#i used to disappear for months without a word

[cybergoth1]

﹟— ❛❛LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING...

☆﹟— paring: fem!deadpool!reader x jason todd.

☆﹟— summary: jason todd used to think dying was the worst thing that ever happened to him. then he met you.

☆﹟— warnings: +18, dni. hate fuck. rough sex, oral sex, hair pulling, a little bit of spanking, filthy dirty talk, degrading, unprotected sex. swearing, blood, guns, suggestive dialogue, deadpool being deadpool, reader and jason throwing punches in the kitchen. enemies to lovers (?). the divider was made by @bernardsbendystraws. thank you!. some of deadpool's lore. red hood's lore. 4k words!.

JASON HAD BEEN TORTURED, murdered in a warehouse explosion, and shoved into the Lazarus Pit like some experiment. He came back different; angrier, colder, with a permanent itch under his skin he could never quite scratch. He’d clawed his way back into a city that barely noticed he was gone, wearing a new mask and a grudge like armor. And then he’d spent years readjusting to a world he never asked to return to, trapped in a body that felt more like a cage than himself. But none of that, none of that life-long, soul-crushing suffering, prepared him for the torment of working with you.

Standing by your side made him believe in karma. Hell, even divine punishment at this point. Maybe those christians were onto something after all, because just hearing your voice made him want to put a gun in his mouth. That was the level of his despair.

You, with your mouth that never shut up. Your warped moral compass. Your blood-soaked sense of humor. Your fourth-wall-breaking commentary that made him wonder if he was the one hallucinating. You were a walking migraine. A useless, brainless cheap merc from New York who somehow hadn’t managed to die permanently — thanks only to that freak-show healing factor. And, of course, your kill count that made even him raise an eyebrow.

And now you were in his city.

Bruce was pissed. Truly, deeply furious, the kind of mad that led to terse one-sentence orders and sending Red Hood to "clean up the mess". Which meant Jason got stuck playing babysitter to a lunatic who treated Gotham like it was her new theme park. You kept taking contracts on people too close to the Bat’s interest; mob bosses under surveillance, corrupt judges, the occasional undercover informant. Important people. The kind of people you weren’t supposed to make disappear without blowing up months of work.

Months of his fucking work, by the way.

And now here he was, trying to keep you from burning his city to the ground while resisting the urge to shoot you in the face. Not that it would work. He’d tried. Twice. Shoot you right in the face, and in the thighs at least four times. You just laughed at him. Like the bitch you are.

But in the end, the two of you had a few things in common. You were both taking out terrible people, and it’s not like the old man and his cult could really do anything about it, you’re basically immortal. So, yeah… sometimes he ended up teaming up with you behind his family’s back.

You two were literally doing that right now. And he bitterly regretted making that damn call.

The warehouse you two had broken into thirty minutes ago reeked of cheap gun oil and rust. Smoke still curled in the rafters, clinging to the air. Jason stood near a half-shattered window, body tense, pistol aimed at the last conscious thug crawling toward his dropped knife.

One silenced shot.

Thud.

Peace.

Or… so he thought.

"Okay, but hear me out—what if, instead of just shooting them, we had, like, a dance battle first?" your voice rang out behind him, chipper as hell, despite the blood soaking your suit from shoulder to knee. "Real Step Up vibes. I could’ve been Channing Tatum, Hood. You robbed me of that."

Jason let out a slow, pained sigh.

You strolled into view, katanas dripping, mask rolled up just enough to chomp on some suspicious-looking beef jerky you’d stolen off one of the corpses.

He stared at you — hard — judgment practically radiating from behind the helmet.

You winked. "What? He wasn’t gonna need it. I checked. Real dead. No pulse."

He holstered his gun like he was trying to keep himself from choking you with it.

"This was supposed to be stealth," Jason growled. "You came in like a Michael Bay explosion in clown shoes."

"I only wear clown shoes on thursdays. Today’s monday, obviously I wore my sexy combat heels. They give me great posture."

He rolled his eyes, not that you could see it — but you probably felt it.

"You decapitated a guy mid-sentence."

"Yeah, I freed him from the shackles of his spine. Heroism."

Jason sighed, loudly. It came out all warped and mechanical through his helmet’s voice emulator, like a dying vacuum cleaner. Fitting, given his shitty mood.

"Do you even remember the briefing?"

"Absolutely not." You beamed. "But you looked super hot while explaining it. I was distracted by your mouth. It moves like a really angry kiss."

He turned to you slowly, the glare behind his helmet palpable.

You tossed your bloodied jerky onto a pile of corpses. "Also, sorry about the headshot bet. I thought we were still playing. I win, though. That guy’s brain did a little jazz hands at the end."

Jason’s jaw ticked. His fists clenched. He hated you so fucking much. Every mission with you ended in some kind of bloodbath or blown cover. And he’d put up with it. Again and again. Because, unfortunately, you were useful when managed correctly. Roy’s words, not his.

He’d managed feral dogs with more grace.

Still, he tried.

Every time he managed to think of you as just a useful tool — and not an actual person capable of annoying the absolute shit out of him — some of that deep, deep hatred eased up. Just enough to keep him from having a heart attack mid-conversation.

"Let’s just sweep the building and go," he muttered, shouldering past you. You could feel the raw, seething loathing rolling off him. He was pissed. Yikes.

You grinned. "C’mon, don’t be mad. They were assholes. One of them called me a slut with swords. Joke’s on him, though, I’m also amazing in bed. Two for one."

He turned slowly. Here we go.

You took a playful step back. "Ooh. Somebody’s got the grumpy face on. What’s wrong, Red?"

He inhaled, deep, slow, like he was trying not to explode.

Then he did.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Ooooh, there it is."

"I’m serious," he snapped. "You’re a fucking useless dumbass. You blew the side off the building before I even gave the signal!"

"Well, to be fair—" you started.

"Shut the fuck up."

Your mouth closed, but your smirk widened.

Jason stepped toward you, voice dropping to a hiss. "I have had it with your psychotic bullshit. You treat every op like it’s a fucking improv skit. People are dying. Real people. And all you care about is if your one-liner hit or if I laughed at your dumbass joke."

You raised an eyebrow. Not that he could see. "To be fair, the ‘pencil-dick mafia’ line was comedy gold—"

"SHUT UP!" he barked, voice raw now. "Jesus, do you ever stop running your mouth? It’s like your brain’s stuck in horny stand-up mode while the rest of us are trying not to fuck up the mission. You’re not fucking funny. You’re a goddamn walking catastrophe with no fucking impulse control!"

You stared at him.

He kept going.

"You think you’re charming? You’re exhausting. You make every mission ten times harder than it has to be. You blow our cover, you disobey orders, and you laugh while slicing people open like it’s a fucking cartoon. I don’t care how fast you heal—if you get me or anyone else killed with your bullshit, I will personally find a way to keep you dead."

He was panting now.

"And for the record, stop flirting with me. You’re not sexy. You’re not even fucking attractive. You’re loud, obnoxious, and about as subtle as a chainsaw to the face. You think I haven’t had people throw themselves at me? Women with class, with self-control, with an ounce of fucking dignity? I don’t want you. I don’t even like you. Fuck."

Silence.

The air was thick.

And then—

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. "Holy shit."

You stepped closer, eyes gleaming inside your mask. "That was the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me. I think I need to sit down."

"What—"

You pointed at him. "That? That whole verbal curb-stomp? I think I just came a little."

"No, seriously," you whispered, leaning in like it was a secret. "I am so unwell right now. I think my ovaries did jazz hands. My therapist’s gonna hear about this. If I had a diary, I’d write ‘Today, Red Hood called me a useless bitch, and I got horny in a warehouse full of corpses."

He took a step back like you were radioactive.

You followed. "Say more mean shit. Call me pathetic. Tell me I’m annoying again but in that gravelly ‘I want to strangle you’ voice. Maybe spit on me?"

Jason turned sharply. "I hate you."

You cupped your hands around your mouth. "Is that foreplay?!"

He ignored you while leaving the warehouse.

You grinned like a devil.

Ten minutes later, you were sitting on the roof together, watching the flames lick up the side of the warehouse. Jason was smoking, trying to pretend you weren’t five inches from his thigh. He’d given up smoking a while ago, but being around you made him seriously reconsider. Alcohol or nicotine felt like the only way to survive your presence.

He was so out of it, he couldn’t even bother worrying about you seeing his face without the helmet.

"I’d call this a win," you offered, sipping from a cup of coffee you definitely hadn’t been holding five minutes ago. "We stopped the arms deal, torched the stockpile, and I got to see you yell like a stressed-out dom in a CW drama."

He exhaled smoke through his nose. "Stop talking."

"Make me."

He didn’t move.

You smirked.

"I can be quiet. If you put something in my mouth."

Jason side-eyed you with the force of a thousand suns.

"Like a gag. Or a sandwich. Or your coc—"

He shoved the rest of his cigarette into your coffee and stood up.

You sighed dreamily.

"God, I love him."

TO JASON'S GREAT MISFORTUNE, the two of you kept working together. Worse, you somehow wormed your way into Roy and Kory’s lives, like this was some kind of team-up he never asked for. Naturally, Roy adored you. You made him laugh so hard he had to stop eating and drinking around you just to avoid choking to death. Kory didn’t get your sense of humor at all, but she liked your honesty. And Jason?

Jason just kept hating you for using his damn safehouse like it was your personal Airbnb.

At least during that time, he’d managed to run a few background checks on you — always keeping tabs, just in case. Dug up some interesting things, like the fact that you’d had terminal cancer and underwent some sketchy experimental treatment. It saved your life, sure… but it also wrecked your body. Now you were covered in scars and practically unkillable thanks to a healing factor so extreme it bordered on obscene.

But being honest, he didn’t give a fuck about your messed-up origin story. Cancer, shady experiments, freakshow healing factor. Whatever. Join the club. He’d been blown to pieces and dumped in a Lazarus Pit, so forgive him if he didn’t feel special sympathy. Your problem was your problem. All he wanted was for you to stop eating his food, leaving weapons in his couch cushions, and walking around his place like it had your name on the deed.

You were needy and reckless, an obnoxious pain in the ass with zero boundaries. Jesus Christ.

But, anyways, things had really gone downhill after that garbage fire of a day he had. He and Isabel were done for good, — she’d been his last attempt at feeling something decent in his shitty life, something soft, something that didn’t hurt — you’d tanked another mission, and now you were somehow giving him unsolicited dating advice, like your love life wasn’t a fucking joke. He knew damn well the only person you’d ever seriously dated before turning into Deadpool was a stripper named Vanessa. Sweet girl. Way too good for this mess. She died in New York months ago, because of you.

And then came the shitshow.

Jason had snapped at you again, like it was becoming a habit.

He would never forget the way your body froze, how your shoulders locked up, your breath caught, and every trace of humor bled out of you. Even with that stupid mask on, the look in your eyes gutted him. Like you’d been slapped.

And he meant it to hurt. Every word he spat was sharp and aimed to cut deep. And judging by the silence that followed, he had.

"The only person who ever loved you was a fucking hooker. And even she had to be paid to do it. So fuck off."

The world stopped in his living room.

You didn’t make a stupid joke.

Your fists clenched before your brain could even register it.

Then you hit him. Hard. Square across the jaw.

No more nice ‘Pool, hm?

His head snapped sideways with a grunt, blood blooming in his mouth, but he was already swinging back. Jason’s body twisted with trained precision, his fist caught your side and you gasped, more from fury than pain.

You grabbed him by the front of the shirt and slammed him into the wall hard enough to make it shudder. The plaster cracked behind him, flakes drifting to the floor like ash. His hands came up again, but you were already pushing him back, breath hot, eyes wild under the mask.

"Call her a hooker again," you growled, breath ragged. "I fucking dare you."

Jason spat blood, his grin feral.

The next punch came fast. His knuckles cracked against your jaw. You grunted, stumbled, but swung back instantly — he ducked under it, shoulder-checked you into the wall, and the two of you collapsed in a flurry of fists and curses.

He grabbed you by the waist and slammed you onto the kitchen counter, the edge biting into your back. You didn’t hesitate. Your boot caught him square in the chest and knocked him back into the fridge. The whole thing rattled violently, a magnet flying off and clattering to the tile floor.

Neither of you even looked.

Your eyes burned. Your chest heaved. You were soaked in sweat.

Jason’s pupils were blown wide, locked on you. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, smeared across his lip, but he didn’t wipe it away. He just stood there, chest rising and falling, like he couldn’t tell if he wanted to hit you again or—

"You don’t talk about her. You don’t even fucking know—"

God, you never shut up.

Jason rolled his eyes, and then his mouth crashed into yours, taking full advantage of the way your mask was rolled up to the bridge of your nose — your lips exposed and vulnerable for him. You bit his already-busted bottom lip out of pure fury, tasting copper and spite. You swung at him again, but he caught your wrist, groaning low in his throat.

Then his mouth was on yours again, harder this time, devouring you like he was starving and furious about it. His knee forced your legs apart, pinning you where he wanted you. One hand fisted in your collar, the other wrapped around your throat. Not choking, not yet. Just holding.

"Always running that loud, stupid mouth around me," he growled against your lips. His breath ghosted over your cheek, warm, intoxicating, and for one fleeting second, you almost forgot. Forgot how he disrespected you. Forgot the way he spat on the memory of the only person you ever truly loved.

"Gonna do everyone a favor and keep it busy."

The kiss tasted like iron, blood on both your tongues, heat rising like a fever. And despite everything you felt yourself melting into it, breath hitching against his mouth. Your hands curled in his jacket, unsure if you meant to push him away or drag him closer.

Jason’s hand fisted in your leather mask, rough and impatient, and tore it off completely. The air hits your skin like ice. You flinched. You felt naked. Your scars, your ruined skin, were now fully on display. And for a second, you hesitated. You turned your face just slightly, instinctively, already bracing for disgust.

But Jason didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

Instead, his hand came to your jaw, guiding your face back to his and then his tongue slid past your aching lips, slow and deliberate.

Your brain short-circuited.

"Jason…"

You whimpered against him, a soft, unguarded sound you couldn’t even stop. His bigger body pressed against yours, pinning you to the counter. He was already hard, you could feel it heavy against your thigh.

"All that goddamn noise, every smirk, every wiseass comment, walking around my place like you owned it…" His mouth dragged along your jaw. "You’ve been begging for this. Dripping desperation under all that leather."

His hand dipped between your thighs, fingers finding your clothed cunt. You’d never been a prude but the sound that left your throat was a full-bodied, surprised whine, like some Victorian maiden getting her ankle glimpsed at a ball.

"Is that what gets you off, huh?" he growled against your skin, his thumb finding your poor clit. "Pissing me off until I snap? Playing dumb little games, fighting me in my fucking kitchen, so I’ll bend you over and fuck the attitude out of you?"

Yes, you were absolutely eating that shit up. Thighs already twitching, core pulsing, hips aching to grind into the heat of his thumb. But being a little shit was practically a personality trait by now.

"You sound like a discount Christian Grey or, I don’t know, one of those garbage Tumblr fanfics written by a—"

Jason didn’t let you finish.

He spun you around with zero finesse, hands gripping your hips like handles, and bent you over the kitchen counter so fast your breath left you in a grunt. Cold marble met your cheek as your hands scrambled for purchase.

"Try saying that again with my cock halfway inside you."

You just smirked, eyes wild.

"Oh, I love that."

He yanked the bottom half of your uniform down in one smooth, breathless motion. The cool air licked across your thighs and your ass.

Jason froze.

"...Hello Kitty panties? Are you fucking serious?"

You craned your neck with the most unapologetic grin known to man.

"I got them at a Walmart discount bin. Two-ninety-nine."

He stared for a second, dead silent, like he genuinely couldn’t decide whether to fuck you stupid or haul you in for crimes against fashion. His fingers hooked the waistband of your ridiculous Hello Kitty panties and let the elastic snap back against your skin with a sharp flick.

From that angle, bent over the counter, ass bare, pants around your knees, he could see everything.

Strong legs braced wide. Thick, powerful thighs. And the scars, God, the scars. Burns, patches of rough, discolored skin where your healing factor hadn’t cared about aesthetics. Jagged textures that twisted and crawled across your flesh.

He didn’t say anything.

Not at first.

You sighed after a few seconds.

"Gonna leave a lady hanging?"

"I don’t see any ladies here."

Your grin widened.

He dropped to his knees behind you.

Rough hands yanked your thighs apart as he ducked between them, spreading you open — your ugly panties were already balled up in his jacket pocket, swiped without a second thought after he’d torn them off you.

"Hey," you panted, voice wobbling through a half-laugh, half-moan, "you don’t have to steal my underwear, okay? I can buy you your own. Maybe with little bats on them—Jason?"

His only response was a low growl as he sank his tongue into you without a shred of mercy.

You jolted, mouth falling open.

"Fuck—okay, okay, take the panties, Jesus—"

He didn’t even look up. Just shoved your thighs wider, buried himself deeper, and groaned like your pussy was the first meal he’d had in days. Whatever joke you’d been about to crack turned into a breathless scream, your fingers scrabbling across the counter for something to hold on to. He licked like a man possessed, angry and hungry. You tried to push him back just enough to breathe, and he slapped your thigh. Hard.

"Don’t fucking move," he moaned against you, voice wrecked, wet sounds echoing through the room as he sucked your clit. Then he spit directly onto your cunt, tongue catching it before it could drip, and shoved two thick, warm, fingers inside you without warning.

"Oh—God—what the fuck?" you gasped, legs trembling as his fingers did something positively illegal, curling them just right inside you.

"Where the hell did you learn that?!"

He bit your thigh, hard enough to bruise, then sucked another mark into the skin.

"Jas—fuck—Jason—"

He pulled back just enough to speak.

"Did you ever shut the fuck up?" Jason growled, fingers still deep inside you, knuckles slick, "you sound like a fucking chatterbox."

You gasped, moaned, and tried to sass back but it caught in your throat. His fingers were so big, stretching you up so good…

He smirked, mean and low. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

He stood up suddenly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and his fingers on his jeans. You didn’t get to finish the way you wanted.

"Hey— I was in the middle of something…"

Jason didn’t even glance at you. Just muttered, "Didn’t ask," as he undid his belt with sharp movements, the clink of the buckle cutting through the room. You twisted around on the counter, half-smirking through your haze.

"Hmm, someone’s eager. I get it, okay? I’m hot. Hot like Jessica Alba in The Fantastic Four."

He stepped forward, belt dangling from one hand, eyes dark, mouth set in a flat line. His other hand grabbed your hip hard enough to bruise and spun you back around with no effort at all. Jason lined himself up and thrust in, deep, splitting you open in one filthy, perfect stroke.

Every snarky comeback, every filthy one-liner, every sarcastic jab — all gone. For the next thirty minutes, you couldn’t even form a normal sentence. You moaned loud. Legs shaking.

"Fuck," you gasped. "Jason—"

"Shut up," he grunted. "You can take it."

He fucked into you hard. Brutal. Like punishment. Like he was trying to tear you apart from the inside out and stitch you back together in his shape. You were moaning high pitched, snarling, begging under your breath.

God, that was the best of your life.

He grabbed your wrists, pinned them behind your back with one hand, his other braced on your lower back, pressing you flat to the counter. Every thrust knocked the air out of your lungs. His cock dragged against every overstimulated nerve, punishing and perfect.

"Ah— Fuck, please, Ja—!"

Jason grabbed your hair and pulled you back against him.

"What?" he muttered behind you, giving your cheek a wet kiss, hand tangled tight in your hair, tugging your head back hard enough to sting. "Runned out of jokes? Got nothing for me now?"

He fucked you until the slap of skin was louder than your ragged breathing, until your thighs were shaking and your voice was breaking. And you moaned happly, pressing back into him like the goddamn animal you were, desperately trying to fuck yourself on him.

Jason chuckled, his grip tightening for a second.

"Thought so."

©cybergoth1, 2025

[vandme12]

What if Ronin disappeared from the server? Everywhere basically he's not "active" but he still kills! That's how Reader knows he's alive! Angel doesn't know but comforts us :(

This is so random lol but I wanted to do something.. this is so ass lol sorry I just wanted to say I'm not dead yet

IT'S ALL A DREAM WRITER DARLIN

A little like a lover. His bloodied fingers brush against yours because to him, it is. His eyes are wild, gleaming with that familiar madness, but there's something else lurking underneath—something softer, darker, and just for you.

"You’re such a fuckin’ natural, baby," he purrs, leaning in to smear blood against your lips in a mockery of a kiss. "Didn’t think you had it in ya, but damn—look at you. My little heart thief."

Blood streaks down his chin, dripping against his throat like a necklace crafted just for him.

"And you did it for me," he groans, half-possessive, half-worshipping. "Gotta admit, darling—thought I was gonna have to drag ya down to Hell myself. But nah, you’re already here, ain’tcha?"

Your stomach twists—not with disgust, but something deeper. Something terrifying. Something exhilarating.

Eyes black and burning as he pins you against the alley wall, the jagged brick digging into your back. His lips hover near your ear, voice syrup-sweet and venom-thick.

"So tell me," he whispers, each word dripping with wicked delight, "are you gonna be my Darlin forever… or just until the blood runs dry?"

Ronin was gone.

Not a trace, not a whisper, not even a smirking message left behind in the server to taunt you. Just… gone.

You wanted to believe he got caught. That maybe, finally, someone had managed to put the devil himself in a cage. But the police were still clueless, still chasing ghosts. No one knew who Butcher was. No one except you.

So why did relief feel like a lie?

And why, when you opened your door that night, did your breath hitch at the sight of what he left behind?

Two little creatures, curled up in a makeshift nest of a tattered hoodie you recognized as his. One, a sleek rat twitching its nose up at you, beady eyes gleaming with something eerily knowing. The other, a long, slender red corn snake, lazily draped over the fabric like it belonged there.

Blackjack. Pepperoni.

You remembered the names from late-night conversations, half-teasing, half-affectionate.

"You’re scared of snakes? Tch. I should make you hold Pepperoni. He’s a sweetheart." "Blackjack’s an asshole, just like me. That’s why I like him." "If I ever disappear, I’ll know who to trust with ‘em."

Your stomach twisted.

He trusted you.

You should’ve closed the door. Should’ve called someone, anyone. Instead, you sank to your knees, reaching out with shaking hands.

Pepperoni slithered into your palm, warm and smooth and alive. Blackjack scurried up your arm like he already knew you, like he already belonged to you.

You missed him.

It had been almost two months.

Too long. Long enough that the ache in your chest wasn’t sharp anymore—it festered. The memories crawled, burrowed, rotted inside you like maggots writhing beneath the surface.

At first, you tried to forget. Tried to scrub him out of your life like bloodstains on tile. But his absence had teeth, and it bit down hard.

The server was quieter without him. Too quiet. No snarky messages, no devil-may-care threats disguised as jokes. No "miss me?" slipping into your inbox at 3 AM.

You told yourself you were better off—safer, even. But at night, when the world slowed down and the silence wrapped around your throat, you felt it. That hollow, gnawing space where he used to be.

Pepperoni curled around your wrist when you couldn’t sleep, warm and steady. Blackjack always found a way to nuzzle against your neck like he knew you needed it. They missed him too.

And maybe… maybe you were starting to understand.

Ronin didn’t just disappear. He left a hole—one no one else could fill.

The server wasn’t the same without him.

At first, no one wanted to admit it. Ronin had a way of crawling under your skin—he got off on it, really. But with him gone, the absence felt loud. Uncomfortable. Like a joke that didn’t land.

And now? Everyone was looking.

"He's not dead," Angel typed one night, her words sharp and certain. "If he was, we'd know. Someone like Ronin doesn't go quietly. Maybe it's for a reason.."

You believed her. Still, that didn’t make the silence any easier.

You were pretty sure everyone was trying to cheer you up...

hitmeuppp: bro what if he like hitmeuppp: joined a cult?? hitmeuppp: cults LOVE guys like him

hitmeuppp: or wait what if he’s just on vacation hitmeuppp: goreboy in hawaiian shirt hitmeuppp: nah hed kill everyone there nvm..btw he's gonna be back and bully the server

Despite the chaos, they were looking harder than anyone. Maybe they missed him more than they’d admit.

V, though? He didn’t bother with feelings. Cold. Precise. Always.

K9: His last confirmed activity was "--" days ago. K9: Although the victims are still dead actively- His presence is not there.. K9: If you find anything, report it. Also, Try not stress yourself much...

He acted like it didn’t bother him. But the fact that he kept checking meant it did.

Even Vince—who usually didn’t give a damn—started to notice the weird energy.

Eviscerator1990: Don't Worry. I'm Sure He will Come Back, If Anything happens- Worry not- I Will Have To Unretire...

Ai Hua sent you a hug and a message, if you want you can talk..

And Luca… well, he had a simpler take.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: do u think he’s ok? LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: like idk he seemed kinda sad nowadays..

But Felicite said the thing no one else wanted to.

Felicite: What if he doesn’t want to be found? He will...come back..

And maybe… maybe she was right.

But every time Pepperoni curled tighter around your wrist, every time Blackjack twitched his little nose like he was still waiting for his owner to come home, you felt it.

The call rang out—empty, hollow. No answer.

You clicked again. Once. Twice. Three times.

Still nothing.

Your chest burned with the weight of it—why wasn’t he picking up? He always picked up for you. Even when it was just to tease, to laugh, to tell you how pathetic you sounded begging for his attention.

But now? Silence.

Your fingers trembled as you slammed the mouse down, dragging the call button again. The little green circle spun mockingly, and something inside you snapped.

CRACK.

The knife was already in your hand—when did you grab it? Didn’t matter. You brought it down hard—once, twice, again—straight through the heart of the thing that wouldn’t bring him back. The plastic crunched beneath the blade, sparks flickering as the screen cracked wide open like a wound.

“PICK UP!” you screamed, voice raw—shaking—“PICK UP, YOU BASTARD!”

But there was no answer. Just you, the broken mess of your PC, and the sound of your own sobs crawling up your throat.

And then—

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

A call. Your stomach twisted. It couldn’t be—

You fumbled for your phone, your breath catching in your chest. The screen blurred through tears—Maria?

No.

Angel.

You hit accept before your mind could catch up. “H-Hello…?”

“Hey,” her voice came through smooth, too smooth. “You’re crying....”

You broke. The tears you’d been holding back—pretending weren’t there—poured out like floodgates. Your breath hitched, and you couldn’t stop the sobs that shook you from the inside out.

“I—I c-called,” you choked out, “he won’t—he won’t answer, Angel—why won’t he answer—?!”

For a moment, she didn’t speak. Just the sound of her breathing, steady and sure. Then—soft, too soft—

“...I know.”

“Get a grip....Y/n.."

Angel’s voice cut through your sobs—sharp, cold, nothing like the smooth comfort you wanted.

Your breath hitched. “I—I can’t—”

“You can.” Her tone didn’t soften. “Crying won’t bring him back. Do you think he’d want to see you like this? Pathetic? Falling apart over him?”

That stung. Because it was true.

Ronin wouldn’t pity you. If he saw you like this—broken, desperate—he’d laugh. Maybe he’d tilt his head, smile that cruel smile, and say, “Aw, you miss me that bad? Cute.”

And God, you did.

You sniffled hard, trying to swallow the sobs back down. Angel didn’t wait for you to speak—she never did.

“Look,” she said, calmer now, “we’re all searching for him. He’s not dead. He’s too stubborn for that. But he’s not gonna crawl back just because you’re falling apart. So stop.”

“I—” Your voice cracked, weak and small. “I don’t know how.”

A sigh. “....I'll stick around, It's hard- Even I miss him- He's just a little idiotic at times. I want to just punch him the hell out."

Her words hit like a punch to the gut—hard, fast, and too honest.

"Heh, Me too.."

You clutched your phone tighter, knuckles white. The silence on your end must've been loud because Angel exhaled, slow and measured.

Voice softer—but not gentle. She didn’t do gentle. Not for you. Not for anyone. "You think you’re the only one losing it? Misaki hasn’t slept. V’s been scouring every back alley in the city. Even tho he hates Ronin even he knows it's not normal. Even Luca and Felicite are looking, and that idiot can barely track his own shadow."

A bitter laugh slipped past her lips—barely there. "You wanna be useless? Fine. But I’m not holding your hand while you drown in this."

You bit your lip, choking back the ache in your throat. She was right. Of course, she was right. But it didn’t make the empty space he left behind any easier to breathe through.

"Why—" Your voice wavered. "Why hasn’t he called?"

A beat of silence. Angel didn’t answer right away. That scared you more than the anger.

“…I don’t know.” It was the first honest thing she’d said. No venom. No heat. Just raw truth. "But he will. I think he needs time. I guess if- I'll pick you up-"

He always did.

Didn’t he?

Your chest squeezed tighter. You wanted to believe her—needed to. But it had been too long. The calls, the taunts, the stupid late-night messages that made you roll your eyes and laugh—all of it was gone.

And now, all you had were his pets curling against you like they could stitch the broken pieces back together.

“I miss him,” you admitted, voice breaking.

For a second, just one, Angel softened. “…Yeah.” A pause. “Me too. You heard it- Get some sleep."

And then—click.

She hung up.

You were alone again. Alone with the ghosts he left behind, the sharp ache in your chest, and the weight of a question no one could answer—

Where the hell was Ronin?

Angel wasn’t kidding about the shopping.

She dragged you through every store with a vengeance—demanding you try on ridiculous outfits, forcing bubble tea into your hand/

Pinky promises were exchanged over matching keychains—hers a glittery pink knife, yours a black one with a devil tail. "So you don’t mope alone," she’d said, linking your pinkies tight like a spell. “Ronin’s not dead. He’s too annoying to die.”

Well..

Well..

Well...

Well.

You laughed. Actually laughed—too sharp, too sudden. It startled one of Ronin’s cats curled on your lap. It jumped off with an offended mrrt.

And that’s when it hit you.

No. Wait.

That’s when he hit you.

CRASH.

The window shattered.

Something—someone—rolled straight through the damn glass like a meteor on fire and landed in a heap on your floor with all the grace of a drunken circus act.

You screamed. Loud. Undignified.

The cats scattered.

The figure groaned.

You blinked, your brain doing the math and refusing to accept the answer. It couldn’t be. Could not be.

But then he turned over, coughed, and grinned like a bastard through a bloodied lip.

“Miss me?”

“RONIN?!”

You didn’t know whether to kick him or hug him or throw a shoe at his head and then hug him.

He looked like hell. Black eye, bruised ribs (probably), jacket torn like he wrestled a chainsaw and almost won. And still—still—he gave you that infuriating smirk like he just showed up late to brunch, not broke physics and your entire nervous system.

“I—you—you’re—WHAT THE F**?!*” you screeched, stumbling over the cats, your own feet, your own emotions.

But something was off.

You blinked.

The room shimmered—just slightly. Like heat rising from asphalt. You squeezed your eyes shut.

No. No, no, no—

When you opened them again—

He was gone.

No blood. No broken glass

Just the silence.

And the crushing, absolute weight of your own breath in your lungs.

You were on the couch. Alone. Again.

Your phone buzzed from the coffee table, lighting up the dark room.

2:34 AM.

Of course.

You let out a choked sound—half sob, half laugh, all broken. “Cool,” you whispered to no one. “Cool cool cool. Great. Amazing. Losing my mind in HD.”

You probably will open the server now.

and you saw a message.

Goreboy.

Ronin.

goreboy

Well? Did dreams inspire ya? Writer Darlin?

and now you understand.

It was just a dream.

HEY YOU DID GET A NEW PLOT FOR YOUR BOOK NOW/J

This was a dream I had in my vacation...btw

[radishpasta]

Hiii😭 okay so this is my first everrr fanfic and i obviously had to write about Sevika!!

Please give me some advice & critiques (but not too mean, I will cry:’c) and if people like it I’ll post more:3

Sevikas been your co worker at a convenience store for about 5 months, and even with your age gap, her being in her forties and you in your early twenties, it’s like you’ve been friends for years, she’s so honest and blunt about everything, you can ask and talk about anything with her. One night, you and her were working the night shift and barely anyone was coming in so you two were mostly goofing off. She leaned against the counter listening to you go on and on about your dorky interests.

“Yeah I don’t know, it’s the stupidest thing, probably why I haven’t kissed anyone.” You laugh at yourself and how pathetic it sounds to not have kissed anyone at 23. But Sevika pauses and stares at you dumbfounded.

“You’ve never kissed anyone?!” She starts to laugh, a loud, mocking laugh. She’s practically wiping away tears from how hard she’s laughing at you.

You regret ever mentioning it the moment you saw her eyes go wide and a small smirk forming on her lips. “Jeez! Alert the whole town why don’t you!” You can feel your whole face heating up and turn away from her, dying to escape this hell.

“I shouldn’t have told you, just forget I said anything.” You shake your head and go to walk away but Sevika grabs your arm and pulls you back to where you were with ease.

“I wasn’t judging you sweetheart,” she begins, her voice low and rough, “I’m just curious how a pretty girl like you can go all these years without being kissed.” She stares down at you, a soft smile playing on her lips.

You stare up at her for a moment before looking away, the way she’s looking at you makes your heart beat faster. “I- I don’t know,” you shrug, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, trying to avoid making eye contact with her. “I guess I was just too busy for romance…” You mumble, eyes nervously flicking up to her.

“Too busy huh?” She cocks her head and there’s a long pause as she looks at you, her gaze unreadable, then her smirk turns into a wide grin. “you’re not too busy right now.” She says bluntly, studying your face as it turns a bright red at her words.

“Wha-“ a nervous chuckle escapes your mouth, “well no I’m- I’m not, it’s jus-“ Sevika interrupts you, “You don’t wanna kiss me? That’s okay.” She shrugs and turns away but you reach out and grab her wrist, and Sevikas a big and sturdy woman, you could never move her even if you wanted to. But you pull her back so easily.

“No I would love to kiss you!” You blurt out, and then immediately getting embarrassed at how loud and fast you said that. And Sevika doesn’t help as she slowly turns back around, a wide and mocking grin on her face. “Wow…, you would love to kiss me, huh?” She asks, keeping her gaze locked on you as she steps closer. “Oh shut up!” You cup your face with both hands, trying to hide your reddened face, but she laughs and grabs both your wrists, pulling them away from your face.

Her big and rough hand holds both your wrists in place, using her free hand she grabs your face and makes you look up at her.

You can feel your heart pound in your ears as she slides her hand to the back of your neck, and unknowingly you start to hold your breath, thoughts like “I should never have eaten those onion rings bro” are running in your mind, but the second Sevikas soft lips press against yours they all disappear.

She slowly starts to kiss you harder, deep and passionate, letting go of your wrist to slide her hand around your waist, pulling you closer. Her touch causes a shiver to run down your spine, and she pulls away for a second just to look at your flustered face and chuckles condescendingly, immediately kissing you again, more roughly as she slips her tongue into your mouth.

With your freed hands you wrap them around her neck, pressing your warm and needy body against hers. You can feel her hand run up underneath your shirt, stopping under your breast when you hear the door bell ringing and your eyes snap open, and both of you turn to look at a middle aged man standing there in a Hawaiian shirt and khakis, with his mouth agape.

“I- my car just, um, broke down and I was wondering if yall had a phone or could help fix it… but like I ca- I can come back late-“

Sevika immediately peals your arms off her, and practically ran to the door, mumbling something about helping him.

And you just stand there, staring at the door close as your legs wobble. You softly touch your wet and swollen lips, your mouth slightly open. You bite your bottom lip and turn around towards the bathroom, you can still taste her in your mouth, and can feel a dampness between your legs as you close the door behind you.

[jeonstarz]

punish

pairing: jungkook x reader (f)

genre: lovers to exes, heavy angst

rating: 16+

warnings: no comfort, slow burn, self erasure; just pure angst and emotional neglect. reader is suffering. i was completely inspired from punish by ethel cain, however this story references the second demo of that song, which i'll link here! i would loveeee if you guys could listen to it for the full experience, i reference the song/lyrics a lot in the story, so it will feel very heavy. its all hurt and no resolution.

summary: you loved him quietly, softly. the way people love things they know will leave. jungkook loved you too, but only in the ways he knew how: at a distance, with silence, with a kind of violence that never bruised skin but broke spirit.

over time, love rotted into desolation.

you shrank. he withdrew. and neither of you said what you needed until it was too late. now, with stars in your eyes and a hollowness you can't name, you drive to the edge of something vast and still. he stays behind, haunted by everything he didn't say.

you’ve been disappearing for months.

not suddenly. not in a way anyone would notice right away. it’s quieter than that. slower. like sunlight draining out of the room one inch at a time.

you stop answering texts. you eat less. you forget how to laugh without thinking about the sound. you sleep, but it doesn’t feel like rest.

sometimes you sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall, waiting for the feeling to pass. sometimes you drive just to feel the road beneath you. and sometimes, most times, you wonder when exactly you stopped being a person.

jungkook notices. not all at once. but he notices.

he starts by asking if you’re okay more than usual. he watches your hands when you’re not looking. he lingers longer in the doorway like he’s trying to memorize your shape in case you vanish.

“you’re cold,” he says one night, brushing your wrist.

you nod. it’s not new.

he tells you he loves you. you nod again. you want to say it back, but your mouth feels foreign. the words feel like they belong to someone else.

———————

he used to call you angel.

“angel, can you light this cigarette for me?”

his voice low, smoke curling around his lips like something holy. he looked unreal. perched on the hood of his car, streetlights painting him in gold and shadow.

you remember your fingers shaking around the lighter. you remember his lips brushing yours after. you remember the way he said the word angel like it meant safe.

that was before either of you knew what love could rot into.

now, he stays out later. doesn’t ask where you go. dinners are quiet. mornings quieter.

your toothbrush dries untouched. your sweaters smell like detergent instead of skin. your body feels like an echo.

sometimes, he stares at you like he’s begging you to come back. other times, he looks right through you.

he doesn’t kiss you goodbye anymore.

you hear him crying in the hallway one night.

you don’t move.

you listen to the sound, soft and unraveling. your fingers press into the blanket, waiting for the moment to pass. but it doesn’t. it lingers. heavy.

still, you don’t move.

you’ve already started to grieve him while he’s still here.

one night, you try to speak. just once.

“do you remember when we used to dance in the kitchen?”

he doesn’t even look up from his phone. “what?”

“nevermind.”

you feel it then — like a final stitch popping open. like whatever part of you was still reaching just gave up.

you go to bed with your back to him.

he doesn’t reach for you.

———————

the fight begins with a glass left in the sink.

but it becomes everything else.

he’s pacing, teeth clenched, hands fisted at his sides.

“you don’t even try anymore,” he spits.

you blink.

“i come home and you don’t say anything. you don’t do anything. it’s like living with a ghost.”

you stare at the counter. the edge of it digs into your hip.

“you just let everything rot. me, this place, yourself.”

his voice cracks. and you still say nothing.

that makes him explode.

“do you even love me anymore? or am i just someone you used to want before you disappeared into whatever the fuck this is?”

your voice comes quiet.

“i think i broke a long time ago.”

you look up. your eyes meet his.

“you’re just the one who noticed.”

he goes still. so still.

then he laughs. bitter. wrecked.

“don’t do that. don’t put this on me. i didn’t make you like this.”

he steps back like your words are knives.

“you know how hard i’ve tried? do you even see me anymore? i touch you and it’s like i’m touching a some kind of fucking photograph. what the hell did i do to deserve this?”

his voice shakes.

“i’ve been bleeding for you, and you…you won’t even look at me.”

you don’t look at him.

you whisper, “i don’t think i’m supposed to be here anymore.”

and with that, you leave.

jungkook doesn’t follow.

he watches the door swing shut. he stands in the empty kitchen with the echo of your voice still ringing.

his hands shake. his breath turns sharp.

he doesn’t know whether to punch the wall or scream. instead, he sinks to the floor and stares at the sweater you left on the chair.

he picks it up. pulls it into his lap. stares at it like it might start breathing.

it really is like a flashback on a film reel.

your head on his chest in the backseat, rain hitting the windows. your thumb tracing circles over his ribs. you said, “i think i’m scared of being known.” he laughed. didn’t take it seriously.

you reading a book upside-down on the couch. he took a photo of you. you didn’t smile for it.

your hands trembling while making coffee. he saw. didn’t ask.

“why didn’t i say something?” he chokes out.

he thinks of all the signs he ignored. the nights you flinched at loud noises. the way you apologized for things that didn’t need apologizing. how often you stared at nothing.

“why didn’t i reach for you?”

he presses his fists to his eyes like that might block out the memories.

your voice cracking when you said, “i don’t think i’m built for this world.” he kissed you instead of answering.

you looking in the mirror, touching your face like it didn’t belong to you.

he thinks of the first time you smiled at him. how your eyes crinkled. how he called you angel and you kissed him like it meant something.

“i loved you,” he says, brokenly.

and then softer —

“i still do.”

jungkook stays curled on the floor until the sun begins to rise.

his fingers clutch the sweater tighter. he can’t remember how long he’s been whispering your name.

he doesn’t know if he wants you to come back or if he just wants a chance to say goodbye properly.

but you’re not there.

and maybe you never were, not in the way he needed you to be.

he looks at the light bleeding through the window and feels nothing.

nothing but the ruin of a love he couldn’t stop from dying.

“i loved an angel,” he whispers.

and this time, he cries as he says it.

“and it made me weak.”

———————

you drive with no direction. city lights smear past like brushstrokes. your body is trembling but your chest is quiet. not hollow. just quiet.

you reach the lake by accident. or maybe by muscle memory.

you step out barefoot. the gravel bites. the wind slices your cheeks raw.

the stars are too bright tonight. they look too close, like they might fall.

with stars in your eyes, crying as you wheel, you sit on the hood of your car and breathe like it’s your first time.

the water is still.

you stare into it.

not because you want to go in. not because you want to end anything.

just because you want to remember what it feels like to feel.

your reflection looks back at you like a stranger.

you touch your collarbone. your wrists. your throat. trying to prove you’re still there. trying to prove you’re not made of fog.

a part of you thinks, if the lake turned green tonight, you’d know it meant something. some grace. some forgiveness.

but it doesn’t.

it stays dark. and you think: i deserve that.

you don’t know what you’re apologizing for. only that you’ve been sorry for years. for your silence. for your stillness. for the way you disappear without ever truly leaving.

you loved him. you did.

but you felt like a house that flooded every time he knocked on the door. like his love made you softer, and your softness made you a ruin.

you whisper, “i was an angel.”

not to be believed. just to hear it aloud.

and then, softer:

“but i couldn’t stay.”

you close your eyes.

you don’t cry. you already did that in the kitchen. in the hallway. in the weeks and weeks he didn’t ask.

you sit there as the wind numbs your skin and let the stillness hold you.

it doesn’t heal anything.

but it doesn’t hurt either.

and for tonight, that’s enough.

———————

(a/n: yallll pls pls tell me if this was good or if you enjoyed! im sorry for hurting your soul…im giving you a digital cupcake for reading all that. ethel cain is one of my fav artists in the whole world, this demo was sooo good i just had to write something inspired by it. maybe i’ll also do something for nettles too! love that song currently. but yea…pls interact yall my account be lookin like its a desert on sum real shit…i think i wanna write something funny for next time tho……we will see purr and boomshakalaka and yasss and byee)

[whumpwriterforlife]

So sorry I am unfortunately going to need some terminally ill Simon Riley x 141

Please and thank you

I'm tempted to start this by apologising because this is far from my best work, but I managed 1k words after months of writer's block so I'm trying to be graceful to myself. It may not be one of my best work, but I still got it done. I admit the ending is a bit abrupt though.

I hope you'll still like it.

Warnings: Mentions of terminal illness / multiple sclerosis

*

Multiple sclerosis.

An autoimmune disorder that had the potential to be terminal.

The British military might not have considered it immediate grounds for medical discharge, but the SAS most certainly did. They were the best of the best; there was no room for liabilities in the field — and his diagnosis most definitely made him one.

He should have expected it, really.

After a childhood full of abuse in the hands of his parents, after the betrayal of his commanding officer and months of torture that led to more scars than he could count, he should've known that there would be more. The few good years he had had since then wouldn't change the fact that he had shit luck. One could even say he wasn't meant for happiness — which, considering everything, didn't seem that far fetched.

The day he stepped into Price's office with his instincts screaming at him to turn around and disappear without a word was the worst right after the diagnosis. He knew, as much as he lived for his job he knew, he had to tell someone. He might’ve been nothing without his job, without a gun or a knife in his hands, but he wasn't willing to put his team at risk because of his selfishness.

They were the closest thing he had to friends, family, after all, even though he was reluctant to admit it to himself.

"My bags are packed already. I'll be out on the next available flight," he said, the finish to his well-rehearsed speech. His stomach twisted and his hands were clammy with cold sweat, but his voice betrayed none of his inner turmoil.

Now all there was left to do was to wait for the reaction.

It was nothing like he had expected.

"What?" Price asked, concern and bewilderment in his tone as he stared at him.

Simon swallowed thickly, unable to form a response. He didn't know what to think of the reaction, but it lacked the anger he may or may not have been worried about. It was childish, but he couldn't bring himself to meet his captain's gaze — he didn't want to see the pity or worry or disappointment he had convinced himself he'd be met with.

"What the hell are you talking about, Lieutenant?" Price asked again, more gruffly this time but still not angry. "Simon?"

Simon remained frozen in his seat.

What could he even say?

Should he apologise?

It would have been easier if Price reacted with anger, threw him out of the office and told him to never come back. He knew how to deal with anger. The rest was uncharted territory, really.

"I'm not giving up on you that easily, you hear me?"

Simon looked up at that, feeling a fleeting pang of something he couldn't quite place. "What?"

Price gave him a thin smile when their eyes met. "I know you're hardwired to deal with everything alone, Simon, but you're a part of a team now, remember? You're one of us and we'll figure this out together. Understood?"

"But the regulations—"

"You're not the first person with MS in the service." Price told him, pushing away from his desk to stand up. He grabbed the discharge papers and unceremoniously dumped them into the bin next to his desk before walking around to take a seat in the chair next to Simon. "I'm not gonna let you run away and disappear on us like that. There are options, different treatments — it's not the end of the world."

Simon blew out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging. For the first time since the diagnosis, he felt like he could breathe again.

"Yes, sir."

"Good man." Price nodded approvingly, his smile more genuine as he gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Now, would you like to tell the sergeants or not?"

Simon avoided telling the sergeants for a few weeks, if only because he needed more time to digest things before he'd be flooded with questions he wasn't sure he could answer. He wasn't much of a talker and he most definitely wasn't in the habit of sharing any personal information with anyone.

In the end though, he didn't know why he had been so nervous about the whole thing because the sergeants took the news surprisingly well, though that didn't stop them from asking half a million questions about his condition. There was some concern, but there was no trace of pity.

That said, there was definitely an increase of mother-henning especially on Soap’s part. The sergeant would occasionally burst into his office with a tray of food and a steaming cup of tea, not to mention a pointed glare on his face that told Simon he had somehow found out he had skipped lunch. Or dinner. Or breakfast.

(in turn, Simon sometimes deliberately skipped going to the mess hall, knowing the sergeant would bring him his missing meal within the hour without him having to ask or leave his desk)

Mostly, though, everything remained relatively normal. There was no constant hovering or questions about his health and they trusted him to tell if a flare-up got bad enough that he couldn't perform his duties or otherwise needed help.

It had definitely been one of the hardest parts of the entire thing — to learn to ask for help.

Fortunately the flare-ups were nowhere near constant or regular, though at their worst they could last well over a month. The symptoms varied, too, from fatigue to balance problems to muscle stiffness and blurry vision and so much more. It was difficult to keep up with all the different symptoms, but he made it work.

There were times when he'd be too stubborn to admit to himself that he required more rest or was too fatigued to do his tasks. The more memorable times included Gaz sweeping in and "stealing" the recruits from him in the middle of a session when his vision had gone too blurry to supervise them at the gun range, and when he'd woken up at his desk with a blanket draped over his shoulders and a stern note in Price's handwriting on his desk that told him to take the next day off and warned him to stay away from the paperwork unless he wanted to face his wrath.

It took a while, but eventually Simon learned to let them in more. Maybe it wasn't as horrifying as he had originally thought, to have people care about you.

[the-travelling-witch]

OH MY SNOWFLAKE HOW I LOVE U!!

I LOVE TO BE UR STARY NIGHT UR BIGGEST FAN

-✨

SCARA BLURBS MY BELOVED <3 waking up in the morning to cuddle him, so he’s late for work, or just making him coffee <3 simple things like that make him (and me) happy

Siren aether. I need not to say anymore he is perfect ur honor

IT HAS BEEN ALMOST ONCE DAY SINCE U LAST POSTED I WAS GETTING WORRIED HOLLY (hope everything is a ok over there and no stress, stress free!)

there’s still so many asks requesting more scara content… but normally when i scrap together time to write it’s to progress the isekai au, so i never get around to working on my ask backlog

i really need to write some siren/mermaid stuff, there are definitely thoughts here *vaguely gestures to twst draft and convos i had with general*

yeah i didn’t get around to answering asks the day before; since i’m at work pretty much all day i can only answer them in the evening and there i have to split my time between chores, routines, early sleeping, writing, playing, answering asks… somethings always have to take the fall ㅠㅠ

[wesam12]

Save our lives ‼️🚨

"I am Wissam... The last time I hugged someone, it was a corpse." 😭💔

The night was very long that day. I was counting the days until I would give birth to my twins. I brought them names, and planned to wrap my body around them when the tents grew cold. But death was faster. 😭

We fled our home under shelling, and my father was in the hospital, unable to stand. I told them, "My father can't move." The soldier said, "It doesn't matter, leave." So we left... and my father was left alone, until his heart closed forever. 😔💔

On the way south, I walked for hours carrying two children in my belly, a bag in my hand, and the rest of my memories on my back.

I bled on the way.

I lost my twins there, on the asphalt, in front of my other children who couldn't even cry. 😭😭

The next day, I woke up and found them buried under the sand. No grave, no names.

Now, I'm seven months pregnant with my third child.

But anemia is tearing me apart, stress is breaking my head, and hunger is eating away at what's left of me.

I feel my baby pleading with me from within: "Mother, don't die."

And I apologize to him every day... because I can't promise him life.

“I am Wissam… I lost my father, my children, my home, and even my voice.

I don’t want to lose this child too.

Help me before I become another memory in this broken land.

My father was the only one I could place all my hopes and dreams on. He was the one who lifted me up whenever I fell, and held my hand when my steps faltered. In those dark days of war, I saw him strong in front of me. Even in moments of silence, his presence was enough to make me feel safe. He wasn't just the father I loved, he was my refuge, the hope I lived by. 😭💔

But one day, suddenly, that hope disappeared.

The sky was covered with heavy clouds, as if it knew what was going to happen. That day, I was at home, climbing on my tiptoes, holding on to any glimmer of hope, but when I entered our small room, I found my mother in the corner of the room crying, her face pale, her eyes filled with tears, and her mouth almost unable to speak. 💔😭

I couldn't believe what she was saying. My father, who had always been the strength in my life, was gone. In an instant, everything disappeared, and the words kept repeating in my head without me being able to understand them. "He's not coming back." Those words were harder than any blow I had ever received in my life. 😭😭

I felt like I was in a dark dream. How could my father disappear like that? How could time go on without his voice, without me seeing his face again? How much I needed him in those moments, how much I needed to hear his words of reassurance. But it was all over, and all that remained was the silence filling the emptiness around me. 💔

Every corner of the house became a tragedy. Everything reminded me of him, every corner, every smell, everything. I thought I would lose my ability to breathe. His absence was heavier than anything else. I cannot imagine a world without him, and I cannot see a future without his advice, without a hand to lift me up whenever I feel like I am drowning.

As I sit here, in that dark room, I remember everything about my father. How he used to laugh when I made small mistakes, how he used to hug me when the world was dark, and how his words filled my life with meaning. But now he's not here, and the emptiness in my heart can't be filled with anything else. Every time I close my eyes, I see him in every corner. I feel him, but I can't touch him. And despite all the pain, despite all the sadness, I know he's not coming back, that he's left me in this world, to face it alone.

He's gone, but a part of him, a part of his soul, will remain in my heart forever. Even though I can't hear his voice or see him, I carry his memories with me every step of the way, every moment. I've lost him, but I can never forget him.😭😔

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#30 Verified By @bilal-sala7 ✅️

Thank you 🩷

[artficlly]

his girls [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x reader alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, alpine is a troublemaker, secret dating, swearing, kissing, alcohol, tony knows all, natasha too, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: hello! once again a fic no one asked for lol. i'm supposed to be on hiatus buuut i took some time this afternoon to write this because i'm procrastinating a uni assignment. i'm sure this concept has been done before, but i was thinking about that scene in rivals with the dog (iykyk) and yeah! step away from the usual angst and heartbreak i normally provide you all with. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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You were careful.

Or at least, you thought you were careful.

For months, you and Bucky had kept your relationship under wraps. It wasn’t that you wanted to keep secrets from the team, but there was something thrilling about stolen moments and hushed conversations. About Bucky’s hand on the small of your back as he guided you through a crowded room, or the way he’d brush a kiss against your temple before disappearing down the hall.

You figured no one had noticed.

Until today.

It all started with one of many white hairs stuck to your t-shirt.

Natasha plucked it off you mid-conversation one morning in the kitchen while you were praying—desperately—to whatever all-seeing god might finally make the coffee machine work faster. Between the groaning, spluttering sounds and the blinking lights, it felt like the damn thing was possessed. With flawlessly manicured nails, Natasha held the hair up to the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the compound.

“Is this Alpine’s fur?” she mused aloud, twirling the long, pale strand between her fingers.

“Probably.” you replied absently, more concerned with the coffee machine’s latest refusal to cooperate. You jabbed the buttons harder, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes flickered with something dangerously close to amusement. 

“For all of Tony’s money, you’d think we’d have a coffee machine that actually works,” you grumbled.

“Turn around?” Natasha asked. There was a particular lilt to her voice, that barely concealed intrigue she tried—and failed—to mask whenever she was onto something. It set you on edge instantly, the tone that meant she was clicking a mystery into place, giddy with excitement beneath a thin veil of indifference. You didn’t trust it for a second.

“No, just—” You smacked the machine in frustration. It whined pathetically before the lights blinked off entirely. You let out a long, exasperated groan. “Why won’t this stupid fucking thing ever work—”

“Jesus, you’re covered in it—”

You froze mid-motion as Natasha yanked at your shirt, effectively grooming you like a monkey. Her sharp lips had turned up into a wicked smirk, the type of smirk that made dread pool in your gut. 

“Everything is covered in her fur,” you said quickly, still trying for casual. You reached for the plug, praying Natasha would drop it. “She sheds everywhere, especially on the couch.”

“Mm.” Natasha tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And yet, I thought Tony hired cleaners for that? Especially with Kate always bringing Lucky around?”

You yanked the plug from the socket a little too forcefully. “Honestly, Nat, I don’t know. I just want this damn machine to work.”

Right on cue, a familiar voice rumbled behind you.

“Machine giving you trouble again?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest before resuming its normal rhythm—though maybe a little faster. You turned just as Bucky strolled in, looking frustratingly good despite the early hour. His hair was a little dishevelled, sleep still clinging to him in a way that made him look too soft for someone who could snap a man’s spine in half.

“There’s a trick to it, remember?” He stepped in close beside you, skin brushing yours as he reached for the machine. The scent of his aftershave lingered, warm and familiar. You tried—and failed—not to watch the way the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins shifting beneath his skin as he pressed a series of buttons.

“Barnes, you’ve got cat hair all over you,” Natasha noted, not even bothering to be subtle. You didn’t dare look at her. Instead, you busied yourself wringing your hands, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of Bucky standing so damn close.

“Huh?” Bucky barely spared a glance at his shirt, where Alpine’s fur was unmistakably clinging to the fabric. “Oh. Yeah, guess I do. She always wants attention in the morning.”

Then, with one final smack, the machine roared to life. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air as liquid finally poured into your mug. You sighed in sheer relief.

“There you go,” Bucky said, looking down at you with a small smile, a few strands of dark hair falling across his forehead.

Your stomach did a stupid little flip. You smiled back, warmth creeping into your face. “Thanks.”

The machine beeped again, snapping you back to reality. You quickly grabbed the mug with both hands, muttered another thanks, and let Natasha tug you away.

“What was that?” She hissed, voice low as she turned to you with narrowed eyes.

“Huh?” You weren’t entirely listening to her words. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. You could still see Bucky standing in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for his own coffee. His back was turned, but even through the thin material of his fur-covered t-shirt, you could see the way his muscles shifted beneath it—

Natasha didn’t even humour your innocence. She crossed her arms. “You and Barnes?” 

“What about him?” You mumbled, pulling your gaze away as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.

Her lips twitched, amusement clear. “Are you two—?”

You made a face at her. “What are you on about?” 

Natasha didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

For now.

As the elevator hummed and Bucky was cut from your view as the doors shut, you took a sip of coffee, the liquid a few degrees between too hot and burning. It scalded your tongue, and with the phantom smell of Bucky’s aftershave no longer haunting you, you felt your mind snap back into action.

Right. Focus.

“We’re going to be late for the meeting,” you declared, shaking your head. “And that damn machine is the reason. You know what? Let’s take a detour to Stark’s lab and demand a better one.”

Natasha chuckled, pressing the button for a different floor.

“I like the way you think.”

—

You knew Alpine would be your downfall.

The little white menace was notoriously selective. If you weren’t Bucky, she wanted nothing to do with you. Everyone at the compound had suffered her wrath at least once—Sam even had the scars to prove it. Alpine liked to play dangerous games that usually ended in blood or a yowl of pain. You swore the Avengers bled more dealing with the feline than fighting aliens, wizards, or whatever else tried to obliterate Earth every other week. She was a cunning little creature, lurking around corners, hiding under tables, prowling along bookshelves. And just when you least expected it—bam. Teeth and claws bared, she would pounce, latching on like a tiny, vengeful spectre. This was her idea of fun. The Avengers had learned to tread carefully, tip-toeing around the compound whenever they knew she wasn’t safely curled up in Bucky’s room, where she ruled with an iron paw.

So, when you sat down on the couch one evening, and Alpine immediately hopped onto your lap, you knew you were fucked.

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as sniff at you in consideration before curling right up, purring loud enough to be heard over the football game droning on in the background—which you were only half paying attention to. 

You stiffened, caught between awe at the rare privilege and sheer dread at the witnesses currently gaping at you.

Bucky, for his part, had been sitting at the other end of the couch, flirting with danger in his usual way—stolen glances, conveniently placed touches as he shifted in place. Alpine, just as obsessed with him as you were (Bucky had taken to calling you both ‘his girls’ in private, which always managed to make you swoon.), had immediately perched in his lap when he sat down. Only when he carefully pried her off to grab another round of beers did the little white she-beast decide you were a worthy substitute, strutting over with lazy, languid confidence before settling down, blissfully unaware of what she had just unleashed.

The room fell into stunned silence. Several pairs of eyes locked onto you, breath collectively held. They were waiting for the yowl, for the inevitable attack, for you to tense up and leap to your feet in pain. But to your horror, the little sadist simply settled in. Cosy, unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.

“Okay, what the hell is this?” Sam finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger.

You blinked down at Alpine, then up at Sam, stroking the soft fur like nothing was amiss. “Uh… a cat?” 

You were foolish and desperate enough to pretend this was completely normal, to gaslight the others into believing Alpine was a perfectly gentle and affectionate cat. A sweet, loving companion. Not a tiny, vengeful menace who had terrorised them all—and definitely not a creature who had only warmed up to you in recent months because you spent more time in Bucky’s bed than your own.

“The same cat that tried to claw out my eyeball for getting too close? And now she’s just—” He gestured wildly at Alpine, who flicked her tail with the smugness of a queen on her throne. “—cuddling with you like you’re her best buddy?”

“She likes me, I guess.” You blinked innocently, turning back to the TV, hoping he would drop it, but Sam, ever the dramatic, was not satisfied.

“Are you kidding me? That cat has tried to kill me.”

Natasha snorted into her drink. 

Alpine smugly licked her paw before resting her head upon your thigh and blinking her wide blue eyes at Sam, who shook his head with an exaggerated shudder.  “This is bullshit, and you know it—”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Sam.” You huffed, scratching Alpine behind her ears. “She’s always been fine with me.”

“That is not true!” 

“She took a chunk out of my arm once,” Natasha added, ever the instigator.

“Remember when I gave her a treat and she bit me?” Steve piped up.

Bucky returned at that moment, frowning as he saw the conversation unfolding before him. You turned to him with wide, desperate eyes, silently pleading for help. Alpine, the little traitor, merely pressed her pink nose to your hand, rubbing her face against you with a contented sigh.

“She only likes people she’s comfortable with,” Bucky offered, setting the beers down with a clink, but his pitiful attempt to be helpful only added fuel to the fire.

The room exploded into a series of overlapping voices.

“I didn’t realise you spent so much time with Alpine?” Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her smirk primed to taunt you both. 

“Buck, doesn’t she spend all her time in your room—?” Steve leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, invested now.

Sam jolted upright like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now, hold on a second—”

“You have been covered in cat fur a lot lately,” Natasha mused. “And you two have been suspiciously close—”

As you glanced over at Bucky, you couldn’t tell if his repeated blunders were intentional or borne out of genuine panic. He cleared his throat, his brows raising as he casually popped off the cap of one of the beers with his vibranium thumb in faux nonchalance.

“Coincidence.” He muttered with a shrug, tipping back a mouthful of the brew. 

Alpine, completely oblivious (or entirely aware of the chaos she’d caused), didn’t budge as Bucky sat back down beside you, levelling you with a look that screamed we are so screwed.

“You two aren’t even going to try to lie?” Natasha pressed.

“Lie about what?” You feigned innocence, but the act was flimsy at best. The jig was well and truly up.

Bucky, clearly done with this little charade, let out a long-suffering sigh that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the telltale smirk tugging at his lips. Without another word, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you effortlessly against his chest, Alpine still coiled contentedly in your lap. The smug little she-beast didn’t even stir. She just purred loudly—too loudly, like she was taking credit for the entire thing.

“Wait a second!” Sam pointed a dramatic finger between the two of you. “How long has this been happening?”

“How long has what been happening?” Tony strolled into the room, a glass of amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey in hand.

“Her,” Steve announced, gesturing between the both of you. “And Barnes.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “Oh, I already knew that. You didn’t know that?”

Bucky turned so fast you were surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.  “You what?”

“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, making himself comfortable on the armrest of the couch like this was all just another day at the office. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of your room at ungodly hours for the past six months? F.R.I.D.A.Y. kept flagging intruders, and, shocker—it was just you two, utterly failing at stealth.”

Sam threw up his hands. “Did you say six months?!”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he just turned to you and, without hesitation, kissed you.

It was sudden but warm, his lips soft against yours like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The room erupted into even more noise, Sam shouting something unintelligible, Natasha making a sound of smug satisfaction, and Steve groaning like he should’ve known, but it all faded into the background.

You laughed against Bucky’s lips, breathless but entirely unbothered. “This is definitely her fault.”

Alpine, still purring in your lap like the devious little mastermind she was, flicked her tail.

Bucky just hummed, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Not complaining, though.”

And, truthfully, neither were you.

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

DISCORD BOYFRIEND KÖNIG

sfw + nsfw. this is just an amalgamation of all my ideas

könig has never been one for putting his face on social media. even before the scars that pull at the skin of his cheek, reshaping his expression in ways he’s never fully grown used to, the idea of being seen, really seen, has never sat right with him. there’s a certain comfort in anonymity, in keeping the world at arm’s length. easier that way. safer.

that unease, paired with what some might consider his more nerdy interests, means he gravitates toward spaces like discord rather than the highly curated feeds of instagram or facebook. there, he doesn’t have to worry about photos or videos— just a username, and a presence in text.

his handle is simple: king 👑. a nod to the name he’s carried for so long, stripped of rank, stripped of weight.

even in the server where he’s most active, he keeps things vague, blending into discussions about games, military history, or whatever niche interest has caught his attention that week.

every now and then, he’ll let something slip— a mention of deployment, an offhand comment, disappearing for months at a time, only to return with a sudden burst of activity. some put the pieces together. most don’t. and könig prefers it that way. it’s easier to let them think he’s just another guy with spotty internet.

your first interaction is rather simple in retrospect.

he’s back after weeks of recon, shaking off the mission like dirt from his boots, easing into the familiarity of a gaming server he’s called home for years.

it’s not a small server, so new people come and go. he does his usual routine— an automated, slightly impersonal welcome but what he doesn’t expect is the sheer enthusiasm in return.

“hi!!!!”

he stares at the message for a second, counting the exclamation marks. three. four. five? a small smile tugs at his lips before he even realizes it.

it doesn’t take long before you’re at his metaphorical side, sending a friend request before the conversation even shifts from your college courses.

the older members tease him. something about his last deployment scrambling his head enough to take a newbie under his wing. he lets them talk. he doesn’t mind.

soon enough, you’re in his private messages, dramatically lamenting your latest loss in a game he’s only vaguely familiar with. könig listens— well, reads— as you rant, words spilling out at a rapid-fire pace, interspersed with keyboard smashing and increasingly incoherent frustration.

he’s not much for new releases, preferring to sink his teeth into a single game for months on end, grinding away until mastery is muscle memory. still-

one evening, without preamble, he sends you a link. his profile. in your game.

the response is immediate. ‘king!!! 🥺’ you type, followed by an onslaught of keyboard mashing that takes up half his screen.

he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. he wonders if you know how easy it is to make him grin like an idiot.

the calls are… an unexpected development.

könig doesn’t make a habit to join server calls. ever. it’s not even about anxiety, not really, just preference. too many voices, too much noise. he never expected to be comfortable enough with anyone to want to be in a call, let alone initiate one.

but when you start gaming together, it becomes a necessity. typing mid-match isn’t exactly efficient, and you’re the first to point that out.

“okay, listen, king, i am not about to lose another ranked match just because you take five years to type ‘behind you.’” he huffs, amused, but relents.

soon enough, calls become second nature— no longer tied to gaming, no longer requiring an excuse. you always ask first, polite thing that you are, and könig always agrees. sometimes it’s an unspoken invitation, a simple “call?” sent in the quiet hours of the night. sometimes he beats you to it, pressing the button before he can think too hard about it.

one time, it’s you who calls. he answers on the first ring.

“are you- wait.” you pause, listening. there’s a distinct, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the background. not footsteps, but something heavier, more controlled. “are you on a treadmill?”

“mm.” his voice is steady, unaffected. a quiet confirmation.

you gasp, and he can practically hear the amusement brewing in your tone. “oh my god! you actually work out? i thought you were lying.”

he snorts, breath hitching slightly as he adjusts his pace. “why would i lie about that?”

“i don’t know! you just- i mean, you sit at your desk all day, playing the same game for hours, and you’re always online at weird times-”

“you are describing yourself,” he points out.

“shut up.”

there’s a pause, and then, with the kind of mischief that only comes from knowing exactly how to push his buttons, you add, “prove it.”

he slows to a walk, swiping open his phone. a moment later, you receive a picture. him, flexing. the lighting is dim, but you can still make out the cut of his forearm, the solid shape of his bicep. just to humor you, he throws up a peace sign.

“not stolen from pinterest.”

you burst into laughter so sudden and bright that he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.

you learn what it means to miss könig pretty early on.

it happens suddenly. one day, he’s there, active as usual, sending the occasional meme, idling in voice chat even if he’s not talking. the next? radio silence. not even a ‘typing…’ indicator.

at first, you don’t think much of it. maybe he’s sleeping in. maybe he’s busy. time zones are weird. it’s fine.

but then a whole day passes. then another. you check his status— nothing. not offline, not do not disturb, just… gone.

curiosity turns into concern, and before you can think better of it, you ask in the server.

“hey, anyone heard from king?”

the response is casual. unbothered. “oh, dude’s probably deployed again.”

you blink. reread the message. “deployed?”

“yeah, king’s military.”

there’s no warning for the way that statement knocks the air from your lungs.

military? as in, real-life combat? as in, war zones and danger and actual life-or-death situations?

you stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to even say to that.

he doesn’t resurface for weeks.

you don’t realize how much you’ve come to rely on his presence until it’s gone. his absence is loud in the quiet moments of your day, in the spaces where a message from him would normally be.

you check the server out of habit, catching yourself before you can search his username. it’s stupid, you think. you barely know him. he’s just some guy from a discord server.

but the worry lingers.

and then, one day, just like that— he’s back.

his return is as unceremonious as his disappearance.

no dramatic entrance, no fanfare. just a simple “hello.”

you see it the moment he sends it. your stomach flips.

before you can stop yourself, you send a private message. “you’re alive.”

a moment passes. then— “yes.”

you frown. “you were gone for weeks.”

“i know.”

frustration bubbles up. “you could’ve said something.”

“i couldn’t.”

you hesitate, fingers tightening around your phone. you don’t know what you were expecting. an explanation? reassurance? but it’s clear you’re not getting one.

but then, a follow-up message. one that feels heavier, more careful. “i’m sorry.”

and just like that, the irritation dissolves.

it’s strange, the way things slip back into place after that.

he doesn’t talk about it, and you don’t ask. but something shifts. after that deployment, könig starts telling you when he’ll be gone. nothing in detail, really. just a simple, “i’ll be away for a bit.”

(it means everything.)

slowly, you get used to it. the rhythm of his presence and absence, the way your conversations pick up right where they left off, as if no time has passed at all.

it goes on for months. this… thing between the two of you. könig doesn’t hesitate to call it friendship, though he knows, knows, it’s something else entirely.

something with edges softer than companionship, something that lingers in the pauses between conversation, in the way you had whispered his real name under your breath when he revealed it to you.

he doesn’t rush to name it. doesn’t push. he lets it simmer until it feels inevitable.

in the end, it’s you who breaks first. technically. not that he’s keeping score. not that he would ever rub it in your face, especially when he was a mere day away from asking the very same thing.

it starts with a message. no preamble, no buildup. just a simple: hey, what are we?

könig sees it and reacts before thinking. presses the call button so fast his thumb practically smashes the screen. it rings once, twice—

“you didn’t even ask.” your voice comes through, half exasperated, half amused.

“didn’t want to give you time to unsend.” his own voice is steady, but his heart is anything but.

you huff. “bold assumption.”

“not really.”

a pause. he hears you shift, fabric rustling, the sound of you settling in. something warm and slow uncoils in his chest at the familiarity of it.

“so,” you start, hesitant. “what’s your answer?”

könig exhales, tipping his head back against his pillow. “do you want the truth?”

“obviously.”

he hums, considering. in reality, he’s known the truth for a while now. probably before you even realized it yourself.

“i like you,” he says, simple, sure. then, because he knows you, because he knows your deflections, your habit of teasing when you get nervous, he adds, “and i’m very aware you like me back.”

you sputter. “that’s a bold assumption-”

“not really,” he repeats, smug this time.

you groan, but you’re laughing, and it sends something bright flickering through him.

könig doesn’t ask for nudes. not once. he flirts, he teases, but never pushes. he knows your boundaries, respects them, never even hints at wanting more. if anything, he’s careful. too careful, sometimes. like he’s afraid of crossing a line you haven’t even drawn.

so when you finally send something, it’s your choice.

the first picture is tame. barely anything. it's a shot of your thighs, soft and warm in the low light of your room. nothing scandalous. nothing too revealing. but the second you hit send, your stomach twists with nerves.

könig sees it immediately. you watch the typing bubble appear, disappear, then appear again. and then— “fuck.”

you grin. “good?”

“you have no idea.”

it only escalates from there.

könig never requests more. but when you send it, when you want to send it, his reaction is worth it. he worships you through the screen, tells you how beautiful you are, how much he wishes he could touch you.

“pretty,” he texts once, attached to a voice message.

you press play. his breath is ragged, like he’s just run a mile. “pretty thing,” he repeats, voice tinged with something almost reverent. “you’re going to ruin me, love.”

the first time he sends you something, it takes him forever to work up to it.

you don’t ask for it. wouldn’t dream of pushing him into something he’s not comfortable with. könig isn’t shy, necessarily, but he’s private. you know that by now.

so when, out of nowhere, a picture pops up on your screen, your brain short-circuits.

it’s cropped carefully, but there’s no mistaking what you’re looking at— bare skin, broad shoulders, his stomach flexed just slightly.

“you like?” he texts after a minute.

you swallow hard. “yes.”

“good.” and then— “more?”

you bite your lip. “please.”

könig gets bolder after that.

he sends more. never too much, always teasing, always just enough to leave you wanting. sometimes it’s his hands, sometimes it’s his abs, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the waistband of his sweatpants hanging just low enough to make your mouth water.

one night, he sends a voice message instead. you press play.

at first, all you hear is his breathing. then, slowly, softly— your name, whispered through a noise that makes heat bloom low in your stomach.

“wish you were here,” he murmurs. “wish you could see what you do to me.”

the actual nudes don’t take long. not ar all. you’re both desperate. buzzing. könig’s the one who caves first.

it starts with your text. 10 p.m., the hour where inhibitions slip through grasping fingers like sand.

“wanna see your cock so bad, könig…” you murmur to your propped phone, cheek pressed to your pillow, another one stuffed against your chest like it might replace the hollow ache between your ribs. a distraction. a poor substitute.

on the other side of the screen, he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. fingers tensing, then flexing, like he needs something to hold onto. “love-” your whine cuts through before he can even think. instinctive. needy. his stomach clenches. “okay, okay. as long as you're sure.”

his heart pounds as he opens his photos. he doesn’t exactly collect dick pics, but there are a few kept locked away, private albums, a passcode he suddenly fumbles to enter.

three minutes. that’s how long it takes to choose the best one. the right angle. the right lighting. enough to make your breath hitch when you see it.

he hits send before he can overthink it, then leans back, phone balanced on his thigh, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

your phone buzzes. the photo pops up. you blink, breath hitching sharp in your throat.

“oh my god.” the words spill out of you before you can even think to stop them. “könig…” you stare at the screen, gaze locked on the thick, heavy length of him. the way it curves slightly, resting against his thigh like it’s weighed down by its own sheer mass. your breath stutters.

“you're so fucking big.” it barely registers that you've said it aloud.

“yeah? you like it?

“like it?” you shoot back. “i want it inside me.”

his breath leaves him in one harsh exhale. he shifts, hips rolling involuntarily like he can feel your words on his skin.

“can i see you too?” he sounds so polite. and then, as if that wasn’t enough to twist the knife deeper— “please?”

your stomach flips. you bite your lip, already reaching for your phone camera, the need to show him everything burning through you like wildfire.

your breath comes shallow as you slip your hand lower, phone steady in the other. the need is a pulse under your skin, throbbing, insistent. you pull the covers back just enough, the cool air prickling against the heat between your thighs.

the camera catches everything. your slightly parted thighs, your swollen clit, the wetness gushing out of your hole. it feels like baring a secret you’ve never told anyone. you hesitate for half a second, heart racing, then hit send.

the second the message disappears from your screen, it hits you— you just sent that to him.

on his end, könig freezes. the photo loads slow, torturous, and when it finally pops up, he feels his whole body tense, blood rushing south so fast it’s dizzying. “f-fuck, i need to be inside of you-”

sex with könig, if you can even call it that, at first, sneaks up on you. you never thought you’d be the kind of person who got into this. sending texts that made your face burn, leaving voice messages you could barely listen back to without cringing. but with him, it’s different. easier. less embarrassing because it’s him.

still, going from nudes to actual phone sex takes some time.

“gonna sleep,” könig texts you once, attached to a blurry photo of his bed.

“alone?” you send back, teasing.

the typing bubble appears. then disappears. then— “obviously.”

you grin at your phone, satisfied. but then— “but i could use some company.”

you stare at the message longer than you’d like to admit.

in the past, you hadn't told him how many times you’d dreamt of him because you thought you'd scare him off, kept your mouth shut about the images that haunted you at night, of his hands pinning you down, his mouth at your throat.

didn't tell him that you had woken up panting, arousal between your thighs, könig’s name on your lips too many times. didn't tell him that you had pressed your hand against your clit during your calls, to the sound of his voice, to his laugh, to the quiet, wrecked groans he sometimes lets out when he stretches after a workout.

but you wanted to.

and tonight, you would.

the conversation turns slow. lazy. heavy with something unspoken.

“you sound tired,” könig murmurs, voice warm. he’s always like this late at night. soft, unhurried, like he’s sinking into the sound of you.

you swallow hard. your skin feels too hot, too tight. “i’m not.”

a pause. then, lower— “what is it, love?”

you hesitate, pressing your lips together. it’s too much. too embarrassing. but he knows something is different.

“talk to me. tell me what you’re thinking.”

you let out a shaky breath. “i had a dream about you.”

the silence stretches.

you can hear him inhale. you bite your lip. force yourself to continue. “i think about you. when i-” you stop. you can’t say it. can’t admit it.

könig exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself. “when you what?”

your stomach is a knot of nerves. but you want this. want him. so you take a breath, close your eyes. “when i touch myself.”

his breath stutters.

“fuck.” the word is almost a groan. your pulse hammers, blood rushing through your ear as heat pools in your stomach.

“könig,” you whisper.

he exhales, whispers his next words like a beg, “say it again.”

you swallow. “i touch myself to you.”

“i do too.”

your stomach flips. “what?”

“i-” he cuts himself off with a quiet curse, like he's frustrated with himself for hesitating. “i touch myself to you too.”

your breath catches. heat blooms in your chest, spreading down your spine. “könig-”

“all the time.” his voice is lower now, raw, like he's aching with it. “when i can't sleep. when you're on call with me, laughing, teasing me. when i wake up hard in the middle of the night and can’t stop thinking about stuffing you full.”

your body is burning again, despite the aftershocks still rolling through you. you're about to choke out a reply when you hear it— the rustle of fabric, the faint creak of bedsprings, the wet slide of skin on skin.

“are you-”

a sharp inhale. “yes.”

“let me hear you,” you whisper, thinking about his pretty, pretty cock. uncut, soft skin stretched over the flushed head, the way it would slide back when he’s fully hard, revealing the deep pink of his leaking tip. the veins that wind down the length, standing out against the pale skin

there's a pause, a hitch in his breath. then, slowly— “okay.”

there's a small rustle, könig adjusting himself on the bed. the faint sound of him pumping lotion on his hand. a quiet sigh. and then, a low grunt as the warmth of his palm wraps around his cock.

könig looks down at his hand, eyes half-lidded, hips bucking up in small thrusts. he imagines your pussy instead of his fist, hot and tight and so fucking warm, fluttering around his length as he pushes in, spearing you open with a cock too big for your little cunny.

he knows you’d cry for him, little gasps and hiccupped moans, squirming beneath him as he bullies his cock deeper, past that tight ring of muscle into the slick, warm clutch of your cunt.

“a-ah- fuck, ah-”

your breath stutters at the sounds, hips grinding against your palm. “wish i could see you.”

“on cam?”

you groan, squeezing your thighs around the pillow in-between your legs, grinding your clit against the material softly. “yes, please..”

fuck, you're so polite.

[sugoroo]

#AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES...

ʚɞ summary: the chronicles of what happens when you share a living space with the jjk men: expect tension, embarrassing revelations and (of course) séx! . . . ft. gojo, geto, toji, choso + nanami.

warnings. fem!reader, masturbation, panty stealing, plushie humping in choso's, penetration (p in v), doggystyle, oral (f receiving), 18+ minors dni.

SATORU GOJO — THE LOUD ONE!

satoru gojo is the most irritating, annoying and overly loud roommate you could possibly have.

at all hours of the day, he can be heard through the thin walls separating your rooms doing one (or all) of the following things: shouting down the phone to his bestfriend suguru, raging at his teammates for losing a match in a video game... and even jerking off.

yes, that's right.

and whatever satoru is doing to himself in there simply cannot feel good enough that it warrants the sheer amount of obnoxious moans that he releases; you're sure of it. he has to be playing it up purely to get on your nerves — and to his credit, it works.

so eventually, after yet another hour of trying to focus on doing some work on your computer but being unable to get anything done due to the noises coming from the other room of the apartment, you decide to do something about it.

without stopping to knock, you unceremoniously barge through his door, mouth already open in preparation of the spew of complaints you have ready to throw his way.

but, rather embarrassingly, once you lay eyes upon what he's currently doing, any and every word in the english language disappears from your mind without so much as a puff of smoke.

satoru, for his part, doesn't react at all save for looking mildly amused at your reaction. in fact... you think the pale hand he has wrapped around his cock even speeds up its languid strokes at the sight of you.

"girl, finally!" he sighs dramatically, lips spreading into a wide, impish smile as he beckons you with the curled finger of his other hand. "been waiting for you to get the hint for months now. i was starting to think you didn't want me too, honestly."

"you— what?" you push out awkwardly, wincing through your confusion as you fight the fruitless battle to tear your eyes from his unnecessarily big cock and meet his bright eyes.

"you heard me," satoru hums with an easy shrug, letting out one of those all-too-familiar, almost pornographic moans when he squeezes his own hand around the leaky tip of his shaft. "...or do you not want me too?"

sighing, you raise your thumb and forefinger to rub your stressed temple, shaking your head at the sheer audacity of this man. "you're ridiculous, gojo. i was hoping you were just pretending to jerk off in here— but no, of course you actually are."

"mhmm," he groans raspily between increasingly loud squelches of his cock. wait; is your scolding only helping him get off even faster? oh, you can't make this shit up. "keep talkin' to me just like that, baby."

"first of all, don't call me baby," you scoff, jabbing an accusing finger in his direction with a scowl etching its way onto your features. "and secondly, if you're gonna do this... stuff right next-door to me, can't you atleast try to keep it down? some of us have work to do."

satoru rolls his eyes at this, as if he's somehow the one being inconvenienced here; but any real irritation quickly evaporates into pleasure when he starts fondling his heavy balls, tongue lewdly lolling out of his mouth like a bitch in heat.

"i-i'll keep quiet. shit— i'll do whatever you fuckin' want if you just... just get me over the edge here, pretty girl. hah— help a guy out, would you, roomie?"

and damn if that isn't an enticing offer. finally getting rid of the noise around here so you can actually submit a work assignment on time for once?

yeah... you're definitely on board.

"fine," you mutter, attempting to sound as uninterested as possible as you shuffle closer to the bed. "what do you want me to do, gojo? and don't even bother asking me to suck your dick or anything, because who knows the last time you properly washed that—"

satoru snorts out a strangled laugh, shaking his head quickly and peering up at you with wide, darkened cerulean eyes. "n-no... not that. just— just talk to me, please? and call me satoru, not gojo, damn."

"okay..." you huff thoughtfully, brainstorming what you can say to get this over as quickly as possible. eventually, you purr: "are you gonna be a dirty boy and make a mess all over your hand for me, satoru? hmm?"

and, to your surprise and... arousal? that's all it takes to get him to explode, thick ropes of sticky white cum trickling from the reddened tip of his cock as he whines in ecstasy.

huh. maybe your work can wait a little longer.

SUGURU GETO — THE ONE WHO MAKES YOUR PANTIES GO POOF!

suguru geto is a man of many talents.

but in his humble opinion, the one he is most proficient at? oh, it has to be stealing various pairs of his cute little roommate's panties without her even taking notice.

yeah; that's right, his entire underwear drawer is not actually filled with articles of his own clothing, but rather with scraps of material he has swiped from your room over the past few months.

"ugh, i lost another pair of panties!" comes a frustrated groan from you room; you must be on the phone to one of your friends, suguru muses. "i swear, it's like there's a black hole at the bottom of that washer or something."

ah, if only you knew.

if only you knew that while you're busy stressing over the mystery of your missing underwear, suguru is slumped just against the other side of the thin wall that separates your rooms, one of the aforementioned pairs wrapped tightly around his throbbing cock.

he does this more often than he would like to admit — waits until he hears you get on the phone to jerk himself off. why? well, because then he can listen to your pretty voice while he bucks up into his fist. that's why.

"such a clueless girl..." suguru mutters under his breath as his eyes flutter closed, letting himself get lost in the combination of the soft fabric of your panties surrounding his shaft and the sound of you speaking ringing in his ears. "has no idea where her precious underwear keeps wandering off to."

meanwhile, on the other side of the wall, you have a mischievous smile pulling at your lips as you pretend to be utterly oblivious about your panty thief to your confused friend on the other end of the phone.

as if you wouldn't work out it was suguru snatching them — after all, who else could it possibly be? but you figured it was better this way, letting him think he's holding all the cards in this situation.

it only makes it all the more enjoyable for you.

leaning a little closer to the wall, you can faintly hear the familiar sounds of him getting himself off as you slowly dip a hand beneath your own skirt; and you're not wearing underwear, of course, because you don't have a single pair left thanks to your roommate.

you end up dropping the phone carelessly to the ground when suguru's deep, satisfied groan sounds out from his room, eyes rolling back in ecstasy as his orgasm swiftly brings you to your own.

so lost in your own pleasure are you that when the door softly clicks open, you don't have time to compose yourself before suguru strolls right on in, seeming much too casual for someone who just came in his hand.

"well well well," suguru hums smugly, tilting his head to the side and peering down at you with a condescending smile. "what do we have here, hmm? did you really think you could outsmart me, beautiful?"

oh.

maybe you really are clueless if you genuinely thought he didn't know you were pretending to be as such... but would it really be such a bad thing if he decides to punish you for your attempt at deception?

TOJI FUSHIGURO — THE ONE WHO NEVER PAYS RENT!

toji rarely (if ever) pays his part of the rent for your shared apartment.

he doesn't even bother trying to lie to you and tell you he'll scrounge up enough cash to cover it next time it's due, because he already knows you wouldn't buy that for a second.

so, instead, he offers you something else to keep you sated. something that he can say without a shadow of a doubt he can give to you better than anyone else could even hope to.

cock.

because if he keeps you in a perpetual state of bliss underneath the sheets of his bed, how can you possibly have any time remaining to think of such trivial things like paying the entire monthly rent on your own?

"mmm... what was i saying again, toji?" you slur, voice just delirious with pleasure as he pounds into you from behind, one strong hand effortlessly keeping your face pressed against the mattress.

"nothin', baby," toji lies easily, threading his thick fingers through the back of your hair in a distractingly tender gesture as his mean hips keep up their ruthless pace. "just relax and let y'erself feel me, yeah?"

"but—" you protest weakly, followed by an involuntary hiccup as his pudgy cockhead reaches that spongy spot inside of you once again. "i have a feeling it was important..."

"nah," he grunts dismissively, free hand snaking down to where your bodies are connected to rub messy, stimulating circles around the puffy bud that is your clit. "don't worry about it, pretty."

"...okay. if you say so." you mumble eventually, brain far too hazy from his skilful ministrations to bother putting up much of a fight against his convincing words.

toji's scarred lips spread into a victorious grin behind your back at how easily you give in. he just loves having you like this — so cockdrunk you can't even remember what you were talking about from one moment to the next.

and when the time inevitably comes for you to pay the rent on behalf of both of you yet again, he already knows you won't bat an eye; because, in the big scheme of things, what's a little cash matter if it means you get to have access to his sinful dick game whenever you so desire?

yeah... he'd say it's a pretty fair trade.

but the best part of all is that toji thinks he's the mastermind behind this little arrangement when in reality, if you were looking for a roommate who could pay their rent, you would never have picked someone who looks as jobless as he does in the first place.

but you'll continue to let him believe it was his idea; because, after all, he fucks you better when he's feeling proud of himself.

CHOSO KAMO — THE SECRETLY PERVERTED ONE!

choso doesn't mean to be perverted; not really.

but whether intentional or not, he finds himself desperate for anything that reminds him of you each time he gets himself off: a t-shirt, a pair of underwear, or even one of the cute little plushies you have lined up on your bed.

he wonders, fleetingly, what you'd think of him if you could see him humping one of your stuffed toys while you're out at work — would you be disgusted? would you kick him out and start the search for a new roommate?

or would you, just maybe... take pity on the poor boy and lend him a helping hand?

by the benevolence of some undefined higher power, choso doesn't have to mull over the answer to his question for much longer. because apparently, he was so desperate to release the desire coursing through his veins that he forgot to check the time before starting like he usually would.

so when he hears the tell-tale sign of the door opening and indicating that you've just come home from work, he has nowhere near enough time to cover up what he's been up to in your room while you were gone.

well, shit.

"hey cho, what are you doing in my— oh." comes your dumfounded voice as you peek your head around the slightly ajar doorway, eyes widening in a manner akin to a cartoon character at the sight of his sinful state.

choso blushes profusely, attempting to hide his face by ducking it into his shoulder with a muffled whimper of embarrassment. to his horror, his pathetically hard cock is fully exposed to your view, nestled between the soft limbs of one of your plushies where he had previously been thrusting.

you both stay completely silent for a few long moments, neither of you daring to move a single muscle... but it isn't long before your body is climbing onto the bed to join him before your mind can even begin to process your movements.

"w-what are you doing?... are you gonna hit me? because that would be okay, you can d-definitely hit me if you want!" choso squeaks hurriedly, peeking out from his shoulder and looking for all the word like a puppy who just got caught doing something naughty by its owner.

"i'm not gonna hit you, choso," you chuckle softly, carefully tugging your abused, slightly sticky plushie out from underneath him and tossing it away. "i wanna help you. don't you wanna try doing that to something other than a stuffed toy, hmm?"

"...oh, f-fuck!" he whines loudly, hips rutting just once against the mattress before his cock cruelly betrays him and spurts buckets of cum at the mere thought of being inside of you.

choso hides his face in shame again, figuring he must've absolutely ruined his chances with you now. because there's no way you would still want to help him after witnessing that little display, right?

wrong.

when you tug his head away from his shoulder by one of his scraggly pigtails and pull him into a searing kiss, he realizes maybe his pretty little roommate was just as perverted as him all along.

KENTO NANAMI — THE RESPECTFUL ONE!

kento is very fond of you; his sweet roommate who always wakes him up for work in the morning if he happens to accidentally oversleep and leaves him homemade dinner in the fridge to cheer him up after a late shift.

he figures these things making him feel attraction towards you is fairly normal — but it's the other, not-so-intentional things that make him go crazy for you the most.

when he spots you walking around the apartment in nothing but one of his oversized shirts and a pair of socks because your clothes are in the communal washer... or when he silently observes you bend over to grab something from the bottom cupboard in the kitchen?

yeah, those are the things that really make it hard for him not to pounce on you like some kind of feral animal.

it all comes to a crux when you come home in tears one night, babbling about your fool of a boyfriend having the audacity to cheat on you. hmph, nanami never liked him anyway.

but there's no time for petty jealousies now — no, now is the time for him to make you realize that what you've been craving has been here all along, living in the room right next-door to yours.

so he pulls you into a gentle kiss, pouring all of his pent-up affection into the gesture as he effortlessly lifts you up onto the kitchen counter, positioning himself between your spread legs.

"i want to make you forget about him, beautiful," nanami whispers, voice rough with sincereness as he places a soft peck on the corner of your lips. "may i?"

and you're nodding shakily, but it isn't enough. he reaches up with a large hand to grasp your chin in a firm yet tender grip, thumb stroking over your skin. "use your words for me, dear. come on, i know you can do it."

"y-yes. please, kento."

and that's all it takes for nanami to fall to his knees, brushing his lips over the insides of your thighs as he slowly works his way upwards. god, he's wanted to do this for so long — if for nothing else then to thank you for taking such good care of him and never asking for anything in return.

but oh, is he going to give you something in return now; specifically, in the form of his hot mouth attached to your cunt, tongue lapping up every drop of your translucent juices as if it were the finest wine on the menu of a high class restaurant.

he can't help but wonder, while he's buried nose-deep in your sweet pussy, why on earth a man would choose to cheat on a goddess such as yourself.

but he supposes it doesn't matter, if it means that he's the one who finally gets to worship at your altar from now and for as long as you'll allow him the honour of doing so.

© 2024 SUGOROO. please don't copy or translate any of my works without my explicit permission. all rights are reserved to me.

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!

[ghostsprincess]

I can't stop thinking about Ghost being such a gentleman when your boyfriend is an ass....

warning: domestic abuse, adult language

💀

You were mortified that it happened at work this time...

Your boyfriend was a brute of a man, made worse over the months by drinking alone at night while you bartended to help pay down your student debts from several years ago. He got a little rough with you, but only when he was plastered. And you forgave him, because he was decent the rest of the time.

But suddenly you had to start coming to the pub to pull pints with a little extra makeup on your face. The random patrons out for a casual drink wouldn't have noticed, but your regular boys did. You only knew them by Ghost and Soap. They were military and mean looking, but they laughed together like teenage schoolmates. It was always a good night when they sat at the bar, but you could often feel their eyes on you.

"Y' alright, love?" Ghost asked the first night you wore extra eye makeup and a bright red lipstick.

"Yes," you told him, not meeting his eyes. Your face hurt. Your boyfriend had slapped you two days ago. Your skin was puffy and bruised, and you were embarrassed and afraid to move out, so you stayed. "You boys need another round?"

They left you a sizable tip. They always did.

The next time you saw them, your lip was split open, and you were desperate for a way out of the mess your life had turned into. Trying to hide your face while you mixed drinks was a chore, and as soon as Ghost and Soap arrived, you knew it was useless.

When Soap disappeared toward the washrooms, Ghost leaned across the bar, his hulking shoulders taking up more than their fair of space, making you smile slightly. His voice was deep and soft, but his words made you shiver and freeze with your hand on a pint glass. "Y' know, a pretty little thing like you belongs on a pedestal. A man should touch you with reverence."

You stared at him silently as his eyes tracked the mark on your lip. When Soap returned, you didn't charge them a cent for their drink, but they tipped you well anyway.

When a confrontation happened at the bar, tears stung your eyes, and you wanted to hide. Your boyfriend was drunk and angry, and tonight he beckoned you from behind the bar to a dark corner near the hallway where he could have some privacy while he berated you and roughed you up.

"Please," you begged, running your hands nervously on your shirt. "Just go home. I'll be off work in an hour."

"How many of them have you fucked?"

"What?" you gasped, thinking he'd finally lost it. "What are you talking about? I need to get back to work."

He pushed you up against the wall with his other hand on your jaw. "How many of the men here tonight have you fucked?" His thumb brushed the spot on your lip that was nearly healed, and you flinched. "You have the guiltiest expression. So, tell me how much of a slut you've been. As your boyfriend, I need to keep you in line."

Then he was being hauled away from you as your legs shook. With wide eyes, you watched Ghost's massive bicep wrap around his neck like it was nothing. "Y' alright, love?" he asked you softly, and you nodded without saying a word. Then his face darkened, and his voice was an angry snarl as he told your boyfriend, "Ya' been relieved of your duties."

"The fuck?" he responded from his headlock, gasping for air.

Ghost sighed and rolled his eyes. "Fuckin' prick don't even know military protocol." Then he raised his voice a little louder. "I said, ya' been relieved of your duties. I'll take over from here."

Somehow, you found your voice. "Take over?"

Ghost's face softened again when he looked at you there against the narrow hallway wall. "With the boyfriend duties," he told you while Soap dragged your ex-boyfriend toward the exit. "Sound good, love?"

He was holding out his big paw of a hand, palm facing up, and you knew he'd be incapable of using it to hurt you. The softness in his gaze right now and every time he looked at you was proof enough of that. You didn't respond, but you smiled as you slid your hand into his grasp.

"That'll do for now," he grunted.

That was the night you came to know him as Simon.

💀

Part two

[undyingdecay]

pairing: robert reynolds x reader cw: smut, afab reader, phone sex, pillow humping, faint overstimulation, mentions of nursing, mentions of breeding.

this had been your third away mission this month. 

you and ava—who still didn’t talk much unless it was necessary—had been flown out to mazar-i-sharif, a city currently red-flagged in quiet backchannels between the cia and what was left of stark intelligence. there were reports of reality seams warping in the industrial district, things slipping through and slithering back—too fast to record, too quiet to leave proper trace. the initial scout team sent out—disguised, civilian—had stuck out like fucking neon in a blackout. none made it back. one body was recovered, bloated and arched backwards like it had been hit with a concussive blast inside its own skull. a single tooth embedded in the inner cheek.

being part of the so-called “new avengers” made your gut churn with something like betrayal. not just guilt. the name “new” carried a kind of sacrilege in it, like pissing on an open grave and calling it progress. it was a marketing team’s word—something valentina must have approved while chewing her way through a cocktail olive and a classified kill list. natasha. steve. even sam had ghosted off radar, half the team scattered or dead or morally gutted. “new” meant hollow.

you and ava tried not to talk about that. you blended as best you could. ava knew how to disappear; you knew how to talk. it worked.

by the seventh club of the night—a collapsed-looking industrial rave wedged into a half-burnt bakery—you were raw-eyed and bone-tired. the music had teeth. the air reeked of cheap rum, cannabis tar, and that too-sweet, too-human scent of sweat and sex. the man wasn’t there. neither of you had even a quarter ounce of faith in the blurry polaroid that had come paper-clipped to the mission folder. ava didn’t even look at it. you had stared at it until you swore it moved.

you called it a night. no leads. nothing but phantom static and whispered names: “the gold man,” “shining eyes,” “godflesh.”

once you’d gotten back to the hotel—an over-warm maze of marble and carpets worn to threads—you muttered a soft “goodnight, ava,” and she returned it without looking at you.

you peeled out of your mission gear like shedding skin. the hot water from the shower felt criminally good. you wrapped yourself in a towel that smelled faintly of bleach and cigarette smoke, then finally dropped into bed. the hotel’s linen was too soft, luxurious in a way that felt untrustworthy. like it had been cleaned too well. like it had something to hide.

you reached for your phone without thinking.

and then you froze.

the screen lit up, casting a cold white glow over your face—and what stared back at you made your stomach drop. a few texts from bob earlier that morning, just the usual: updates, soft check-ins, his quiet way of saying he missed you without actually using the word. but then—beginning at 10:47 pm and flooding up until three minutes ago—your entire notifications tab was nothing but his name. call after call. message after message. some in all lowercase, your name typed out like a chant. others blank. just missed connections. pleas, maybe. the sheer volume of it made your skin prickle.

you glanced at the hotel clock. 11:52.

you didn’t even bother scrolling through the texts. the knot forming in your chest was too tight, too familiar. you hit “call” immediately, heart crawling up your throat with the kind of panic you usually reserved for the aftermath of gunfire or something moving behind your reflection.

it rang once.

then—his voice.

not even his full voice. just a breathy, broken whisper of your name, dragged out and trembling like it hurt to say. a soft whine that slipped through the line like he was trying to crawl through it.

in the background, something wet echoed faintly—too loud, too slick, unmistakable in its rhythm. the kind of sound you knew couldn’t be faked. there was too much of it.

“‘m sorry—couldn’t help it.”

the desperation in his voice was so thick it lodged in your chest, cracked open something you weren’t ready to look at too closely. warmth stirred low in your belly, sharp and immediate.

“tell me what’s the matter, baby,” you cooed, soft and coaxing, a slow sweetness that you knew would ruin him. you heard the stutter of breath, the shudder on the other end of the line—and then a choked, broken sob.

“need—more,” he gasped. “need you, please.”

your fingers tightened around the phone.

“are you touching yourself the way i taught you to?” the question came out hushed, threaded with something tender beneath the heat.

it had taken time—real time—for bob to even see masturbation as something other than a task. something he rushed through with clinical detachment, like brushing his teeth. just another way to get his body to shut up. before you, it was never pleasure. it was barely release. just something to get over with, to check off in silence before staring at the ceiling again and wondering if he still belonged to himself.

“mhm,” he breathed.

you heard the shift of fabric, the rustle of movement as he repositioned. his voice came through again, this time soaked in shame and need both: “i wanna touch you—please, can i use your pillow? mine won’t feel the same… it—it doesn’t smell like you.”

you sighed, deep and indulgent. as if you weren’t already aching. as if your thighs weren’t already pressing together.

of course you were going to say yes. you always did. bob using your pillow as a makeshift toy wasn’t exactly a surprise anymore. it had become a habit. one you were still trying to break him of—not because you didn’t like the thought, but because it was a nightmare to clean. you’d caught him more than once trying to sneak it into the laundry pile like it hadn’t been completely soaked through the night before.

but what did catch you off guard—what dragged a small, stunned exhale from your lips—was the sudden flicker of movement on your screen.

his camera had turned on.

the phone had been propped up against the lamp on his nightstand in a rush, tilted just enough for you to see the full, devastating picture: bob, flushed and panting, his boxers shoved halfway down those strong thighs. a plain white t-shirt clenched between his teeth, his jaw tight from biting down. his chest heaved. his arms were braced on either side of your pillow, caging it in like it was alive—like it was you.

his hair was damp and curling against his forehead, clinging in slick strands. his hips were moving in slow, desperate grinds. the pillow beneath him was already soaked.

“you’re such a pretty boy, bob,” the words tumbled from your lips unfiltered, thick with heat. you didn’t even realize you’d spoken until you heard the tiny, helpless whimper he gave in response.

you shifted under the covers, already sinking down into them. your hand slipped beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts without hesitation. your body answered for you.

patience.

but just barely.

“oh—oh! fuck—”

bob’s voice pitches up, ragged, cracking in a way that sounds like it’s being wrenched out of him, not spoken. you hear the slap of skin against fabric and the low, animal creak of the bedframe with every thrust. the rhythm’s brutal now, desperate and without elegance—he’s fully rutting against the pillow like something that forgot how to be human, all survival and instinct and you.

tiny, pitiful 'uh-huh's slip from his throat like affirmations, little nods to some fantasy playing out behind his glassy eyes. your name gets lost in there too, choked on the back of each whine like it’s the only word he knows anymore. you can’t even tell if he’s aware he’s saying it, or if it’s just muscle memory now—etched into him like scar tissue, something old and automatic, something holy.

and despite the slight tilt of the camera—angled just-so against the lamp, like he couldn’t even wait to set it properly—you can see it. all of it.

his cock, flushed and leaking, glistening wet in the low yellow light of his room, absolutely soaking the pillow beneath him. the precome is everywhere—slicking down the shaft in thick ropes, pooling at the head, gluing soft chestnut curls to his pelvis in damp little tufts. a dark, spreading circle blooms on the pillowcase like a halo, obscene and devotional, a shrine made of mess.

the cotton’s clinging to him now. you can tell it’s started to catch—too saturated to offer any friction anymore, but still he grinds against it like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. like if he stops, he’ll fall off the planet completely.

“fuck, fuck—please,” he keens, voice cracking, “are you… are you touching yourself? please, just wanna make you feel good, ‘jus wanna—”

his words dissolve into a hitching moan, his hips stuttering.

the way he says it—make you feel good—it’s not about control. not with bob. it’s always been about purpose. something to do with his hands that isn’t destruction. something to be useful for, other than ripping the sky in half. it’s service. it’s worship. he wants your pleasure like a man wants salvation, like maybe if he brings you there, he’ll be pulled from the pit too.

and it hits you then—how much of bob exists in this exact moment. every part of him that doesn’t know how to exist quietly. every ugly, wanting corner he doesn’t show the others. not to walker. not to bucky. not even val. none of them would believe this part of him even existed—the part that mewls your name while soaking through your pillow, raw and exposed and beautiful in a way that would terrify them.

you let your fingers dip lower, slipping through your own wetness, and it’s instant. a spike of pleasure that borders on pain, aching and hot as it shoots up your spine. you groan low, and the sound must’ve carried through the speaker because bob freezes, chest heaving.

then—

“are you—are you really?” his voice is breathless, full of awe, like the idea of you actually touching yourself for him is some miracle. he groans, hunching deeper into the pillow, fucking it harder. “jesus, oh my god—thank you—thank you—”

as if you’d gifted him something sacred. as if your body was an answered prayer.

your thumb brushes your clit and your legs jerk. a slick wet sound rises between your thighs, echoing faintly through the call—and bob sobs. sobs.

he keeps swallowing—again and again, compulsively—his throat working like it hurts, like the absence of you is something stuck in it. you can see the way his adam’s apple bobs with each gulp, frantic and shallow, as if he’s trying to tamp something down but it keeps rising, flooding.

you know what it is.

he’s used to having something in his mouth—you. his tongue, his lips, his whole desperate mouth always latched somewhere: your tits, your shoulder, the inside of your thigh. nursing. nuzzling. mouthing. needing. it’s never been about sex, not just—not only. it’s something older, more infantile, more devout. a craving that doesn’t end at climax. a part of him that needs to cling. to suck. to soothe.

and now?

now he’s alone. no skin to mouth. no nipple to drink from. nothing to suck between his flushed, spit-slick lips except air, which he swallows like a starving man pretending it’s soup. you can see the gloss at the corners of his mouth, how they twitch like they’re trying to shape around your name again. it’s almost sad. it’s almost holy.

then it hits him—fast, like he didn’t see it coming. like his body made the decision before his brain could catch up.

“i’m—cummin’!”

the words rip from his throat like a gunshot, fast and panicked and soaked in relief. his whole body seizes—a full-body convulsion like his bones are short-circuiting. he hunches deeper into the pillow, the muscles in his back flexing so hard you can see them ripple even under the shitty lighting. 

his fingers claw at the sides of the pillow, gripping so hard you swear you hear it tear, the fabric giving under his strength with a muted ripping noise that makes your breath catch.

“fuck, fuck, fuck—gonna get you pregnant—fuck, gonna fill you up,” he’s babbling now, coming so hard he’s barely even conscious of the words leaving his mouth. “make you warm, make it stick, i—ohhh—”

and then it happens.

you watch it happen.

the pillow’s already soaked, but now it’s worse—somehow wetter. the flood of come from his cock is viscous, obscene, splattering thick into the ruined fabric like he’s pouring himself into it. it’s leaking from the tip in heavy, twitching spurts, trailing down the plush cotton and sticking to his thighs, the base of his cock smeared in creamy slick and sweat and saliva from where he’d drooled earlier without noticing.

you swear you can hear it—the wet sound of him milking himself against your ghost. the cum doesn’t even soak in fully anymore; it pools, thick and syrupy, catching the yellow glow of the lamp in a way that makes your stomach twist with hunger.

your own fingers stutter.

he’s still grinding, even through it, rutting forward like he doesn’t know he’s finished. his hips have a mind of their own, cock pushing against the hot mess he’s made like he wants to fuck it in deeper, like he believes if he presses hard enough, it’ll reach you.

he’s letting out plaintive little cries now, weaker, softer, like his body’s finally started to register that it’s empty. that the release didn’t fix it. that even in the wreckage—come-sticky, thighs trembling, pillow soaked and unusable—he’s still hungry for something he can’t reach through a screen.

still, he rocks lazily against the pillow in slow aftershocks, hips twitching like muscle memory won’t let go just yet. it’s less about getting off now and more about staying close to the feeling of you. the last trace. the last pulse.

then he turns his face toward the phone—his cheek pink, wet with sweat and saliva—and smiles.

it’s a dreamy, breathless little thing. a laugh spills from him, all shaky and sugar-sick, like he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling anymore. he just knows it was for you. that it meant something.

it doesn’t matter, though.

not when he lets himself melt across the bed like butter left out too long, one arm sliding off the mattress, his legs spread open and useless. his boxers are barely clinging to one ankle now, and there’s a damp patch on the sheets beneath him where the mess finally leaked through the pillow.

his eyes flutter shut.

“love you ‘s much,” he murmurs, voice thick and blurred at the edges. “miss you ‘s much.”

he says something else, low and soft, words smudged like watercolor. you don’t catch it, but it doesn’t really matter. you get the shape of it. the feeling.

you pause for a second, letting the sound of his breathing settle into you—deep and rhythmless, the kind of sleep that only comes after something raw. then you slip out of bed, padding softly toward the bathroom.

there’s the brief rush of water, the soft hush of skin meeting towel, the familiar ritual of cleaning up under sterile hotel light. you avoid the mirror. avoid looking at your own flushed face. not out of shame—no, never that. just reverence. quiet.

when you return, you glance down at the phone still glowing on your bedside table. the screen’s dim, but the call hasn’t ended. bob’s still there. his camera’s tipped just slightly now—angled toward his chest, rising and falling, slow and steady. his mouth is slack in sleep. he’s beautiful in the way aftermath is beautiful—ruined and soft and done.

you smile.

sliding back under the covers, you nestle the phone beside you like a second heartbeat. you don’t even bother turning it off. just let the weight of his presence settle into the bed with you, real as anything. real as warmth.

you fall asleep to the sound of bob’s breathing.

(bob now has such a nasty habit of sending you the most filthiest things while your away, from little voice messages of breathless whimpers to full on videos of him fucking himself into his fist.

always paired with a message under it reading; 'love you so much, look at the mess i made' all while you're seated on a plane right next to ava on your way back home)

[pedgito]

ORBIT YOU ⋆⭒˚.⋆ CHAPTER ONE: MOON

↝ series masterlist | joel miller masterlist | full masterlist

summary — back in austin for an impromptu camping trip with your father and his best friend, you find that so much has changed, and not just in your relationship with your father, but with joel, too.

author's note — i've been missing my main dbf man and this started out as mainly smut but gained some plot. this man is exceptionally freaky and i love him

content warning — 18+ MDNI, dbf!joel, virgin!reader, age gap (20s/40s), camping trips, established dynamics, voyeurism, sexual activities in public, dry humping, inappropriate use of a sleeping bag, tent sharing, tension/angst, mutual masturbation, joel having copious inappropriate thoughts, this man loves eye contact

word count — 9.6k

It was as if speaking plainly was impossible.

“You know, the chickens have fled the roost so to speak,” Your father explains, slapping his sandwich together with an audible squelch as the mustard oozed out the side, “I ain’t dealing with your mother’s shit anymore either, there’s somethin’ for both of us to celebrate.”

“The girls moved out, just say that,” You translate, eyes rolling in tired amusement as you pick at your own sandwich and munch on the salty but mostly unflavoured chips, “ and it sounds like I’ll be intruding.”

“Couldn’t possibly, sweetheart,” He assures with a warm smile before taking a hefty bite out of the sandwich, sighing in delight.

He was laying it on thick right now.

“Don’t you ever think about how Joel is the catalyst to you and mom separating?” You ask curiously, “Or how you refused to believe me when I told you the first time?”

“I wasn’t being the best husband to your ma,” He admits, amongst other things, “I was tryin’ to make up for my own shortcomings, but with Joel—he was just wrong place, wrong time,”

“Or right time,” You counter, shrugging.

You hadn’t spoken to your mother since you left for college two years ago, making it through your entire freshman and sophomore year of school without a word and still, nothing. From one family to the next, the eventual expectancy that she would tire of the next one, but that wasn’t your business.

“I’m trying to make up for things,” He continues, ignoring your quip, “and I’m not wasting a week of nice weather inside.”

Things, you think with a flippant retort you bite your tongue over.

The countless days you had no one to rely on but yourself—but more obviously, Joel.

You watched Sarah and Ellie for months while he worked long hours, odd hours. It was like a sleepover, really. But, it lessened some of the burden knowing he had someone keeping a watchful eye on his girls and in turn, he picked up the slack where your dad had disappeared.

That was all it was—a genuine care for the well-being of one another and then when the situation between your parents grew more and more complicated, you disappeared.

He hadn’t spoken to you since you were seventeen, other than the few odd glimpses when he would catch you throwing out the trash while he was coming home from a long shift and an obvious absence of words or glances on your end.

Knock, knock, knock.

It’s so rhythmic and firm that you recognize it instantly.

“Joel,” You already knew, but your father confirms it.

You can hear the heavy step of his boots before you see him and your chest tightens, suddenly feeling claustrophobic as you pick at the flakes of bread on the napkin and listen to the quiet chatter of the two men before his voice creeps into the kitchen.

"Well, I'll be damned," he says softly. "Look who's back in town."

You force yourself to look up, meeting his weathered face and piercing eyes. 

He looks older than you remember, more lines etched into his features and his hair more grey than the last time you saw him and extending toward the edges of his beard, but still unmistakably Joel. 

He’s tanned from the kiss of sun, a slight sunburn to his nose from working outside as the grey fabric of his shirt stretches over his thick biceps, even thicker thighs filling out his jeans. And you realize as time drags on that you’ve never spent so much time examining so much of him, your gaze was lingering just as much as his own before your father tears the fleeting moment to shreds, clearing your throat to break the tension.

“I already packed my stuff in the car,” You tell your dad, before offering a dismissive, “Hey,” at Joel to mask how cornered you felt at the moment, avoiding his eyeline at all costs.

“Great,” He cheers, clapping his hands together once, “Joel, you ready?”

“Yeah ‘m all packed up in my truck and I’ll follow behind.”

“Oh, honey—did you wanna ride down in Joel’s truck? I know that little Nissan drives you crazy since you can’t sit still—”

“Well—he—he didn’t offer,”

He didn’t need to—you’d always been welcome. It had become a second home for a while. 

“I don’t mind,” He shrugs, arms crossing over his chest as he shifts to lean against the open frame of the kitchen, “and I got the good music, no silly ass showtunes.”

Sweetening the deal, isn’t he?

Fine, since he was dangling the line so enticingly.

You’ll bite.

–

The summer heat hits you like a wall as you step outside. Joel's truck sits in the driveway, a hulking beast of metal and chrome that breathes an air of familiarity into your chest. 

Late nights home from practices, missed buses on mornings when you were running late and Joel was on his way out the door for work and the many supplied meals when your parents were too busy arguing to cook dinner. 

He opens the passenger door for you, and you climb in, the leather seat hot against your thighs.

Joel never forgot to be a gentleman. It was a stark difference from the empty-headed frat boys you’ve become used to, all honk and no help. You had one good date the entire year you were at college and it was with a professor in a diner out of town with the reality that you could both be spotted and reported to the dean, but he’d been careful. He cared.

But, it was once. No more.

Though, it has cemented your taste in men.

Unfortunately for Joel, he was a perfect match for you now.

You ignore the way the gesture makes your heart flutter against your ribcage.

As Joel settles into the driver's seat, you're acutely aware of his presence beside you. The cab of the truck feels smaller than it should, and you press yourself against the door, trying to put as much space between you as possible.

Wordlessly, he grabs the box of old cassettes and presses them into your lap as he starts the truck and it coughs and sputters to life, pulling slowly out of the driveway as he follows behind your dad, watching as you filter through the old tapes like you used to, picking your particular flavor of tune for the drive.

“So,” Joel beings after a long growing silence and a chunk of time on the road as your cross one leg over the other and stare quietly out the window, feeling lost on how to approach the situation as you’ve clearly grown and changed, a similar pinched expression that both his daughter’s carried when they were bothered or annoyed, all in the brow and drawn together, your fingers scratching absently where you were gripping your bicep, “how’s college been treatin’ you?”

Your last conversation had been the weekend before senior year of high school, something nonsensical and forgettable, but it was amongst your life imploding and Joel was tied up with work more often that he liked.

He had only tried to remind you that his house was home too, even if it was just for an hour or a night.

“Fine. I’m not gonna sit here and bore you to death with astrophysics so don’t ask,” You quip with a subtle smile, “If my dad can’t keep up I know you sure as hell can’t.”

“Is that an age joke?” Joel asks genuinely.

“I dunno, gramps,” You shrug, “is the moon round?”

It was rhetorical, right? Joel chuckles at how easily you fall back into your old banter.

“It’s not,” You tell him, “just so you know.”

Joel's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "The moon's not round? Since when?"

You can't help but laugh at his bewildered expression.

 "It's actually slightly egg-shaped. Technically, it's an oblate spheroid."

"Well, I'll be damned," Joel mutters, shaking his head. "Learn something new every day. Guess they're teaching you all sorts of fancy things at that college of yours."

The tension in the truck eases a bit as you fall into a comfortable silence. 

You can’t ignore how his rugged features entice like no other, facial hair freshly trimmed and his hair slightly longer than what you’re used to, noticing the natural curl to his ends, beautiful hues of brown mixed in with an aged grey. 

You chew at your cheek and ignore how quickly things could go sideways if he caught you staring, forcing you to suffer through a weekend of awkwardness.

You fiddle with the cassettes, finally selecting one and popping it into the ancient tape deck. The opening chords of Mary Jane’s Last Dance fill the cab, and Joel taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat. Tom Petty was a staple of late night drives with Joel and it easily transports you back to moments souring down empty roads singing your lungs out alongside a man who had become like a second father to you back then.

Though, that was clearly not the case anymore. Still vehemently aware of the strain of his neck as he looked out the rearview mirror or the way his hand stretched over his denim-clad thigh when the ache in his fingers returned from gripping the steering wheel for too long.

“You know he’s only been camping once, right?” You ask Joel, his nod almost instantly.

“S’probably why he asked me to come along, that and he loves to remind me how lonely I am.”

“Are you?” Your eyes are wide and curious when you peer over, making him do a double-take.

Get your fuckin’ mind right, Joel. 

He shrugs and turns away, eyeing the road again.

“It has to be weird, not having Ellie and Sarah around, those two are—”

“Handfuls,” He finishes for you, “It’s a different feelin’, I guess. I ain’t lonely, but it feels more like…”

“No purpose?”

You’d hit the nail on the head.

“Yeah, kiddo.”

The somberness of it is a shift you don’t like, staring down at the fabric of your dress resting midway between your thighs, running your fingers along the stitched edge before you hit him with a question that has been bothering you for a long, long time.

There was no better opportunity than now, cornered.

“How did you end up in the house that night anyways?” You ask, “My dad won’t tell me shit.”

Joel knows exactly what you’re talking about.

The comeuppance of your mother.

“I was grabbin’ some parts to work on that piece of shit mower I still got,” He explains, rolling with the punches of your hard hitting questions, “Ain’t much about it, found ‘em in the kitchen and your mom had a big meltdown, she clocked me pretty good, too.”

“She thought dad set her up, didn’t she?”

“I dunno,” He shrugs, “Made me feel like shit for a while—”

“Why?” You interact before he can finish, though most of it was a blur now.

“You got real quiet—I didn’t see you much after that and I’ll be honest, thought you hated me for a good while and then some,” He explains, the song nearing its end as the truck fades to silence.

“It’s not like you were fucking my mom or something,” You respond crudely and it was a strange way to hear you speak for a brief moment before Joel realizes he’s not sitting next to a young girl anymore—you were all grown-up and sure of yourself, confident in the way you spoke to him now that the initial awkwardness had fled, “were you?”

Joel balks at your question and shakes his head in amusement.

“‘Course fuckin’ not—the lady was a whole mess of issues I wouldn’t touch with a fifty foot pole.”

It took three years for them to fully finalize the divorce. 

It brought you to now. Twenty and living on your own, crippled by abandonment issues and desperate attention seeking problems that even you wouldn’t address.

And Joel was always good at giving you his undivided attention.

At least, he used to be.

You nod, a wry smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah, I figured. Just had to ask, you know?"

“She did try, long…long time ago,” Joel slips in as the campsite comes into view after a long stretch of silence, “but I very politely declined and shut my mouth about it.”

The admission makes you grimace and Joel can only chuckle.

–

“I’m sorry,” You stress for the tenth time as your father rifles through his trunk, tossing his tent to the floor but yours was blatantly absent.

You could have sworn…

“I brought my double for more room,” Joel interrupts the very awkward stand-off between you and your father, unspoken and unresolved tension that he wasn’t trying to insert himself in, “I can take that one and you both are more than welcome to—”

“No,” You respond, a sudden decisiveness to your voice, “I’ll share with you.”

“I think it’d be easier if you and your dad—”

The idea of sharing a tent with your father and his insistent snoring. 

Absolutely the fuck not.

“Or I’m sleeping in the truck,” You decide.

“I’m sorry ‘bout her,” Your dad apologizes as he drops another box into the dirt.

“Oh, she’s alright,” Joel assures, “I guess I don’t mind sharin’.”

“Perfect, problem fucking solved.” You gripe before plucking your swimsuit from your bag and disappearing into the outhouse building a couple minutes down the path and Joel watches you storm off.

"She's always been headstrong," your dad mutters, more to himself than to Joel. "Gets it from her mother, I reckon."

Joel nods, unsure of how to respond. 

He busies himself with setting up the tent, stealing glances down the path where you disappeared. The tension in the air is palpable, and he can't help but feel caught in the middle of something he doesn't fully understand.

As he hammers the last stake into the ground, he hears your footsteps approaching. You've changed into your swimsuit, a towel draped over your shoulder. His throat swells at the sight as easily as his cock in his jeans, sweating worse than a sinner in church even under the sticky, summer sun. 

It’s just a two-piece bikini, charcoal in color and clinging to your skin, the threads of string digging into your hips where they were tied in tight bows and Joel has to force his gaze away.

Your eyes are red-rimmed from crying, but your chin is lifted defiantly. 

Joel fears he may have been the reason.

That and a mix of your father.

“I’m going for a swim,” You announce, slipping off your sandals and tossing your discarded clothes on the dirt floor next to the freshly constructed tent, a wordless and dry-mouthed Joel licking desperately at his lips as he realizes you aren’t talking to him, but your father, his eyes trailing now dangerously to your backside as the fabric digs into the plumpness of your ass and makes it crease, the subtle curve of your cheeks pinching as you lean to one hip, awaiting any type of response from your father.

It’s revealing, provocative, and nothing he’s seen you in before and if he was your father—

But, he’s not. 

He’s not.

All you get is a huff of acknowledgement from your father as he’s buried himself into the trunk of the car again.

It was clear that even with your mother out of the picture that things wouldn’t change. Always talking through you, never at you, never concerned with school or your interests. It felt stupid, emotional over something so feeble and otherwise meaningless to most. 

You glance over your shoulder and catch Joel’s quickly averting gaze, the heavy weight of his stare crawling up your spine and lingering on your ass a few seconds, his face reddens over you catching him in the act but brushes it off as him being nosey, like watching the exchange between you and your father for too long.

Joel watches you float for an hour, tearing through a few beers in the process alongside your father before he comendeers the grill for dinner, bothering Joel for a favor as your father nods toward you in the water.

It was peaceful, too. The soft hum of birds flying north for the summer and the smell of slowly cooking meat, suddenly disturbed by water being splashed at your face and your head snapping to the side out of annoyance, peeking through one eye under the sunset.

The culprit? 

A foot, eyes dragging up toward the owner. 

Joel stands there, ankle-deep in the cool water, his jeans rolled up halfway to his shins. He looks sheepish, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers. "Your dad asked me to come get you. Dinner's almost ready."

You consider splashing him back but decide against it. Instead, you start wading toward the shore with a sigh, water dripping from your skin. Joel's eyes widen slightly as he takes in your form, backlit by the setting sun. He quickly averts his gaze, clearing his throat.

"Here," he says, offering you a towel he'd brought down. You try to maintain your aloof demeanor, but your body betrays you with a shiver that has nothing to do with the cool water.

"I was enjoying the peace and quiet," you reply, attempting to sound annoyed.

“We’re fishin’ tomorrow, that’ll be plenty of quiet for you,” Joel supplies, nodding toward the growing pile of food on the picnic table, “I’m not gonna pry, s’not my business.”

“I’m not asking you to,” You defend, snatching the towel with your fingertips rubbing against his palm in the process, stretching the towel over your shoulders as it pushes your breasts out, silently amused as you careful examine the way Joel’s eyes squint under the summer sun and avert.

"You're not subtle either, Joel," you tease, a smugness playing at the corners of your mouth while you try to keep a straight face. 

Joel's cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink, though he tries to play it cool.

"Don't know what you're talkin' about," he mumbles, taking a long swig of his beer.

You step closer, invading his personal space. The scent of his cologne mingles with the crisp lake air. "Oh, I think you do," you whisper, “it’s alright, you know—I don’t mind.”

You were nothing like that young girl he used to know.

Joel swallows hard.

For a moment, you think he might admit that he’s noticed the differences about you; confrontational, confident, but still seeking something you couldn’t attain on your own.

Then your father's voice booms across the beach, shattering the moment.

"Food's gettin' cold! You two comin’?"

Assuredly, one of you would.

–

He’s thanking his lucky stars he picked a roomier tent, not out of benefit to you and the fact you were sleeping soundly beside him, but that he had enough room to keep a safe distance from your inability to stay still, wiggling and shifting in your sleep like a restless little weasel.

He can hear the rolling sounds of your father’s snores from the other tent as he leans up on his hand, attempting to shift the blanket back over your frame where it had slipped down before he’s carefully shoving the extra pillow he’d brought between you and him, punching the fabric into submission and molding his hand around it to shape before he feels the incidental touch of your ass against his knuckles.

Right, so much for space.

Even in the poor moonlight he can spot the shorts clinging so tightly to your skin that the side have shifted high enough up your hips that if he wanted to—and lord, he could—slip his fingers between your legs and along the fabric, assuring himself an immediate trip to the gates of hell.

Joel’s not sure where he lost his mind, whether it was the moment he spotted you back home or as you spoke to him so boldly earlier and called him out, or now, actively watching your legs separate as you rolled to your stomach and hiked your knee up slightly, shifting the blanket away again. 

He's drawing the line here.

–

Though, he’s even more distracted as you’re perched on your knees in front of him the following morning, picking through the bait as you trade off between him and your father, forcing yourself to participate despite your distaste for the activity and the flashing NO SIGNAL on your phone every time you glanced at it.

You lean forward off the dock and rinse the dirt from your fingers and into the lake. Joel can't help but notice how your shirt rides up as you lean forward, exposing a sliver of skin at your lower back. His eyes trace the curve of your spine, lingering a moment too long before he forces himself to look away. Fearful that your father might catch his eyeline and see him ogling his daughter, but he pays neither of you any attention, eyes fixed on a spot out in the lake as you attempt to hand Joel another wriggling worm when the fish snaps the other off the line for the fifth time.

“Are you sure you’re putting it on there correctly?” You ask out of concern, watching him reel in the line with a frustrated grimace, glancing over at your absent-minded father once more.

“You wanna try?” He snips, quickly realizing how his voice came across and the way your shoulders sink, then he softens his tone, “Do you—wanna…”

“I don’t know how,” You admit, watching the worm wiggle in Joel’s palm.

“Your daddy never taught you?” He asks aloud, loud enough that it snags your father’s attention and he chuckles dismissively.

“Kid hates the outdoors,” You father adds insubstantially, your eyes dragging to his back as he leans forward in the creaky chair as he gets a bite, “it’s a wonder she said yes to any of this.”

It didn’t matter that he was wrong, because he was always wrong.

Joel knew how much you loved being outside, how often he would find you laying in the grass with Sarah and Ellie, staring up at the stars and pointing out the different constellations, a never-ending faucet of information that had bled into your interests at college,

“I gotcha,” Joel quips, attempting to pull your attention back to him.

You're focused intently on the task at hand, your nose scrunched up in slight disgust as you handle the slimy bait. He finds it oddly endearing, the way you're pushing through your discomfort to be part of this bonding activity that you could clearly give less of a shit about.

You were trying and your father didn’t care, but Joel noticed.

"Here," he says, reaching out to guide your hands. "If you hook it like this, it'll stay on better."

You grimace at the squelch as it slices through the worm, “Alright—I think I’m good for the day.”

Joel chuckles at your face, his hands lingering against your own despite their descent, rested gently in the palm that was settled against his knee, wholly inappropriate given the situation.

You turn your hand on his thigh, using the leverage to push yourself up and squeeze down at the same time, earning a quiet grunt and a look of pure annoyance from Joel as you smile all fresh-faced and innocent.

Your father chuckles from his chair, not bothering to turn around. "Giving up already? Figures."

You bite back a retort, reminding yourself it's not worth the argument. Your father waves dismissively, attention fixed on the water. Your eyes land on Joel again, who seems to be collecting just how detached you were from your father, but doesn’t find it the right time to play savior or make the trip any more insufferable than it was becoming.

When Joel finds you later, you’re half naked and sunbathing beside your shared tent, far enough out of view that he can’t see your father’s tent as he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and shakes the nylon wall beside your head, your bare back on display as you make a noise of acknowledgment but don’t turn.

“We’re done,” He says plainly, squinting and averting his eyes as you raise up slightly, arm conveniently blocking the full view of your naked chest as you nod toward your swim top tangled by your feet.

Joel’s beginning to think you’re doing it on purpose.

He pulls at his jeans while he kneels, right at his thighs, picking up the fabric and passing it into your waiting hand as you finally turn on your backside, arm tucked over your chest as you slip the tied part of your top over you head, shifting the fabric over your breasts in one fluid motion before you peer up at Joel who’s decidedly avoiding all interaction suddenly. 

“Catch anything good?”

“Yup,” He tells you, sounding forced.

You both move at the same time, rising to your feet but holding your hand out expectantly, Joel’s hand slipping into your own without a word, like a trained gesture.

“Ask it,” You tell him, subtly shifting the top more firmly into place as you exchange a brief look with Joel.

“I’m curious why you came - ‘cause your daddy or if it was for me, if you got some type of my plan I’m not privy to?”

“No plan,” You admit truthfully, “not for him—or you, actually. But, it’s sweet that you think I’m trying to trick you or something. I figured you knew me better.”

“I know you jus’ fine,” Joel grumbles, pulling his hand from your grip as you step away.

“Do you?” You challenge, “I mean, how well do you actually know me, Joel?”

“This ain’t the time for—“

“No, I mean—you’re obviously trying to give me the attention my dad won’t, right? It’s what you’ve always done. Is it guilt? Do you think you owe me?”

“You ain’t my kid,” He says decisively, “but I’ve known your dad a real long time, longer than you’ve been on this earth and you’re lookin’ at him like you wished he didn’t exist, I’ve seen those looks too, from my girls—“

And he notices the look appearing on your face now, that similar distaste that makes him feel helpless.

“He’s helpless, kiddo. You won’t even set that time aside to have a talk with him, all the animosity towards him about your mother, but you’re expecting his attention, seeking it out like this, from me—it ain’t right,”

“Neither is staring at me like you wanna split me over your lap,” You retort, “but you know he’s too preoccupied to notice, so you do it. And you’ll do it again, and again,”

“Watch yourself,” He warns, an authoritative warmth wrapping around his vocal cords that is the complete opposite of what he wants.

“You don’t get to play the victim here,” you fire back, the heat rising in your cheeks, not just from the sun.

The warm air around you feels suddenly suffocating, thick with unsaid words and unresolved issues, “You were there when it mattered, and now you’re acting like I’m the problem? I didn’t ask you to be that person for me, you did it yourself—”

Your accusation hangs heavy in the air between you.

Joel shifts his weight, grounding himself against the sudden intensity of your gaze. The way you stand, defiant and angry, claws at his insides.

 He can feel the swell of frustration rising, a tide threatening to crash over both of you and consume you whole.

“I never said anything about you bein’ a problem,” he says quietly, but his voice carries an edge you’re not familiar with, “I was giving you what I thought was right in the moment, someone to talk to—you always did right by my girls, you’re a good kid—”

You nod at the utterance of those words, lips pulling into a tight line as you make a sound of disapproval and stare at him with a gaze that could make any man shrink with fear.

“You keep calling me a kid,” you call him out, “but, I don’t think you see it that way anymore.”

Joel doesn’t even know what to say, feeling cornered. You’ve always been able to read him so clearly, like you knew him better than he did. His heart races, nostrils flaring as he steadies his emotions and his face goes stoic, caught between the urge to defend himself and the undeniable truth that hangs in the space between you.

“Things change, alright?” Joel finally responds, his voice low but firm, waving his hand around casually between you and him, “I know you’re not a kid anymore. You’ve grown into—”

“Into what?” you cut him off, a bite to your tone that sets the tension even higher as you cross your arms, shifting on your hip as you step closer, eyebrows raised expectantly.

You feel it bubbling up inside you, a mix of anger and pent-up frustration that has been simmering for too long, laced with a dangerous edge of desire now that you had him so close, that things had undeniably changed.

“I think we both know my dad is just going through the motions, doing the absolute bare minimum. He’d be much happier with a son, but he got me—a spitting image of my fucking mother. He cares enough to keep me around, but he’s never been someone to give a shit about anything I have going on in my life, now or before,”

It spills out without trying, unexpectedly choked up as you utter the last few words.

You wouldn’t cry in front of Joel, you refused.

You sniff once, hard, and quickly blink away the burn of tears.

The silence stretches uncomfortably.

Joel runs a hand over his face, fingers threading through his hair in frustration. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. You were supposed to just enjoy the weekend together, catch up, and with some hope, go your separate ways on a positive note.

Instead, he was clueless.

He steps back, forcing distance between you, though it feels more like a pit. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he admits finally, his voice low and rough, “You’ve grown up, sure. But I still see that girl who used to come to me in the middle of the night sobbin’—

“Stop it,” you snap, your chin lifting defiantly. “Stop doing that—”

The silence lingered again, but it was tangible.

“I don’t need a lecture right now,” you continue, biting back as your blood rushes hot at the way his words twist in your gut to remind you of all the indecipherable emotions of your past, your heart pounding against your ribcage wildly. “Not from you.”

“Whattya lookin’ for then?” Joel challenges, the words undoing you completely, “Because you’ve toeing a line, real fuckin’ thin—”

He feels your hands first, curling around his neck.

His own hands are set at his hips, blinking once, twice, watching the way your eyes linger on his lips before you make the decision in your mind and push forward, pressing your lips against his own without thinking.

His mouth is soft but firm against yours, and more importantly, moving.

A hesitant exploration that quickly deepens as you angle your head to fit him better. 

He releases a soft grunt at the force of the kiss, trading the angle of your head swiftly, lips parting briefly before you’re consuming him once more, your eagerness shifting you further behind the tent, into the large stump that your bags were resting against.

“I want you to fuck me,” you tell him boldly, breathless against his mouth, “Right—right here,”

It was like a bucket of ice water over him, ripping away with the sound of your voice.

He’d forgotten where he was, who he was, who you were—he’d slipped, misjudged, and completely underestimated you. 

“I’m not,” He replies disjointed, his mind elsewhere, “we’re not doin’ this—”

Joel doesn’t give you time to argue, hand clasping over his mouth with a deep regret as he squeezed at his cheeks with his fingers, a self-inflicting pain to drag him back to reality, hands throwing back over his head as they ran through his hair.

He’s gone before you can speak, trailing away from the camp with an unknown end in sight.

–

When your dad asks where Joel was, you shrug.

You didn’t have a clue, it was the truth.

Eventually, he does return, but he won’t look at you.

You peel apart the peach in your hand quietly, face scrunching as the juices spray upwards and Joel takes the beer your father offers in silence, sitting in the only space of the picnic table that was open, across from you.

The two men carry on a meaningless conversation that you tune out, focusing on the fruit in your hand, aware of his eyes that lingered when you weren’t focused on them.

You can feel his gaze on you, watching the way your tongue catches the sticky sweetness that spreads down your palm, chewing quietly at the fruit.

The juice dribbles down your chin, your eyes dart toward him over the table, purely accidental. 

Joel is trying to focus on your father, but his muscles are tense and neither of you ignore that force of the string that had you two bound together, though clearly at odds.

Your tongue dips out of your mouth to clean your face, hearing the conversation continue but focused on him, the clear strain in his throat as he swallows and brings his beer to his mouth.

“I’m gonna shower,” you speak suddenly, abrasively, as you toss the discarded fruit aside, not to any particular man, rather a blatant announcement that you were leaving.

When you’re gone, your father speaks, “She’s just like her mother,” he says candidly to Joel, your words ringing in his ears, “I’m sorry if she’s bein’ rude to you,”

“She’s always been a good kid,” Joel responds dismissively, eyes trailing toward your fading figure, “ain’t nothing I can’t handle or haven’t before,”

Your father nods like he knows, but even Joel sees right through it.

When you returned the fire at camp was already out, lights dimmed to nothing, and Joel’s tent door hung open enough that you could slip through quietly, like he’d prepared it that way.

You were halfway convinced sleeping in his truck was a better alternative.

The faint outline of Joel’s form is silhouetted against the small sliver of moonlight sneaking through the fabric—he wasn’t lying down just yet, rather resting, his foot planted into the ground while the other lay stretched out, his eyes only briefly acknowledging you as you step inside the tent.

“Jeez, you’re worse than the boys at school,” you complain, adjusting your shorts as you kneel your sleeping bag and Joel notices the distinct lack of fabric underneath, the material scrunching high up on your hip as you turn away from him on your stomach, annoyed, “you kissed me back, you know? I didn’t imagine that.”

“It’s inappropriate,” Joel says and you snort at his decision to take the moral high road over the situation, wiping your head to look at him suddenly, “should be worryin’ about boys your own age.”

“I do,” you retort, “they suck.”

“You’ve barely lived,” Joel retorts, “dated what—a couple of ‘em? You’ve always been careful, I dunno why you’re bein’ so reckless all the sudden, specially with your dad around and thinkin’ that I was—”

“Was what?” You inquire, pushing up suddenly to your knees, resting back on your calves

“Was gonna fuck you right here,” Joel cuts you off, his voice low and tight, eyes averting outside.

You don’t back down, your chin lifting defiantly. “I think you’re too pussy anyways.”

His gaze narrows on you, the suppressed desire in his eyes flickering like a flame. “You don’t know what I’d do,” he shoots back, his voice gravelly with restraint, “fix your fuckin’ tone.”

“You know, there was this guy,” you begin with a fond smile, but your eyes are speaking something different, “it was dangerous and stupid, but he was honest about how he was feeling.”

Joel speaks your name, stresses it, but you ignore him.

“He was my professor, actually,” You giggle softly, “and we both knew it was a terrible idea, but fuck—I just couldn’t say no and well, niether could he—he took me out, he treated me right,”

“What are you tryin’ to prove?” Joel asks suddenly.

“He didn’t fuck me, though—no one has,” you admit, “but I know what I want and who deserves me, it, and,” you scoff, “god, you can’t even look at me now,”

“That ain’t what this is,” Joel argues, staring you down with a challenge.

You scoff again, ducking your head to hide a smirk.

 “Then what is it, Joel? Was that you bein’ there for me?” You tease the thickness of his southern drawl and pout for good measure.

His silence is enough of an answer and you shake your head in amusement, finally giving up.

You move with urgency, rolling up your sleeping bag out of frustration to flee toward his truck, snatching the keys at his side before he can grab them, but in your effort to run, his hand wraps around your ankle, the lantern at his side flicking on with the use of his other hand.

“Now, hold on,” Joel demands, releasing your ankle to wrap around the string of the sleeping bag holding the fabric where it was rolled together and tugs you back inside, zipping the tent closed in the process.

“Make it good,” you argue and he growls softly, the tone gruff and demanding. 

Your heart races at the authority in his grip, the way he moves you so close there's barely any space left between your bodies. There’s a taste of fear, mixed with excitement, only our tongue.

Joel’s gaze darkens, his expression shifting as he studies you, “I’m not fuckin’ you—m’not,”

“I thought we already established that,” you reply monotone and bored, tugging back against the sleeping bag, “so, we’re done here?”

“You forget those on purpose?” Joel asks suddenly, unsure what he was referring to until his hand is guiding between your legs and beyond, to the clean pile of what used to be the clothes you were currently wearing, a distinct article left behind.

He’s got the fabric bunched in his grip, an opaque white cotton with faded blue flowers sprinkled in a distinct pattern.

“Is this how you want to play?” he asks, your gaze slowly dropping to the panties held between his fingers, presented to you like a prize, “Because I guarantee you can’t handle whatever you’re askin’ for, kiddo,”

Your lips part like you want to answer, but you can’t.

Joel seems beyond his resolve now, for the time being, at least.

He’s annoyed, irritated, mad, even.

It was a situation that desperately needed to be rectified, but instead, he gives in.

“Take your shorts off,” he leaves no room for argument, not that you would.

You nod hastily and comply as he pulls the sleeping bag from your grip briefly as you slid the nylon fabric down your hips, his eyes clearly avoidant as they focus on your face, the stuttering breath you release as you slid the fabric down your leg and off, feeling them pulled from your hands as he shoves the sleeping back back, but further, between your thighs.

“You’re all talk, sweetheart,”

He uses the endearment in a pointed manner, never demeaning until now.

“I’ll prove you wrong,” you argue back, meeting his eyes with a hunger you had no idea you could feel for another person until now.

“Use it,” Joel responds casually, “get off on it,”

It was the equivalent to a pillow, embarrassing that he was stripping you down to such a vulnerable state, arms balanced on his knees now with a look so fierce in his eyes that you had no choice but to listen, slowly rocking your hips against the rolled fabric as your hands fumbled to meet the floor in front of you, forcing you far enough forward that you’re only a handful of inches from Joel’s face.

Joel's gaze sharpens, eyes darkened with something primal that sends shivers down your spine. As you begin to rock against the sleeping bag, a wave of heat washes over you, bordering embarrassment, but there’s something lingering behind his eyes, empowering you.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, eyebrow twitching slightly, easily missed if you weren’t so close to his face, but your lips part and he can feel your shaky breath against his face, his voice wrapping around you like a serpent, “don’t even need me touchin’ you, do you? Is it that easy?”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, struggling to maintain eye contact as the fabric rolls against you, the pressure building in delicious waves, hips canting in desperation. You let out a soft whimper, feeling the way your body responds instinctively to the friction, each movement like a shock to your core.

“I think you can do better,” Joel offers, “that right?”

You nod eagerly, bound by his words, you shift your weight more firmly against the fabric until it feels different, stronger, more enticing. Your breath hitches at the sudden friction, the pressure heavy against your clit as you drag your hips back and forth hurriedly.

Joel’s gaze seems to wander then, from your face to the shake of your breasts under your shirt, to your bare hips and down to your thighs where they hugged the fabric, the smallest peek of your bare ass as your head finally falls, moaning softly with how fucking good it feels to get yourself off in front of him, even it was equally humiliating. 

With the slightest bit of courage, your hand wanders forward in his obvious distraction.

It wasn’t hard to believe that he was enjoying this, but the physical reaction beneath the denim of his jeans is still surprising, your hand curling over the tent of denim, his cock hot and heavy underneath your palm.

His eyes snap to your face and your react immediately, half-expecting him to shove your hand away and snap himself back to reality, but he doesn’t.

“Can I see it?” you ask with a raw innocence, pure curiosity.

“This ain’t ‘bout me,” it was an excuse, but you weren’t buying it.

When you curl your fingers tighter around the bulge in his jeans—it’s a risk.

The way his breath hitches almost makes you chuckle with delight, “What’s wrong? Are you scared of me?” you tease him.

You moan again, softer, but through a laugh, head tilting to the side as your other hand presses against your thigh, angling your body so Joel can get a clear view of the way your cunt hugs the sleeping bag, slick smearing against the water-proof fabric, the feeling it creates in him is animalistic.

“Ain’t never been scared of you,” Joel admits, but the flicker of hesitation in his face tells a different story, still, he gives in. Again.

He’s leisurely about it, too.

He shifts, resting back on his palm as he makes slow work of his jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping as he watches your trading gaze, eyes fluttering shut occasionally.

When you catch the first glimpse of him, it was through his underwear, fabric straining against the thickness—it was the only part of the process Joel didn’t waste time with, pulling the fabric down far enough that he can scoop his balls up in his grip, every part of him larger than the next.

“Fuck,” you exhale, your hips stilling momentarily as you stare before resuming the frantic pace, “You’re so—”

“Big?” he finishes, with a cocky smirk that makes you roll your eyes—you’ve heard it countless times before, always feigning the truth for the benefit of the other, but with Joel, you couldn’t even lie.

You nod openly, tongue wetting your bottom lip as your eyes pull to his hand as it grips his cock.

His grip on his dick tightens, tugging at the base as you pick up the pace, your hips rocking faster against the fabric that turns slick with your arousal.

“This what you want?” Joel growls, voice much deeper than before and thick with arousal, “Can’t help but wanna be watched, huh?”

You nod again, frantically, staring between the way his dick swells and how he spreads his legs, tugging his cock firmly, eyes locked on the urgency of your movement and the devastating look on your face.

 “Fuck!” you gasp quietly, aware that you two were never quite alone, back arching as you feel the muscles in your core clench around nothing, eyes closing as your orgasm washes over, gasping at the sudden loss of friction where Joel has seemingly pulled it away, cock tucked back in his jeans but still unfastened.

“What—what was that for?” you ask, panting.

“For thinkin’ you know everything,” he replies calmly, he tosses the sleeping bag aside, the fabric unrolling with the force and you try desperately to ignore how easily he had encourage you to deface yourself in front of him, “get some damn sleep,”

You dress quietly, watching as he relaxed on his back, blindly reaching over his head to dim the light inside the tent before tossing you your blanket it had strewn across the length of the tent, ignoring the way his hands follow up to cover your thighs with soft fabric, a similar gesture he had done before in your sleep but unbeknownst to you, almost like a reflex.

“You’re too fuckin’ reckless,” He tells you eventually, the quiet having lingered, “that shit you told me, coulda got you kicked out of college, what’s it all for?”

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly, tucking your pillow up under your head as you turn to him, ignoring the lingering ache between your legs and how Joel absentmindedly palmed his cock, visible even within the darkness, the soft rustle of fabric, “he was nice—seemed it, anyways.”

“Lotta kindness don’t come without a price,” Joel tells you, “you ever end up makin’ a decision like that again, you call me first—then I can talk some damn sense into you seein’ as I’m the only fuckin’ person you’ll listen to,”

Joel huffs out a bitter laugh, quieter than his words.

“Don’t know why,” He mutters, barely above a whisper.

“I can help,” you tell him, turning his head to look at you and where your eyes lingered, watching his hand shuffle underneath the blanket and up, flattening against his chest, “seems fair since—”

“No—no, kiddo,” He shakes his head, “you don’t owe me shit,”

He was wrong, astronomically.

But, you couldn't find the energy to argue.

–

You spent the next couple days switching between sunbathing, occasional dips into the lake, and tagging along for fishing trips that are some of the least exciting ways you’ve spent your life, but you were stuck here regardless of how much you wanted to flee now.

You’ve barely spoken to Joel or your father, though Joel can’t help but look over his shoulder every thirty seconds, just to make sure you aren’t going to disappear. 

It feels like a collosal fuck-up, trying to prove yourself to Joel.

He’s never seen you as anything more than a surrogate daughter, whining about situations out of your control, and seeking approval from him in a way that could never be answered.

There had always been that underlying attraction, an innocent school yard crush—Joel was attractive, devastatingly so, but you had made the mistake of acting on a dream, a desire that should have remained just that—not…whatever your situation with him had turned into.

Your father was already several feet ahead on your nightwalk back from fishing on the dock, cooler in your grip as Joel walked ahead but stayed near, fishing poles locked in his grip.

Your silence unsettles him, knowing he had crossed a line himself, too.

Joel was never good with emotion or feeling, repressing everything for the benefit of everyone around him, but he would be lying if said he didn’t feel the same thing you had.

It was fleeting, a spark, but it was strong.

It lingered.

“We’ll pack everything up to head out earlier,” Joel says suddenly, grabbing your attention as you look up, calling out to your father, “go on ahead,”

Your father waves in response over his shoulder as he disappears into his tent and you walk straight past Joel, tossing the cooler into the dirt carelessly, annoyed that Joel had signed you up for something you didn’t really care to do when all you wanted to do was curl up in your sleeping bag and count the hours until you would be out of here.

Joel packs most of the truck and car up on his own, watching as you tuck away your own belongings in silence and eventually, he can’t handle it anymore.

He tugs you away without a word, a small noise of protest that he ignores until you’re a decent distance from the campsite, the back of your thighs hitting the empty picnic table, the area dead silent and empty and Joel’s gaze is the only thing you have to focus on.

“I don’t need another lecture,” you interrupt him before he can speak, but Joel smirks slightly, shaking his head.

Suddenly, he’s in your space, hands curling around the back of your thighs until you’re scooting back against the surface of the table, crowding in by his broad shoulders, eyes widening at his forwardness but not adverse to it.

Silently, he pulls at his belt, the metal clanging together deafeningly before his hands press down against the table on either side of you, nodding pointedly.

You can’t help but stare at the nonchalant twitch of his lips, leaning back slightly at his proximity as your heart hammers wildly against your ribs, fingers wrapped tightly around the edge of the table.

“What’s the catch?” you ask cautiously, though your tension eases with his laugh.

“It’s all you,” he explains, “you’re off-limits, kiddo,”

You pause at his words, brow furrowing.

“But, if you want it that bad, you can have it,” Joel explains.

You stare him down for a moment, attempting to read his expression, but you can’t.

“I’m not touchin’ you,” he elaborates further, “ain’t because I don’t want—I fuckin’....it’s just how it is, alright?”

You tilt your head, looking at him for a long, lingering moment before your hands drift toward his face, feeling how easy he melts into your touch, even if he tries to ignore it.

“I guess that is the only way to keep you from feeling guilty about fucking around with me,” you tell him plainly, “you can face my dad after watching me the other night, but touching me is where you draw the line? Okay,” there’s a tone of finality with it, like he was about to be checkmated.

You work open the button on his jeans, feeling his stomach flex against the brush of your knuckles, wasting little time as you unzip his jeans and quickly fit your hand under the waistband of his boxers, welcomed by the soft, velvety warmth of his cock, hardening instantly under your touch.

He exhales at your touch, using your other hand to pull his clothing down enough that it doesn’t hinder your actions, his fingers curling around the wood at either side of you until it creaks.

“Yup,” he relents, taking a shaky breath as your grip becomes firmer around him, tugging his cock at a devastatingly slow place, “fuck—you always were a quick learner,” he couldn’t help but add, followed by your soft laughter.

You stroke him from base to tip, your thumb rubbing over the bit of precum that had collected at the slit, watching the way his muscles tense in his neck, knowing there was plenty of time to admire his cock but right now, you were focused on him. 

Joel had never been one to rush things, so you took your time with him.

His eyes never leave yours, either.

It was an intimate dance, a silent battle.

He swallows hard, glancing briefly at the distant tents before he leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin but not touching. Never touching.

You can feel the pulse of his cock as he grows closer, your opposite hands rolling his balls gently under your touch, his pathetic moan disguised by a poor attempt at a grunt.

“Don’t look over there,” you tell him, “look at me,”

Joel listens, surprisingly. 

“Ain’t no way you’ve never—”

“Had sex?” you inquire, “Oh, I swear. Completely un-deflowered, I promise.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he swears, an empty threat that makes you giggle.

His lips are parted, close enough to your own that you feel the faint tickle of touch every so often, but completely of your own doing, although the rock of his hips into your tight fist are all him.

You can see the battle waging within him, his resolve waning with every glide of your hand against his cock, the heat radiating off him making you ache for him.

“Relax,” you whisper, your voice like honey as you lean in a fraction closer, teasingly brushing your lips against his. “Just let it happen.”

His eyes darken, a mix of lust and longing that only spurs you on.

You tighten your grip, stroking him slowly, relishing the way his brows knit together in pleasure while he fights to maintain control.

“Oh, you’re right there,” you tease playfully, voice soft, “you gonna come?”

Joel clears his throat and nods jerkily, “Ye—fuck, yeah.”

“Yeah,” you twist your wrist in a way that steals the air from his chest, “you gonna come for me, Joel?”

He nods, eyes set on your own, almost pleading.

You’d never seen him so vulnerable, yet there he was—caught in a moment of pure need.

When he does, it happens over a strung out “Fuuuuuuck,” that tumbles from his lips as he spills over your fist, grinning triumphantly at the way he falls apart without fear, his hips jerking forward into your hand.

Without thinking, you bring your hand to your mouth, licking around the mess he had left.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he groans, tucking his flagging erection back into his jeans with a modicum of guilt at how greedily you lick up every last drop, “ain’t a damn thing innocent about you, is there?”

“Yeah, I’m sure there is…maybe,” you answer honestly, “you know—just because I haven’t had sex doesn’t mean I’m inexperienced, jus’....means I’m waiting for the right time…right person,”

Your words linger and Joel looks away in an instant, checking out toward the tents as he fastens his jeans, watching you wipe your damn hand against your own jeans.

“Fix your face,” you warn him, smile full of amusement, “you look like you just blew your load.”

“I did,” he retorts, “jesus—you never stopped being a little shit, did ‘ya?”

No, you hadn’t. And Joel knows it.

–

No one has to convince or coerce you into Joel’s truck the following morning.

Joel huffs out a chuckle of disbelief when he finds you more than chipper and bright-eyed about the fact you were finally leaving—he had already pre-negotiated about dropping you off back at college before bringing back your father’s supplies, since you had left your car back at your dorms and Joel wasn’t willing to let you cab ride there or force you to endure the ride back with your father, he was your only option.

You really didn’t mind. Not anymore.

“Seatbelt,” he orders, snapping his fingers as you continue to stare, arm resting against the top of the seat as you hold out your hand expectantly while he pulls onto the main road, “go on.”

“Phone,” you order in the same snapping tone, “you said I should call you if I feel like makin’ anymore stupid decision,”

He’d hoped you just…wouldn’t.

Joel sighs, taking one hand off the wheel to fish into his pocket for his phone before handing it over.

There’s a picture of him with Sarah and Ellie on his lockscreen, both girls squished into frame below him, his hand on either side of their heads as if forcing them together, their laughter clear and loud through the photo.

Joel notices you looking, the memory of it making him smile.

“They miss you,” he tells you, “should come down and visit ‘em during your next break, when they’re in town—your daddy told me you don’t come down for stuff like that but…you know Tommy and I don’t mind,”

“Tommy still lives with you?”

“Loosely,” Joel offers, “he’s in and out—works for me, he helps pay for shit so I’m not complaining.”

You hum in response as you watch him blindly put in his passcode, six zeros in rapid succession. Somehow, you’re not surprised. You input your number quietly and call your phone, doing the same with your own phone before handing it back to him.

“Don’t abuse it,” Joel warns you, placing the phone between his thighs,

“Me?” you feign innocence, “Never.”

Joel taps his thumb quietly against the steering wheel, deciding carefully on his next words but unable to keep them in, feeling the boil over.

“That stuff—it doesn’t leave there,” Joel says pointedly, “whatever it was, it happened, but that—that can’t happen anymore, understood?”

Your gaze flicks down to your lap, tongue swirling over your teeth as you nod, unable to look at him as he glares over at you, awaiting a verbal response.

“I gotta hear it, kiddo,” he presses.

“Already forgotten,” you promise, though your voice is hollow, “can we listen to something?”

Joel shoves the box of cassettes into your lap, knowing that this was a tactic to switch subjects, but he didn’t have it in him to argue.

The damage between you had already been done.

-

next chapter

-

divider credit: @/saradika-graphics

[ratatoastwrites]

Ok ok smut. I keep thinking about how the BAU is often gone on longer cases and a Spencer who missed his girlfriend on a long case and just wants to be really close to her so like clingy...maybe some cockwarming...umm yeah imma see myself out byyyeeeee

-🌞

a/n: i’m literally so sorry that this took me six months to post 😭 i literally have no words omg. but i totally loved!!!! this request and it was so much fun to write and i really hope that i did it justice 💕🧚‍♀️ (even though i feel like the ending might be a teensy bit rushed 😭) also also also: today is mgg’s birthday! omg! i love me a pisces man 🧎‍♀️‍➡️

well, without further ado

You feel like Home

Spencer Reid x fem!reader

nsfw, 18+ MDNI

cw: no use of y/n, Spencer calls reader Angel, smut, cockwarming, dry humping (barely though), words to describe the female genitalia, unprotected p in v sex, mentioned rough sex, Spencer is described as “pussy-whipped” (he is), kissing, some light making out ig, and umm maybe softdom!Spence (?) idrk tho, also english is not my first language so im sorry if this isn’t grammatically pristine

• Before he met you, Spencer had no real qualms about his work schedule

• Sure, it was a bit of a hassle to travel for work so much, but let’s face it, he didn’t really have anything better to do

• While the rest of the team complained when they had little to no free time between cases, he was secretly happy for the distraction from his mostly uneventful life

• After he met you, though…

• To put it simply, Spencer was obsessed with you

• He fell fast and he fell hard, and now every second thought in that big brain of his was about you

• He most definitely would’ve spent every waking moment with you if that was possible

• Or inside you

• Pussy-whipped was one of the best ways to describe him

• But could you really blame him? You were beautiful, and alluring, and your skin was so soft under his touch, and you always smelled and tasted divine…

• Yeah, it was safe to say that you had him completely wrapped around your finger

• And now he suddenly understood why it was such a nuisance to have to travel across the country on a random thursday afternoon, for an unforeseeable amount of days

• He tried to call you as often as possible, but most of the time he was either too busy or your schedules just simply didn’t align

• It was no different on this case, and to make matters even worse, this time he had to go five whole days without seeing you, and three without getting to hear your voice

• So when he finally arrived home to your shared apartment, seeing you in one of his oversized sweaters, looking so inviting and cozy on the couch, smiling at him so sweetly as you greeted him…

 

“Spence,” you giggled softly, tilting your head to the side to grant him easier access, as he pressed gentle kisses to your neck. You were seated in his lap, your arms around his neck, and his hands on your thighs on either sides of his hips. He has refused to let go of you ever since he came home almost an hour ago, his hands and lips not leaving your skin for even a second, as if he was afraid that you would disappear like a mirage.

“Hm?” He hummed against your neck, his lips focusing on your pulse point. He nipped and sucked on your pristine skin, covering it with small love bites. They would fade by the morning, but for now, he relished in getting to decorate you with his marks, like a physical reminder that you were his.

Your breath hitched, only letting out the shuddering breath that you sucked in, when his hands finally moved under your –his– sweater. You very quickly forgot what you were about to say, your hips rolling against his with a small, needy sound.

“Angel.” Spencer’s voice was soft, if a bit choked, his hands quickly sliding down to hold your hips. “I want to take my time with you tonight. Will you let me?”

You bit down on your lower lip, feeling your lower regions ache with desire from how he wound you up with his casual, gentle kisses and touches. At the same time though, you were feeling just as clingy as he was. You didn’t want this to end for a long time, didn’t want to rush into an orgasm.

So you just nodded, cupping Spencer’s cheeks as you leaned in to kiss him languidly. Your lips moved in sync, in a familiar, well-practiced dance, while you raised your hips to allow him to pull off your shorts and panties.

You reached down to the hem of your sweater, but he caught your wrists, stopping you from taking it off.

“Leave it on. Please,” he said, adding the adverb almost as an afterthought. “I like making you mine in my own clothes.”

And oh, that just simply wasn’t fair. He couldn’t seriously say stuff like that and expect you not to drag you needy, wet cunt against the noticeable bulge in his pants. You both moaned at the same time from the friction, and this time he didn’t have it in him to tell you to stop.

You kissed him deeply, moving your hands to unbuckle his belt, while he unzipped his pants –a combined effort, to get his poor, aching hardness out of the confines of his slacks as fast as possible.

There were very little words exchanged, lips parting as you both sighed into eachother’s mouths, once you finally sank down on his length.

“Jesus Christ, Angel. I missed you so much,” he whispered hotly against your lips, before dipping his head down, to press his lips to your throat.

It was hard to stay still at first. As much as you wanted to drag this out, his tip was nudging your cervix so deliciously that you couldn’t help but clench around him tightly. You sucked in a sharp breath as you felt him twitch inside you in response, while he whined against your skin.

But after a few minutes, you finally settled. It felt incredible, being connected with him so intimately, bodies and souls entwined on your couch. You kissed him lazily, before asking him about his day, his time away, letting him talk to you about the case –well, as much as he was allowed to tell you about it.

You talked and cuddled and just stayed in eachother’s embrace. Because after so long, you were finally reunited, and you’d be damned if you didn’t make the most of it.

And if a while later, after you’ve already discussed everything and caught up with eachother, he finally pounded you into the couch, well… You definitely weren’t one to complain about that either.

[okwonyo]

日语─── BEST PART ❜

RIPIRDENRE ੭୧ 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾.

husband!enhypen & wife!reader 8OO non-idol au fluff established relationship 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏｡ mention of kissing

지아 ⠀⦂⠀credit to my amazing girlfriend kimibae for the idea ><

✶ rbs&feedbacks！ DAILY ˊᯅˋ archive

HEESEUNG it happens when he is talking to his colleagues— his phone rings inside of his pocket and, as if it was a national instinct, he takes it immediately. he doesn’t hesitate much before accepting the call when your name appears, leaving his colleagues hanging. “yes, baby?” he answers, in the softest tone anyone has witnessed him use before. it’s something he only does with you, picking up the phone no matter what. no matter where he is or what he is doing, if you call, you can be sure that he will always answer. his abrupt disappearance makes the people he was talking to a tad bit confused. they ask him who he was talking to as soon as he comes back. “who?” he smiles. “i was talking to my wife.”

JAY “what are you doing here, princess?” he smiles gently, resting his back on his chair’s backseat— getting comfortable as soon as he sees you. with a happy expression on your face, you walk toward your husband. you hold the lunchbox in your hands in a way that makes his heart swell, with such love and care that he might melt. “you forget your lunch at home, so i bought it to you.” he lets you settle yourself on his laps as you talk, “am i bothering you?” and he can’t tell you that he left his lunchbox on purpose, just to see you. “no, i love your visits.” so, it’s never really confirmed or said out loud (until a work party), but the way he looks at you, the shining ring on his finger says it all.

JAKE there isn’t a day where he stays quiet— he is always bringing your name up somehow. in every conversation he has, no matter how brief they can be, you will always get mentioned at some point of it. therefore, he is the first to find it a bit surprising when people find out that is married to you, several months after the wedding happened. people ask him with wide eyes about what he means by ‘my wife’ and he looks at them with the exact same expression. “well, i am married?” he answers, as if it was obvious. to his defense, he really thought it was. to his words, he adds the action of showing off his ring when he speak again, “i have a wife, i talk about her all the time. do you even listen to me?”

SUNGHOON doesn’t talk about you much. although, you are on his mind from the moment he wakes up to when he closes his eyes at night— he likes to protect his privacy at all costs. however, when he gets married, he assumes that everyone already knows about it. the ring on his finger accompanied by your picture on his desk makes it quite obvious (he even catches himself staring at either of them quite often). he discovers that it’s not the case at all when he tells his colleagues about how he has to leave early because he has a date. he’s bewildered when someone asks him with whom, he thinks they are joking at first, but it doesn’t seem like it. “with my wife?”

SUNOO your husband is handsome. you’d say that he is pretty, ethereal even. you know that already— how gorgeous he is and how magnetic is aura can be. so, it doesn’t surprise you when he tells you that his colleagues spend half of their time trying to match him up with someone and the other half hitting on him with barely any shame. he always denies their offer with a sweet laugh—until he comes back from his honeymoon. he looks refreshed, he can’t stop smiling whenever he thinks about you, which makes him ten times more attractive. this time, when someone tells him that one of his colleagues likes him, he denies again but with a brand new formula. “i am a married man, now.”

JUNGWON can’t leave home without the satisfaction of your lips touching his. even if it’s not necessarily his lips, he wants a kiss somewhere on him. your complaints about how it’ll ruin your lip combo or take off your lipstick doesn’t affect him at all. your husband gets a kiss from his wife no matter what. sometimes, he even leaves before you can tell him that your lipstick is on his mouth, because he shuts you up with another peck before running away. usually, he notices it and take it off but not today. this time, it’s when one of his colleagues asks him who he got those stains from that he remembers. “oh, it must have been from my wife.”

RIKI he doesn’t understand why people don’t believe whenever he brings you up. he always talks about you— while making sure the use the term ‘my wife’ ever since you got married. however, it doesn’t seem to get into his colleagues’ head, for some reason that he either doesn’t know or that doesn’t make any sense. “i can’t go out with you guys today,” he tells his colleagues, already looking for his car somewhere in the parking lot— his mind is only focused in on coming home to you. “my wife is waiting for me at home.” today he decides to directly show pictures of your wedding when they ask what he is talking about. he was right, ‘but you are so young!’ is a stupid argument.

taglist open + net— @sgz-net

[buckyalpine]

18+ drabbles. Imagine Bucky finally gets his hand on the sweetest doll he’s been pining after for months, absolutely taking her apart every which way when he finally has her all to himself. He could only be a gentleman for so long until the mask slips because she feels so good. Too good. He tried to take his time but his body moves on its own, chasing the addicting feeling her pussy makes his cock feel, his thick length gripping and massaging in her tight little cunt.

He has her in his room, no longer giving her soft gentle strokes; no. His hands are grabbing her hips, slamming her back on his cock to meet his thrusts, that spongy head kissing her cervix each time, precum and her arousal creating sticks webs where their skin meets.

“F-uck, I-mph!” Your moans come out muffled and broken, tears wetting his mattress as you try to keep your voice down. Bucky couldn't care less if anyone else heard, a part of him going feral knowing his cock is making you feel so good you can't even form words.

“Yeah? Y’like that, angel?” Sweat glistened off his tanned skin, a drop rolling down his back as he continued to rail you, groaning at your ass smacking against his pelvis, the sight enough to make him blow on the spot, "You're so fuckin' pretty, baby" His voice is a low rumble, talking more to himself as his cock somehow grows harder at the way you squeal. "Sweetest thing I've ever stuffed my dick into, my perfect bunny, fuck you make me feel so good" His head is thrown back, pounding harder, absolutely lost in his own world. His muscles burn, his body hotter than ever but he won't stop.

“S’too much Jamie” You nearly slip but he holds you in place like a limp ragdoll, using you for his pleasure at this point, hitting a spot that makes you gush with no control. Your arms give way, slipping onto your front but he continues to fuck like an animal without losing his pace. The weight of his body is pressed against you, his chest and stomach pressed on your back, his hands coming to pin you against the bed, forcing more of your perfect cream out of you "Oh God, m'gonna-fuck Jamie-J-AMie!"

“Yeah, milk me baby, cum on this cock, can’t help it, you just feel to. Damn. Good” he moans against your neck feeling your pussy clench and squeeze his length, coaxing his full balls to grow heavier, cum desperate to shoot from his swollen tip. "M'so full of cum for you baby, needed y'so bad. fuckk-needed it, look at how well y'take it, m'gonna fill you up angel-oh fuck a-angel-FUCKKK" He lets out an obscene moan, biting down onto your sensitive skin and his body goes into overdrive feeling everything all at once. Ropes of his creamy spend coat your insides, spilling onto the sheets as he continues to grind though his orgasm.

"Shit-m'still cumming, fuck I-I'm cumming again" A whine slips between a growl he lets out as more of his seed pumps into you, the weight of his body fully resting on yours. He wraps his arms around you, pressing a kiss onto your shoulders, now indented with his teeth marks.

You giggle at the feeling of his stubble tickling you as he nuzzles into your skin with a satisfied purr, now peppering more kisses to coax more of that sweet sound you make.

"B-Bucky, it tickles!" You squirm around, catching a glimpse at the French doors near the bed, your giggles turning into a near cackle. Bucky curiously follows what you were looking at when he sees your eyes widen, your skin heating up against his.

“We fogged up the windows” you bit your lip trying to hold your laughter down while Bucky smirked, getting off the bed, tracing his finger on the glass.

“There” he says with a satisfied grin, the words look what we did looking back at you. He pounces back on the bed, pinning you down, his tongue dating out to lick up your neck, nipping your earlobe, “can’t let that disappear just yet, ready for round two?”

(Backstory for the windows? this was a result of my sweet Italian menace. He did that. He will see this.)