alright, what did you do now?”

“I’m glad you asked!” Engie-Med, with excitement clear in his face, walked with a pep in his step to reveal left hand. The once perfectly normal left hand was now not so perfect.

“Dude. What the fuck is that?”

“Needles!” he exclaimed. The hand, while still a natural and alive hue, was pale from blood deprivation. All of his fingers, sans index, had a metal piece that protruded at the end of his fingers–almost as a covering of sorts, or perhaps a replacement of the fingertips. Before Germs could ask him to clarify, thin and very sharp needles popped out of the metal pieces. Ludo did indeed gave himself needles in his fingertips. The fuck.

“They’re retractable,” Ludo explained, not retracting them. Which, yeah, was fine because Germs totally felt fine with the engineer moving the hand around and flexing the fingers with the pin-point needles inches away from his face and felt perfectly safe with this engineer and his dangerous body modifications. “And I am also planning on maybe having screwdrivers too!”

“Dude, your hand is gonna be fucked up, just like your other one,” Germs said, shoving down the urge to admit that that sounded like a pretty cool idea, despite all of the obvious health risks there was with shoving metal inside of a human body. He didn’t focus on it, because Ludo’s right hand, the one decked out in crazy shit, caught his attention once again. “Like, what the fuck happened to it over the two days?”

“Oh! Funny story actually.” Ludo gestured with his still-unretracted-needles hand to the blood circulation system. “You will be very happy to hear that it is working! My hand has been filled with a lot of blood.”

“Okay yeah cool, that doesn’t explain why your fingers are fucking dying.” Ludo frowned at that, and looked down at the hand, while Germs hadn’t stopped staring at it. The right hand, still crooked and now with new, fresh stitches made by the engineer, had a healthy-ish hue to it. It was certainly better than it had been before, but the fingers were still a dark gray color.

“Yes, I sort of ran into that problem a bit ago. The hand is getting plenty of blood and yet,” Ludo looked back up to the medic and shrugged. “Nothing. Still dying.”

“Which shouldn’t be happening,” Germs insisted. He looked back down at the hand–it really was still a healthy color. Yeah, there was a bit of an abnormal purple hue to it, and sure, the cuticles bled far too much and were probably filled with too much blood, but it was fine. What was not fine were the still darkened and dead fingers.

“And you didn’t even get to shove needles into those ones,” he commented.

“I know! Truly a shame.” A sigh left Ludo. “Perhaps one day I can add something else to them that can make them shine.”

“You know I think that’s probably just adding to the problem. But yeah no, go ahead and add more shit. Sure it’ll do wonders to that hand of yours.”

“But! That is not why I came to see you, my friend.” He raised his left hand up, and finally retracted the needles back, making it look at least vaguely normal. “It is this one that I need you to look at. I’m dealing with a bit of a, uh…aheh, jam, so to say. At least I think it is, anyway.”

Germs blinked. “Jam?”

A smile grew on the engineer’s face. “Well! As you can see, my forefinger was the only one I did not modify to have a needle point. That is because I decided to make it into a finger gun!” He even formed a little gun with his hand, giving a “pew pew!” for emphasis. His smile became one of worry. “And it is not firing, no matter how much I mess with it. It is harder to mess with it with only one hand, I’ve found. So why not find someone who can use both his hands and is already acquainted with my work? A second pair of eyes and opinions, so to say.”

A sigh left Germs. “Aright, yeah man. Just get on the table already.”

The workload this time, when compared to jury-rigging the blood circulation contraption, was quite small. Especially since Germs decided he’d look at the hand with dying fingers another day. Ludo could wait like twenty-four more hours, it’d be fine.

Cutting into the hand revealed a shit ton of titanium lining along his bones and muscles. Not as much compared to the other hand, mind you, but Germs was sure it was still an unhealthy amount. He messed around with the mechanisms for the needles for a short bit–Ludo watched silently as he did this, with the needles coming out and back and out and back as Germs stared with a slight fascination with it all.

The same could not be done with the index finger. It had metal wiring and such, just like all of the other fingers, and yet nothing happened when he poked or prodded at it. Germs frowned. He rolled in the stool that he sat in to get a different view of the arm; he pushed to get the squeaky wheels to move, until the hand in question was directly in front of him, with the fingers pointing toward him. He kept poking, even trying to move the different metal bits to see what’d happen. A piece–which Germs guessed was some sort of piston–was stuck, and didn’t move as the other counterparts of the piece had.

“Ich habe es dir gesagt, it is jammed." Germs glared at the man, who met him with a smile. 

“Gee, thanks. Your insight really helps.” The man simply shrugged, and Medi-Scout focused back on his work. He tried more pressure, more force in moving the piece–he was met with nothing but a bit of fidgeting from the engineer. “The hell could’ve gotten stuck in there?” Ludo gave another shrug as an answer, and the medic sighed. “Cool, that’s just great.”

A lot of yanking and pulling on the piece made Germs the victor, only by brute strength on the thing. In the end he moved it a few centimeters backwards, but that was good enough. He was able to poke and prod in this new space, which worked just fine with him.

“Wait, I think I got it.” Germs narrowed his eyes as he focused on his work, with Ludo craning his neck forward as much as he could to look over.

“Dude, what the fuck.” Germs worked harder, hunched down closer to the arm to get a better look. “Is that a fucking bone shard?” In the small space was, indeed, a small bone shard. He was able to pull it out, thankfully; it was drenched in blood, but Germs knew his way around the human insides enough to easily recognize it. “What the fuck are you even doing to your body?”

“Science,” Ludo answered with ease. His smile never left his face–in fact, it grew with his answer. “And engineering. Sometimes the things in the body get in the way.”

“You do know that you still need your bones to, I don’t know, function, right?”

Ludo simply laughed as a response. What took place next only took seconds to happen, but both men watched with alert eyes. How, as Medi-Scout attempted to move the metal-piece-possibly-piston back into place, started to activate, now with nothing in its way. They watched as the piston moved further and further, and followed it by an ear-splitting bang. And they realized in horror that the finger gun did indeed work now, as blood started to soak the bottom half of Medi-Scout’s shirt.

“Fuck!” Ludo was quick to pull his hand back away from Germs. Germs, hand down and putting pressure against the wound, pushed with his feet to propel himself to a few feet away from the table; the wheels shrieked loudly from the abuse, but it fell on deaf ears. Arriving at the medi-pack, he kicked the backpack piece hard, and strained to get the gun portion to point it at himself.

“What the fuck, dude! You fucking shot me, asshole!”

That damned smile of his never left the engineer’s face, but at least it was one of worry and concern. “Aheh. At least we fixed the problem, ja?”

The medi-gun slowly closed up the wound, though it did not do anything about the pain, nor the bullet that was still inside of him. “Oh yeah, thank God we did that. Good thing nothing bad came out of it, yeah? I’m having a grand ol’ time, asshat, if you couldn’t tell.” Germs held the medi-gun against his lower abdominal region for a few more seconds before pulling it back. He felt around the area–no blood or open wounds, but the bullet was still inside of him, which caused only a bit of internal agitation. It would be fine, he was sure of it.

He used the gun to also close up Ludo’s arm, which somehow hadn’t bled out that badly despite Ludo’s movements with said open arm. Which was a shame, because a major loss of blood would’ve been just fine with Germs, just as a small form of payback for fucking shooting him. 

Ludovic rolled his wrist and stretched his fingers as Germs put away the medi-gun. “Well then! With that figured out, I can finally move onto my next projects. What do you think about me adding a mini saw blade to my right pinkie?”

Germs blinked, and realized that Ludo was waiting for an answer. “You do know that I won’t help you with it, right?”

“Ja, ja, of course.” Germs hated that they both knew it was a lie. If Ludo needed help with anything, especially if it pertained to the human body, Germs would be there. It was his job as the medic after all. Besides, he found joy in the weird work.

“And I’m guessin’ there’s no way I can get you to be more careful so you don’t shoot me again?” Ludo’s smile grew, and Germs already knew the answer to his question.

In the same vein of Germs’ joy of being a Medic, he knew Ludo would never stop being an Engineer. Not from creating things and stuffing said things inside of himself, probably not until he ran out of room in his body for the modifications–even then, Germs had a feeling that he would reach out to the other mercs to continue his work. But the engineer reveled in his work, and took extreme joy in fucking up his body. 

Both had found gratification in these roles that they played. So Germs wouldn’t ask Ludo to stop, never seriously–and besides, Ludo was arguably his favorite patient. Even with the visits that ended with Germs being shot, no he will never forgive the engineer for that, he still found joy in the work. The whole team did, they loved their newly discovered roles. So Engie-Med would always put machinery inside of him, and Medi-Scout would always be there to be apathetic and sarcastic towards the whole thing, despite loving any chance he had to show off his skills.

And he was perfectly content with that.

[sulphurofftheclock]

The desire to self-project onto 4*town is so strong

[bigfatbimbo]

ohmygod i have no idea how you manage to write about those characters so well fehjebhjeb i guess i'm riding the finale wave of excitement about lucifer so i wanted to ask if you're willing to write some nsfw headcanons about him? I absolutely agree he's way more submissive than he lets on and i loved your view on him being really vocal (curse u for opening my mind to the possibilities). How open do you think he would be about being pegged or having a general very praising dom loving his whimpering sounds of pleasure and just wanting to hear even more of them and what would get him to completely lose it

a/n — oh my gosh it’s funny you ask because i’ve actually already done smut headcanons

this request made me heavily consider just doing a fic where the reader pegs him but the people have decided on more nsfw hcs

i’ll still do that pegging fic tho..

˚ ʚ♡ɞ˚ This has been said before but it doesn’t take much to get him worked up.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ So coaxing those pretty noises out of him would be easy.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Especially if you bring up how noisy he is. He would be all flustered and embarrassed about it but then proof your point more by whining.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ About having a very praising dom— he absolutely loves it. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He hasn’t been loved in so long that even if you guys aren’t fucking and you praise him he’d probably get really needy.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ If you degrade him too much I genuinely think he would cry because he literally tries so hard to please you it’s sad.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He will be so pathetic about it too and beg you to be nice again.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Edging would literally end him. Like I said he hasn’t gotten laid in a while so he definitely cums super fast.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ I had an anon once say that he probably would before his clothes were even off and that’s so true because he is desperate.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He would be so embarrassed after that and probably ask you if you wanted to leave because he’s literally so ashamed oh my god.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ But of course you don’t leave and you give him all the love and praise he deserves in bed.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ I don’t know if this is just a me thing but he needs love so bad I feel the need to give him 100% princess treatment in bed.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He really would want to please you and give back to you but maybe you just tie his hands together and tell him tonight was all about his needs.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Fuck him and praise him so that he wouldn’t even have to lift a finger— he would literally die under all the attention.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He whimpers A LOT like that’s probably the main noise he makes. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ I think it would take a second for him to say anything but he is really into being pegged by you.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He would like to be on his back with his legs wrapped around your torso so he could see you while you fuck him.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He’s a little guy so it would be so easy to manhandle him. Which is good because that literally turns him on so much.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Like you could probably hoist him up by his thighs and fuck him against the wall as he clings to your neck.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Oh. My. God. He’s done for. He’s so incredibly touch starved that being held like that while being treated by your strap or dick would literally send him reeling.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ After really hard days with his depression I think it would also be really comforting for him to be treated like that.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ But make sure it’s gentle and loving because if it’s too rough he’ll worry you’re mad at him.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ I wonder sometimes if he’d even sit on your lap while you fuck up into him. I mean I hope so because I highkey wanna breed this guy on my plastic dick.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He also loves when you sit on your face. He could literally just die between your legs it’s so crazy.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He could eat you out for literally hours especially if you’re moaning out praises while he does it because he really cares about making you feel good.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ I think he’s the type of guy to moan while he eats you out because just the idea of pleasuring you is enough to make him cum untouched.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He’s a pussy eater, what can I say? You saw that one shot of him in the finale… with the two fingers? Yeah, you know what i’m talking about.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Also he moans like a bitch when you suck his dick. Loves the feeling of your warm, wet mouth on him.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He’ll start praising you while you do it but can literally only speak for like two minutes before he’s completely incoherent.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Mark him up well and noticeably because he loves silently letting people know that he’s lucky enough to get fucked by you.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He also can be incredibly smug. This guys KNOWS he’s adorable and he uses it.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Maybe you’re telling him off for not taking care of himself one day and he’s just gazing up at you with big innocent ‘fuck me’ eyes.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Oh, but he knows what he’s doing and he knows it gets under your skin.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ You get fed up with it and end up pushing him down on whatever surface is nearest and fucking the life out of him. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Definitely edge him too for being such a fucking tease.

a/n — The lucifor brainrot is killing me. Anyways expect the pegging fic later today because I need him so bad <3

[thelastofhyde]

i. the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 12.9k

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

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

read on ao3 ! ( capitalization available )

distaste is not new in the life of joel miller.

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

if anything, he’s made himself more empty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

frank is quick to shush him.

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

there you sit, parallel to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

with you as its protector.

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

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

but i could keep you safe.

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

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

he never imagined her working in a bank.

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

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

but you weren’t smiling.

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

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

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

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

he almost chokes on his own breath.

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

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

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

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

“your watch, it’s broken.”

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

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

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

“i don’t keep it for the time.”

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

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

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

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

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

nature falls silent.

skies grow dull.

you juggle sadness.

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

joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

at some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. at another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-n’t tell me you’re a virgin.

the words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

a protest rings true in his head and his ears.

was gonna say. knew you were young, but not that young.

it’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“god, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. it was alright, i guess. i just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

he’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. a groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“not much to miss?! sweet christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” he’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken tess. each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. there’s no need to bother opening his eyes, joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “i’d give up a hand for some head!”

you must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of tess’ renewed shock fills the room. he wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“you’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“it bores me!”

“it bores you!?”

the couch beneath joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp tess gives. the last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

the crueler part of his mind replays your voice, i don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

you like tess. love her, even. it’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out finally someone with a pair of boobs, i’m bored of the sight of my own. joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“must not have been doin’ ya right,” the bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. you’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. it’s oddly endearing, you think no one has noticed. “this fella of yours.”

joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

he does so, regardless.

“well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “we were each others firsts.”

“that’s no excuse! trust i left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time i went down.” tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. no discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

you scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “what, are you offering your services?”

this he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which tess had raised you to heaven while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘as sure as i am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you i like my women a little older than you.”

he knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the qz. it should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. but he can’t, and he won’t.

and you’re the one to blame.

you, with the glow of a thousand suns. you, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. you, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

his own self being the first he’d need fight.

joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

the next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

he’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. some small, meaningless little things, that ripple joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. others, tsunamis. big, angry, all imposing. they’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. but the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. they catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. in the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

the currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

this evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. he reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. the gentle, barely-there croon of a sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. across from him is tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. snoring comes from below him, where joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

you take up no space of this room.

neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

there are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

he should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. a good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

he could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure frank wouldn’t mind. bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the qz.

he would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. he imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

i don’t like you, joel.

those words stop him from trying.

he tells himself it’s for the best.

with a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. he swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. the door’s already half-opened, and joel nearly thanks christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. the darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

the refrigerator.

it’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. a subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

she never lived long enough to get either.

he catches something move beneath the artificial light. cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“why aren’t ya sleepin’?” the words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

beneath the light, you shrug, “could ask you the same thing, texas.”

he curses tess for teaching you such a nickname.

he curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

you’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, joel remains unaware.

he grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. the door behind him closes over and give the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“i asked first.” you laugh, at him. full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. the corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. he hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you, bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘s so funny, huh?”

“nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “just never heard the joel miller say something so childish. you’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

you make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. a fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. uncouth and unbothered, joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“you know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” you call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. the thirst does not budge. he hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

by the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“i’m making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “make sure you take some with you when you leave. tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. he’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

i don’t like you, joel.

of course you would do the same. not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. all words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. they violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over joel’s entire persona.

he straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. the sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. his hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, and the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of tess, and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what joel hears.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. you’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

and, suddenly, joel’s angry. at you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. the fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

a hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise joel gifts you.

you may leave your marks emotionally, but joel’s will always be physical.

“why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “don’t ya like me?”

if not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “why do you care?” 

he scoffs, “i don’t.”

“hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody tess was playing in the living room. “sure sounds like you do.”

“yeah, well, i don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

joel knows he cares. it’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to bill and frank’s. 

what joel doesn’t know is why he cares. there’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. he’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

not one bit.

joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. his feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. his chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

he inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“for the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘s like how i sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. no part of him should ever be compared to you. “i don’t like ya either.”

he’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

the knife never ceases its movement. back and forth, back and forth. chop, chop, chop. blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. it’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

the hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“that’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point. 

it’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“you only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. his wandering touch halts. “a little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what i think.”

this strikes a nerve. fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. the realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “d’ya know what i think?”

even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“no, unlike you i don’t care what you think about-” joel tugs on your hair once more.

“i think you’re a brat. a silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” you could. he’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

 “you’re hurting me,” you whine, joel growls.

animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. his gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

your dress- red, a colour joel miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“you like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“no, i don’-” dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “joel.”

he retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. whoever joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and tess. the blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ talkin’ bout your past.”

he doesn’t specify.

he doesn’t need to.

you give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. his hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “i wouldn’t.”

you say nothing. joel pulls harder.

“too bad i’m-” you cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. with a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, joel watches you like a hawk. the twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. the want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “too bad i’m not offering you the chance.”

joel miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. with notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“who said anything about an offer?”

the descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

a part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

the other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. you’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs longer than any tree in the amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the himalayas. arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, joel knows how to read people. and, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

you breathe in, you breathe out.

one knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. he revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

inhale, exhale.

your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. all he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. with the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “don’t move.”

where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. one flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. a wet patch, your wetness. the stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

curiosity gets the better of him- one day, joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers curling themselves in the waistband of your panties and the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

in and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

the lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. a heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. he makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. there’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. he wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. he thinks it must hurt.

his fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in joel’s peripheral vision.

“shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “people are tryin’ to sleep.”

you scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘s that an invitation to see how loud i can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. this, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “or a challenge?”

“it’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

as coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. so he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. he awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

it’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“you’re drippin’” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. the view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘s actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. is it cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

he can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

but first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

it happens so sudden, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of tess. he wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

so he does the same.

working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. he breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“so now you shut up. ‘s the matter, huh?” he’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “am i too borin’ for ya?”

“you’re the most infuriating man i’ve ever- oh!”

a tongue meets skin.

the knife clatters onto the counter.

you lurch forward.

his hand pulls you back.

“tess was right, ya know?” he can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. he pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “that boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

the common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better, if you’d just let him.

‘could keep ya satisfied.

that’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. he’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? what ya need is a man, a man like me!” the softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension, god it’s never sounded sweet, and joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. he imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “but if ya insist.”

diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. the tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure. 

he’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by only experience that comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. you’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

he’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

what a perfect excuse you are, for joel to remaster the arts of lust.

it’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. it’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. it’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever days he shall possess on his knees before you.

and all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass. 

his only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. it does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“n- ah,” you can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “no, don’t, not there.”

next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. the sound of whatever record tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

and, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

his eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within bill and frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. there’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time tess tells him they’re due a visit.

except, the oven door is made of glass.

glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. you, with hands gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

 and then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

the image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“d’ya touch yourself, sol?” you don’t answer him, but that’s okay. in a sweet change of pace, joel miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “yeah, bet ya do. late at night, right? once you’re all alone in bed. ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

you back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “let me do the honours this time though.”

you don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. he imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

he’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

you’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. your expression, he can’t quite read. not sad, not happy, not mad.

your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

the discomfort of trekking back to the qz will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

he swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. he’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“that,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. he pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “shouldn’t have happened.”

joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

people once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. as sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. not today, however, and joel miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

it chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. there’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

that dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

he cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “no, not again. my back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the german shepherd’s head. it whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. a scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “not so bad, are ya? huh?” never in a million years did joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and tess had set out for their routinely visit to the bill and frank’s. never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

he hears you before he sees you.

“you planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, texas?”

he tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

the world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

so instead, it sends you.

peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than uv ray could ever be. he’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. a few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. at the very least, he considers, i’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

the smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. when he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. he does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. you’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

a queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. he’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “no problem, thanks... for feeding tess and i.”

“no worries!” you’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. he can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “oh, actually, that’s why i came out here, i was looking for tess-” of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “hold on!”

you shoot off back inside so quickly that otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. with an idle pet to his head as you pass by, joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. in your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“i wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. he can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “i know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

you show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him, “there should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

it’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

so he tries again, louder.

“why don’t ya like me?”

“and i’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

he grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "answer me." like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"for someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. you don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “you sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"answer the damn question, girl.”

“or, what?” you’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “you gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

joel says nothing.

“how about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and bill make.” inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “you get me something, i’ll tell you what you want to know.”

he grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “what d’ya want? ‘cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. i ain’t messing with none of bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“a dress.”

“a dress?” the statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“yes, and don’t look at me like that!” it’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “i need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

unaware he’d even began to lean closer, joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time. 

“joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

neither of you dare to break eye contact. again, his name is yelled. this time, he manages to identify tess as the owner of the voice. habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of tess or you. 

his feet remain glued to the ground.

tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “think you might be needed inside, macho man. your missus is calling.”

“she ain’t my-”

“you two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. in her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. you approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms. 

“i should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. he decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “go check on the food, before it burns.”

you’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

tess and him hit the road by noon. earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. the bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun heating the world with its rays. he walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from tess and racking his brain for answers.

answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the qz. answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven bill’s created. answers to why you don’t like him.

i don’t like you, joel.

it motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. if he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

till then, he needs to find a dress.​

[miss-conjayniality]

♡ SUB!ENHYUNGLINE AS SERVICE TOPS ♡

genre: smut (+ fluff)

pairing: sub!enhyungline x femdom!reader

word count: 2930

warnings: mommy kink (heeseung), cuddlefucking (heeseung), face sitting/face riding (heeseung & jay), daddy kink (jay), mistress x servant/slave (jake), reader wears bdsm attire (jake), bootlicking/foot fetishism (jake), mentions of rope play and chastity cages (sunghoon), slight objectification of all four of them if ya squint, overall themes of power dynamics (i made all four of them extreme simps for reader), reader is afab and uses fem gendered terms

A/N: god….this took fucking FOREVERRRR to finish. I had to rewrite jake’s section SEVERAL times cuz it was harder than expected to combine mistress kink with soft subby service tops. It’s ironic because you’d think that such a pairing is a walk in the park to write about. but the reason it was difficult is because mistress is normally depicted as such a ‘hardcore’ kink while service tops mainly operate in the realm of ‘softness’. funny enough…after overcoming the severe writer’s block i had for jake, i now feel very inspired to write an in-depth fic about jake’s portion.

heeseung.

heeseung is such a shy, sweet little thing. so sensitive. he’d do anything for mommy. whenever he isn’t being a mischievous brat, he’s the most soft-spoken sweetheart ever. he’s head over heels for you. he’s super affectionate and always wants to cuddle with you. there isn’t a single moment where he doesn’t want his arms wrapped around you (or your arms around him). heeseung loves the warmth of your embrace and believes it to be the most magical place on earth.

he’s a loving, caring boyfriend who admires all that you do for him. the dictionary definition of a gentleman. he too wants to give back to you tenfold. heeseung is the kind of man who will beg and plea to please you. he’s eager to make you happy and is drawn to the thought of you using him as your pleasure dispenser. he just wants you to feel good :( there’s no feeling in the world he loves more than seeing his stunning mommy flooded with all the orgasms she deserves. pleasing you is what pleases him.

heeseung is the epitome of a soft sub 🥺 he’s a very attentive and receptive lover. he’s yearning to get his hands on you whenever he can. he loves seeing your expressions whenever you’re getting pleasured by him. and if he ever detects any form of discomfort from you, he stops.

he’s the type to get very soft, mushy, and cuddly and would totally be into cuddlefucking. showering his mommy with so much love and appreciation. and even crying when cuddlefucking because he’s just so thankful to have a lover like you.

“thank you, mommy. thank you for taking care of me. for loving and respecting me. for showing me what real love is, and so much more. you deserve the entire universe.”

heeseung seems like he’d be highkey into face-sitting. it gives him the opportunity to inundate you with bliss while also fulfilling some of his softer masochist thoughts. he wants you to fuck his face until he can’t think coherent thoughts anymore. he’d moan so much under you that you feel the sensations of his whines up your pussy.

“mommy can you pleeeeease sit on my face?”

his desperate pleas continue, “I so desperately wanna get a taste of you while you suffocate me with your pretty pussy. please i need it so much. it’s killing me. it’s all I’ve been wanting all day”

it’s hard to resist the pull of your lover’s desires. heeseung is such a good boy to you. after all, who could possibly resist his dreamy doe eyes? you’ve teased him enough with the distance and finally start giving into the relieved tension. as the two of you are about to head to bedtime, heeseung has a different type of “bed” time in mind. one that involves less sleeping, and more pussy eating.

jay.

i will FOREVERRRRRRRR stand by the submissive dilf!jay agenda!!!!!! he’s the epitome of a simp husband who loves his wife deeply. he has his bratty moments occasionally. but 90% of the time, jay is suuuuuuch a good daddy for his little princess. jay lives to serve you. on every level. making sure you always feel safe, protected, and cared for. he loves preparing mouth-watering açaí bowls for you, giving you foot rubs while you sip the delicious mango smoothie he made for you, letting you use his credit card to buy those pretty n’ pink satin VS robes that have been on your wishlist for a while, carry all your luxury shopping bags while you strut like a bad bitch on the way to his car, have spa days with you, do each others’ makeup and play dress up, and of course….follow your every command.

princess gets what princess wants. all jay wants is for his princess to be happy 🥺 he can’t stand seeing you sad or mad. if you wanna be eaten out or have multiple orgasms, jay will happily let you use him as your fucktoy. you may have many toys that he has bought for you before. toys you can use while he’s away. but no “toy” could ever compare to jay himself. he himself is THEE sex toy. his hair. his chiseled face. his toned, honey-glazed, dusky body. his calming voice accompanied by his smooth moans. his delicious intoxicating cock. the way he so greedily eats you out and fingers you. the way he kisses your entire body and worships it like a goddess. your pleasure is his pleasure. that’s the mantra he goes by. you’re the star of the show.

you may seem like a perky n’ chirpy bimbo at first glance (which you are, of course 😚💅🏼). but beware. there’s so much more to you than that. you may be the living personification of pink glitter, but you’re also lethal & deadly. jay may be the physically stronger one of you two, but you’re the psychologically stronger one. therefore, you dominate him just off emotions alone. just a simple “please daddy? 🥺” with a puppy dog pout is enough to have him at your whim because a good daddy is one who submits to his princess. good daddies follows their princess’ orders and spoils her with all their might.

you really inspire him to open up (both his feelings AND his legs). the moment he opened up to you about being a submissive, he initially felt a wave of embarrassment. after all, who could possibly ever expect a cold, chic, manly gentleman like jay to even consider being a sub? you’d be surprised. once he heard you express approval of such a kink on him, it felt like a breath of fresh air. it’s not easy to become vulnerable about such a thing.

jay never believed in conforming to traditional norms of masculinity where the man is an obnoxious chest thumping caricature who thinks that being “dominant” is the only way to be masculine. he believes a truly masculine man is one who has the guts to be vulnerable and make bold, unorthodox decisions that go against the grain of what society expects from men. he’s well aware of his hot daddy dilf essence. but he isn’t your conventional daddy. no - he’s a submissive daddy. a daddy who serves the princess and gives her that ‘princess treatment’ she deserves.

as jay kisses and caresses your entire body, he showers you with praise and observes your expressions closely.

“princess, you have the most gorgeous body to ever exist and I want to take in every bit of it,” he vocalizes as he fingers you. “sometimes, it’s hard for me to believe that i’m in the presence of a lovely lady like you. daddy always wants to be good for you.”

his fingers penetrate deeper and his gaze darkens as he sees the sly smirk forming on your face.

“even when i’m at work, all i can ever think about is how my pretty princess is feeling. you deserve to be spoiled. don’t ever listen to anyone who shames you for being a spoiled brat or gold digging whore. they misunderstand the love we have for each other”

jay takes the fingers out of your pussy and replaces them with his mouth instead. the tent in his pants only grows stiffer and inundates his mind further. your heat possesses him to submission and he gets absolutely lost in your dripping slick.

“a good husband always submits to his wife. and i take great pride in submitting to such a bedazzling pretty princess like you.”

as he attacks your pussy with his sweet, loving kisses, he innocently looks up at you with the cutest pout ever and asks, “p-princess….am I p-….pleasing you right?” 🥺

jake.

jake is the sweetest, most wholesome boyfriend ever. he has the most heartwarming love for physics, dogs, his family, his friends, and of course……YOU - his mistress. he’s a nerdy little simp who caters to your every whim. all the other nerds envy him for having a drop dead gorgeous gf like you.

jake’s unwavering adoration for you shines through in every gesture and word. his chirpy demeanor is the most endearing quality about him and you think he’s the absolute cutest because of that. he possesses the kind of cuteness that makes you want to pinch his cheeks and shower him with kisses. you love him with all your heart and he loves you tenfold.

in vulnerable moments, jake finds solace in your embrace, relishing the safety and security that your presence provides. he trusts you implicitly, surrendering himself completely to your care and guidance. your approval means everything to him, and he achingly seeks to earn it through unwavering devotion and obedience.

can he be a brat? certainly. jake has his moments when he likes being tamed by his ruthless, sexy mistress. but the majority of the time, he’s mistress’ good little boy.

despite his “nerdy” tendencies, jake possesses a mischievous streak that emerges when he wants attention from his mistress. he might playfully tease you or engage in witty banter, reveling in the opportunity to provoke a reaction from you. yet, beneath his playful facade lies a deep-seated need to be controlled by you. he is a slave to your desires.

throughout your relationship, jake’s submissive nature became increasingly intertwined with his geeky identity. he has a borderline scientific obsession with your body and wants to know everything there is to know about it. he’s longing to discover what pleases you and how to best serve the needs of his mistress.

his love for you is like the gravitational pull of a black hole – inescapable and infinitely powerful. every moment with you feels like a scientific discovery, unraveling the mysteries of love and desire. your dominion is his north star. it guides him through the darkness and into a place of boundless subservience.

servitude is jake’s middle name. his respect for you extends beyond mere words and gestures. he delights in showering you with thoughtful gifts, whether it’s a handcrafted origami flower or a meticulously prepared home-cooked meal. each gesture is a testament to his boundless affection and desire to make you feel cherished.

one might assume that a wholesome nerd like him isn’t into anything freakish or wild. however, the opposite actually rings true. after all…he IS a scorpio man….

you see, jake has a HUGE weakness for you in black leather, latex, pvc, etc. because he knows that once you’re in your kinky attire, there’s no going back. i could totally envision jake being into something like bootlicking. picture this - you sitting on edge of the bed with your pretty OTK black leather boots on, and he licks those boots from the top of the knee all the way to the bottom.

or even better…..you going, “jakeyyy I need help putting on these boots 🥺👉🏼👈🏼”. and jake, being the servile prince he is, is more than willing to take the time tie every intricate knot of your boots. it’s a sensual sight for both of you. he’d also love to do the same thing with your other bdsm attire like fishnets, corsets, etc. because he adores “helping” you put them on.

jake is definitely a body worship guy. he wants his mistress to know how beautiful she is and how much he loves her. he wants you to know he’s always there to pamper you when you need it. all soft and kissy. 🥺 to him, just your mere presence is orgasmic. he feels that the moment you’re scantily clad, his brain is scrambled. even when you aren’t touching each other, you dominate him on a deep, emotional, symbolic level. he’s deeply fixated on you. it’s as if you casted a spell or induced deep hypnosis on him. something about you makes him want to obey you and carry out all your wishes. through it all, jake remains your loyal companion and devotee.

as jake finishes tying every lace to your sexy OTK leather boots, he adorably looks up at you, welcomed by your sultry, penetrating gaze.

“embracing my role as the slave to your desires ignites a spark within me that surpasses the excitement of any laboratory experiment,” he declares as he hugs and kisses your boots, “and i am more than eager to undergo every trial and test in your presence.”

jake begins the bootlicking from the bottom up, his sly smirk never leaving his face. the way he so confidently makes eye contact with you while licking away drives you fucking crazy. this man is so freaky and you love it. taking his sweet time with each foot.

as he makes his way up to your knees, he kisses and caresses them both with gentle, tender softness. “with every command you issue, you rewrite the laws of my existence, molding me into the perfect servant for you, my mistress.”

sunghoon.

don’t be fooled by his intimidating, stone cold front. because beneath it all, sunghoon has THEE softest, mushiest heart ever. he rarely falls in love. but whenever he does, he falls HARD. and you were the one who shook his world and lit up his universe. sunghoon is often afraid to display such a raw, vulnerable side of him to others. after all, love is tough and scary. and sunghoon’s personality is widely misunderstood by others. there’s more to the surface than you’d expect.

but something about you makes him want to unveil himself bit by bit - both figuratively and literally. you make sunghoon want to surrender himself to you. he will move the earth and sky for you and is merely putty in your hands. he’s protective of you like a knight & shining armor with his queen. he will treat his lover like a living deity. he views you as a goddess and is the type of man to get down on his knees for you, hug your legs, and bow down to you the same way ancient civilizations revered goddesses. that’s the level of power you possess over him.

in your presence, sunghoon’s tough exterior melts away like ice in the sun. you become the center of his universe, your light guiding his every step. he finds solace in your embrace, comfort in your presence, and strength in your love. with you, he discovers a vulnerability he never knew existed, yet he embraces it willingly, knowing that you hold his heart with the utmost care. your influence over him is undeniable, like a force of nature bending to your will. sunghoon becomes not just a lover, but a devoted servant to your happiness, ready to move mountains and cross oceans to ensure your well-being.

sunghoon is such a simp for you in a way that would leave heejayke shocked. so much to a level where it’d put soft boyfriend heeseung, submissive dilf jay, and geeky simp jake to shame. they’d never expect someone like him to get so lovesick. they’re so used to his icy facade that they’re unaware of the fire beneath. it takes a special type of person to awaken that out of him. no one could ever foresee such an esteemed man of logic and restraint behave so irrationally for you.

goddess - that’s what sunghoon addresses you as. because it’s true! your dual nature of being kind & nurturing, yet fierce and ruthless is reminiscent of how ancient goddesses could bless or hex you in an instant. it’s what he respects about you. you possess the depth and breadth of the divine feminine. whenever he looks at you, he sees you as someone who commands respect.

and i just KNOW he’s one of those subs who repeatedly says “thank you thank you thank you” over and over when inundated by pleasure from his beloved. 😢 sometimes he feels guilty for receiving it all because first and foremost, he gets off on getting you off.

sunghoon is intrigued by the idea of you with black heels, stockings, a short skirt, etc. while those big, buff, beautiful arms are tied behind his back and you pull him in to suck your pussy. he likes when he’s fully naked and you’re (somewhat??) clothed. it puts on a specific power dynamic that he very well gets off of. he’s willing to bare it all for you, both symbolically and literally. sunghoon is totally the type to cry happy tears of gratitude while he messes with your pussy. he loves it when you have your way and you do whatever you want to him.

he gets off on situations where he can’t touch himself but he can touch you. such as his arms tied back as mentioned earlier, OR a chastity cage so that he doesn’t jerk off while he gets you off. you honestly don’t mind if he jerks off while pleasuring you. you find it hot. but he insists on the resistance anyways because he believes that such a buildup leads to a more intense climax for both of you later on.

just imagine….him with a sweet, pouty face and his loving words towards you as he kisses your thighs and dives into your slick with his lips…..

“mmm…m-my beautiful love goddess,” he cries. “thank you. thank you so much. i am all yours. i exist just for your pleasure. i hope you realize how much I love you. you’re my everything.”

tears start dripping down his eyes because of the immense gratitude he feels for you. the act of eating you out gets him into a deep trance. once he starts, he just can’t stop.

“goddess….your existence is a blessing. i worship you because your presence illuminates my world. i surrender completely to you, devoted to fulfilling your every desire.”

[misc-obeyme]

CCCCCCC thank u for feeding raphael nation im glad to see you're falling in love with him a bit too hehehe >:DD kicking my feet and giggling over both fics im highkey obsessed ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

Ahh thank you, Starr!! I'm so glad you liked them!!

Honestly, I was super inspired to do the second one because Raphael nation had so many good things to say about the first one! It kinda surprised me that so many people liked it that much! So I was like well now I really wanna write part two lol!

And yesssss truly who wouldn't fall in love with a silly warrior angel like him? He's got that dedicated to his job thing going on, I keep imagining him getting up at the crack of dawn to practice spear moves.

[giggly-squiggily]

hi squiggly!!! if no one said this already, may i ask for jjk for the ship game?

Myst! :D I love your pfp! :D It's quite snazzy! :3

This will be the second to last ask I'm answering for the game! Thank you everyone for sending in asks! :D

Ask game

lowkey otp: Not gonna lie- I've been thinking about MeguYuji alot lately. I don't know if I'm fully commited to shipping them yet, but I really do like them! :D

highkey notp: I don't think it's an instant no, but Utahime x Gojo. No hate to it- I just don't really see them as anything but friends. Maybe even brother and sister, you know? They've got that sibling dynamic in a way.

[softly] don’t notp: Hmm...NobaYuji! I don't think I've ever really looked at these two and thought: "Yeah I ship it"- their platonic dynamic is so good? I'm gonna be real- I'm drawing at straws picking these akjrkejarkaekjr

highkey otp but i’m scared of saying it because it’s not a very popular choice: Shoko x Utahime! I really wanna write a fic of these two one day- they really only had one scene together but I really like the idea of them as a couple? The vibes, y'all- the vibes!

highkey otp and anyone on my tumblr knows it: Satosugu!!! I can go on for days about them, their just such a great ship!

Thanks for asking! :D

[honeynclove]

It’s your turn pookie 🫵 tell me about your favorite ships for each character 😍😍😍😍

IM SO GLAD YOU ASKED TEEHEHEHEHEH (ships underneath the read more bc lord can i blabber) also the formatting of this one turned out odd for some reason random letters r bold n I am too lazy to fix it so

heartslabyul riddle - azurid‼️‼️‼️ GUYS THEYRE SO CUTE IDK their moments in book 6 were everything to me n also this fic sold me on them they’re so cutie rahhh. special shout out to the oc I ship him with ace - adeuce r my annoying little brothers however I want the best for them n think their relationship is funny deuce - ^^^^ and also epeldeuce bc ain’t no way they went on a beach side date and thought I wouldn’t call their gay asses out 🙄🙄🙄 trey - auhmm. hhhrmmmm. well. I do like riddle cater n trey as poly but I wldnt say it’s my favorite 🥱 cater - IDEKEI 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈 chronically introvert online discord mod x chronically online extrovert instagram user ITS SO GOOD GUYS (for fic recs strongly recommend anything Adverb_Slut on ao3 writes) special shout out to the oc I ship him with savanaclaw leona - malleona is funny to me but like. I don’t ship it idk. same w/ leovil they’re just comedic to me. LEONA X ROOK THO IDK I REALLY LIKE IT IDK WHY ruggie - rugs too busy getting cash to be in love /j 🙄🙄 idk I do find kalim x ruggie and ruggie x silver to both be cute jack - epeljack is rlly cute to me but other then that I’m not a fan of any other jack ships. I LOVE LOVE LOVE him and vil PLATONICALLY tho <333 oh and ig someones yuusona w him is cool or whateverzzzzz octavinelle azul - besides azurid, which I adore, I alsoooo love love love idiazul smth about those two LOSERRRSSS in love makes me happy 💕💕💕 I also enjoy him with rielle but like… my very specific interpretation of rielle that’s basically an oc 😭 jade - will y’all kill me if I just say myself bc that’s the truth. like I’m sorry guys me n Jade r so madly in love it’s actually wildly insane and crazy and we will have joint tombstones 😁💕💕😍😍😍🏳️‍🌈🙄🏳️‍🌈 we r madly in love and also both on the spectrum (which one? all) I also like siljade bc I think it’s silly floyd - FLOJAMIIIIIIIIIII 💞💞💞💞 GOD. that ship is so silly I wanna shake it like a snow globe rhhhhahahahahha. i also love FLONEI bc it’s SILLY N IDK 😭😭😭 I just like it guys. also myself sorry I’m sorry scarabia jamil - ^^^^ n I also enjoy azujami in a comedic sense but outside of that I lowkey dislike it lmao. WAIT AS IM WRITING THIS I AN REMINDED OF JAMIL X RUGGIE WHICH I HIGHKEY ENJOY TBH kalim - Again don’t have any specific ships for him, but Silver x Kalim is v v cute I would squish them my cuties pomefiore vil - alr mentioned leovil but I am also casual rookvil enjoyer I just think they’re silly. shout out to the oc I ship w him tho rook - mentioning rookvil n rook x leona again just bc they’re silly ‼️‼️ honestly love rooks lil freak self epel - epeldeuce epeljack and uhhhh SEBEPEL ignihyde idia - I think I’m running out of idia ships to mention tbh. I DO LOVE IDIASIL AUGHHH. Idk his chronically online ass is so good w so many different ppl it’s crazy diasomnia malleus - I ship him w myself duh 🙄🙄🙄 malleyuu specifically I love seeing everyone w him it’s so cute. ALSO I find mallerollo rlly funny n interesting tbh silver - silidia n siljade &lt;3 sebek - just sebepel rlly tbh lilia - LILIBAUL😍😍😍😍🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈‼️‼️ I LOVE OLD MAN YAOI GUYS /j n I also rlly enjoy him x levan n meleanor the angst is crazy and insane and I love it RAHHH. I also ship him w my oc Fleur who’s based on Flora from sleeping beauty. Also most ppl who make Lilia a bf get my support I love that old man staff trein - him x his wife ig crowley - him x meleanor x lilia only in the crowley = levan theory vargas - I ship him w an oc based on lefou from beauty and the beast ‼️‼️ sam, crewel - no ships for them :(( other neige - FLONEI ‼️‼️‼️ I just wanted to mention them again tbh. I’ve also seen cheneige which is v cute chenya - kinda fond of him poly w/ Trey n Riddle ☹️☹️ I think it’s cute rollo - ROLLO X AUGUST (vice president npc) FOR THE WIN GUYS I COULD TALK AB THEM FOR DAYS. YEARS EVEN. fellow honest - more weird silly ships I’m the second fellow x aces big brother shipper literally ever

OKKK I think that’s everyone 😍😍 feel free to leave opinions on my opinions idk

[lover-of-mine]

hi yes you aren't just a gifmaker to me. ive listened to take my hand because of you! question: what are your fav buddiecoded 5sos songs? i wanna listen to them and develop a new band obsession

I'm happy you've listened to take my hand because of my edits!!!!! I've been preparing my whole life for this question mspaksoakaokapakaoa

I'm actually gonna start this list with a 5sos adjacent song, the lead singer, Luke Hemmings, he has a solo album (incredible album, it's called when facing the things we turn away from, maybe check it out if you feel like it) but he has a song called slip away that I can't hear without thinking about buddie, I even made a video (you can watch it here if you want).

Invisible is the most pre 118 Buck song ever and I take no criticism about that. That one has a set because I didn't feel emotionally stable enough to make the video lol. And TEARS! is very Eddie coded (here's the video lol). High is also really Buck coded. (Edit)

I like making castaway, if you don't know and moodswings about the cemetery and the lawsuit, the moments where we question how we can keep watching buddie breakup if they're not even together. If you don't know is not available in the us tho, so if you're from there you may not be able to hear it. I like picturing established buddie to disconnected so that's another one. I also have video edits of caramel, and lover of mine, those are a bit about me really liking the song (lover of mine is why my url is what it is lol) and forcing it to fit but they are really good songs.

Some blanket recommendations that I take out of context to fit them are: ghost of you, talk fast, close as strangers, story of another us, you don't go to parties (there's a line about a couch lol) and lonely heart. And I am legally required to recommend jet black heart to anyone asking about 5sos. And outerspace/carry on. And my personal favorite 5sos songs are airplanes, red line and wrapped around your finger (I am writing a whole buddie fic based on wrapped so maybe you can make it about them kspakapakap)

And I have a tag for 5sos inspired edits. I'm pretty sure all the songs I've used in an edit before are here tho. (I went to check and that's a lie: other songs I have used for 911 are: emotions (this one is very Eddie coded), bad omens (highkey one of the best 5sos songs), kill my time, not in the same way, vapor, tomorrow never dies, thin white lies, take what you want and bleach, but these are mostly out of context lines I think would fit them)

[mysicklove]

What fic was your favorite/most fun to write? Love your work Mello!! :)))

r we talking bout kinktober??

if so, would prob be day 22 which is a/b/o (gosh, my embaressing love for that au) with isagi. i also had tons of fun with day 17, which is vouyerism with bachira and isagi...but i am highkey into vouyerism so. OH AND hybrids with megumi was soooo fun, but u guys know bout my love of catboys lmaoo so three fics that u guys havent read yet LMAO. out of the ones posted my fav was prob Fix Me with gojo. OH and Pretty Girl with yuuji. both super fun

out of ALL my fics ive written, def Unmarked Canvas with hawks which is a hard sadistic fic that....is....smthing i think about lots. master please look at me! was fun bc i am utterly obsessed with bachira and ....embarrassingly into master kink. and my adorable master (weird that they both have master in their name) was also fun, bc role reversal asffffffff. i remember writing it on my phone on vacation half drunk so its kinda poorly done but i remember lovinf writing it

tbh tho, most of my fics i can barely stand to read. like even the ones with i just listed is rough for me. the kinktober ones i actualy do like them, but the other ones just...arent written well in my opinion? i feel like i drastically improved with my descriptions, and just my overal writing, so when i read them i just kinda wanna die. but i am glad that i can see myself improving! its just rough rereading it, and having the urge to not take it down

omg sorry im rambling i always do this LOL, but thanks for giving me the opportunity to talk about this mwah mwah mwah

[idyllcy]

So I’ve been reading some of your fics as well as your match up and, I really really like them >\\\<

Any tips on writing for the Lovebrush Chronicles bois?

-Norie

wahh thank you!! under the cut for length n mild cn server spoilers :3

I play on the cn server and use douyin to research like random ass facts about the characters (did you know Cael knows how to mix alcoholic drinks and Alkaid has a terrible spice tolerance 😭) but also at the same time, I think their VAs do a pretty good job at conveying emotion that the translation doesn't exactly pick up?? Like for example Alkaid uses really formal Chinese compared to Lars

I also try to reduce the characters to basic characteristics when I flesh out how they would react. So far, I haven't written much on them?? but during the times I did, I referenced their regular world selves and not their other world selves

Cael - typically hesitant toward any affection pre-relationship and just has the "MC should have freedom vs I want to keep her by my side" thought a lot

Lars - he's really confident and highkey a hopeless romantic (all that shoujo he reads def gave him a rizz buff)

Ayn - lowkey has tsundere tendencies but he does genuinely like you so I try to show that through action

Alkaid - honeyed words I think he really has a way with words and his regular world self is pretty chill so he's very laid back n goes with whatever you wanna do

Clarence - regular world Clarence works with MC a lot so pre-relationship they're alr pretty close in terms of language used

and of course, once you date any of them, all of them are reduced to simps in their own way lol

Like, Lars signs up for cooking classes n becomes really good at it just to cook for MC, and Cael's language switches from formal to casual once the two of you date!! (this is the spoilers btw. this stuff is canon)

but also don't feel restricted to this bc it's just how I characterize them :3 starting off not knowing how to write them is completely normal!! I also ask around when I'm unsure bc I'm sure there's someone there who would know the character better than me

[rinhaler]

Luxe the rin hcs were from me btw!!! 🧋I don’t think I ever clarified that before but heheheh yeah

rin is totally an emo skateboard boy (he’s an adrenaline junkie) who loves ur titties frfr he didn’t know he was a titty boy until he accidentally groped them while he was trying to teach u to skate like he felt them bad bois and was like oh my god??? Tits? In my hands? So soft? Are those nipples? Are those Y O U R nipples huh???! Why do you not have a bra on?!!! The exchange was quick and he played it down with one of his shitty remarks “use your feet much, idiot?” He’s such a brat but after that encounter, it straight up rewired his brain and suddenly he’s scrolling through his camera roll at night trying to find that one pic of you guys from the beach last summer so he could jerk off to ur bikini clad tits 🙄 he’s highkey lowkey a bit of a perv!

and when y’all are out he’ll order himself a dish he’s knows you would never order yourself so he can feed you food off his plate!!! Rin loves feeding u he thinks ur so damn cute when your eyes light up and open your mouth for another bite :3 He’s such a sweetheart underneath that cold exterior bullshit!!!

THE SHAKING ORGASM HOHOHO MYYYY this man’s a mess when he cums and if you start shaking too hes gonna hit you with that “are you really gonna fucking make fun me right now??” Y’all joke around and pick on each other way too much so of course both of you think the other is clowning on the state ur in right now. After a few glares are shared u guys can’t help but laugh at how sensitive u both are UGHHHHHH HE LOVES YOUUUU SO MUCH I could also write 50k abt him fifjdjdjdjdjdj I want him to [redacted] my ******* and <censored> my *car crash sounds*

LUXE LUV U HOPE UR HAVING A GREAT DAY BB <3

I THOUGHT THEY WERE BUT I WASN'T CONFIDENT SO DIDN'T WANNA TAG JUST IN CASE BUT THANK U BABY AAAAA

oh my god pervy rin makes me absolutely INSANE U HAVE NOOOOO IDEA 🥹🥹 ugh i need him so bad i need that loser boy SO FUCKING BAD i can imagine him rly downplaying everything he feels and then behind closed doors just being so so icky mmmm 💖

i demand an entire fan fic specifically for me about him being a shaky nutting skate-boarding teasing emo loser boy perv and I want it on my desk YESTERDAY

hehe thank you thought this made me giggle :3 he's so handsome n sweet n possessive n perfect ughhhh i literally love tf outta that maaaaaaaan i hope ur having a lovely day too bby

[throwaway-yandere]

Happy new year everyone!!! Admittedly I suck at expressing myself so you'll have to forgive me if this comes across as a raw and chaotic mess lol. I'm not tagging the names either cause I'm a coward

It was incredibly fun running this blog!!! I never thought it last this long– and if probably wouldn't have it weren't for leftdestiny-post/shiro commenting on a fic haha (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠). Then I met some wonderful people, starting with like crying anon and their beloved elf darling, poptartthings, thatanonthatabsolutelyroastedtighnari, 😋 anon, veni, 🐠 anon, my mom exiled and hoo my brain is seriously a mess rn i can't type properly but i swear yall mean everything to me it's just that my aunts and uncles are all using the karaoke rn I can't hear my own thoughts but I need to write these all down before i pass out hAHAHHA (⁠ꏿ⁠﹏⁠ꏿ⁠;⁠) they're singing victims of love rn, idk if it's my heartbeat or the speaker anymore send help–

each of yall make me always look forward to waking up the next morning! Ranging from Assistant ✾ & esther anon trying to survive, brosch and their wonderful designs (i often imagine brosch and capitano just drawing designs in silent honestly, couple goals), bakery wondering how to calm dottore, 🐠 and mochi's drawings– you're all wonderful people!! Seriously still can't believe I got noticed my romanticaa and zhongrin what. I still get so nervous when interacting with both help hAHAHAH.

2022 did not feel real for many reasons, pretty sure I'm already dead and Faceless!Ayato buried me somewhere. Y'all are fun af. 🌠 anon idk how you're doing, but shoutout to you too for somehow reading my first diluc fic and going "yeah might as well see where this writer's career will lead". I wonder how many of yall are in the same position as them cause wtf man how are tall tolerating my idiotic writings hAHAHAHHA

((Just wanna shoutout poptart again cause mom idk what I'm gonna do with that 4 dollar tip 😭))

🐠, exiled and veni were my real highlight for OCMC. The alhaitham slanders– the betrayal– lmao i was just cackling like the gremlin that i am when I read exiled's ask after the last chapter I uploaded lmao. And signora-fanboy's reblog tags were funny too lol

It was fun cooping with exiled!!! It was fun reblogging jokes with zhongrin (and making me brainrot mafia!dain dhshdjwj)!!! I was so happy T^T!!!

And this december i get to talk to riabef and watatsumii too and they're both wholesome and lowkey/highkey chaotic i love you both! Where the heck am I even going with this message my braincells are not working BUT yeah my point is that it's so awesome that even as the year's about to end I still end up meeting new blessings in life 😭😭😭

I'll just shorten this part: I used to be a major loner. It's just that since my elementary days I've just come to expect a pattern that I'm friends with someone for a year until they move out of the country. It's like I was cursed with that happening every time until I just always expect people to have an expiration date lmao. Hence, I just wanna thank my irl friends Purple and Orange Friend/a-dose-of-phitre for being my longest best friends. They gave me confidence and no I'm not crying rn shut up. Idk why yall stuck with me. Wait no I do know the answer it's cause you both want someone to bully 😭 but to bully me for 6 and now going 7 years??? Aren't you both tired???

With that in mind– i SERIOUSLY DON'T KNOW WHY YOU GUYS ARE SO NICE TO ME 😭😭😭I PROBABLY MENTIONED THAT A LOT BUT WHY ARE YOU GUYS NICE??? I DON'T DESERVE THAT WHEN I'M WRITING YOU ANONS TO SUFFER– IDK HOW TO PAY THOSE KINDNESS BACK YALL DON'T MAKE ANOTHER "gatorade milo rice discourse" SCENARIO 😭

Man i need to stop typing my body's last hurrah is fast approaching. Can't wait to read this tomorrow and go "there are so many grammar mistakes here not even grammarly would make an attempt to understand this mess" hAHAHAHAH

Okay, okay, yeahhh

Happy new year everyone!!! I'm gonna wait like 21 more minutes and wait till the world does a factory reset for 2023. Hope yall have a wonderful year!!! Enjoy the fireworks!!! Yoimiya worked hard for those 😤

[ruby-red-inky-blue]

Made-up fic title meme:

You had me at "which of these two hand sanitizers do you like more?" - a RebelCaptain modern au

All the gold stars for originality, this is WAY out of my usual field of titles lol

This is definitely a really obscure modern AU, either:

Jyn is the person in charge of stocking the hospital with stuff - bandages, sterile instruments, gloves and so on but also like lotions and ultrasound gel and hand sanitiser (don't ask me what this job is called but it exists, I interviewed someone like this for the paper during the second covid wave, it's a logistics/management type deal and you can probably bring a hospital crashing down if this person doesn't know what they're doing.). Cassian is a doctor (I wanna say anaesthesiology, that seems about the right amount of undervalued and sleep deprived). Jyn is awkward and doesn't know how to start conversations with him so she always makes a point of giving him options. "So this one is gel and this one is liquid..."/ "This one smells like glue and this one smells like methanol... I guess it is methanol...."/ "I know you got the scissors that got sealed in blue plastic last time so I saved those for you" (Cassian does not need scissors. Ever. But he's very pleased to be given the special blue ones by his very cute colleague, anyway. He is also too awkward to tell her he doesn't need them. Or ask her out. But he thinks about it definitely too much. I’m assuming they wind up going out due to third party intervention - either their colleagues (Bodhi and Kay, getting Highkey Tired Of This) or the very perceptive and very bored husband of Cassian’s patient (Chirrut).)

They're neighbours during the pandemic and one of them gets Covid and the other goes shopping for them and sends them pictures from the shop to ask which option of hand sanitiser they'd prefer and if this head of lettuce is okay or too wilted and will this tub of ice cream be large enough or should they bring two just in case? This one's completely interchangeable but it could be cute.

Send me a made-up fic title and I'll tell you what story I'd write to go with it!

[sugars-fluffy-escapes]

So idk if this is a prompt or just a fun idea that I wanted to share (tbh you can choose) but I’m picturing autistic reader who when she’s in a lee mood all she has to do is SEE spencer Reid and she happy stims because the combination of loads of memories of being tickled by him and KNOWING that he loves tickling her. And spencer thinks it’s hilarious and cute 😂

Highkey, I wanna make this a longer drabble or full length oneshot in the near future because OHMYGOD???? /p /lh

ANON??? THIS IS SO CUTE!?? IM HAPPY STIMMING OVER THIS RN SHAHDHJDJFJFNF

Writing Spencer x Autistic!Reader is always so healing and comforting for me 😭 Especially since I'm still in the process of getting properly diagnosed (I have ZERO doubts about being autistic now), and Spencer is just so validating and comforting and he'd be so understanding 🥹

The concept of reader happy stimming every time they see Spencer??? Because they immediately remember all the moments where Spencer tickled them, the fact that he KNOWS they like being tickled, the fact that HE LIKES TICKLING THEM??? MY HEART IS MELTING AGSHDHFHFJJF 😭😭😭💙💙💙 /p

I can just envision Spencer getting the biggest smile on his face the moment he sees them looking at him and their already visible happy stimming just gets more intense and they get really giddy 🥹 I can't stop happy stimmiiiiiiing 😭💜

Anon, this message and hc has made my day! I hope it would be alright to flush this out into a longer fic in the near future 👉🏾👈🏾 This is just too cute 💚 /gen /p

~ Ushu 💕 (Anon genuinely I'm gonna be thinking about this idea all week it's so cute)