#still don’t know how to tag these things..

[blank-potato]

that's what i like

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary:

It's impossible to teach when you’re hopelessly, irreversibly, maddeningly in love with the one you’re training. “So what now?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves. Big mistake. Huge mistake. Because now you’re at serious risk of going into full cardiac arrest. You didn’t even know you had a thing for forearms until Bob Reynolds. And his? They’re absurd. Or You love everything Bob does, and he doesn't seem to notice.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, love confessions, friends to lovers, Bob and reader being cute, thirsting over the void a little

WC: 3.1k

A/N: Thank you again to @fire-joestar for the request/idea. Wrote something with the same kind of concept for John Walker, linked here. Enjoy!

***

Bob Reynolds is ruining your life.

Not in the dramatic, villain-of-your-story kind of way, but in the slow, quiet unravelling of your sanity. It’s too hard to be around him with all the smiling and casual charm and accidental intimacy that he does without even realising it.

And it’s always the little things which somehow make it worse.

His voice, for one. You were obsessed with his voice. He could be reading the back of a cereal box or listing off the ingredients in engine coolant, and it would still sound like poetry. Sometimes he’d actually read to you. You and Bob were the only members of the unofficial Avengers book club.

You’d often talk about books you’d read, trading recommendations like secrets, excitedly dissecting plot twists and favourite characters. It became a quiet ritual between you and Bob.

“There’s no audiobook,” you groaned one night, holding up the newest paperback in your stack. “I was hoping to listen to so I could fall asleep.”

Bob, ever the calm in your chaos, looked over at you with that soft little smile he always wore when he was about to offer something way too generous.

“I can read it to you,” he said, casual like it wasn’t the most heart-stoppingly sweet thing you’d ever heard.

You blinked. “You sure you don’t mind?” you asked, voice tinged with both hope and hesitation.

But he just shook his head, already pulling a chair up beside your bed, brushing off any notion of it being a burden. “Not at all.”

His voice was too much. It filled the space in your room like a blanket. He didn’t touch you, not once, just sat a few feet away reading by the soft light of your bedside lamp. But somehow it still felt intimate, like his voice alone was petting you gently, like fingertips tracing down your spine, calming every frayed nerve.

But his voice wasn’t just soothing, it was sexy. You’d never tell him or the other Avengers this because of the whole traumatic experience and whatnot, but even when he became the void, his voice was something else.

It was dark and mocking, and it had you feeling some kind of way, only a little, because people were literally being turned into shadows and living out their trauma. But still, it pulled at something deep inside you and maybe made you discover a few things about yourself. Maybe something you should be concerned about, but nevertheless...

Although his voice isn’t the only thing that’s contributing to your downfall. 

Just this morning, you’re barely awake and walk in to be greeted by the sight of Bob making breakfast, one of your favourite sights. 

“Morning,” you mumble, suppressing a yawn.

“Morning…” he replies with an easy smile, going about his routine, setting up to make breakfast.

“Thank you, Bob,” you say, turning to him, feeling completely in control, your head still firmly attached to the rest of you.

But then you catch something, he’s cracking eggs one-handed. Now, you don’t know why that’s so captivating. Maybe it’s how strong and big his hands look, maybe it’s the effortless confidence in the motion. Or maybe it’s just because you’re so hopelessly in love with him that everything he does feels like it’s dipped in gold.

Either way, you liked it. A lot more than you probably should’ve.

“You could crack me like an egg,” you mumble quietly to yourself.

“Did you say something?” Bob asks, not hearing what you said, thank goodness.

“No, nothing at all. You’re looking good, the... the breakfast is looking good, I mean…” You stumble over your words, cheeks warming as you try to play it cool.

This crush you had on him certainly didn’t help when you had to help him train. He was like a baby cow, clumsy, unsure, and somehow always one step away from falling over his own feet. And everything he did just made him that much more endearing. The way he bit his lip when he was concentrating, the little apologetic smiles when he missed a step or fumbled a move, the way he always tried again without complaint. It was everything.

“You have to…um you have to…” You start, but your voice trails off as you catch the way he’s looking at you.

Another one of Bob’s quirks that has you going feral… the eye contact. He’s always so focused, so intent, like he’s really watching you, really seeing you. His eyes hold this sharp, unwavering attention that’s equal parts intense and disarming. It totally throws you off your game.

You’re brought back to your senses by him saying your name repeatedly.

“Where’d you go?” he says, putting his hand on your shoulder. You shake off the Bob-induced daze and look at him with full attention.

“I’m too hopeless a student?” He asks.

“Rather, I’m too hopeless of a teacher,” You reply with a chuckle, and it was true. It's impossible to teach when you’re hopelessly, irreversibly, maddeningly in love with the one you’re training.

“So what now?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves.

Big mistake.

Huge mistake.

Because now you’re at serious risk of going into full cardiac arrest.

You didn’t even know you had a thing for forearms until Bob Reynolds. And his? They’re absurd. The veins, the muscle, the smooth strength of his arms just disappearing under the fabric of his shirt. You can only imagine what his biceps look like. Or his shoulders. Or—

You shake your head quickly, trying to banish the rapidly spiralling thoughts. You know Bob is probably confused, waiting for an answer, but your eyes? Yeah, they’re glued to his damn forearms.

Damn his forearms.

“Break,” you blurt. “Ten-minute break. Minimum.”

Before he can respond, you practically launch yourself toward the water fountain, needing a distraction, a cooldown, and maybe divine intervention.

You take a long drink, trying not to think about veins. Or rolled-up sleeves. Or Bob at all. 

But Bob lived in your mind; he had taken up residence there as soon as you met, and he wasn’t moving out anytime soon. It wasn’t fair that he was cute but also kind and helpful? It made you want to crash into a wall. 

You were struggling with a particularly stubborn jar, the kind that mocks you with every twist. You could fight ten people with one hand tied behind your back, balance complex equations in your head, but you couldn’t defeat this jar of pickles.

Bob appears, quiet as ever, and silently offers to take it from your hands. You hesitate, then sigh and surrender.

He reaches over, his hand brushing yours, and takes it. In one fluid motion, he opens it like it's nothing. Like it hadn't just reduced you to near madness. Like your struggle had never even happened.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice barely making it past your lips.

He smiles softly, unbothered, warm. “What are friends for?” he says, placing his hand gently on your shoulder. It’s a brief touch that somehow says more than the words. And then he disappears down the hall, like it was nothing.

Right… friends. 

***

You’re wandering the tower again. When you have nothing to do, your feet always seem to lead you to Bob.

You knock on his door, and after a muffled "Come in," you step inside.

You look around and there he is, shaving in front of a small mirror propped up on the windowsill.

“Hope I’m not intruding…” You say hesitantly.

He glances at you through the mirror, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His hair is slightly damp and tousled, a few strands falling stubbornly into his eyes. He’s probably just stepped out of the shower a few minutes prior, the smell of his shampoo and lotion filling the air. 

He’s holding a razor, face half-lathered, brow furrowed in concentration. You liked him like this, all cute and focused. There was something about the way he moved with such care, guiding the blade with precise, practised strokes. It was intimate in a way you couldn’t explain.

“You don’t have to, but can you help me?” Bob asks, voice gentle but sure.

“Sure,” you reply, stepping closer.

And again, you’re hit with that electricity that crackles between you when your eyes meet. He watches you, patient and open, and you always wonder if he realises just how much that look affects you.

“You smell good,” you say, without thinking.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,” you whisper, picking up the towel and dabbing away some stray foam. Your hand is steady now, more confident, and with it comes a strange kind of comfort. The scent of him surrounds you, clean, warm, a little woodsy. It was comforting and something else, too. You wanted to dive into it. To stay wrapped up in that scent, in him. You could only imagine waking up to your sheets smelling like him.

How the hell was the way he smelled even sexy?

You both go extremely still, equally flustered.

“So do you,” he finally replies, and there's another little pause. You stare at each other, your heart performing an Olympic-level gymnastics routine inside your chest.

“W–where’s your aftershave?” you ask, trying to find something to focus on that isn’t the intensity of his gaze.

“Bathroom,” he says, voice lower now.

You nod, quickly turning away. A second later, you’re back with the bottle in hand. You open it, the scent hitting you all over again, it’s undeniably him.

Without asking, you step closer and start applying it for him, your fingers brushing gently against his jaw, his cheek, his neck. Every feature, each line of his face, every angle was something you could get addicted to. A slow study of a man who somehow never felt like too much. 

You glance up.

He’s standing still, letting you do it, but he’s no longer meeting your eyes.

Now he’s the one who can’t make eye contact.

And it’s… adorable.

He’s quiet under your touch, eyes lowered, breath just a little more shallow than before. You can tell he’s holding back. Holding himself still, as if afraid that leaning into your hand might unravel something he’s worked hard to keep together.

The way his lashes flutter when your fingers graze the curve of his jaw. The way his shoulders tense, then ease, like he’s trying not to sink into the warmth of being seen.

He’s touch-starved. You can feel it, not in desperation, but in the aching restraint. The way his fists clenched and unclenched as if to distract himself. 

And you’re not much better off. Your hand lingers, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone, and you’re forced to get a hold of yourself.  

“I’m, uh… all done,” you say, pulling your hands away from his face. You see the way his shoulders drop just slightly as he deflates, but you don’t read into it.

Bob nods, almost like he’s coming out of a trance. Like he can finally breathe again. “Well… thanks,” he says, voice soft.

You offer a quick, awkward smile, and then you’re scurrying your way out of his room like you’ve just committed a felony.

Because, honestly? Being that close to Bob felt like grounds for something dangerous. Emotional trespassing, maybe. Or reckless heart behaviour.

He was too fine for his own good.

And way, way too fine for your good.

***

Bob was always there for you, the most supportive presence anyone could wish for. So when you crashed into his room late at night, just as he’d finally started to fall asleep, he wasn’t mad. Not even close.

“There’s a spider in my room!” you declared, breathless and dramatic.

“It’s midnight…” Bob mumbled, mid-yawn, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Exactly! Imagine my surprise when it came lunging at me from inside my wardrobe. I tried to catch it, but the stubborn fucker escaped and crawled up my wall like it owned the place.”

He blinked at you, then sighed and swung his legs out of bed, already standing. His hair was messy, and his t-shirt clung a little unevenly from sleep. His steady steps led toward your door.

“It’s fine. You can hide behind me,” he said with a soft smile.

Then he casually and instinctively took your hand.

And just like that, something settled in your chest. His hand was warm, steady, and strong. His fingers laced through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. You could’ve let him hold it for hours.

You followed closely behind, using him shamelessly as a human shield. “Where is it?” he asked, already scanning your room like a man on a mission.

“There,” you pointed, spotting the tiny monster halfway up the far wall. “That’s him. The bold bastard.”

Bob narrowed his eyes and, without hesitation, lifted gently off the floor. You blinked. It still caught you off guard, seeing him use his powers. You hadn’t seen him even float since that day. And now here he was, levitating to defeat a spider for you.

It was more than just endearing.

It was… kind of ridiculously attractive.

He could’ve pulverised it. Turned it to dust without blinking. But instead, he hovered close, cupped it carefully in his hands like it was something fragile, and opened the window to let it go. 

Why the fuck was that so hot?

“Thanks…” you said softly, watching him touch back down, the faintest smile still on his lips.

He looked at you, all sleepy eyes and soft concern. “It’s no problem,” he said, his voice low. “Plus, I kind of liked saving you.”

Your heart did a little twist. You swallowed.

“This is… and you are completely within your right to say no, but…”

He tilted his head slightly, curious.

“Would you stay the night?” you asked, trying to sound casual. “You know. Just to protect me from any future spider insurgencies.”

His smile widened, just a little. “Well,” he said, moving closer, “can’t leave you defenceless now, can I?”

You smile and shift slightly, making enough space for him in the bed. He hesitates for only a moment before settling beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight.

You stare at him, his face softly illuminated by the distant glow of streetlights and the scattered lights of other buildings outside the window. His messy hair is fanned out against your pillow, and you can feel his body heat slowly merging with yours, a quiet warmth that pulls you in like gravity.

“Why’d you come and get me? Why not someone else?” Bob asks, his voice gentle as he turns toward you, rolling a little closer.

“You’re the one I want protecting me from evil spiders,” you answer honestly. No one else even came to mind. The moment you were scared or the least bit unsure, you could always turn to Bob. It was like instinct. 

“Why?” he presses, softer this time. He’s not looking at you now, his gaze shifted to the ceiling. You take a moment to just look at him—his side profile, the way his jaw tenses like he’s bracing for something, the small crease between his brows.

“Because…” you begin, the words slow. You pause, focusing on all the little things you like about him. His kindness, his dry humour, his quiet strength, and the way he always seems to make you feel calm.

Maybe it’s because it’s too late at night. Maybe it’s the safety of the dark. Maybe it’s the way your brain feels hazy and open and ready.

Bob freezes for a second, then jumps just a little, like the words caught him off guard. He slowly turns his head to look at you, his expression unreadable at first.

But the next words out of your mouth are:

“I like you.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just stares.

And you wait. Heart in your throat. Every second, stretching. Either he was about to tell you he felt the same… or this was the moment your friendship shattered.

“I like you too,” he says.

His voice is soft and low, like he’s afraid saying it too loud might wake him from a dream. But his eyes are steady. And you can tell that he’s telling the truth.

You scoot closer, close enough to feel the way your breath mingles.

“So…” you murmur, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile, “what should we do about this little situation we’ve got ourselves in?”

Your heart is pounding so loudly, you’re sure he can hear it.

Tentatively, he reaches out, fingers brushing your cheek with a touch so careful it makes your breath catch. He looks at you like really looks at you as if trying to memorise the moment, commit it to something deeper than memory.

He leans in just a little, voice almost a whisper.

“I think we know.”

You exhale, slow and steady, and let yourself give in. You lean forward until your lips finally meet.

It’s soft at first, the kind of kiss that makes your heart soar and your whole body ache with relief. Bit by bit, it becomes more passionate as you melt into one another.  He deepens it, cupping your face fully in his hands, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

And before you know it, you’re climbing into his lap, your arms around his shoulders, his hands steady at your waist. Everything feels like too much and just enough all at once.

He pauses, just barely pulling back, breath ghosting against your lips.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice husky, careful, but laced with something vulnerable.

You meet his gaze, no hesitation. You were in this for the long haul.

“More than anything.”

The next day, upon seeing Bob’s door wide open and no Bob anywhere to be seen, the team went into immediate panic mode. They searched high and low, worried he’d disappeared on them in the middle of the night.

“Have you seen—?” Yelena begins, swinging open your door mid-sentence, only to stop dead in her tracks at the sight of you and Bob fast asleep, wrapped up in each other’s arms.

The rest of the team crowds in behind her, eyes wide, jaws dropping.

You jolt awake at the sound, blinking in confusion as you realise the entirety of the Avengers are now in your doorway.

You shriek, diving under the covers and yanking them up to your chin to salvage whatever dignity you have left. “Privacy! Ever heard of it?!”

“Called it,” Ava and John say in perfect sync, like they just won a bet.

You groan, your entire face heating as you sink lower into the sheets, mortified.

Meanwhile, Bob? Still fast asleep, completely unbothered by the intrusion, his arm still draped across your waist like nothing’s changed. How is he sleeping through this?

Yelena smiles. “We’re so happy for you two.”

You glance at him in disbelief, then back at the group.

“Can everyone get out now?!”

“Out!”

Masterlist

[littleapplle]

rafayel's lemurian behavior hc's!!

cw.: NSFW. 1.8k w. raf is mentioned more like a scary sea creature than like a pretty merman, this might have some ooc content for lemurians, mentions of sex, heat, raf has two dicks... ops... mentions of oviposition. not really monsterfucking but i'll tag it just in case.

note: "bloom will you ever shut the fuck up about lemurians? no. no i will not.

He's overprotective. Lemurians, as social as they are around their own species, can be quite territorial when it comes to their mates. Rafayel is all over you as soon as he views something as a threat. Thomas greeting you at an art exhibition? There’s a hand slipping to your waist and he glares at his manager over your shoulder. The poor college student that works at the cafe you two like smiled at you while you ordered your favorite drink? He’s clinging and nuzzling to you with a pout. A stray cat meowed at you for more pets? Oh he might as well pass out.

He showers you with gifts. Rafayel is obsessed with you alright. This is also related to how jelly he can get! Someone hit on you? You wake up with a pretty box with some kind of new jewelry by the door of your apartment. And they’re always one of a kind, too. No one’ll ever wear the same pair of earrings, bracelet, anklet you do, Rafayel commissions it all from the best jewelers he knows.

^ This is a very personal hc but i think that before you entered Rafayel’s life, he lowkey hated the fact his tears turned into pearls for the simple fact it can get messy and it was harder to hide his shame and weakness. After you showed so much interest in them though, Rafayel didn’t bother to kick the shiny pearls under the couch or bed or throw them away. In fact, he starts to collect them in tiny bottles and makes jewelry out of it. His favorite is the anklet he gifted you, a simple silver chain with two tiny pearls as pendants.

He's constantly nuzzling you. Lemurians have amazing senses even out of water and his sense of smell wouldn’t be any different. Rafayel LOVES the way you smell naturally. No cologne, no lotion. Just your skin. If you two are cuddling, he’s 100% with his head buried on your neck while breathing deeply and drowning on the scent. Lemurians are super touchy with their mates so just let him be and he’ll be overjoyed. You can even hear a happy chirp or two escaping him if you pay enough attention.

He insists on dragging you to the ocean. There are two things Rafayel adores– you and soaking underwater. If you agree to spend some quality time with him on the open ocean, he is overjoyed. You’re terrified of deep waters? Don’t worry!! Trust him!! He’ll help you float around, webbed hands always ghosting your waist and lower back to ground and comfort you while he swims under you happily. 

His true form is comically huge. I’m talking about like. 7 feet. He loooooves to wrap himself around you like a snake and keep you close like you’re his personal heater. OR! He floats on his back and lets you lie on top of him like a seal and its baby. You just look so tiny compared to him… he can’t help but want some snuggles.

Still on the anatomy topic, his skin is inhumanely pale. Living in the deep, there isn’t much sunlight nor does he need it so he is naturally very pale. It’s more like… kind of translucent, you can’t see his organs like some fish but you can clearly see his bluish veins. His teeth are super sharp and strong, too. Biologically, it’s for hunting, since it helps with cracking clams and other stuff open. Nowadays? He just torments you with them, of course! I believe Rafayel is a biter. A soft one, but he definitely nips on your skin if he’s upset or wants your attention.

^ Since i mentioned his teeth, it’s also valid to mention his mouth is also huge. It looks normal when he has it closed or when he’s talking but once he yawns, your eyes jump open. A thin membrane, where his cheeks would be, stretches his mouth much further than what would be considered natural and makes his shiny teeth noticeable. If it’s hard to visualize, think of it as the buccal flap some reptiles have!

He gives you his scales. Once, when you two were at the beach, you complimented how they looked under the sunset light, the purples and blues shining against the last bits of natural light beautifully, without much thought. Poor you just didn’t know this is a way of courting in lemurian culture and ohhhhh Rafayel’s brain MELTED. He couldn’t even react, stupid fish just nodded and looked away with a shy pout.

^ After that, he regularly gives you the older scales that shed from his tail. Please keep them all safe somewhere, it makes his stomach flip with joy. 

He hisses. Not at you, never, but you’ve caught his pupils turning into slits and a snake like hiss coming out of his mouth while he’s on the phone with a random collector once or twice now. 

He has a terrible temper during his heat. Lemurians go into heat in early spring, when the waters are slightly warmer, and Rafayel is no exception. The week before the heat actually kicks in, he’s super stressed. He gets petty, gives Thomas an attitude and threatens to burn his whole studio down and then, as soon as you’re by his side, his eyes are already spilling delicate pearls. His skin is hot and sweaty like it usually is during ebb day and all he wants is to soak in his tub or sea.

Which leads to the next topic! Can’t find him in his studio? Call his name at the beach! He’s curled onto his own tail underwater all hot and bothered but he’ll come crawling for you in a second… and drag you with him. Don’t know how to swim? And who said you’re leaving his grasp? Can’t hold your breath? Just kiss him! He just needs you close and it’s not like you can move anyway. His tail wraps around your legs like a predator ready to strike and he is babbling in lemurian while nuzzling on your cheek and chirping.

He courts you! During the week before his heat, his gifts are even more overwhelming. Oh look! He just finished a portrait of you! And here’s a new pair of pearl earrings, please use it. Don’t forget the delicate necklace with his initials. Oh and- you get the point. Underwater though? He will blow bubbles to make you laugh and sing you the sweetest lemurian love songs. You’re already his, he knows that, but his instincts act quicker than what his brain can think right now. It’s cute, really. He acts all confident and pretends he has some self control left in his body just so you can clap and praise him.

Some think lemurians have venom glands, but it is a myth! Lemurian mating is mostly romantic and they are bound to a mate for a lifetime, it’s not just with the intention of reproducing. So, they don’t have the need to hold down or paralyze their mates completely. That doesn’t mean you’re safe from his sharp teeth, though. He can hardly think for himself, have some mercy. Rafayel just needs a trigger to sink his teeth on your shoulder blade. You smell good? Bite. You barely have time to struggle and scold him before he’s already lapping at your bloody skin as an apology.

As for his actual heat, if you really insist, he’ll have sex with you in his studio– doesn’t matter where. But if you don’t mind and trust him, please, please, let him have his way with you in the water. He’s too desperate to breathe the land’s sticky and heavy air. Asks you a million times if you’re actually sure and that he can’t really hold back once you let him touch you. And if you consent? Say goodbye to rational Raf.

Now, i want to mention his anatomy once again to clear a few things up. His tail has a slit where his cock, in his human form, would be. The scales around it are softer, slimy and the slit produces a LOT of slick when he’s aroused. And where are his cocks? Inside, of course! Dooooon’t be shy, finger him for a bit and his cocks will come out in a second, standing tall and proud against his lower stomach.

^ Lemurians have hemipenis. Some animals have double reproductive organs for the sake of their species, if one of them is damaged, there’s still the other one for breeding. Lemurians, on the other hand, have a ‘smaller’ dick that’s more human looking and is used for pleasure and penetrative sex, while the other, found under the first one, is bigger, longer, ridged and it’s exclusively for breeding and burying his eggs inside you.

^ His ‘human’ cock isn’t exactly small, honestly, nothing about Rafayel’s true form is. I’d say it’s close to 7.68 inches (19,5 cm) when fully hard. It’s really pretty too! Just looks like his human form dick, maybe the base is kinda bluish and there are a few soft scales here and there but that’s it. Now, about the other one…it’s big. 12.5 inches (31 cm) okay… don’t worry though. He produces so much slick it won’t hurt much. I wouldn’t say it is pretty, it’s… uncommon! Interesting! But not pretty. It’s tinted in a nice deep blue that gets lighter on the tip and the base is pretty scaly. Not only is it big but it is very thick too. It’s an ovipositor, it has to have enough space for his eggs without squeezing them too much. 

^ Since i mentioned eggs, it’s good to mention that i don’t think they’re big… It does cause some discomfort at first because your womb will consider it as foreign body once they all snug inside you but I don't think it’s enough to cause pain. The shells are squishy, slimy and translucent and they’re the size of a date. Around 3-6 eggs i think… though not all of them are fertilized.

^ And on the fertilized eggs topic, I don't think Rafayel is able to actually impregnate you in this form. Your body just isn’t made to bear eggs and conclude the fertilization process. He does like to try though! And it’s not like his dumbed down brain can process any of this right now. Also, don’t worry, the eggs will come out of you naturally. After a few days without getting any nutrients, they turn into mush inside you and come out of you mixed with your discharge. 

^ That does not mean Rafayel can’t get you pregnant though! If you actually want children, his human form works just fine.

After his heat, which usually lasts a week, he is super clingy. He knows you’re not pregnant and doesn’t need this much doting but he’s just so happy you put up with all his needs. He showers you, lets you rest, kisses any and all bruises and bites he may have left… anything for his bride.

⊹ ࣪reblogs are very much appreciated. thank you for reading!(*´▽`*)

[frenchtwistedd]

The Necklace - Charles Leclerc

summary: in which Charles personalizes a necklace for you & wants it to be the only thing you’re wearing OR he gives you a second necklace, aka his hand.

relationship: Charles Leclerc x girlfriend female reader

tags: dominant Charles, combative yet submissive gf, SMUTTT, seductive reader, grinding, spit (barely) kink, choking, edging (more like teasing tbh), ‘good girl’ kink, p in v, f!receiving oral, sweet aftercare moment hehe

word count: ~2.3k (may contain typos whoopsies)

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

There you were, standing in the mirror of your shared bedroom, watching Charles as he laced his fingers through the delicate chain housed around your neck, stationing himself behind you.

He surprised you with a beautiful necklace, curated for you and only you, featuring a thin white gold chain and pendant holding a 2 carat diamond. It was raw and radiant, just like you.

He kissed your neck softly, causing a breathy gasp of air to leave you. “It’s so beautiful, thank you,” you said quietly.

Charles left a second, more passionate kiss on your neck, before tracing his lips up to the shell of your ear. “You deserved something special, mon cœur.” His whisper sent a cascade of chills down your spine and arms.

You closed your eyes and took in the feeling of his lips on your ear and the pads of his fingers tracing the goosebumps on your forearm. “I can’t believe I still get you worked up after all this time,” he said as his fingers reached the strap of your top.

Your cheeks became warm and rosy as you met his eyes in the mirror. He removed the strap from your shoulder and let it fall down the side of your arm, following the action with small kisses, keeping his eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“I think the necklace is enough coverage for you, you don’t need the rest of this,” he said as he lightly tugged at the bottom of your mini skirt. “Would you agree?”

The heat that you once felt in your cheeks was now set in the core of your stomach. You nodded in agreement. He interlocked his fingers with yours and spun you around before you could even realize it.

Charles backed up to the edge of the bed and took a seat there. He let himself lean back onto his forearms, spreading his legs wide for comfort, and maybe even for convenience. You noticed that he was slightly bigger in his pants already, and you felt a beating in yours begin from the sight of him.

“I want to watch you,” he said, bobbing his head at you, as if to say take your clothes off.

The once soft and sincere look in his eyes was now shifted into something narrow and commanding, but you loved it. In fact, you craved it. His influence on you, the power that he held, only made you melt more as you watched him watch you.

But two could play at this game. You knew exactly how he wanted you to play— gentle yet deliberate. You couldn’t imagine the tension between the two of you being any different than this— unspoken, but still knowing. So you listened to him.

You reached for your neck first, caressing the skin between the lump in your throat and the necklace itself, before finding the necklace sitting on top of your warm skin. You held the pendant gently between your index finger and thumb and took a brief glance at its beauty, removing the straps from your shoulders simultaneously with your free hand.

Your eyes met Charles’ fierce gaze as you slipped your top off, revealing a baby blue bra underneath— one of his favorites of yours. Your hands took a mind of their own as they moved against the sides of your silhouette, starting around the shape of your bust and moving down to the curves of your waist and hips. The essence of seduction took over you as you slipped off your mini skirt, which housed matching blue panties.

Only slightly covered now, you turn around so that your back is facing him. You slip off your panties in a similar fashion as to your mini skirt and reveal the sight of your bare ass. Next was the clasp of your bra, undone in one swift motion and dropped onto the floor only a second later.

“Let me see you,” he said with his voice low and strained. You tilted your face to the side, giving him only an inch when he wanted a mile.

“It’s your turn,” you said back to him. You heard the sounds of his clothes rubbing against and off of his body, as well as them hitting the floor beneath you. You didn’t watch, you didn’t want to. You both knew very well how much you enjoyed surprises, after all.

When the soft sounds ceased, you turned to face him. “Mmm, there’s my girl,” he said with his bare chest rising high and falling low. You closed the gap between the two of you slowly while running your eyes down his body— abs protruding, legs tense, dick just out in the open. As you climbed on top of him, you kept hold on his beautiful green eyes, pupils large and dilated.

The back of his head hit the bed as your lips crashed into one another’s. He kissed you like he had never been able to before. It was longing and passionate. The tempo between the two of you fastened by the second, tongues meeting, spit being exchanged.

Everything seemed to get even more heated when his large hands found the small of your back and side of your ass, pressing you against him. A moan escaped from your mouth as you felt him grow bigger from underneath of you.

Tugging gently at his hair and keeping up with the pace of his kisses, you reached down between the two of you and placed his dick in the pocket of your pussy. Just the feeling of him made you wet, made the burning sensation in your core intensify.

Charles took this as his go-ahead, rocking your hips back and forth on top of him. He couldn’t help but groan at the feeling of you already being this wet, “Fuck, baby,” he said between your series of kisses that still haven’t ceased.

You were aching to be touched after a few minutes of grinding on him, and he knew this. He could feel you pulsing on top of him as the tension grew higher. But, you weren’t the only one desperate for more. His dick was harder than a rock, leaking more and more with every pass you made on him.

Charles flipped you over onto your back and fell to his knees at the edge of the bed. His hot mouth met your wet pussy in an instant, causing you to wince. He didn’t take the time to warm up, it wasn’t needed. His tongue dragged up from the edge of your pussy all the way up to the tip of your clit, your back arching in instinct.

“You taste so fucking good,” he said with a groan. His praise was just as arousing as his tongue flicking rapidly against your clit. You felt yourself toe the edge of euphoria as he continued to indulge you, but the feeling quickly subsided when he cut off his momentum. You let out a gasp, shocked that he stopped when you were so close.

“I just want to do this forever,” he said teasingly. He started circling your clit slowly with his thumb, keeping his eyes locked on your beating pussy.

“Mmm, baby, pleaseee,” you pleaded. “I was so close.”

Keeping his thumb set on your clit, he looked up to you, bottom half of his face masked from behind you. “So fucking hot when you beg for me.”

Charles left a small kiss on the opening of your pussy and sped up the speed of his circling, you winced at the feeling of it. “But, you know that you can only finish when I let you, baby,” he concluded.

The back of your head dug into the bed as you looked up to the ceiling, feeling filled with agony. Charles got up from his place and lifted your head up slightly. “Someone has an attitude today,” he said, amused.

His eyes locked on yours from above you as he held out his hand in front of your mouth, “Spit,” he commanded. So you did, your eyes staying set into his, noticing a twinkle in his eye as your spit hit the palm of his hand.

He laid your head back on the bed as his wet hand reached for his dick. You watched him stroke himself, his stomach tightening with every grip of the tip. He spread your legs open and pushed them up into your chest.

You couldn’t help but let out a small moan as he dragged the tip of his dick from your clit down to your opening. His teasing made you desperate and absolutely weak for him. You both let out a moan and a ‘fuck’ under your breath as he slipped inside of you.

Charles pushed deep inside of you, cocking his neck back and his chin upwards. The veins on his neck constricted as your pussy did the same around his dick. He let out a laugh, but it really seemed like he needed to let go of a breath that was caught in his lungs. “You’re so tight, god damn,” he said.

He pulled in and out, rolling his hips in the process. With every thrust, he became more wrecked, like he was fighting to not finish so damn early. Charles needed to distract himself, to focus on talking you through it so that he wouldn’t give in so soon.

“Look at you,” he said with a groan, “just lying there and taking it.” He knew this was your favorite part. His voice hoarse, dominance showing through his words— it took you over the edge every single time. He sped up and reached deeper into you, causing you to moan with each thrust.

“You’re so easy to please, you know that?”

You let out a slightly devious giggle. “Says you,” you said back, voice trembling through the pressure he was forcing into you.

He groaned and a smile formed on his face. Whether he would like to admit it or not, he loved when you combatted him, when you put him in his place. He gritted his teeth together and reached one of his hands for your throat.

“I didn’t say you could talk,” he said, pushing through the feeling of breaking inside of you. He was already close as it is, anymore from you would cause him to be there, but alone and without you doing the same. He couldn’t let that happen.

“All this fucking attitude, and for what?” He gripped the sides of your throat a little tighter. “I give you everything you want, you’re fucking spoiled.”

Your sweet spot was being hit repeatedly by him, warmth rose from your core and spread out into the rest of your body. You could both feel and hear your wetness intensify and trickle down you onto the bed sheets.

“Making such a mess, taking it like you can’t live without it,” he said with his accent low and deep.

“Fuck, I can’t,” you whimpered. Legs shaking uncontrollably, you could feel yourself gripping him as he pushed in and retracting from him as he pulled out.

Charles let out an undisciplined moan, beads of sweat lining his hairline and glistening on his neck. “Mmm, I think I like it better with a second necklace,” he said squeezing your neck tighter.

This was the edge of the line. “Char… fuck… I’m gonna…”

“Need it all over me, baby,” he said encouragingly, pushing you to the finish.

The heat building up within you this entire time flooded into your soul. You broke onto him, screaming his name and strenuously shaking, sucking him in deeper. There was no way he could escape, and the feeling of you like this sent him over the edge as well, filling everything into you. Charles fell onto you and kissed you through your shared climax, your senses heightening just by the touch of his lips.

Just when you thought the two of you were finished, he flipped you onto your stomach and hovered over your back, staying inside of you the entire time.

Charles held himself up by his forearms and pushed into you again. This time it was slow and methodical, really focusing on the way you felt around him.

He brushed a piece of your hair behind your ear and neck, revealing your smooth skin. Charles left kisses on the spot, the same one that he kissed while you two were standing in the mirror earlier.

“You feel so good with all of me stuck inside of you,” he said calmly, quietly. You shuddered at his words. He pushed into you deeper as he reached for your cheek, leaving a small kiss there.

“Such a good girl,” he whispered as you turned your head to meet your lips with his.

Charles kissed you all the way until he sent you to your second round of euphoria. This time it was calmer, more impassioned and filled with the love that you have for one another— like the perfect encore. He pulled back and watched you as you went through your climax, rubbing your back and arms consolingly.

He couldn’t keep his hands or his lips off of you for a few good moments after you finished again, he hadn’t even pulled out from you yet.

“I think the next piece of jewelry on the bucket list is a ring,” he said quietly from behind you. “What do you think about that?”

You giggled and gave him a sincere kiss on the lips. “I think that it would be perfect,” you said back.

His eyes were back to their soft, natural state, but they were just as magnetic as before. “I love you, mon cœur.”

“I love you, mon amor.”

author’s note

eeee, I hope you enjoyed!!! if you enjoyed my writing & have any ideas for fics you want to see, leave a request for me. thanks for reading xoxo

tag list

@st44ph @katarinaek @lnracer @papaya-on-top @schumi-angel @crazyfangirl21 @valeelavvale @anayaverse @captain-barnes-writes @kirstypedia

[inseobts]

Sunshine Lost

strawhat crew x fem ! strawhat ! reader (platonic)

you're the sunshine of the strawhats, until doubt shattered everything—and years later, when you return on the enemy’s side, your final act of love is a sacrifice they’ll never forget

words count: 2.4k

tags: platonic, d3ath/sacrifice, angst, hurt/comfort, accusation, misunderstanding, found family, marine involvement

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The sun shines high over the Thousand Sunny, and you’re dancing on the deck again.

"Yoo-hoo~! Sanji! Is lunch ready yet?" you sing, spinning in place as you wave your arms like a windmill "I’m starving!"

"Almost done, my sunshine angel!" Sanji calls from the kitchen window. He’s got that goofy heart-face again "Just a few more minutes, mon amour!"

You giggle "Okay! I’ll wait with my stomach screaming!"

"Don’t scream too loud," Zoro mutters from where he naps on the deck "Some of us are trying to sleep."

"Grumpy swordsman alert!" you tease, poking his leg as you skip past him.

He grunts. Doesn’t move. Classic Zoro.

Nami looks up from her map "You’ve got too much energy. You sure you didn’t sneak any cola from Franky’s stash?"

You gasp, hand to your chest "I would never! I’m innocent!"

Luffy laughs as he climbs up the mast "She just runs on sunshine!"

You beam at that. It’s true. You love them all so much. Being part of the Straw Hat crew is like a dream come true. You’re always ready to help, to smile, to cheer someone up, even when the seas are rough.

But today… today feels just a little strange.

At night, after dinner, Robin finds you sitting by yourself near the rail.

"You’re writing again?" she asks, soft voice blending with the wind.

You nod, hiding the paper quickly "Just a letter."

"To your cousin in the Marines?"

"Yeah," you say "But it’s not like I tell them anything important. I just wanna know if they’re okay."

Robin nods slowly "Be careful. Not everyone sees things like you do."

You blink "What do you mean?"

She just smiles, sad and mysterious "That sunshine of yours… don’t let anyone steal it."

You laugh "No one can steal the sun, Robin."

But you keep your letter hidden that night, folded under your pillow.

A week later, everything falls apart.

"How did they know?!" Nami slams her hands on the table "The Marines were waiting for us at the next island—again! That’s three times now!"

"We even changed our plans" Zoro growls "There’s no way they should’ve known."

Luffy’s quiet. Too quiet.

Franky crosses his arms "Somebody’s talking."

"What are you saying?" You ask, blinking “No one here would do that!”

Brook looks at you gently "Miss Y/N… it’s true someone might be giving them hints, even if they don’t mean to."

You feel the room tilt.

"I talk to someone in the Marines… but I never tell them anything important! I swear!"

Sanji’s smoking. He doesn’t look at you.

"You write letters, don’t you?" Nami’s voice is sharp now "Maybe they read them. Maybe you say more than you think."

"No!" You stand up. Your hands shake "I would never hurt you guys. I love you!"

Robin’s voice is cool "We know how much you care. But the pattern is real. We can’t ignore it."

"You think it’s me." You look around the table "You all think it’s me."

No one answers.

Luffy’s still quiet.

That hurts the most.

You whisper, "Captain?"

He looks up "Just… give us some time, Y/N."

And with that, you’re dismissed.

Your chest feels like it’s caving in. Like someone reached in and squeezed the sun right out of you.

Later that night, you sit alone again. No dancing. No singing. Just silence.

You don’t write a letter. You don’t smile.

Just sit.

Because when your family doubts you… what’s left to shine for?

The ship is quiet tonight. Too quiet. Like it knows you’re leaving.

No stars in the sky, just heavy clouds. Wind brushing your skin like cold fingers. You shiver, but not from the breeze.

You stand in the dark hallway, holding a small bag. Just the basics. You don’t need much. You never did.

Inside the boys' room, you hear snoring. Zoro. Maybe Usopp too. Or even Luffy. In the kitchen, nothing but silence. Sanji must have gone to bed early. Robin’s reading in the library. She won’t hear you pass.

You pause for one second. Just one.

No. You can’t stop. If you say goodbye, you’ll cry. If you cry, you’ll stay. And you can’t stay.

They didn’t believe you.

They looked at you with those eyes. Like you were a traitor. A liar. A risk.

You thought this crew was your family. Your safe place. Your light. But now all you feel is cold.

And you’ve been through this before.

Back then, when people you loved turned their backs on you. Back then, when “trust” was just a word, not a promise.

You swore if it happened again, you wouldn’t wait around to feel it twice.

So you don’t.

You lower a small boat into the sea. No sound, just soft ripples. Your heart is beating loud though. It almost drowns everything else.

You don’t look back.

Not once.

When the sun rises, Luffy yawns and stretches.

“Morning!” he calls, walking toward the kitchen “Hey, Y/N! You awake?”

No answer.

“Probably sleeping in,” Usopp mumbles as he walks by “She always does after a storm.”

Robin glances around “She’s not in the girls’ room.”

Sanji checks the kitchen “She’s not here either…”

Jinbe frowns “Where’s her bag?”

Chopper runs around, checking corners “She’s not anywhere! She’s gone! She’s really gone!”

Nami’s eyes go wide “No note? No nothing?”

Silence.

And then Luffy steps outside. Looks out at the open sea.

He whispers, voice hoarse, “She left.”

No one knows what to say.

Because they all felt it.

They all doubted. And now… the sunshine is gone.

Three Years Later

Location: Pyros Island – North District, in flames

“Move in! We don’t let them escape again!”

The shout cuts through fire and gunpowder smoke.

The Strawhats are in the middle of chaos, racing down broken stone streets, dodging cannon fire, punching through enemy ranks. This was supposed to be a stealth job. Take down a weapons lab. Get out.

It isn’t... because you’re here.

You step out from the shadows, cloak whipping behind you, no longer in bright colors or sunny dresses. You're in black and crimson now... worn gear, face half-covered by a mask. Your eyes sharp.

Not the sunshine girl they remember.

"Stop!" Sanji shouts, eyes wide “That’s—!”

"Y/N...?” Nami says your name like it’s a memory slipping out by accident.

Zoro freezes “No way...”

Luffy stares at you from across the smoke-filled plaza, fists trembling at his sides.

But you don’t say a word.

Instead, you pull your blade.

Your team moves with you, mercenaries, ex-revolutionaries, no flag but fire. You're not with the Marines, never were. But you’re on the other side now. That much is clear.

Brook deflects a strike from one of your allies “Miss Y/N?! Is it truly you?”

You don’t answer.

Too fast. Too close. Luffy launches forward.

“Y/N, stop! Why are you—”

You clash.

Your blade hits his fist, sparks flying.

“Don’t talk to me like we’re friends” you snap. Your voice is colder. Steady. But underneath, your hands are shaking.

“You left us,” he says “Without a word!”

"You doubted me first, how could I stay?" you spit back, eyes flashing.

Robin tries to reach you “You were hurting. We didn’t see it then. But we do now. We—”

“Don’t.” you hiss, swinging at her, forcing her back “You don’t get to say that now.”

Everything’s burning. Everything’s loud. You see fire in every direction. Screams. Crashes.

You hear the crew shouting your name, over and over.

"Y/N!"

"Sunshine, please!"

"Don’t do this!"

You clutch your head suddenly.

They’re louder. But they’re not saying the right things.

Why now? Why not then?

You blink and the battlefield shifts.

Suddenly, they’re laughing. Mocking.

You see their faces, twisted... Zoro glaring, Nami whispering, Luffy turning away.

“You talk to Marines?”

“She’s a spy.”

“We can’t trust her.”

You hear your own voice screaming. No, no, no, that’s not what happened!

You stumble back, vision swimming.

Your chest aches. You can’t breathe.

“Shut up!” you scream, though no one is talking now “Get out of my head!”

Luffy runs toward you again “We didn’t mean it! We were wrong! I was wrong!”

You see the real Luffy this time, his eyes wide, real, full of pain.

But you still can't move.

Too many voices.

Too many memories.

Too many lies you told yourself just to survive.

You drop a smoke bomb and vanish in the clouds.

You hide deep in the ruins. Knees pulled to your chest, eyes wide, breathing heavy.

“…I thought I forgot” you whisper to no one.

But you didn’t.

You remember every laugh. Every dinner. Every hand on your shoulder.

And the way they looked at you that day.

Back on the battlefield, the Strawhats stand in silence, the fire dying down.

“She’s not our sunshine anymore...” Sanji mutters.

“No,” Luffy says, fists clenched “She is. We just broke her light.”

Luffy crashes into the ground, breath knocked out of him. His hat flies off.

“Damn it!” he groans, pushing himself up.

Zoro stands bloodied, blade shaking in his grip “There’s too many.”

Sanji is on one knee, coughing hard “They’re surrounding us.”

“They’re fighting harder because of her,” Nami says between clenched teeth, weather staff crackling with weak sparks “They think we broke her. Maybe we did.”

Brook’s coat is torn. Franky’s chest plate is dented. Chopper’s trying to hold everyone together, but his hands won’t stop shaking.

Robin is quiet. Her arms bloom around them like shields, trembling and breaking just as fast.

They’re losing.

They’ve never lost like this.

Not like this, where it feels like they deserve it.

You’re still in the ruins, clutching your head, listening to ghosts.

"She’s not one of us anymore." "She left." "You were the traitor." "We were wrong." "We were wrong."

"We were wrong."

You blink hard.

They're still fighting.

They're losing.

Because of you.

You rise.

You shouldn’t. You don’t owe them anything. You told yourself that over and over. Built a whole new life around it.

But seeing them bleed, fall, break apart, something inside you won’t let you stay still.

Even after everything.

Even after they didn’t.

You run through the burning alleys, pushing past fallen stone and crying civilians. Your blade is heavy in your hand, your body is slower than it used to be, but your heart is beating with something again.

You see Luffy hit the ground a second time.

You see a blade fly for Nami’s back while she tries to shield Chopper.

You don’t think.

You move.

Your sword blocks it. Sparks fly.

“Get away from her” you growl.

Everyone freezes.

"Y/N...?" Nami whispers, eyes wide.

You stand between them and the enemy, panting, blade up “I’m not here to fight you anymore.”

The enemy soldiers pause, confused.

You glance back at the crew “You guys still suck at watching each other’s backs.”

“…Sunshine?” Sanji breathes, like he’s scared the name will make you vanish again.

You smirk weakly, turning back toward the enemy “Don’t get used to it.”

Then you charge.

Luffy is the first to move after you “HEY! THAT’S OUR IDIOT!”

Zoro grins through blood “Still crazy, huh?”

Nami laughs, even as tears fill her eyes “She came back…”

“Let’s go get her back for real” Robin says, voice like steel.

"Now we’re talkin’, super-style!” Franky shouts, getting to his feet.

Chopper wipes his tears “You’re still our sunshine!”

They all surge forward again, stronger, together, because you’re there.

Because you're home.

After the last of the enemy falls, you collapse on your knees, breathing hard. Ash clings to your skin, and your arms are shaking.

Luffy walks up slowly, holding out a hand.

You look up at him.

"Still want me?" you ask quietly, voice breaking.

Luffy nods, smiling just a little, just enough.

“Always.”

You take his hand.

And this time, you stay. Or at least that's your plan.

The flames have died down. The enemy is running. The people are cheering.

But the war isn’t over.

Because the commander hasn’t fallen yet.

And he’s aiming right for Sanji.

He’s too slow this time. Too injured. Too distracted by you, by the way you laughed earlier, helped Nami, the way your eyes softened when you called him to help you when you got surrounded “Curlybrow!”

He looked at you like he wanted to say something.

He never got the chance.

“SANJI, LOOK OUT!”

You see the blade flash. You see him twist too late.

You move.

Faster than you thought possible. Faster than fear, faster than pain.

You throw yourself in front of him.

You feel the cold stab of steel through your side.

Then through your chest.

Everything stops.

"Y/N—!!!"

Your knees hit the ground. You smile, eyes wide with shock and tears “I'm still fast… huh?”

You fall.

Sanji catches you.

“No, no, no—” His voice breaks instantly, arms shaking as he lowers you down “No! What the hell did you do?!”

“…Guess I owed you guys something big.”

Zoro takes the enemy out for good.

“You idiot!” Sanji shouts at you “You absolute...! Why?!”

You laugh, a cough mixed in “You were the only one who didn’t look at me like a traitor after it happened… You never doubted me, did you? That helped me... So I figured, this time, I’d be the one to help you.”

Sanji’s breath hitches “Don’t say stuff like that. You don’t—you don’t get to do this! Not after you just came back!”

You look past him. Luffy is yelling your name. Nami is sobbing, gripping her staff like it’s all she has left.

Zoro clenches his jaw, his sword sheathed. He already knows.

Robin’s hand covers her mouth.

Even the others can’t move.

You smile at all of them.

You shine, even as your blood soaks the stone.

“I missed you guys… so much.”

Sanji holds you close, forehead against yours.

“We never stopped looking for you” he whispers, tears streaming down his face.

You smile faintly.

“I know. I was the one too scared to face you again.”

The sky is clear now.

No smoke.

No fire.

Just the warmth of the sun rising on the horizon.

Your fingers twitch toward it.

“I'm happy now…”

And then, you go still.

No one says a word.

The Strawhats stand together, for once not in victory, but in grief.

The battlefield is silent.

Because their sunshine is gone for real now.

But the light you left behind burns in all of them now.

[capuccinodoll]

— A haunted body, part two: "In a lifeless memory, there you belong" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (jackson!joel x f!reader)

fic masterlist | ao3 | capuccinodollupdates | previous chapter | next chapter

— Chapter summary: After two weeks of seeing Joel almost every single day, you start crafting quiet little strategies, soft edges to try and smooth the sharpness between you. But he seems resistant, like the idea of letting you close the gap is something he’s not ready to consider. wc: 11k

A/N: I love u joel i don't care if you're an asshole. Don't forget to let me know your opinion in the comments, it helps me a lot! <3 (TAG LIST OPEN)

Jackson. Early, early morning.

When you were little, there was a girl in your class who made a habit of bothering you. Nothing major, just enough to make your stomach twist when you saw her in the hallway. One morning, sitting beside your father in the car while the engine idled outside the school, you told him about her. He listened quietly, nodding once or twice. Then he said, “You should ignore her. And if you have to treat her, treat her nicely. Don’t rise to it. That’s what she wants. Do you understand?”

You nodded. And you did exactly as he said.

At first, it confused her. She tried harder for a day or two, needled you with more effort, as if trying to provoke a reaction she could count on. But when you gave her nothing back—no anger, no tears—she seemed to lose interest. By the end of the week, she asked if you wanted to play with her during recess. You did. You never forgot that, how choosing not to retaliate could feel like a kind of quiet power. Your father was good at that kind of thing. Advice that didn’t expire.

So this morning, after a restless night, you got out of bed earlier than usual and made up your mind. You’d be kind. Or at the very least, unshakable.

It had been two weeks since you started working alongside Joel. Fourteen days of exchanging only the necessary words, of him speaking to you like a coworker he neither trusted nor disliked, just tolerated. And maybe he didn't even do that. Every morning you walked into the office, nodded at him, and took your place at the other desk. You filed through the day’s assignments—who was scheduled to patrol, who needed supplies, who was still waiting on repairs for faulty plumbing or a leaking roof.

Sometimes you'd go out with Joel to inspect the repairs. You carried your notebook and wrote down what the workers needed, the things Joel muttered under his breath as he ran his hand along cracked drywall or faulty beams. You didn’t ask questions, only noted what mattered. That time, Tommy had looked over your notes and the two of them agreed that the Fisher house needed priority—there was a child involved, five years old, and their walls were practically coming apart. 

That was the rhythm of your mornings now: paperwork, coordination, quiet observation. Joel barely acknowledged you, but you didn’t take it personally anymore. You’d gotten good at the job. Better than expected. You were fast, you remembered names, and people liked you—at least, enough to stop you in the hallway to say hi, or ask if you’d seen their gloves, or if Joel was really as grumpy as he seemed.

You’d found yourself thinking about your father a lot last week—his voice in the car, the warmth of his hand on the steering wheel, the way he always made things sound easier than they actually were. Maybe that’s why, this morning, you got up earlier than usual. 

The sun hadn’t fully settled over Jackson yet. Everything outside looked pale and rinsed out. The air had that crisp, early-hour bite, sharp enough to flush your cheeks pink by the time you walked into the office. You loved the smell of it.

You shrugged off your coat and hung it on the rack, your fingers numb and tingling as they left the fabric. Your eyes still felt puffy from sleep.

Joel’s desk was already cluttered, as if it, too, had started the day before he had. A notepad sat open, pages crumpled at the corners. There were pens scattered like breadcrumbs across the surface, a few maps rolled into loose cylinders, and a mug—white, ceramic, stained faintly at the rim. Empty, as usual.

Without thinking too much, you picked up the mug and stepped out into the hallway. A few steps down was the shared kitchen. It was barely big enough to fit two people comfortably, but it had what mattered: a chipped oven no one used, a stainless steel sink, and, most importantly, a coffee maker that always smelled faintly burnt. 

No one really used the kitchen all that much. Just you and Joel. Lately, it felt like you were the only one keeping it company.

You turned on the tap and let the water run warm before washing the mug carefully, the way you'd do your own. It wasn’t much, but you had noticed a pattern. Joel came in every day, usually right on the edge of eight o’clock, washed the same mug with a weary kind of efficiency, made tea or coffee —that is, if he was lucky enough to have a little bit of it— drank it down, repeat a few times, and left the mug behind for tomorrow. Like it didn’t matter. 

You thought maybe this one gesture might shift something, even if just for you. So you filled the machine, let it gurgle and spit to life, and stood there in the quiet hum of the kitchen as the smell of it spread into the corners. 

A group had come through a few days ago, bringing coffee with them—real one, the kind that made the whole place smell delicious. You had no idea what kind of deal Joel had made, what he'd traded or promised or given up, but somehow, he ended up with a decent stash.

That morning, when you walked in and the scent hit you, it stopped you in your tracks. It reminded you of mornings back home, before everything changed. Of your dad, already dressed for work, sipping from a chipped mug. Of your mom singing in the kitchen. Of cereal boxes and rushed ponytails and school shoes you never liked.

You thought about asking Joel for a cup. Or a sip. Just a little. But it felt like too much somehow.

Later, without a word, Tommy handed you a jar. Just placed it in your hands like it had always been meant for you. You didn’t ask how he got it. You just held it, and let yourself smile, a little.

Back at your desk, you poured yourself a cup and sat with your legs tucked under you, the book Audrey had lent you open across your lap. She worked in the kitchen most days and was always recommending stories with women who didn’t apologize for being soft or tired or stubborn. You liked her.

You sipped the coffee. It tasted a little bitter but warm, grounding. Outside, the morning light stretched further down the town. You watched it move while the room stayed still.

When you glanced at the clock again, it read 7:46 a.m.

Fourteen minutes. You didn’t hear his boots yet, but you would soon. He was nothing if not consistent. And today, for once, you were ready before him.

You stood up from your chair. The office was still quiet. You walked into the kitchen, holding your empty mug, and turned on the faucet. The warm water ran over your hands, comforting in a way that made you pause

A couple of minutes passed like that, the silence in the building stretching between walls and doors. And then you heard it— the sound of the front door opening. Heavy footsteps, measured, familiar. Joel didn’t stop. He walked past the kitchen without looking in, the thud of his boots leading straight into the office. A beat later, the scrape of his chair echoed faintly, followed by a tired, worn-out exhale that sounded like he was already annoyed at the day.

You didn’t rush. You just took his mug from the counter and poured coffee into it, plain and black, the way he drank it every morning. You didn’t need to ask. You already knew.

When you stepped back into the office, he hadn’t noticed you right away. Then, he startled— just slightly— and turned to look. His eyes widened for a second, his body tensing before recognition caught up to him. His brows furrowed, and he exhaled again, sharper this time. You scared him. The way you’d managed to catch him off guard made something flicker inside you, something amused and smug that you tried not to show.

You set the mug down on his desk without ceremony.

“What’s that?” he asked, his voice already edged with suspicion. You were walking back to your own desk, your back to him.

“Coffee,” you replied, as you lowered yourself into the chair.

“I know it’s coffee. I can smell it.” 

“So?” you shrugged lightly.

He picked up his notepad with exaggerated purpose, flipped to a page he probably didn’t need to read. His eyes never met yours.

“You’re early,” he said finally.

“I know.”

A heavy sigh. The notepad dropped back onto the desk with a dull slap.

“I take my coffee without sugar,” he said, looking up now, his expression bordering on accusatory. He was waiting for a misstep, a reason to dismiss the gesture.

“I know.” You met his gaze without flinching, the corner of your mouth twitching before you could stop it.

He didn’t speak. Just stared for a few beats too long. Then he cleared his throat, and without breaking eye contact, reached for the mug. He brought it to his lips and took a sip.

You didn’t look away. You wanted to see the exact moment he realized he had nothing to complain about.

Then, without a word, he placed the mug back on the desk, his fingers brushing the ceramic for a moment too long. His eyes dropped to whatever was in front of him, but his voice broke the quiet.

“Sean asked to switch partners,” he said. His gaze shifted toward the whiteboard behind his desk, eyes landing on something you couldn’t see. “Says Leo gets too distracted. Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

You didn’t reply. You just let your mouth curve slightly at the corners, quiet and unseen.

For the next hour, he didn’t speak much. He moved through the room without saying where he was going or why. He leafed through folders, erased a few words from the board, wrote down new ones. Every few minutes, he’d sigh—a soft exhale that seemed to come more from habit than frustration. You didn’t ask questions. You just worked beside him, familiar now with the rhythms of your shared silence.

It wasn’t until he came back up from downstairs that you stood. You reached for your coat on the rack near the door and pulled it on, smoothing the sleeves as you turned back around.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” you told him, like you didn’t expect a response.

You didn’t get one. So you stepped into the hallway, hands tucked into your coat pockets, offering a wave to the two men heading toward the stairs. They nodded back, mid-conversation.

Outside, the sun hit your skin nice and tender. It softened your cheeks. Jackson was awake now. You could feel it—the quiet hum of people living, talking, moving. The scent of something warm and cooked drifted in the air as you neared the dining hall, and your stomach responded before you could think.

“Hey, Snow,” someone called behind you, just as you reached the bar inside the place. You turned. It was Lucas, walking toward you with a worn clipboard in one hand and a beanie barely covering his ears.

“How are you?” he asked, falling into step beside you. “Can I run something by you?”

You nodded, still heading toward the bar. “Of course.”

Lucas followed without hesitation, already launching into a description of a structural issue near the east exit—something about the door, rot setting into the wood where the wall met the ground. You listened, pulling details into a mental list you knew you’d jot down later. The kind of thing Tommy and Maria would want to hear about before someone else noticed. 

Ten minutes later, you set a brown paper bag down on Joel’s desk. The sound of it landing was soft, but he looked up immediately. His brows knitted, not in anger exactly, but in that vague, unsettled way he had when something didn’t follow the routine he trusted.

“Lucas says the east exit’s getting worse,” you said, not giving him time to ask. “Rotten wood near the base of the door. Snow and last week’s rain didn’t help.”

You turned away before he could answer, dropped your own bag onto your desk, the motion casual, maybe even careless. Then you took off your coat, shook it out a little, and hung it on the hook beside the door—just to his left. When you passed him again, you felt his eyes on you. Measuring something, maybe.

“What is this?” he asked, eyes back on the bag like it might explode.

You didn’t stop moving. Just walked to your chair, pulled it in, opened your own bag with a practiced flick of your fingers.

“Food,” you said. “Breakfast.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. You heard the paper crinkle as he peeked inside.

“Why’d you bring me food?”

You flipped open your book, the spine soft from overuse.

“Thought you might be hungry,” you said, keeping your voice light. “Figured I’d take a chance.”

“You don’t know what I—”

“It’s a breakfast sandwich,” you interrupted, without looking up. “Egg. Cheese. Chicken.”

You tilted your head slightly, pretending to read, though your eyes hadn’t moved past the first sentence. You could feel the pause in the air between you.

When you finally glanced up, Joel was still staring at you. Or maybe through you. His face was unreadable, but his mouth was set like he was preparing for something.

“Sure,” he muttered eventually, and stood, lifting his empty mug as he did. “Thanks.”

You watched him cross the room without another word, stepping through the doorway with his shoulders pulled slightly back.

“Anytime,” you said into the space he’d left behind. 

You could see it happening, the confusion settling into his body. The shift in his posture, the faint narrowing of his eyes, as if he was trying to piece together a puzzle that had started rearranging itself without his permission. Joel had come in expecting resistance. He was ready for it, even. Braced for your irritation like someone ducking before a storm that never quite arrived. And yet, there you were, soft-spoken, steady, placing things in front of him like he hadn’t raised his voice last week or shut a door a little too hard just yesterday.

You hadn’t forgotten. He had saved your life — yes, that much was true. But that didn’t grant him a free pass to act like a man untouched by consequence. Still, you were careful with him in a way he hadn’t earned but also hadn’t asked for. Not lately, anyway. He wasn’t cruel, not anymore. Just curt. And you had met curt before. You had shared days and nights with curt, loved curt, worked beside curt. You’d healed in the aftermath of people much harsher, more dismissive. Joel didn’t scare you.

Over the following days, it became a quiet pattern.

When he walked in —always early, always scowling— you slid a mug of hot coffee or tea across the table toward him. No commentary. Just a quiet “Good morning,” spoken without inflection. Each time, his brow creased like he was trying to read you through smoke. He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t complain either. You could tell he noticed the drink was good. He drank it all, every time.

You didn’t coddle him. You weren’t interested in becoming one of those people who believed gruffness equaled depth. Most days it was just coffee. Once, on a Thursday, you added a plate with a slice of apple pie you’d got from the dining hall, because you’d had too much and he looked like someone who needed sugar and softness. But that was it. You weren’t going to make a habit out of kindness for the sake of earning anything back.

On Friday, you climbed the stairs without thinking much about it, already mentally checking off tasks for the morning. You passed the kitchen on your way to the office, but something pulled you back. Two steps. That was all.

Joel was there, pouring coffee into his mug, his shoulders hunched like they always were this early, like he hadn’t quite put on his armor yet. He didn’t turn to look at you.

“Morning,” he murmured. His voice came out rougher than usual, sleep clinging to it like sand.

You smiled, just slightly. A breath of a laugh left your nose.

You didn’t say anything. Just walked past him, footsteps quiet against the floor, your body moving with calm. When you reached the office, you glanced up at the clock on the wall. 7:12 a.m. You shrugged out of your coat and hung it on the back of your chair.

You sat, unzipping your backpack and reaching for a book — not the one you’d been reading all week, but a new one. Something about plant behavior and cellular memory, lent to you yesterday by Ian, the guy from the greenhouse who always smelled faintly of rosemary and talked too much about soil. You didn’t open it. Just laid it on the desk beside you.

Joel appeared in the doorway a moment later, his mug in hand. His expression was unreadable.

He set the mug down with a muted thud and lowered himself into his chair.

“Not responding to a good morning is kind of rude,” he said, his tone flat but pointed.

You laughed. Not loudly, just one of those involuntary little sounds that catches in the back of your throat and comes out anyway. Because of course he would say that. It was absurd. Coming from him, it almost felt like satire.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. Just stood, smoothing your palms over the edge of the desk before heading out of the room and down the hall. The kitchen was quiet, the light soft and yellow over the counter as you made a single cup of coffee, taking your time measuring everything, pouring water. When you came back, he was exactly where you'd left him.

The minutes that followed felt thick. You sipped your coffee slowly. Occasionally, you let your eyes wander to where he sat, glasses perched low on his nose, flipping through a tattered magazine that looked like it had been rescued from a waiting room. You could tell he wasn’t really reading. His fingers moved too fast, the pages turned too frequently. He was just there. Killing time. Sitting in your space, doing nothing, possibly for the sole purpose of making his own damn coffee without you touching his mug.

Then, without warning, his voice cut through the quiet.

“I can feel you watching.” He didn’t look up. Just said it like it had been on his tongue for a while. “Another thing that’s rude.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even smile.

“I wasn’t watching you,” you said. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You kept your voice neutral, your posture relaxed. You turned a page in the book you still hadn’t started reading.

“You’re early today,” you added, not looking up.

“That’s right.”

You waited, but nothing else came.

“You do the same thing all the time,” you said after a few moments. “Don’t you think that’s rude?”

Joel looked up. His eyes narrowed just slightly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly. 

You leaned back in your chair, shifting your weight.

“You ignore my greetings. You stare at me without saying anything. You do it constantly. Doesn’t that seem rude when you do it?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed on you, unreadable as always, and then he set the magazine down with a quiet rustle. Removed his glasses and folded them carefully.

“Is that why you didn’t answer me earlier?” he asked finally. “You trying to make a point?”

You tilted your head slightly, the corners of your mouth not quite smiling.

“Mmm, no, Joel,” you said, resting your forearms on the desk in front of you. “I’m not trying to prove anything to you.”

A quiet sigh slipped out of his nose, and he went back to the magazine, flipping through the pages without really seeing them.

You let him be, and the silence stretched, not hostile, just familiar, for now.

Eventually, when footsteps began echoing in the hallway and voices started filling the air outside the room, Joel glanced at the clock. He stood up with energy.

“I should go,” he said, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “Time for patrol.”

You looked at him, confused. “What?”

“I’m covering for Leo,” he said, flatly. No explanation, no elaboration.

You watched him step out into the hallway, his boots heavy against the floor. And even after he was gone, the question stayed with you: Why the hell had he come so early just to sit around doing nothing? Just to stop you from making coffee?

By the time the clock hit eleven, Tommy appeared. He skimmed through the notes you’d written down, nodding here and there, murmuring things under his breath as he read. Then you both walked outside together, your steps falling into rhythm naturally.

He told you about something Benji had done the day before and you laughed, despite yourself. Then he talked about Maria. His tone shifted when he mentioned her, softened like a sunbeam catching on glass. He smiled in a way that made your chest ache just a little.

There was something about watching them that settled somewhere deep inside you. A kind of warmth that didn’t feel naïve. Just rare. Sweet.

In the middle of a world that had broken and bent so many people, they’d found each other. And more than that, they’d built something. Were building something — brick by brick, hour by hour. Maria especially. She was steel wrapped in skin. A woman who had brought life into this hollowed-out world and refused to let it crush her. You admired her deeply, in the quiet way women admire other women, with something closer to reverence than envy.

Here, in the remains of the world, they were still choosing hope. Choosing to make space for the new. And that, to you, felt pretty fucking extraordinary.

The world, as you knew it, had never been gentle. It had teeth. And it had taken everything from you with them.

That kind of loss didn’t happen all at once, though. It unraveled in fragments, in quiet disappearances and sudden, brutal moments. Sometimes the violence was so abrupt it felt almost clean. Other times it dragged out, long and clumsy and cruel. You’d lived through both kinds.

Your parents were the first to go. Not to infection, not to panic or blood or fire. A traffic accident. You were still a child, almost a year before the outbreak. The world was intact, more or less. You remembered the sound of the phone ringing, someone else’s voice delivering the news, the way everything after that moment felt thin and bright and unreal.

It was the most painful thing you’d experienced then. And yet, somewhere deep in your chest, you’d come to feel a kind of twisted gratitude that they didn’t have to see what came next. They didn’t have to live through the collapse. Or through what it made of people.

You did.

The years after their deaths blurred into the first scattered pieces of survival. You were shuffled between shelters and checkpoints and concrete rooms that stank of bleach. Men in uniforms who looked through you. Rations passed over counters by hands that didn’t shake yours.

You were alone for a long time. Not metaphorically, literally.

Then, at fourteen, you met Frances. And for the first time in what felt like years, someone looked at you like you were still human. Like you mattered. You stayed close to her after that, clung to her like you would’ve clung to a lifeboat in the middle of a black sea.

At sixteen, the two of you ran. No plan. No destination. Just the shared understanding that whatever waited for you outside the walls was less terrifying than what was happening inside them.

The next few years were a mixture of hunger and fleeting safety. But you found people—your people. Gabriel. Pia. Robert. Each of them complicated and bruised and resourceful. Pia and Robert were married, both in their fifties, and had the kind of tenderness between them that you hadn’t realized was still possible. Robert had been a cop once. He still moved like one. Gabriel was barely older than you, lean and quiet, with kind eyes that tracked every sound.

And Frances—Frances was still your anchor.

You were a makeshift family, built from necessity and luck and a strange, tender kind of loyalty. You shared food, watched each other’s backs, stayed warm by the same fires. You were never supposed to be apart.

Then Frances got pregnant. With Gabriel’s child.

And the dynamics, so carefully held in place, began to shift.

At first it was manageable. But as her belly grew, so did the risk. She tired faster, moved differently, couldn’t outrun the kinds of danger that used to just brush against your group. Still, no one abandoned her. You would never. Neither would Gabriel. Pia and Robert were endlessly gentle with her, wrapping their practicality in affection.

Eventually, you found the house. Abandoned, weather-worn, but intact. It made you believe, if only for a second, that things could maybe, possibly, hold.

You stayed. A few days. That was all. A pause in the rushing current.

The stronger ones went out for supplies. You stayed behind with Frances, who was almost full term, whose hands curled instinctively toward her stomach whenever she slept.

That last night, you laughed. Really laughed. Frances had a way of pulling that out of you. Around her, you could still be soft. Still be young. She made you feel like the version of yourself you’d been before the world twisted everything out of shape.

She loved fiercely. Not just Gabriel. Not just the baby. She loved you too, in a way that was simple and unselfish. And she was the first person who’d ever made you believe that you deserved to be loved back.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the way it ended.

The raiders came after midnight. You didn’t hear them at first, but later, you'd wonder if you'd sensed something before it began—some tiny ripple in the air, some unplaceable unease. They had been watching, you’d find out later. Waiting until you had just enough worth stealing.

You remembered the screams. Frances’s, sharp and ragged, as labor overtook her in the middle of the chaos. Gabriel, bleeding out just feet away. Robert shot. Pia's body crumpled against the hallway wall. You remembered how silence descended in pieces, punctuated by the wet sounds of dying.

And you. Still breathing.

Death passed over you like smoke. You should have died. Maybe you did, in some invisible way. But your body stayed.

So did Frances, for a little while longer. Just long enough to give birth to a baby you held in your arms, shaking, sobbing, rocking back and forth on the floor while the house burned around you, metaphorically or otherwise. You don't remember screaming. But you must have. You must have.

And then—

The door slammed behind you. A sharp sound. Present. Real. It pulled you out of the memory with a jolt, like someone tugging a cord that had been wrapped tight around your ribs.

You blinked. The room reassembled around you. And you were no longer that twenty-year-old girl soaked in death and blood and grief. You were here.

Still breathing.

“So how’s it going with Joel?” Tommy asked as the two of you walked across the dining hall, the soles of your boots brushing against the wooden floor. He gestured toward a table by one of the windows, where the morning light fell unevenly, casting long, uneven shapes across the surface.

You lifted your shoulders in a vague shrug, a noncommittal answer you hoped might pass for honesty.

“It’s... normal,” you said, not sure what that even meant.

Tommy’s mouth tugged into a grin as he dropped into his seat.

“Ah, I see. But you’ve adjusted really well. It shows.”

You pulled the chair across from him and sat down, tucking one leg underneath you as your eyes flicked to the window.

“You think so?”

“Sure. Listen,” he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like this was something meant only for you. “I think you’re doing a great job. Really. But if you’d feel more comfortable in a different job, or with someone else, just say the word. I know Joel can be... hard to read. Or just plain hard.”

You smiled at that, almost without meaning to, and let your gaze drift back outside. Ellie was walking across the street, her stride loose and confident, her mouth moving fast as she talked to a tall boy who gestured wildly with his hands.

“Joel and Ellie are pretty close, aren’t they?” you asked, watching them for a beat longer before turning your eyes back to Tommy.

He nodded. “That’s right. You’ve met her?”

“Mm-hm,” you said softly. “She’s cute.”

“She must like you, then,” Tommy laughed.

You laughed, too—not because you meant to, but because it was contagious. “Why?”

“They’re similar. Joel and Ellie. Doesn’t always look like it, but they are. They don’t warm up to just anyone.”

“Ah.” You looked back toward the window, where Ellie was now halfway across the street. Something about her made you ache in a way you couldn’t name. 

You were about to ask Tommy something else when a voice came from beside you.

“Can we talk?”

You turned, startled. Joel stood a few feet from the table, one hand resting on the back of your chair, his other gripping a battered metal thermos. His shirt was a flannel one you hadn’t seen before, dark grey streaked with muted blue. His hair was a little windblown, like he’d just come in from the gate.

You blinked at him.

“Um, sure,” you said, voice softer than you meant. You didn’t move. Just looked up at him from your seat.

Joel frowned. “I was talkin’ to Tommy.”

“Oh,” you said quickly, your face heating as you stood. “Right. Sorry.” You stepped back, barely meeting his eyes.

“See you later, Snow,” Tommy said lightly behind you.

You gave him a wave without turning fully around. But you didn’t miss the way Joel’s eyes followed you, the faintest crease forming between his brows. There was something in his expression that always landed just short of anger, but never softened into anything else.

As you passed by, you caught his gaze and held it for a beat longer than necessary. And maybe it was petty, or stupid, but you let your eyes flick down the length of him the way he sometimes—often—looked at you. Then you raised your brows just slightly, something almost defiant in the tilt of your chin.

If he could glare, so could you.

You were nearly at the door when someone called your name. Your real name.

The sound of it made you stop. You turned your head and saw Isabella approaching, her gait easy, familiar. Beside her was another woman—Florence. You’d met her only three weeks ago, in passing, but she’d been here longer than you. Just a couple of months. She was twenty-seven, and there was something about her—maybe the cadence of her voice, or how she always seemed to lean in when she spoke—that reminded you of Frances in a way that was soft and slightly painful.

They both had bright smiles stretched across their faces.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Isabella said, her hand reaching out instinctively to brush your arm. “Haven’t seen you in forever. How are you holding up?”

“Sorry about that,” you said, already feeling the guilt seep in. “I’m fine. How about you? And Hugh?” You glanced around out of habit, searching for Mr. Rowell, as everyone still called him, even though he insisted on just ‘Hugh’. But he wasn’t nearby.

“We’re good,” Florence answered for them, her voice soft and bright. “Saving our stomachs for later tonight.”

“For what?” you asked.

Isabella grinned, her hands moving to Florence’s shoulders with a light shake of affection. “It’s this one’s birthday today.”

Your mouth opened slightly in surprise, and then closed again as a ripple of guilt moved through you.

“Oh. Right. Friday.” You reached out and rested your hand gently on Florence’s shoulder, not quite sure how to express affection anymore, but doing your best. “Happy birthday. What are you planning?”

“Getting drunk,” Florence said with a sparkle in her eye as she slid her arm through yours. Her laugh followed. “Tonight. Tipsy Bison. You have to come.”

You smiled, genuinely. “I’ve never been to an adult birthday celebration. Not a real one, anyway. I won’t miss it.”

Isabella’s eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “Seriously.”

“Oh, baby,” she said, grinning wide. “Then tonight’s your night. In a world like this, celebrations are sacred. Parties are the last flickering lanterns, and we keep them lit even if all we’ve got is some post-apocalyptic mystery alcohol and a half-broken speaker system.”

That made you laugh, really laugh. The sound escaped you before you could temper it, high and unexpected, bouncing off the walls like a misplaced echo.

You turned your head at the sudden awareness that someone was watching. Joel. A few feet away, still talking with Tommy. His posture stiffer than usual, arms crossed. The expression on his face looked like the aftermath of biting into something sour.

Your eyes met. He didn’t look away.

You let out a quiet snort under your breath, not hiding the smirk as you looked back at Florence. 

"I wouldn't miss it," you said, smiling.

Jackson. Tipsy Bison. That same night.

You threw your head back, your laughter bright and brief. Florence’s hand rested on your shoulder, fingers splayed casually, and she was laughing too, mid-story, telling everyone about something absurd her parents had once done a few years ago before they got to Jackson—something involving a river and a miscommunication about something you didn't catch entirely. 

The bar was full. Crackling with low music, the low thud of boots against the floor. Amber lights flickered above you, casting a warm hue on everyone’s skin, faces golden and half-shadowed. Around you: the Rowells, Florence, Audrey. Jesse, the boy you’d noticed earlier standing beside Ellie, was there too, smiling shyly into his drink like he didn’t know quite how to take up space in this group yet. 

You brought your glass to your lips. The taste hit sharp and fast, a bloom of heat down your throat. Your eyes closed without thinking.

Now Isabella was recounting something about how she’d met Hugh, how he’d followed her around a library for three weeks before saying a word to her, and everyone was laughing, even you. That was when you felt it—a shift in air to your left, a pocket of coolness brushing the side of your face. The front door had opened.

You turned your head instinctively.

Joel walked in, Sean just behind him. They were in mid-conversation, Sean gesturing with a kind of youthful exaggeration that didn’t match the lines on his face. He looked around forty-eight, maybe older, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair streaked with silver. A thin scar cut across his face, from eyebrow to jaw.

Your gaze fixed. Not on Sean.

Joel walked toward the bar, his face unreadable, like always. But something about his posture, his shoulders slightly tense, the way his hand hovered at his side like he hadn’t quite decided what to do with it, made something sharp flicker in your chest.

You barely registered Isabella calling out: “Oh, Joel!” Her voice was light, bright, insistent. She waved him over.

Your gaze dropped, instantly, to your lap. As if not seeing him would mean he wouldn’t come over.

But you felt it when he arrived. The shift in gravity. The awareness. You didn’t look at him, but your body registered him anyway, the shape of him in your peripheral vision.

He said nothing. You assumed he had nodded or waved in response to Isabella, some small social gesture that bypassed you entirely, of course.

“Sit down and have a drink with us,” Isabella offered. She was still smiling. “We’re celebrating Florence’s birthday tonight.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

You looked up. It felt like something you weren’t supposed to do, and yet, your eyes met his, only for the briefest flicker. Like he hadn’t meant to. Like it slipped.

He turned his attention to Florence then, and there was the faintest movement at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile, but not quite.

“Happy birthday,” he said. “They’re waiting for me at the bar. Y’all have a good night.” He tipped his head, a quiet farewell.

You lifted your eyes again just as he was walking away. He looked back at the same time. Your eyes held his until the distance dissolved it.

A sound escaped your mouth. Not quite a sigh, not quite a groan. You fell back against the chair, legs crossed, shoulders loose now with something that wasn’t quite relief.

When you glanced around, Isabella and Florence were looking at you. The rest of the group was busy talking about something else.

“What?” you asked.

Florence raised her eyebrows. “What was that?”

“What?”

Isabella leaned in. “Did something happen between you two, sweetheart?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Then a small laugh broke loose from somewhere in your chest. You shook your head.

“No,” you said eventually. “He just doesn’t like me, I guess.”

Isabella frowned. “Why would you say that?”

Florence tilted her head, watching you carefully.

You shrugged. “I don’t know. He just doesn’t.”

Your drink was half-full. You took another sip, slower this time, and looked toward the bar. Joel stood beside Sean, his back to you. He was saying something, nodding slightly.

“But you’re so nice,” Florence said, giving your arm a playful nudge.

You smiled, but didn’t answer.

You weren’t sure how long it had been. Maybe an hour. Maybe longer. Time had stopped behaving like it usually did. It wasn’t linear anymore. It folded around the laughter and the flickering lights and the easy way the alcohol moved through your body.

This was new to you. Not the drinking, but the feeling of doing it without fear. It was strange. Almost peaceful. You hadn’t had many chances to get drunk in a way that felt light instead of dangerous. The world had already cracked open and crumbled by the time you were old enough to even consider rebellion. Most of your memories of drinking involved half-empty bottles found in places you weren’t supposed to be, always glancing over your shoulder, always sharing nervous grins with Frances in the dimness of an abandoned building.

That night with Frances had been jittery and loud, a night where you laughed because you were scared, and scared because you were laughing. This night was different. Here, you didn’t have to whisper. You didn’t have to listen for footsteps or wonder if someone had followed you in. The people around you were kind, familiar. Nobody had a gun in their lap.

Jesse was telling a story. Something about what he’d seen on patrol the week before. Two infected, a broken fence, the moon looking wrong in the sky. His voice was pleasant, but your attention wandered. You let yourself drift.

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said into the space between voices. Someone murmured something behind you. Maybe Florence, maybe not. You didn’t check.

You stood, stretching your arms behind your back with a quiet exhale, and made your way toward the bar. The room swayed a little in your vision, but you felt steady enough.

Eric was there, talking to someone as he leaned against the counter. He repaired furniture, you remembered. Nice guy. You’d spoken to him once or twice, always in passing. He greeted you with a nod and a half-smile.

“Hot night,” he muttered, lifting his glass.

You returned the smile out of politeness, not intention.

“Yeah,” you said vaguely, he was already turning away. “See ya.”

Your eyes followed the space he’d left, the void he’d carved by leaving.

And there he was. Joel. One seat over.

His posture was relaxed in a way that didn’t look natural, like he had to think about how to appear at ease. One forearm rested on the bar, fingers curled around a half-empty glass. His eyes were fixed somewhere else.

You held your smile for a few more seconds, just long enough to finish the gesture, and placed your order with the man behind the bar, your tongue lazy in your mouth. You could hear it. That little shift in articulation that meant you’d definitely had more than enough.

You smiled to yourself, lips barely parted.

And then Joel spoke.

“You should ease up on that.”

You turned your head, just enough to check if he was actually talking to you.

He was.

“What?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, curious.

His gaze shifted forward again.

“The drinking,” he said. “You might want to take it easy.”

A short laugh escaped from you. “I’m fine.”

“You’re drunk.”

There was no judgment in his voice. Just a plain, unwavering observation, like he was reading from a manual.

You didn’t answer. What was there to say?

The bartender slid a glass across the counter toward you, and you turned away from Joel entirely, focusing on the way the drink caught the light.

When your fingers curled around the glass, there was a brief flicker of indecision. You could leave. You almost did. But you didn’t move.

Instead, you spoke, your voice dipping just slightly into something meant to sound casual, maybe even teasing.

“I’ll be at my desk later tomorrow. In case you were worried about me screwing up your drink. I’ll leave your empty cup exactly where you left it, untouched and perfectly-perfectly still.”

Joel didn’t look at you. His eyes stayed on the bar like it was the most important thing in the room.

“You don’t need to show up tomorrow.”

There was a beat. Your mouth curved into a faint smile.

“I’ll be fine.”

Now he turned to you. His expression was unreadable at first glance, but then you saw it: seriousness cut through with a sharp edge of finality.

“I meant you’re not needed. Someone else will cover for you. Just... remember that in the morning.”

Your smile lingered for a second too long, then wavered. It began to fall in slow increments, first at the corners of your mouth, then in the tightening between your eyebrows.

“What do you mean, someone’s going to cover for me?”

“Just that.” His face turned back toward the wall of bottles.

You watched him lift his drink. Your eyes tracked the movement automatically.

“It’s my job.”

“And it’s not working.”

“That’s not true.”

He turned again, meeting your gaze head-on, and this time it was hard to hold it. His eyes were darker here, more shadow than color.

“I say it is.”

You didn’t speak right away. You were too busy analyzing the lines of his face, the tension in his jaw, the way anger didn’t make him louder, it made him quieter, more dangerous. You didn’t like how familiar that looked. And yet, you didn’t look away. You couldn’t.

The silence stretched for a second too long. You felt heat rise in your chest. Not the good kind, not the alcohol-kind. This was something else. Rejection, maybe. Or disappointment.

Then your father’s voice crossed your mind. Calm. Gentle. Something about not giving up on people just because they made things hard.

So you softened your features. A smile, careful and polite, found its way back onto your lips. You leaned slightly away from the bar.

“Then tell me what I did wrong,” you said, voice low, almost kind. “Tell me what I need to fix. I’ll get better.”

He looked at you like you’d just said something entirely absurd. His frown deepened, confusion and irritation knotting together.

But you didn’t wait for an answer.

You turned and walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last. The table was only a few feet away but you could already feel something sour beginning to build behind your ribs. Something bitter and raw. It spread through your chest like smoke.

Anger. Rejection. A familiar sense of helplessness. You didn’t want to name it. You just kept walking.

The voices around the table formed a blur of warmth and movement. Someone was laughing—Jesse, maybe, or Florence—and someone else was talking over them. You nodded when it felt appropriate. Smiled once, faintly. But your mind wasn’t anywhere near them.

It was the alcohol, yes. Liquid and pulsing, filling the hollow space behind your ribs. But it was also Joel. Or rather, the words he’d said to you at the bar, the sharp clarity of them. You kept hearing them again and again, turning them over like pebbles in your mouth. You’re not needed. Someone else will cover for you.

He couldn’t mean that. He didn’t have that kind of authority, right? You weren’t entirely sure. Tommy and Maria made the decisions; they were the ones who assigned the jobs, ran the meetings, kept the town functioning. But Joel was Tommy’s brother. That had to mean something. That had to count in ways you didn’t fully understand.

Still, Tommy liked having you there. He’d told you that more than once. You were good at your work. You showed up early, stayed late when needed. You’d learned how to manage the schedules, the maps, the tool checklists. You were even starting to understand the patrol rotations, and which teams needed what. It had taken you time, but you’d made something steady out of it. Something reliable. You had something to wake up for.

You didn’t want to be reassigned. You didn’t want to fade into some other task, tucked away in the greenhouse or in the kitchen.

Your gaze drifted without purpose until something shifted in your peripheral vision. Joel was getting up from his stool at the bar. He moved slow, with a kind of tension, a tightness held beneath the skin like a wire pulled taut. He didn’t look back.

You watched him turn toward the exit. His shoulders squared. The door opened. A few words trailed behind you—Isabella’s voice, asking something, maybe where are you going—but you weren’t really listening anymore. You were already standing, already moving.

The door clicked shut just before you reached it, and for a second, you stared at the wood, uncertain. Then both your hands came up. One beat, then the next, and you pushed it open. The night air hit your face.

He was ahead of you on the street, walking with that same guarded posture, all straight lines and clenched muscles. You watched the back of his shoulders for a moment. And still, your feet moved. Fast enough to close the space between you. Something inside you pushed up and outward, a combination of anger and something smaller.

“Hey,” you said, your voice catching a little in your throat. You kept walking, your boots crunching softly. “Joel.”

He turned, just slightly. A pause so brief it almost didn’t register. Then he kept walking, his boots hitting the pavement in a steady rhythm, as though your presence behind him hadn’t made any difference at all.

“I’m talking to you,” you called, your voice rising as you picked up your pace.

You reached out and caught his arm. The fabric of his sleeve felt coarse against your fingers, and the heat of his skin underneath startled you with how real it was. He shook you off, not violently, but not gently either. The motion was abrupt, like he couldn’t stand the feel of your hand there.

“What?” he said, his voice clipped. It wasn’t angry exactly, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent of tension, like he was trying hard not to raise his voice.

You folded your arms over your chest, forcing yourself not to shrink beneath the weight of his disapproval.

“What did you mean back there?” you asked, chin lifted.

He exhaled through his nose, eyelids heavy as if something unseen pressed behind them. When he looked at you, his gaze was hooded and sharp, like a blade dulled by use but still dangerous.

“Go home,” he said. “You’re drunk.”

He turned again, dismissing you like it was nothing, like you were nothing. And that did something to you.

You reached out, again. Your hand landed on his arm. This time, he turned even faster, face hardening.

“You can’t take me out of it,” you said, your words a little breathless now.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered.

“I’ve been doing a good job,” you insisted, stepping closer to him now. The distance between you had shrunk to inches.“I know I have. I’ve worked hard to learn everything. Tommy knows it, Maria too.”

He exhaled harshly through his nose, the muscle in his jaw twitching. His face was made of hard lines and sharp shadows here, his features drawn and difficult to decipher. But something in the way his jaw locked made your pulse beat faster.

“You’re not the one who decides that. I am.”

You tilted your head up toward him. “Oh, and you think I haven’t been doing well?”

“I think,” he said, stepping back, “that if something’s broken, you fix it. You don’t keep pretending it works just because. And you don’t work for me.”

You parted your lips to respond, to tell him he was wrong, but he had already turned, already started walking away like the conversation had ended.

It hadn’t. Not for you.

“Tommy doesn’t think that,” you said quickly, following him. Your feet carried you back to his side before you fully registered it. “He told me this morning. He said I was doing a good job.”

Joel kept walking. His gaze stayed fixed ahead. “I talked to him later.”

That pulled a laugh out of you, bitter and short.

“Right. Is that why you went to find him after patrol?” The memory struck you with a fresh kind of clarity. “You interrupted our conversation just to ask him to pull me off your side?”

Joel didn’t say a word.

You stepped forward, voice already sharp at the edges. “And what did he say to you?”

He stopped then, feet halting against the ground, body pivoting with the kind of restrained force that made your pulse kick. When he turned to face you, his eyes were shadowed, unreadable, and his voice came out low and rasped like it had been dragged across gravel.

“What do you think he said? If something isn’t working, it isn’t working.”

You stared at him.

“If?” you echoed, the word brittle and incredulous. “I want to know what he actually said. Right now.”

Your hand found its way to his chest, more instinct than intention. You pushed, not hard enough to move him, not really, but enough to make a point. Then you stepped past him, your feet carrying you down the path toward Tommy’s house before you fully realized that’s where you were headed.

You didn’t even know what you were doing, what your end goal was. It was late, the windows would be dark, and you had no intention of waking Maria or Benjamin. But it didn’t matter. You weren’t walking to get answers. You were walking to see if Joel would follow.

He did.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” His voice chased after you, footsteps following now.

You didn’t turn around.

“I want to hear it from him,” you snapped. “I have a pretty good idea of what he’ll say.”

Behind you, you heard a click of his tongue, like he couldn’t believe what you were doing.

Your steps quickened. You felt wired, your heart thrumming hard under your ribs. The air was thick with tension and residual whiskey.

You turned your head, only to find him already close. His hand clamped down on your arm.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he barked, breath hot and sharp. His face hovered too near yours, and his grip tightened. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

You jerked your arm free, violently, the words practically torn from your throat. “Don’t touch me.”

You turned away again, this time with real purpose. But before your second step landed, his hands were at your waist, strong and sudden.

“Joel—fuck!” you shouted, struggling as he hoisted you off your feet.

A growl ripped out of him—not angry, not even purposeful, just something primal and raw that erupted from his chest without permission.

“What the fuck are you doing?! Let me go!”

But he didn’t. He slung you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. One of his arms locked tight around your thighs to keep you from kicking, the other bracing your weight. The street spun upside down in your vision. Your hair fell across your face, and you felt his heartbeat against your stomach where your body was slumped over his back.

“You’re insane,” you yelled, breathless, every word bouncing off the night air. “Put me down. Right now, Joel!”

But he kept walking, dragging you—furious, humiliated, burning—to wherever the hell he’d decided was far enough from whatever this had turned into.

“What are you doing? Put me down. Joel, I swear to God—put me down right now!” You beat your fists against his back, your voice ricocheting off the quiet street. His flannel shirt bunched under your grip, your fingers clawing at the seams like that might anchor you, or shame him into letting go.

“You’re making a scene,” he muttered, the words strained and annoyed, barely audible from your position flung over his shoulder. “You’re drunk, and you’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Uh-huh, you're embarrassing me,” you hissed.

“Be quiet,” he snapped.

A frustrated breath escaped your chest, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. You reached for somethin. His shoulder blade, the collar of his shirt, even the curve of his hip, but you couldn’t find your footing or your dignity. And for a terrifying half second, you considered grabbing his ass purely out of spite.

His boots kept hitting the ground with the same relentless rhythm, the world still upside down in your vision. Your body jerked with each step, and just when you thought he might set you down, he adjusted his grip instead, his arm tightening around your thighs.

“All this,” you muttered under your breath, “over a fucking cup of coffee—”

“I told you to shut up,” he bit out again, this time harsher.

“I’ll talk to Tommy in the morning!” you shouted, twisting in his grip, trying to get your voice to hit something inside him.“You don’t get to decide this for me.”

“You’ll have plenty of free time in the morning. Do whatever you want.”

Your head throbbed from being upside down for so long, the blood rushing to your temples, and the indignation that had started as a low hum now threatened to swallow your entire body. You clenched a fistful of his shirt again.

“Joel,” you gasped, trying to lift your head. “For God’s sake, let me—”

And then, without warning, you were back on your feet. He pivoted with one abrupt motion and set you down. You stumbled a little from the shift, instinctively catching yourself by grabbing his shoulders. His hands were gone before you could find balance, his body stepping back as if he didn’t want to be touched for even a second longer.

You blinked and realized where you were. The porch. Your front door. He’d carried you all the way back without saying a word about it.

He didn’t stay. He turned around instantly. You watched the slope of his shoulders retreating, the rigid tension in his spine, like he was holding everything in with both fists.

“Where do you think you’re going?” you called out. “Joel.”

He kept walking. The sound of his boots was steady and infuriating. He wasn’t going to stop. He wasn’t going to look back.

“Joel!” This time, your voice cracked.

And then, without even really deciding to, you bent down and grabbed a small stone from the edge of the porch, something barely larger than a coin. You tossed it—not hard, just enough to get his attention. It hit his back with a faint, almost pitiful sound. You froze.

Joel stopped.

His hand came up to the back of his neck, resting there for a second. Then he turned, first glancing at the ground like he wasn’t sure what he’d just felt, and then lifting his eyes to meet yours. 

“Did you just throw something at me?”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it landed hard.

You swallowed, your throat tight. Some part of you wanted to smile, but it didn’t quite reach your lips.

You crossed your arms and stepped back, not in fear—never in fear—but to hold your own ground.

“I’m not afraid of you, Joel.”

His jaw flexed, and his eyes flickered. He didn’t say anything right away, just stared at you in a way that made the night air feel denser.

“I don’t know what the hell your problem is with me,” you said. “But it’s not my fault. I haven’t done anything to you. You’re just—” you paused, tasting the line on your tongue— “you’re just acting like an asshole.”

That landed. You could see it in the shift of his posture, the way he turned fully toward you now.

His voice dropped, hard and low. “What the fuck did you just call me?”

Your arms tightened across your chest. You met his gaze with your chin tipped up just slightly, unwilling to retreat.

“I didn’t call you anything,” you said. “I said you were acting like one.”

There was a flicker, barely there, at the edge of his mouth. Not a smile, not really. But it vanished as quickly as it came, and then he was striding toward you.

You moved instinctively. Backward, step by step, until your spine hit the solid wood of your door. The thud echoed somewhere low in your chest. You stayed there, heart hammering. He stopped in front of you, close enough to steal the air from your lungs. His breathing was uneven, sharp. Like he'd run farther than the porch, farther than the length of the street, and hadn't noticed until just now.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” he said. His breath carried whiskey and heat and something mean.

You tilted your chin up, refusing to shrink.

“Or what?” you asked. “What are you going to do?”

He let out a low, humorless laugh, more of a sound than a reaction.

“I’m not afraid of you, Joel,” you added, quieter now. “You’re not going to hurt me. I can see it. It’s written all over you.”

That’s when his hand came up.

His fingers wrapped around your neck. Not tight, not painful, but firm. Enough to make your back press harder into the door. Your lips parted, surprised by the contact. Your hand lifted, almost involuntarily, to his wrist.

“Is this supposed to scare me?” you whispered, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand. “Is that what this is?”

He didn’t answer at first. His eyes weren’t even locked on yours—they kept flicking downward, to your mouth, your throat, your breath. His jaw clenched.

“You’re reckless,” he said at last, almost grinding the word out. “No wonder you ended up almost dying out there in the snow.”

Something in your expression shifted. The humor, the heat, the challenge... gone. Your brows drew together. You blinked.

“You don’t know a fucking thing about me,” you spat, your fingers tightening around his. “I’ve faced worse than you. Men with no soul in their eyes. Men who didn’t even flinch. You don’t scare me.”

He leaned in, the wall of his body pressing yours deeper into the doorframe. His grip didn’t tighten, but it didn’t fall away either.

“Exactly,” he said, the word shaped like a curse. “You don't know me. That’s what I’m talking about. Reckless.”

The disgust in his tone wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Cold. It sank into your skin like snow melt. You stared up at him, and your eyes stung before you could stop them.

You swallowed. “If you were going to hate me that much,” you said, voice shaking in spite of yourself, “you should’ve just let me die.”

You didn’t remember anything about that day. Nothing concrete, anyway. Just the endless walking, your boots crunching through frozen silence, until your legs gave out and you collapsed into the snow. Cold and still. Then, a flicker: your eyes cracking open, your body hollowed out by exhaustion and pain, your face brushing against someone's chest. Joel.

That was it. That single, dim fragment was all you had. And somehow, that was all you remembered, where he existed—in a lifeless memory, half-buried and weightless.

You pressed both hands against his chest, shoving him with more strength than you expected to find in yourself. He staggered back a step, not stumbling, just readjusting. Your palm came instinctively to your neck, your fingers brushing over the sensitive place beneath your jaw—the familiar ridge of scar tissue, faint but present.

Joel’s eyes dropped. You could see the moment he noticed it. His gaze locked there, unmoving. Something in his expression shifted, so subtly it might’ve gone unnoticed.

“I have nothing,” you said, your voice steady. You stepped toward him, and this time, he didn’t move. He just watched you, his jaw tight. “Nothing in this world. You dragged me here, so what was the point? Why bring me if you were going to treat me like this?”

He didn’t speak. You tilted your chin up, trying to catch the truth on his face.

“What did I do to you?” you asked.

For a moment, his eyes softened. He looked down.

You studied him in the quiet. The lines under his eyes, the uneven scar near his temple. The tanned skin. And his hair, with a few stray curls that fell behind his ears. You wondered if he ever let anyone touch them.

Then he looked at you again, and whatever softness had surfaced vanished.

He reached forward, his palm flattening briefly over your chestbone. It wasn’t affectionate. It wasn’t violent either. Just a firm press, like a boundary made tactile. Then he stepped away.

“I told you from the beginning,” he said, voice clipped. “I didn’t want you close.”

“You think I’m chasing after you?” you snapped.

“No. Get another job. This one’s not for you.”

And then he turned, like it was over. Like he’d said everything that needed to be said and there was nothing left worth staying for.

“No,” you said.

It was quiet, but he heard you. He stopped. Turned.

His face twisted slightly, confusion etched into the anger like he didn’t understand what game you were still trying to play.

You didn’t offer him any more words. There was no dramatic speech waiting behind your lips. Just the heat of everything rising in your chest, too big to contain.

You turned your back to him. Fingers found the lock, turned it. The door creaked open. You stepped inside without looking back to see whether he was still standing there or walking away.

You didn’t care.

divider by: omi-resources

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[mullermilkshake]

It’s from your perspective, and it matters to me

Part 14 <- Part 15 -> Part 16

You respond to Jinwoo's impromptu marriage proposal.

Yandere!Jinwoo Sung x Fem Hunter!reader Tags - Pregnant reader, Manipulation, Marriage proposal, Anxiety

<<< For more Dark/Yandere content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

<<< Or back to this fic's Master list. >>>

I have only watched the anime and haven't gotten round to reading the manhwa yet. Please refrain from spoilers.

TAG LIST CLOSED

“Marriage… are you crazy?” You asked, unable to process what Jinwoo had just said.

“I said it was crazy, but think about it, if we went out there right now and announced it, there’s no way the Chairman could stop it.” 

Jiwoo held your hands in a way you couldn’t register. Soft like a lover, comforting like a friend and everything in between a man and his pregnant girlfriend.

Girlfriend. The word was foreign to you. Wife? Even more so.

It was all too sudden. Too short lived to find where your true feelings lied for the man doing everything for you.

Behind closed doors, Jinwoo was doting, supportive and dealt with the heavy stuff. Any other man would have left you, and dumped you on the association's facility after shouted at him because a sock fell behind the laundry basket so there was one clean and one dirty.

Any other man would bow out ungraciously when the earth shattering leg cramps took a hold of your body and you clung to him with your vice like grip, pinching his skin out of pure involuntary pain. 

Unlike Jinwoo, any other man would have left you the minute they knocked you up just because of your cravings. Odd ones. Mashups of two different things like each baby was taunting you. Yet Jinwoo never complained and always got you what you needed without delay, even if it was three in the morning.

Jinwoo hadn’t left so far and you’d been less than nice to him.

Until now, the only times you thought you had connected was through sex and cuddling on the sofa, or in bed before you inevitably conked out on your pregnancy pillow.

That thing is so comfy. 

“What if he did though?” You asked. “You think he’d stop something so sudden- I mean it is sudden.”

Jinwoo shook his head, a subtle smile playing at his lips. “No, I think if the Chairman has any class, which I think he does, he won’t try to stop this. That way, we’re protected and there would be an outcry if the association tried splitting us up.”

This wasn’t just some arrangement. It was permanent until otherwise.

“This is insane, Jinwoo.”

He shrugged, but his face wasn’t nonchalant. He still kept a sweet smile for you. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

It did though. It fucking did. Not ten minutes ago, the man had confessed his love for you which put you into a panic attack because it was just that, a hidden confession dropped on you without warning.

He loves me. How did I not fully see that? 

Perhaps you did? You just unintentionally ignored the signs.

The subtle touches, like he needed contact with you at all times. You assumed his actions were wholeheartedly because of your pregnancy. That being said, you weren’t stupid, you knew of his feelings, but you assumed it was the fleeting crush you understood, like Hae-in developed for him. Not love.  

Love was reserved for fully integrated couples, the elderly who’d been in each other's arms for over sixty years and lovesick teenagers. Not two fully grown adults given no choice to live with each other and get pregnant.

You and Jinwoo moved in, slept together and got pregnant in the span of eight months with the association breathing down your necks. No time at all in the grand scheme of things and you couldn’t work out where Jinwoo harboured this sentimentality for you.

And how the hell did you not see it?

“But it would mean something to you, Jinwoo. I can’t- look… it’s not fair to you. I don’t know how I feel, it’s all… too much. I need time to think about it. If it works, then it might be a good idea further down the line, but I don’t want to do anything I’m not one hundred percent on.”

You tried to find the words in his eyes, they were unreadable despite his delicate half smile. “I didn’t see myself doing all of this the way I have. I thought that when I got married, I’d know it was the right time, but this doesn’t feel like the right time- I wanted to get married before having a baby and now I have two in my belly and you’re proposing on the spot… My brain’s all foggy and I don’t know which way is up.”

“It’s just acting.” He said, his thumbs tickling the back of your hands. “Don’t worry about me. All I want is for you to not be so stressed. It’s not good for you, or the babies. I told you already, didn’t I?  I’m here for the long run, even if you don’t ever feel the same, so why hesitate?”

“I’m a bad actress, Jinwoo…”

The only time anything could be considered acting was at two o’clock in the morning, a wake up sex session with his cock buried deep inside you, because dirty talk was dirty talk. But when it really counted, you just wanted to be sure. Did you have feelings for Jinwoo? Sure, of course there was something there. You couldn’t comprehend what it was and where nothing was labelled until he labelled it, it worked. But now, the title of wife was as daunting as ever.

You wanted to know him better than you did, to know about the little things and his interests that made him want to talk about them all day. Jinwoo secured you, daily. safely nestled in his arms at night between his chest and your pillow supporting your knees, the way he spoke to you in the morning with his husk sleepy voice and bed hair. It made you smile when you weren’t on a moodswing rampage because the twins had put pressure on your bladder, you barely made it to the toilet and snatched away the warmth on your side of the bed.

Only for Jinwoo to lay on your side until you came back.

Okay… maybe it’s a little bit more obvious than I thought. 

But, you still knew little about him.

“I don’t think so.” Jinwoo’s eyes softened further, observing you. “I think everything we’ve been through is genuine, just in the wrong order. But this proposal, it’s all pretend. If you’d rather it that way. It doesn’t have to be real, it just has to be legal. We can run by the registration centre tomorrow and get it finalised. If we have a certificate, then it doesn’t matter about anything else. The Chairman won’t have a leg to stand on.”

“Y’know, I always thought I’d have a small ceremony and something low key… I never thought about the registration centre.”

“We could have a small ceremony instead? As long as you’re comfortable.”

“No… No, no.” You pulled away, shaking your head to the fact this was all mad. “Can’t we just say we are? My head, I can’t take it.”

“The Chairman and all of those journalists out there will want proof eventually. Baby, it’s public record. Someone will find out. It’s just a sheet of paper, but it gives us all kinds of benefits. You’ll be taken care of.”

You weren’t signing your life away, but why did it seem that way?

“I just… Jinwoo, I don’t know.”

He approached you, kinder than ever, rubbing your bump like it was a way to connect you. “Think of it this way, it’s traditional, but also stable. For the babies.”

There he went, using the babies to tug at your heart. You still hadn't decided what you wanted to do after they got here. Well, you didn’t want to think of it… giving birth. The fact terrified you. But that didn’t go to say that you weren’t slowly getting attached to their little flutters and heartbeats with each scan as they grew.

You knew that Jinwoo was being sincere, it never helped you create that boundary though.

“I… Jinwoo-”

There was a knock at the door, multiple actually. Fucking reporters, dumb journalists. Idiots.

You couldn’t hear their questions, just their mumblings and rapid knocking. A distraction that pulled you away from your shying logic.

“Alright. Y-yes. Okay. I’ll marry you.”

“You will?”

“Mhm.” You nodded as he caressed your cheeks with his hands, cupping your face with another unreadable expression.

He kissed you, gentle and unassuming. “I’ll get us out of this, and we’ll be away from the association. Okay?”

“Alright."

Jinwoo stood back, looking around like he’d forgotten something. “We have to make it believable enough to get past the rats.” He held out his hand, a little velvet box appeared from thin air. “Here, use this.”

He pulled the lid up to reveal a ring.

“Where did-”

Before you could even ask, Jinwoo drew it near your finger. “I got it from a dungeon raid a few months back… It’s moonstone.”

“A dungeon?” You pulled away before he could slip it on your finger. “It’ll have mana, what if it makes me sick?”

Jinwoo shook his head, reassuring you a little. “It’s for decoration, I promise. There’s nothing attached to it.”

The fact was, you had no clue if anything had aura or not, it was becoming harder to see and sense it, it was like you were losing your touch the more the babies grew. You were solely relying on Jinwoo to tell if there was aura anywhere.

But the ring was beautiful, it also fit perfectly, oddly enough.

“A perfect fit.” You said, holding your hand out with an involuntary frown.

“Lucky me, I can’t let you go out wearing a ring that doesn’t fit right.”

What the fuck just happened? “Are we really doing this-”

The door knocked again, the noise getting more aggressive and urgent.

“Come on, let's get this over with. I’ll do the talking, you don’t have to say anything.”

You followed like a lost little puppy, hand intertwined with his and he led you through the barrage of press and nosey parasites who shoved cameras in your face. You closed your eyes and trusted him to lead you up front towards the mic, it wasn’t until you opened your eyes that you saw just how many people stood watching.

“Hello.” Jinwoo cleared his throat, his hand still in yours. Was his hand trembling? “I appreciate you waiting for us. We unfortunately have been put into a corner, so we can’t keep this quiet any longer.”

You could have heard a pin drop. A subtle cough from an uncomfortable patron or fellow hunter. A nervous rustle of paper or click of the shutter for notes and evidence.

How did Jinwoo talk you into this again?

Where had all the air gone in the room?

Jinwoo continued, a slight break in his voice before he cleared it again. “While I did agree to follow the Chairman’s recommendations in the beginning, I never thought I’d be in the position I am now.”

It was a lie, Jinwoo never agreed, it must have been to deter the Chairman and place him in a position, a checkmate. You couldn’t tell from the Chairman’s expression in the corner of the room, his arms folded together with Jin-chul at his side.

“You see.” Jinwoo squeezed your hand as though giving you a sign. A secret message. “We didn’t just take part in the programme and have a baby for the good of the country, or the association. We did it because we’re in love.”

The room erupted, overflowed with more flashes and shouting, all the while Jinwoo stood there with confidence capturing your eyes and no one else's. He didn’t answer any questions and didn’t for one minute cast you aside for any dictaphone or mic thrusted in his face.

“We’ve been together far longer than what the association knew of, and to support that, we can finally come out and say that we’re engaged to be married.”

He didn’t lift up your hand like a champion after a marathon, a wrestler after winning the belt, he held it close to him, as though hiding the ring instead of showing it to the world. You glanced back over at the Chairman and your breath stuck itself in your throat it almost choked you.

The Chairman’s eyes were wider than ever.

If Jinwoo noticed, he didn’t let on. “I can announce now, as the Chairman has already informed you of our delightful news. We’re not having just one baby, but twins.” 

“Hunters just how long have you kept this secret?! People have been speculating, will you address the rumours?!” 

One journalist practically screamed your name. “We can see your baby bump, how long were you hiding it with your fashion choices?!” 

Stepping back, you couldn’t breathe properly. Even with Jinwoo’s presence, and Igris lurking in your shadow. You had grown accustomed to the knight following you around, no longer sensing him like you did before.

Your eyes searched helplessly for anything familiar. Your colleagues, friends or even a fucking light fixture to bring some normality to your rapid beating heart. Jong-in. He stood over by the large support pillar, his eyes as wide as ever next to Hae-in who was just as equally shocked. Baek stepped over too with Lim and Ma, their jaws agape in unison.

Shit- shit. Shit.

“I’d appreciate it if you stepped back.” When Jinwoo said your name, he appeared relaxed. “She’s twenty weeks pregnant, stress isn’t healthy. I trust you can understand… The last thing I’ll say on the matter is that we’re engaged, we’ll be getting married soon and when we do, we’ll be keeping our children close and retiring from the programme.”

Jinwoo led you away towards the exit, ignoring the reporters and pulling his cardigan over your shoulders out into the night.

“Just a second, Hunter Sung.”

“Chairman Go.” 

It wasn’t entirely a shock he appeared amongst the roar of questions, perhaps it was your ever growing fatigue that hoped you’d avoid him, or that he’d conceded and backed the hell away from breathing down your neck.

“It seems that I misjudged you.” He bowed primarily to Jinwoo. “You have my greatest apologies. Might there be a way I can reconcile the trust you have for me and the association?”

Woah… 

“Dinner.” Jinwoo said flatly and almost arrogantly, right to the Chairman’s face. “Come and have dinner with us tomorrow. You and Hunter Woo. We can talk then.”

“Tomorrow it is.”

Jinwoo strolled right past them with you in tow, confused at the interaction. “Why did you invite him to dinner?”

“Unless he’s genuine from here on out, we have to play the long game now.”

Whatever the long game was.

VOTE TIME - The results for the last vote are in and I will be covering the birth, I'll make sure to put up TW and leave it in a way that those who want to skip can do so and won't miss anything plot related.

Part 14 <- Part 15 -> Part 16

If you would like to be tagged, please let me know! Thanks so much for all the support on this likes, reblog and comments appreciated! ❤️ TAG LIST CLOSED

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DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime or manhwa. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[demon-at-peace]

DC + DP

Danny had began working with the bat a year ago. They were allies at most, not partners, not friends, allies. Phantom handled Amity issues, but when Gotham needed help he was happy to tag along.he certainly wasn’t a sidekick. He wasn’t someone’s helper or servant, he was a hero, a king, and he refused to be treated like a child.

 He may look fourteen still, not a day older than the day he died. But he was almost twenty one now, an adult in all ways, the realms acknowledged him, Amity acknowledged him, the realms themselves acknowledged him, and yet humans denied him. He wasn’t a kid, he was hardly even human. 

But he kept his silence and merely drew away from the bat. He waited, he watched, the years passed, he remained. The heroes still called him the same idle names, they couldn’t understand just how powerful he was. His breaking point came slowly, like pressure building, and pressure built. It was not him who broke the dam.

It was Ellie, she’d come in looking eldritch than human, she radiated power, ignoring the heroes and running to him. “Danny!” She laughed, hugging him tightly, “Dan want to fight you,” she sighs. "He says if he has to deal with any more paperwork he's going to just gonna kill a bunch of people.”

“Really?” He groaned, it was inevitable, but he was always sore after their spars. 

“Danny! Just fight him, it's fun, plus you need to get your anger out too!?” She looks at him pointedly. Danny groans. Ellie’s right he knows, but Dan and him tend to make a mess of things when they spar. 

“But last time clocky had to fix our mess Ellie, besides batty would freak,” Danny argues, avoiding Ellies gaze.

“Then he’ll kill someone to make you fight him Danny! I mean he’ll probably revive them but death is traumatizing so fucking man up and spar with you sibiling! Ellie crosses her arms. “Besides I’m0 long overdue for a stretch, the dimension i’m in is weak!”

“Fine! Does it have to be here tho?” Danny frowns, the JL will freak out over Dan.

“Uh huh, besides he’s already here!” Ellie grins at him and Danny spins around. 

“Danny,” Dan greets him with a customary smirk, “Ready to spar?”

“In a bit,” Danny bites out then steps out the watchtower window. “ground rules first, no hurting the humans,” Danny smiles.

“If you don’t skive of mid fight because of paperwork again I’m good with that,” Dan grumbles.

Danny raises an eyebrow, "Paperwoek that holds the realms together, while there spars only cause damage," Danny crosses his arms. "Shall we though?" Danny gestures and a portal forms.

"Danny come on just do it here! Set a dome dammit!" Dan rolls his eyes, "Portals feel icky."

"Fine," Danny groans and the portal vanishes. "Shall we?"

Dan just laughs, shooting an ecto blast at him. Danny smiles, the fight is violent but contained, bloody and brilliant and everything Danny has missed. brawling is likea hug to a ghost, a greeting, and he feels so much better.

Danny wins as always, smiling slightly, his eyes lighter. He grins, he loves to brawl. "Get up loser," he hauls Dan to his feet.

"Boo!" Dan jeers moving his bloody arm slightly. "You stained my suit!"

"Extoplasm doesn't stain!" Danny argues.

"Buzzkil! Ellie chimes in, "Me next?"

"How about after we talk to Phantom dear," One of Danny's teammates offers. Shit he forgot they were here. Yikes he is sooo screwed.

–

Sorry dudes, my computer fucking broke, like as in couldn't type without using the mouse, idk why? Thank god's college almost over. Anyhow sorry...

[ruesol]

DISLOCATION - one shot

(SUKUNA x FEM/AFAB! READER)

PLOT:

Sukuna, your best friend, (begrudgingly) helps you no matter what hurdles you face in life. Even when that hurdle involves getting a sexual fix after your ex cheats on you.

CW & TAGS: bffs to lovers, tattooist sukuna, yearning, (hinted) reader with low self esteem, shitty ex, kissing practice, lots of build up, angry confession, explicit sexual content, oral (f receiving), piv, stiff dirty talking, (honestly this fic is just me trying to get my smut writing practice in)

Note: PLS let me know the name of the artist who made the fanart so I can credit them

wc: 6.8k

—

It was like resetting a bone after a fracture. Painful, but unavoidable. The idea has finally cornered you, setting a dark shadow over your sanity.

Your tongue is thick and heavy as soon as the words leave your mouth, the hypothetical shards of broken bone poking you from the inside of your body, the sting reminding you of how stupid you sounded.

Sitting before you was your best friend with his mouth hanging open, remnants of his half-chewed lunch falling out.

“You made me push my client an hour forward to tell me that you’re going to engage in casual sex?” Sukuna asked while resuming to chew with his mouth open, barbecue sauce smeared on his chin. Any other person would’ve grimaced at the sight, indirectly tossing him a comment about using a napkin. Still, the relationship between you two has gone on long enough for each of you to eat like it’s your last day alive in front of one another. However, you still sigh and grab a napkin, wiping off the sauce for him.

Sukuna goes cross-eyed when your hand reaches his chin, following its motion even when you retract it to your side.

“I-yeah, kind of, but it’s more like…” You uneasily trail off, staring at your glass of water instead. You imagine a race between the condensation droplets to buy some time to think about how you’re going to tell your friend that you want to have sex with him, so that you can get over your ex.

“Like what? Spit it out,” Sukuna impatiently said as he grabbed a fry off your plate. You couldn’t be bothered to be annoyed at him for it. Not when your little idea had been eating you alive since you’d received a breakup text from your ex.

‘Hey, I’m not in the right headspace to continue our relationship. You’re too good for me, and I don’t deserve you.’

The jerk was a grade A phony, blocking you on everything as soon as he saw that you replied to the text, hoping that you could meet him in person.

When you used a fake social media account to see what he was doing, you discovered that he had moved to another country to be with a woman he’d been dating online for six months.

Meaning that your one-year relationship meant nothing to him.

So, feeling used and abused, you decided to rip the band-aid off for one last session of wallowing via sex.

“I want to have sex with you so I can get over my ex,” you rambled out as fast as possible.

You sit with a bated breath, the sound of the restaurant soon ceasing to static because of the barrage of thoughts fogging your mind.

The burger falls out of Sukuna’s grip, his eyes trained on the plate. A vein in the middle of his forehead highlights itself as his frown deepens, his eyebrow piercing shifting positions.

“And why me?”

About eighty percent of your brain had assumed that he’d either groan out a disgusted ‘no’ or blush and look away while politely rejecting you, but that was not the outcome you expected. It’s like discovering that you’re a millionaire but not knowing how much you’ll need to pay in taxes every year.

“Look, we’ve been friends for a while, and you get me better than anyone else. It’ll be a one-time thing, of course—if you consent, that is.” Sukuna still doesn’t look up from his plate after your answer. “No pressure at all, I can totally understand if you don’t want to—“

But Sukuna interrupts you before you can vomit out any more conversation buffer. “I need a minute or an hour. Maybe a day. Or two. I don’t know. I’m gonna be late for my appointment,” he rambles as he abruptly gets up, swiping his leather jacket off the booth’s seat in a flash and bidding you a quiet farewell before briskly walking out of the diner, door slamming shut loudly. The other customers sharply turn their heads at the sudden ruckus.

Sukuna’s greasy, flat, half-eaten burger had been left behind because of his urge to escape.

A part of you feels bad for throwing your concerns on him if his feelings aren’t important to consider in this matter. But the wounds your ex left on you have been running deep, festering, and aching for a salve. You just need one good fix from someone who cares. Nothing more, nothing less.

Which is why you figured it would’ve been easy for Sukuna to grant it to you, especially given his history of having many friends with benefits in college. But his sudden aversion to the idea was understandable. At least he was taking time to contemplate his answer.

Well, it was either that or he would ghost you for good.

—

The needles punch and poke the skin as the black ink seeps into the first layer, swollen skin puckering as Sukuna’s hand moves along his client’s back. The dragon tattoo that was given to him was an intricate design. Something he needed to practice for days so he could get the details down to a T, in contrast to his memory of the time you two went skinny-dipping.

He repaints the canvas every time the memory visits him like a rising star, distancing itself from him as the years pass, yet ever sparkling.

The moonlight was shining down on the lake, and he was tipsy with you in his grandfather’s old cabin. He still didn’t understand how he never made a move that night, especially after seeing how you’d filled out your hips, and how perfect your breasts were.

It’s a memory he’s not proud about recounting, yet he does so anyway to soothe the perpetual ache he’s had since his brain first rewired itself to see you as the love of his life.

The first instance of him being aware of his feelings was when you were babysitting his nephew with him, and how easily you meshed with his family. Jin still recalls your jokes and, without daily, cackles to himself even when Sukuna does not find your humor to be as amusing.

His feelings for you have him collared and tethered to you, heart easy for yanking, and mind filled with nothing but silent yearning.

Sukuna knows there’s no coming back if he has sex with you.

The question rattles in his brain, leaving him periodically discombobulated during the entire work day, often bumping into corners and nearly writing the first letter of your name while tattooing his client. Like a fish in a bowl, the thought of having sex with you has nowhere to go but to swim into the different spaces of his mind.

The amygdala is already forcing him to imagine what your heady wetness would taste like on his tongue. His ears ached to find out whether you were unabashed with your voice or you’d only whimper when he was balls deep in you.

“You seem distracted,” Choso, one of Sukuna’s only two friends, calls out while lying on his stomach on the tattoo bed.

“How can you tell?” Sukuna mumbled, wiping sweat off his nose with his free hand. He was working up a sweat just thinking about you.

“You’re sighing a lot. What’s up?”

Sukuna didn’t want to tell Choso about his mental anguish. It was embarrassing, like he was a teen all over again, staring at you across the classroom, and sleeping in for the entire weekend after he heard about you going on a date. Though his condition barely changed even after he had entered his twenties. It’s a fact that’ll make him bite his tongue off before he ever acknowledges it to himself.

Even then, he tells Choso about your request, making the obsidian-haired mainly jump in surprise. Luckily, Sukuna held him down with a single palm to prevent ruining the tattoo.

“You’re gonna do it, right? It’s what you’ve been waiting for.”

“I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for her to notice my feelings, not the fact that I wanna bone her.”

“Come on, don’t be stupid. It’ll be like getting a fix. Maybe you’ll get over her if you just sleep with her once.”

Sukuna pulls away from Choso momentarily and stares at the mirror across the room. He sees a traitor–a man who conceals the truth for his gain. The buzzing of the needle fades into nothingness when he begins to imagine your face when he finally confesses to you.

Would you be uncomfortable? What would happen to your weekly movie nights if you rejected him? 

And most important of all: what would he say to Yuuji, his six-year-old nephew, when you stop visiting during babysitting nights?

“Start with a chemistry test; kiss her. If it feels weird, don’t sleep with her. If it feels good, then do it. Easy as that,” Choso continues.

‘Easy as that’

Easier said than done. However, the thought of kissing you has never felt odd. He’s imagined the scenario too often–you’re wearing that one sundress he secretly likes, and the sun is setting. You’re both eating ice cream, and you get some on your lip. He tries to wipe it off, but instead of using his thumb, he swipes his tongue across your lip. You’re flushed, lashes fluttering as you try to look away, but Sukuna turns your chin just in time, and kisses you deeply before you can further protest.

“So, what do you think?” Choso asks, pulling Sukuna out of his heavenly daydream. It’s a rude awakening, his eyelids pressing shut in annoyance when he sees Choso’s swollen, naked skin with a halfway done tattoo.

“I’ll try it,” Sukuna says as he returns to working on the tattoo after rolling his stool closer to the bed.

“Good. I’d like updates, please.”

“I will knock down the price of your tattoo by twenty-five bucks if you don’t ask anything more about my situation.”

—

Awkwardness sits heavy in Sukuna’s living room and his throat. He was sure his voice would crack if he initiated any kind of conversation, so he kept his mouth shut, watching what was left of Lilo & Stitch. Yuuji was sleeping in Sukuna’s room. The boy was tired after running around, playing board games with you, and watching the movie's first half.

You were sitting on the floor, collecting all the toys Yuji had brought and putting them in his bag (while Sukuna burned holes into the back of your head). It had been three days of no words spoken between you two, except for when Sukuna called you to let you know that Yuuji missed you.

“Oh, he got a new Sulley plushie,” you mumble as you put a fuzzy blue toy back where it belongs. The television was playing the movie on mute so Yuji wouldn’t wake up, so you were the only one shuffling around.

“Yeah, I lost a bet to the little shit.”

You giggle before turning around, a small smile growing into a larger one.  “What was the bet about?”

Your lips are plush, and when you lick them, your saliva leaves a sheen.

(Strawberry jelly, ripe cherries–maybe that’s what your lips would taste like)

He cannot stop staring at them, and you, like you’re right where you need to be. You fit like a puzzle piece in his apartment. Right at home, in his living room and his heart.

“Huh?” Sukuna’s ears grow red at the slight crack in his voice, and he prays you cannot sense his embarrassment. He was glad his hood covered his ears. He wore it like armor.

“The bet—what was it about?” you speak out again, adjusting your hair back into place, making sukuna dig crescent indents into the skin of his palm, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he imagines touching your hair and adjusting it for you instead.

“Nothing exciting. Just had to beat him in Mario Kart, and unfortunately for me, he’d been practicing.”

Your giggles grow into laughter, and Sukuna follows suit with a slight smirk, looking away towards the window instead. His heart was racing fast enough, and if he saw your laughing face, he was sure it would simply leap out of his chest.

The awkwardness sets in again when silence returns. You break it once more. “I’m really sorry for what I said three days ago,” you sheepishly say as you look up at him from your spot on the floor. You could feel yourself sinking into the ground while replaying the memory of Sukuna bolting out of the restaurant.

“No, it was my fault. I should’ve acted like a grown man and just told you I was caught off guard and needed time to process.”

‘What’s there to decide?’ his heart yelled. It’s simple: have sex with you, get you off his mind, and then he can be on his way, and so can you. Like Choso said before, it’s all about getting a fix. Sukuna reasoned with himself, maybe it’s like smoking weed for the first time–exciting, kind of addicting, but you know won’t do it again.

(That is until you end up saying the same thing the second time.)

“So…have you decided then?” You maidenly wring your hand in your lap, almost like a vestigal virgin, and his cock nearly swells at the thought.

“Ah…” Sukuna rubs his hand across his face. The words were present in his throat, but they refused to come out—a final silent protest. To save one’s friendship also means choosing to lose one’s mind; a frustrating juxtaposition.

“Look, again, there’s no pressure. I totally understand if you’re not comfortable–”

“No! Let’s kiss,” Sukuna would’ve yelled, but Yuji was still sleeping inside, and he’d be damned if the nephew he loved so much interrupted an almost life-changing conversation for him.

“Oh, like, right now? Cause Yuji–” Your face grows warm immediately, and you get the sudden urge to pull your sweater off, but the context of your conversation with Sukuna wouldn’t help the situation.

“Shit, no, I meant that we should kiss to see if, uh…having sex is gonna be…you know, weird.” Choso’s voice rings in his head like a bell. “Kind of like a chemistry test.”

You frown at Sukuna’s words. “Chemistry test?”

“Yeah, like the shit actors do in romance movies.”

Sukuna assumes that you think he’s an idiot when you shake your head and laugh sarcastically as you zip up Yuji’s bag.

That is, until you get off the floor and sit beside him on the couch, your thigh touching his muscular one. “Okay, let’s kiss.”

It was Sukuna’s turn to be surprised. “What? Just like that?” he asked as his brows rose.

“You’re the one who suggested it,” you reason. Though your tone sounds confident, your body language says otherwise as you had folded your arms while sitting upright on the comfortable couch.

“Okay, then, I guess I’m gonna kiss you,” Sukuna says while staring into your eyes, searching for a smidge of hesitation, but he sees nothing. He turns his broad shoulders to you as his hands reach your face, touch so delicate that it feels feather-light.

Looking at him through your lashes, you lean closer, palms flat on the couch, as you stabilize yourself. He notices your elbow trembling and pulls you onto his lap. You gasp in surprise, and Sukuna rolls his eyes to push through his and your flustered states.

“You’ve sat on my lap before. I’m just doing this so it’s convenient.” It’s hard not to sound strangled when the woman of your dreams stares at you with her dewy lips parted.

“Yeah, but that was when we were in a tiny car with a bunch of other people and there was no space for me to sit,” you counter while playing with the strings of Sukuna’s hoodie. You stop when Sukuna’s large hands engulf yours, and he slowly moves them, securing your hold around his neck. He pulls his hood off and looks earnestly into your eyes.

“Let’s just do this, okay?”

You nod, close your eyes, and lean in first, but are taken aback when Sukuna doesn’t mirror your actions. You lean in further, your breath hitting his lips, but he still makes no effort.

It’s petrifying, this moment. Having you on his lap alone felt like something far away from reality. Living as your lover was his ultimate fantasy, and he hoped that he’d be kissing you under those circumstances, but this was the closest he could ever get. It was all his fault, really. He never wore his heart on his sleeve like the rest of your exes, and could never get over his pride to confess to you, so he was in this predicament by his design.

It frustrated you not to see him make any effort to kiss you, so you pulled away. “This is so stupid–”

He wraps his hands around your waist and neck and pulls you to him before you can continue. “I was just mentally preparing.” His lips brush against yours when they move, and you gulp.

“Oh,” is the most you can muster up. His palm is warm against the thin fabric of your tank top. When your breathing is finally steady, you realize he’s lightly squeezing your waist.

Nothing he hasn’t done before, of course.

He starts slowly, testing the waters with a small peck to check if you’re real or want to stop. He nips your bottom lip. “Open your mouth a little, feels like I’m kissing a statue.”

“R-right,” you choke out, parting your mouth, shivering when Sukuna’s lips brush against yours to brace you.

When he finally kisses you, it feels perfect. His lips were meant to be on yours as fate intended them.

Your lips do indeed faintly taste of strawberries. He thinks it’s because of the remnants of your lip balm. Your smell, taste, and skin all feel intoxicating. His five senses have been taken over. The groans that escape your throat egg him on to kiss you deeper, making you arch into him. His fingers snake into your hair, and you gasp when he tugs it.

His hot tongue explores your mouth with no decency, a clash of saliva and teeth.

‘Temporary paradise, temporary paradise, temporary paradise’–it’s all that echoes in Sukuna’s head as his mouth devours yours. Years of pent-up feelings and frustration were being let out.

His mouth begins to stray away, leaving kisses on your chin and cheek instead. You sigh when he kisses the spot just beneath your jaw’s hinge, and you tighten your hold on his shoulders.

“Sukuna, I think–”

“Little more,” he mumbles in a drunken haze against your skin, nipping your neck while also trailing kisses down to your collarbone.

He simply cannot stop himself. Not when the person he’s wanted for years is finally in his grasp. He will clutch onto you like a vice if he needs to. However, judging by how you’re squirming and gasping in his lap, it does not seem like you want to escape.

“Ahem.”

When you hear Jin, you’re quick to harshly push Sukuna off you, nearly falling out of his lap.

“Sorry for interrupting, but I’m here to pick up my son.”

You adjust your rumpled tank top from where Sukuna almost sneaked his hand under it, and you awkwardly cough as you walk over to Sukuna’s room to get the little boy.

“Finally grew a pair, I see,” Jin snarkily remarks as he picks up his son’s backpack off the floor, and Sukuna throws a pillow at him. “Fuck off.”

“I’m happy for you, idiot. It’s about damn time.”

Oh, if he only knew. Jin, the lankier of the set of twins, would challenge Sukuna to a fight if he knew what was going on between you. As frustrating as it was for Sukuna to have unrequited feelings for you, it was even more frustrating for Jin to watch his brother endlessly pine over one woman for years. With his sanity sacrificed, Sukuna’s head was only filled with thoughts of you, going as far as basically integrating you into his little family because his heart knew that you’d fit in just right.

“Yeah, about time.”

You abruptly leave Sukuna’s apartment after Yuuji wakes up, and Jin does not say much when you only send Sukuna an awkward wave before rushing out the door.

–

The following days after the kissing experiment were bleak–at least for Sukuna. The man was glued to his phone whenever you’d update your social media with a picture of you and your girlfriends at brunch or some club. Avoidance being obvious, he decides to take the first step again. It’s either talking to you or awkwardly skirting around each other till you slowly exit each other’s lives.

He shoots you a seemingly harmless text.

Forgot my leather jacket at your place. I’m coming to get it tomorrow at 3.

–

Cameras don’t do justice to Sukuna’s devilishly handsome looks. Being a natural-born charmer with Adonis-like features makes him the center of attention in every room, so he never feels self-conscious. Of course, that also goaded people around him because those features only fueled his narcissism and rude and repulsive personality.

But still, he checks his face in his phone’s front camera before knocking on your door. Lookwise, he was the polar opposite of what your exes looked like, but he still had some confidence in himself that you didn’t completely disregard how conventionally attractive he was. He runs his hands along his chin to rub off any extra crumbs from his lunch earlier, and then he finally knocks on your door.

“In a minute!” He hears muffled shuffling and stumbling before you open the door in a frazzled daze. “Hey,” you say as you let him in. Your apartment looks the same except for the three pairs of shoes, two bags strewn on the floor, and your ransacked coat closet beside your door. “I looked everywhere but couldn’t find your jacket,” you huff out breathlessly.

“Of course you couldn't. I lied about it. I wanna talk.”

“Right now? I’m kind of running late for something,” you say, avoiding eye contact by tidying up your place, hands placing your shoes back on the shoe rack. That’s when Sukuna finally gets a good look at you. You have more makeup on than you usually do, but it’s not like the kind you wear on girls’ night, no, it’s the type one wears to make their features naturally stand out. You’re wearing a baby pink sundress that ends just above your knees, and it flutters around your smooth and freshly-shaved legs as you shuffle quickly around your living room.

His eyes narrow as he scoffs at the realization, the thought hitting him hard between his ribs. “Are you going out on a date?”

Like a deer caught in headlights, you freeze, your head slowly turning to face Sukuna in shame. The increased tension in your shoulders was enough of an answer for him. “Would you be mad if I said yes?”

Sukuna isn’t sure whether what’s currently fueling his anger is jealousy or resentment. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

Flashes of the incident that took place a few days ago invade his mind, more vivid than before. You look so devastatingly beautiful that he nearly convinces himself that he should accept whatever escapes your pretty little mouth. You fold your arms, and your cleavage presents itself, making it even more difficult for him to handle the sight in front of him. Oh, if only you got dolled up for him instead.

But it’s now or never. Sukuna either tells you how he feels, or you go ahead and give some random bastard a chance.

“Don’t go,” he blurts out before he can stop himself. Finally saying what’s on his mind feels liberating and mind-numbing at once—anticipation and insecurities at war.

“What? I’m not gonna do that. I have someone waiting on me.” You roll your eyes as you try to talk past him, but he grabs your arms, large hands basically encircling your biceps as he holds you in place in front of him. “Sukuna, let me go.”

“No, I won’t. Not until you listen to me. You can’t just fucking makeout with me and go out with some other guy. You can’t just make me have all these…complicated feelings and skip away like it was nothing.”

Your eyes widen as you try to twist out of his grip, but he pulls you flat against him, his chest against yours, just like a few days ago.

“You think I didn’t notice how something had clearly changed between us? Did the thought of us together feel too real for you? Well, you know what? It felt damn real for me. And the way you kissed me, fuck, it’s like you knew how I felt!” His red eyes bore into your glassy ones. Sukuna’s confession started to feel more like a rude admonition, but he didn’t care. Having his words weigh heavily on your shoulders was cathartic for him. You looked positively guilty, and it fueled something deplorable in him.

“H-how you felt?” you rasp out, still in shock, fear-stricken yet pliant enough to relax in Sukuna’s hold.

“Yeah. How I felt, how I feel. I fucking love you and I always have for the longest time,” he replied without missing a beat. His grip on you has loosened, yet he still keeps you close, the scent of your intoxicating, musky sweet perfume grounding him to earth. The man you were going to meet tonight did not deserve even to catch a waft of it. A part of him wished you’d smell exactly like this when you both would do nothing but watch movies at his house on the weekends. The wish scratches his ribcage like a desperate request, but he contains himself with a shuddered exhale.

“I didn’t kiss you to amuse you or help you escape your dry spell–no! I kissed you because I’m a selfish and arrogant asshole who wants someone who probably doesn’t feel the same way.”

Adrenaline courses through your veins in amounts that rival oxygen, making you feel lightheaded. You tightly clutch onto the bottom of Sukuna’s denim jacket to stabilize yourself. Noticing this, he leans down, his forehead against yours as he whispers one last time.

“Tell me none of it was real or that it meant nothing. Tell me so I can leave and forget this ever happened.” His breath hits your lips like a puff of smoke, menthol suffusing in the back of your mind. 

It’s all becoming too real: his hands on your arms, his mouth near yours, and the hunger in his eyes.

And then the world, as Sukuna knew, ceased to exist, heaven’s light shining on his head, the heat so real that if he ran his hand through his hair, it would be oddly warm. Despite not being religious, the man always had a vision of what heaven could be.

And your lips tasted exactly like the first fruit he imagined having there.

Your lips are sweet, tart strawberries when you crash them into his. He smiles to himself as he relishes the taste, divine blessing coating his tongue as he licks into your mouth. Reward does not come easily to the greedy, but Sukuna would gladly sin for a thousand lifetimes if he could kiss your lips in each one. And to think that some undeserving asshole almost got a taste of what has belonged to him since the day he set his eyes on you.

Sukuna’s body melts onto yours as his hands haphazardly move around your waist and pull you closer to him. The kiss gets deeper as he pulls your chin down with his thumb, lapping up all the gloss you had put on for your little outing, which he was hoping you still did not plan to go to.

“Don’t go,” he gasps against your mouth. “Don’t go on that date, fuck, do you even know what you do to me?”

You try to pull away after he leaves another smacking kiss on your lips, but he continues to stay latched to your bottom lip, nipping it as he squeezes your waist. “I’ve waited years. Don’t take this away from me just yet.”

“Sukuna, you’re crazy if you think I’m gonna go out on that date after what you just said. I’ve always loved you, too.”

Your confession makes Sukuna abruptly pull away. Unlike how rough he was before with the kiss, he gently caresses your face as if touching something priceless.

“Then why’d you date all those stupid guys?” he interrogates with a gravel-rough voice.

You slide your hands up his firm chest to his neck, wrapping them around, before answering. “I thought you never liked me. You were always messing around with a different girl every week. Not to mention, I was nothing like them.”

Sukuna scoffs before pulling you back into him, the bare skin of your legs in contrast with the rough denim of his jeans. He leaves a chaste kiss on your lips, mainly because he still cannot believe what’s in front of him and because it’s a stamp of reassurance. 

(Still, it was more for him than for you.)

It’s the guilt that bites. Of course, he never gave you an in. He kept you at arm’s length to get over you, and of course, that miserably (and fortunately) failed. “I fucked them cause I was trying to get over you. You are everything they weren’t, and I was afraid that if I let myself be selfish like now, I would fuck everything up between us.”

He cannot bring himself to face you, so he looks around your apartment instead. Memorabilia of your friendship are scattered everywhere: Polaroids of the two of you as kids stuck on your refrigerator, a vase he had gifted you on your birthday, and a fuzzy blanket you had always kept for him on your couch. The answer to his age-old question had been staring at him right in the face. Years of yearning reciprocated, but he was too blind to see it because of his insecurity.

He moves his hand to your cheek, almost covering the entire space, before he tips your head back slightly. “But now, I’ve been waiting so long that it’s impossible for me to think about anyone but you.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer. “Me too,” you whisper against his mouth before giving him a heated kiss. You push your tongue into his mouth, and he groans at the feeling of your slick muscle against his. Enveloped in gooseflesh, your knees nearly buckle when Sukuna squeezes your plush hips before snaking his hand to your ass. He walks you back to your bedroom, lips still on yours as he haphazardly unzips the back of your dress. It’s easy for him to move with fluidity, like it’s a script that he’s been practicing for ages, synapses firing each time your hold tightens on him when he sips a kiss from you.

Your dress, his pants and t-shirt are on the floor. The two of you are only clad in your underwear as Sukuna lowers his body on top of yours, the delicious heat of his abdomen on yours.

“Been dreaming of this for so long.” You can only whimper in response when Sukuna nips at the column of your throat. He kisses the spot where your necklace rests between your breasts as he slides the strap of your bra down.

He pauses for a moment, looking up only to find the most beautiful sight of all–you with your rubicund cheeks, glossy parted lips, and half-lidded eyes. Your hands stroke up the back of his neck, into his pink hair, where the buzzed hair above his nape is slightly darker than his crown. The groan he lets out when you scratch his head reverberates within your ribs, making you arch your back. Sukuna takes that as a sign to take your nipple in his mouth, and his mind immediately takes him back to the day you two went skinnydipping–when he first laid his eyes on your perfect, pert breasts.

That night has fueled his fantasies for many months following it. The way your nipples glistened under the firelight, how they’d wrinkled because of how you were shivering after the swim. A gross part of him didn’t even want to wash the towel you borrowed after the swim.

He feels like he can taste the freshwater of the lake when he sucks on the sensitive flesh. Only this time, your skin is dewy with sweat, and some body lotion that smells intoxicatingly sweet. He grinds his bulge onto your clothed pussy, and you gasp at the pressure.

“Sukuna, please, I need you now,” you grind up to him, and moan out when he pinches your nipple, making you firmly flex your thigh at the sting.

“Let me take my time, needy girl.”

He kisses down your body, savoring the smoothness of your skin, dragging his nose along the length of your abdomen to the center of your mons. Your panties are soaked, the gusset saturated with your juices.

Sukuna’s eyes nearly roll to the back of his head when he peels the fabric down, the sight of your pussy, making his heart race sinfully.

“Do you know what my ultimate fantasy was for the longest time?” The man wasn’t even looking at you when he asked that question, eyes hypnotized by the sight before him.

When you don't reply, he bites the flesh of your inner thigh, his canines leaving a deeper imprint than expected. You whimper at the brazen expression of possessiveness, but Sukuna seems unapologetic about being the reason behind your surprised state. “Don’t be quiet with me, pretty girl.”

“What was it?” you whisper.

“Taking you on the forest floor that night. Rubbed my cock raw for months after that day. Thought about eating this pretty pussy out after pulling you out of the water, with your hair wet and clinging to your body.”

It was filthy, disgusting, and gross. You could only grimace at the overstimulation of feeling leaves and twigs poking you from all angles, and the water only only making the forest soil stick to your body in crevices that would be a nightmare to clean in just a single shower.

But there was something so heady and hot about the whole situation–how you imagined him eating you out like he was a starved beast who’d just had his first meal after days after hunting, your cunt’s juices being his only sustenance. His tongue deep in your pussy, pushing you to the edge with every lick and suck.

“You’re fucking disgusting.” Your voice comes out broken when he licks up your slit, tongue circling your little clit, nub too swollen and sensitive to directly touched.

“Don’t fuck with me right now. You wouldn’t be laying with your legs spread open like a slut if you didn’t want my cock that night.”

Sukuna was not wrong. He never was. Especially when it came to you. Your best friend was scarily tuned to your wants and needs, and how your mind worked, almost like he was programmed to be the perfect man for you.

When you didn’t reply, he smirked against your pussy before sucking your clit, leaving little kisses on it after your thighs jolted at the sensitivity. His rough, tattooed hands stroked your thighs to calm you down, but your cries only egged him on to further overstimulate you.

He imagined being on that forest floor, taking from you what he deserved, what belonged to him since the dawn of time, since your atoms came into being and combined. Forever intertwined within nature and cosmic law.

You see stars on your plain white ceiling when you cum, involuntarily grinding into Sukuna’s mouth as he continues to flatten his tongue and drag it up your cunt. “Sukuna, please, I can’t wait anymore,” you breathe out, legs shivering as he pulls away.

“You want my dick?” Sukuna cockily asks, as he pulls his boxers down, his cock standing red and proud. Nothing you hadn’t seen before, but the context changed your feelings about it.

You could take it.

 (Well, maybe.)

You nod, babbling about how you were wet enough, but that still wasn’t enough for the egotistical tattoo artist. His pecs glistened with sweat as he leaned over you, his dog tag necklace meeting your pendant as he kissed your neck.

“Tell me how bad you want. Tell me how bad you want your best friend to fuck you,” he whispered against your skin, and your brows furrow at his command. His assertive gaze quickly urges you to spit out what you’d been wanting for years.

“I want your cock to stretch me open, Sukuna. Stretch me good and fuck me till I scream,” you bashfully ramble, looking away, but Sukuna tips your chin back with a finger, staring deep into your eyes. There’s something so beautiful yet sensually arousing about how shy you are, a heady juxtaposition that only rushes more blood to his thickened cock.

“Good, now, tell me you love me, baby girl,” his deep voice rumbles against your warm cheek, and you comply.

“I love you, Sukuna,” you gasp when his hands sneak down, playing with your clit once more.

“Again,” he commands as he kisses your earlobe.

“I love you.”

“Again.” He kisses down your neck, sucking the thin skin by your collarbone.

“I love you, Sukuna Ryomen. I always have and always will.”

He looks up at you this time, and kisses you square on your lips, your heady wetness still fresh on his tongue.

“I love you, too, beautiful.”

It doesn’t take him any effort to split your legs open; you’re needy and pliant, already wet for two of his thick fingers to easily slip inside. You whine when he pumps them in and out a little, just to prep you for his ruddy cock, the tip already dripping beads of precum.

The head of Sukuna’s cock is warm, stretching your pussy good as you slowly take in every inch. Your wet walls cling to his phallus, already spasming when he adjusts himself on top of you, leaning over as his dog tag dangles above your head.

When you nod, he kisses you before slowly rocking his hips against yours. Your eyes follow the hypnotizing pendulous movement of his necklace, and you bite your lips as his hips move at a relentless pace.

“Shit, my gorgeous girl, all you needed was your best friend to fuck you. Look at you–fit so well around my cock.” Sukuna leans back, his pace uninterrupted as he slots his hands under your knees and places your legs on his shoulder. He kisses your ankle in hopes to soothe you, but you only grow more restless, hips moving up to keep up with him.

You know he’s reached his limit when his hips begin to stutter, spurts of his cum painting your walls white, its warmth making you shiver as Sukuna groans. He rubs his hand down to your flank, patting it to check in on you, and you nod as a reply.

Sukuna nearly topples over you when he lies back down. You decide that you can wait a couple of minutes before washing up, relishing being held in his muscled embrace.

Only when you’re finally pulled out of your post-sex haze do you notice a small tattoo on the inner side of his bicep–a word, in Japanese. It looks new and completely unrelated to his usual, harsh, and brutalistic art style. His body was basically a canvas covered in doodles. Whatever spare skin he had was used for practice during his apprenticeship days. Your fingers are drawn to the inked patch of skin, tracing along the unfamiliar letters.

Sukuna opens an eye, still tired, but amused at your curiosity. “Your name,” he roughly mumbles as he pulls you tighter to his chest. His cock aches from how sensitive it is considering that it softened up inside you, though, he’s too comfy holding you to do anything about it. (There’s also something so filthy about plugging you up with his cum.)

“Huh?” you ask, still busy tracing the tattoo.

“That tattoo–it’s your name but in Japanese script.”

There’s not a lot that Sukuna has been passionate about growing up; art was always more of a hobby for him than his passion. He never imagined himself working hard, or going through mentally or physically strenuous labor to make money, but your smile? He’d do anything for it, no matter how arduous his effort to bring it would have to be.

Especially for the deeply lovesick look you had on your face, right now.

[lassiie]

SUB!BOSS JAKE (snips from the next fic.)

pair : sub!boss Jake x Co-worker top reader (afab)

MDNI ! NSFW ! Jake might sign your paychecks, but you own him in every other way. He's your boss and a brat who makes “mistakes” just to hear you snap. One day, you finally do—and the way he moans when you curse him out? Pathetic.

sub!boss Jake who "accidentally" schedules a late-night one-on-one meeting just so he can whimper under your desk, mouthing at your thigh while you continue reviewing quarterly reports like nothing’s happening.

sub!boss Jake who nearly sobs when you lean in and whisper, “I said you could hump my thigh, not finish on it. Clean it up, slut.”

sub!boss Jake who begs you to spit in his mouth in the elevator because he “needs something to remember who he belongs to” before giving a board presentation.

sub!boss Jake who moans when you call him pathetic for getting hard just from the sound of your heels walking toward his office.

sub!boss Jake who gets denied orgasm and forced to sleep still bound, cock aching and untouched, forehead against your thigh as you stroke his hair. He whispers “I love being yours” while tears slip down his cheeks from how painfully hard he still is.

sub!boss Jake who forces himself to sit through a finance meeting right after you edge him in the supply closet—red-faced, dripping in his pants, while you casually sip your coffee and smile at the team.

sub!boss Jake who locks his office door and wordlessly holds out the cuffs he keeps in his desk drawer—for you to bind him to his own leather chair while you ride him and call him a desperate little executive toy.

sub!boss Jake who ruins his slacks from just a whispered threat and has to sit through a board meeting in sticky silence while you keep eye contact and smirk.

sub!boss Jake who fumbles his words during a performance review, so you press your hand to his throat and remind him, “I said speak clearly, Jake. Or don’t speak at all.”

sub!boss Jake who has a locked cock cage under his suit pants and gives you the key during your lunch break, asking “Please, just fifteen minutes? Please, no one will know.”

sub!boss Jake who buys you another pair of designer heels, just so you’ll step on his chest, press the point to his lips, and call him your “favorite little stress relief.”

sub!boss Jake who makes you fill out a fake HR complaint form where the only accusation are things “Jake Sim won’t stop begging to be used like a common office slut.”

sub!boss Jake who wears a discreet collar under his dress shirt, the tag reading Property of You, and blushes every time it brushes against his throat during meetings.

sub!boss Jake who whines when you call him your loyal office pet, begging for head pats while you file reports with your foot resting on his back.

sub!boss Jake who leans over your desk with glass walls all around, pretending to explain reports while you ghost your nails over his inner thigh—his voice trembling as coworkers pass by.

sub!boss Jake who can’t come unless he’s crying a little, thighs shaking as you ride him and whisper, “You act like you’re in charge at work, but look at you now—just a whimpering toy under me.”

sub!boss Jake who’s on his knees in your bedroom with his collar and leash on, holding a clipboard in his mouth while you fill out his “performance review” on his back with a Sharpie.

sub!boss Jake who offers to drive you home but gets punished for speeding because he was hard the whole drive after you sent him a voice note saying, “You're going to be gagged in the garage the second we get home.”

sub!boss Jake who books a suite for a “business trip” just so he can spend the night tied to the bedposts, blindfolded, panting, “Miss, where are you, please—use me. Please, I can’t think without you.”

sub!boss Jake who cries from overstimulation as you ride his face like a throne and tell him if he stops licking, he’s not getting touched for a week.

sub!boss Jake who follows you through a boutique, red-faced and squirming as you text him instructions like, “Buy me something slutty, then ask the cashier if they have anything tighter. Don’t forget your blush.”

sub!boss Jake who whimpers while kneeling on a rough floor with clamps on his nipples, panting, “Please don’t take them off yet. I want to suffer for you, miss. I want to earn your touch.

sub!boss Jake who sobs from the humiliation of being told “You’re not even allowed to touch me unless you beg properly, and look at you—you can’t even beg right. Maybe you don’t deserve this at all.”

sub!boss Jake who you force to count the number of times you slap him, and when he messes up, you restart at one—he gets to ten with tears in his eyes and a desperate whisper: “Thank you for punishing me. I needed it.”

sub!boss Jake who begs to cum, but you slap his cock—just enough to make him whimper—and growl, “Beg louder. Pathetic boys like you should know how to cry for it.”

sub!boss Jake who holds a vibrator to his cock because you told him to, voice broken as he begs, “Please let me stop. I-it’s too much—please, mistress—” And you smile, lean in, and whisper, “Keep going. Cry for me.”

sub!boss Jake who you call into your apartment after hours, throw down to his knees, and unzip your pants—“Use your mouth. Don’t stop until I say you can breathe again.”

sub!boss Jake who cums from nothing but the sound of your voice and a slap across the face, and breaks into full-body shivers when you laugh at him: “Did you just fucking cum from that? Are you really this weak for me?”

fic s.jyn to be post soon !!!! xoxo

© Lassiie

[tqlepatia]

hi so this is my first time requesting smth and i know you’re working on fashion killa (masterpiece btw😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫) soo if u cannn do a sevika x reader in a very new healthy relationship and sevika stays over at reader place which sevika discovers to be very sad and lonesome later finds antidepressants and talks to reader about it??

⋮ ⌗ ┆𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄. ( 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐊𝐀. )

౨ৎ - 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒' : "Hi angel ! Sorry for the long wait, here it is, I did not like exactly how I write this one but I tried my best, sorry that it's short ;(

You didn’t expect her to stay the night, You never expect anyone to.

But Sevika kicked off her boots like it was routine, threw her coat over the back of your chair, and settled on your couch like it wasn’t the saddest thing she’d seen in weeks.

Which—it was.

Your place was clean. Too clean. Quiet in a way that didn’t feel peaceful. No pictures. No clutter. No signs that someone lived here so much as hid here. The kind of home where someone kept the blinds half-drawn because sunlight was too much some days.

She didn’t say anything that first night, But the next morning, while you were brushing your teeth, she opened the wrong drawer in your bathroom.

And found the bottle.

Antidepressants. Dated a few months back, Half full. She didn’t ask then, either. She just waited until your next late dinner on the couch, and said it low: “You ever forget to take ‘em?”

You didn’t look up from your plate, just nudged a piece of food around with your fork, the scrape against the ceramic sharp in the quiet kitchen. “…Sometimes.”

You mumbled it, shoulders inching up like they could protect you from the weight behind the question. “Need me to remind you?”

The words came gently, but you felt them land heavy, You shrugged, still not meeting their eyes. “You don’t have to.”

You blinked, then nodded—That was it.

A week later, she brought over a mug.

“I don’t use it anymore,” she said. “You need one that keeps coffe hot.” The tag was still on the bottom—You didn’t say anything

She started leaving her socks. Then a hoodie. A knife in your kitchen drawer. An ashtray shaped like a tiny gear. Each time: “This old thing? Nah. Been meaning to get rid of it.”

But the receipt was always still in the bag. You pretended not to see, She pretended she hadn’t tried five different mugs before picking the one that matched your eyes.

One night, she sat beside you on the couch, turned down the volume on the movie, and said, voice thick with something more: “You ever get lonely in here?”

You nodded. Just once. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I think I got used to it.”

Sevika didn’t offer pity. Didn’t promise to fix it. She just reached over, thumb brushing the back of your hand. “Well,” she said softly, “guess I’ll have to keep leaving shit here, huh?”

౨ৎ - 𝐓aglist ; @prettyinpink69 , @abbysdollie , @marieeeluvsyou , @littlelovelunette , @madzorwhatever , @zvmbitegirl , @salsalsusu , @katarandaa , @starrycherie , @moonshimegf , @watermelonshine .

[elmushterri]

The Problem with the GunnTech AU

Talking about something regarding the PJ Masks fandom and GunnTech fandom split! Not drama or anything just wanted to say something.

I do Kids show rewrites more because of the love my PJ Masks rewrite got, and how very fun it was to make. Then people began requesting stuff I hadn’t watched before/wasn’t a fan of as a child to rewrite. Naturally, I can’t have been a fan of everything. But I *was* a fan of PJ masks (not saying was as in past tense but I mean I actually did watch it as a kid: ‘evidence’ As a child I played with my little brother pretending to have super cat speed (He was Gekko).

And then ofc, I did that little original drawing of the PJ masks aged up in 2020, which never went anywhere. I just liked it, I liked Lunakko specifically tbh!

Then, I did the rewrite and named it GunnTech! I had NEVER gotten this amount of fan stuff on anything ever! I’m guessing that’s how it developed into more of its own thing.

In the past, when I posted about it, I’d post with the PJ masks tag. When I found out more dedicated PJ masks fans were having grievances with people just coming into their server FOR gunntech, I continued tagging it as PJ Masks to convey that “Guys this is still just PJ Masks,”. But now, I think that’s not such a good idea. I don’t wanna flood PJ masks tag with stuff basically unrelated now.

When I write GunnTech, I think of it as PJ Masks cause that show lives in my heart. Maybe not as much as others, and it doesn’t show often, since I’ve got so much to do, as an animation student and youtuber, but it does have its own lil room in my heart.

I want to make fanart of the real PJ Masks, and of fics like TTMAB (By @ / pjtrashofficial , idk if they’re okay with me tagging them).

To PJMCord, you guys are wonderful and welcoming! I saw people talking about the GunnTech problem, and I always thought, ‘I should really address that’, but I never got to it. I hope I never felt like a poser to you guys. For stuff like Octonauts, I could never get into my rewrite properly after the video dropped cause it wasn’t my childhood, but not so for PJ Masks. The PJ masks video came straight from the heart 🧡🧡🧡.

Uhh anyway what’s this message even to say? 😭 So sorry to what I did to the PJ Masks community, I had no clue it’d get that big, and when it did, I didn’t know what it might do to the fans of the original. Never meant anything by it! 🧡 😭

[writing-mlm]

if you do write for ftm reader, i’d like to req mark grayson wanting reader to sit on his face and absolutely being a dork in love who can’t help him djsjsjs

Rex’s influence

Summary: After drinking with Rex, Mark’s mind has been one place and he just needs for his fantasy to become a reality. Pairing: Mark Grayson x FTM!reader Word Count: 2.3k Tags/Warnings: smut, ftm reader, drinking, asking for sexual advice, Mark is a little pathetic it’s cute, readers transition isn’t stated but he hasn’t had bottom surgery, cum eating, face-riding, boys kissing, Rex lives Au A/n: I’ve never written face riding before that was scary

“No, man, you don’t get it,” Rex shifts on the couch, his head dropping to the pillow behind him as his memories rush back. “Having someone sit on your face is better than any fucking drug.” He licks his lips, the phantom taste still there. Mark raises an eyebrow, not quite believing him but he’s inclined to. He’s known Rex for some time now, he knows that Rex is a bit of a feen when it comes to intimacy so he must be right.

Right?

“I mean,” Mark shrugs, his ears a soft shade of pink. “I’ve only really done missionary and the shower… once,” Rex springs up at that, his jaw slack and eyes wide. 

“No way, you and (Y/n)?” Mark nods and Rex whistles. “No way, you gotta start branching out, dude. Not even doggy? Car? Six-nine? Flying?” He smirks at the last one. 

“No, he’s not that type— I’m also not that type,” Mark shakes his head despite the fact that his boxers are definitely tighter than they were a moment ago. Rex kicks his lips again, although this time it’s not to remember the flavor on them. He studies Mark before he shakes his head.

“I didn’t think you’d be so vanilla, you seem like a freak.” He confesses before picking up his beer, raising it in the air ever so slightly. “To each their own, I guess. But you don’t know what you’re missing.” 

He thought about it for the rest of the night, he thought about it when you texted that you were outside of Rex and Rae’s place, he thought about it as he slid into your car. You were humming along to the music, briefly pausing to kiss his cheek when he got inside. 

Unintentionally, his eyes drifted to your legs, you were in your night clothes. Shorts that were close to not fitting anymore, riding up your thighs, a shirt with a hole on the bottom so he could see your happy trail and— fuck. He faces forward, buckling his seatbelt while you ask about his boys' night that was really just Rex wanting to catch up after the whole variant Invincible thing. 

You notice his answers are strange, as if he’s working on some sort of autopilot and you check him over. He seems fine, maybe a little flushed but he always gets red in the face when he drinks and…oh, you catch his boner and snort, turning onto the next street. 

You decide not to ask about it, but you do watch as he tries not to make it so obvious. But the half-chub he’s sporting is quickly becoming a full-blown erection the more he thinks about it. Thinks about you, naked, sitting on his face. His hands on your thighs, your hands in his hair, his tongue… fuck, he doesn’t understand why he didn’t think about this before. He’s heard jokes before, of course, but he never gave them a second thought. 

He looks at you, imagining how you’d look on top of him, how your thighs would feel on the side of his head. God, he needs to touch you. 

“Mark,” You warn as his hand settles on your thigh, squeezing and slowly moving up. 

“What?” He asks, lips pursed to pretend he doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

“I’m driving,” Holding his hand, you don’t move it but you stop it from moving up any further. He smiles and extends his pinky just far enough that you feel it brush against the hem of your shorts. “Asshole, we’re almost there.” You laugh and he loudly exhales, slumping in his chair. “But we’re doing anything.”

“What? Why?” He cries out. 

“Mark, you’ve been drinking. You know how I feel about drunk sex,”

“I’m not drunk. I had half a beer an hour ago,” He corrects. “Get the breathalyzer! I’ll blow!”

“Yeah, cause I just have one lying around.” Rolling your eyes, you pull up to your block and have to listen to his pouting the entire time. You live together, considering you’re finishing up your degree at a nearby college and he’s considering going back to school. He pouts the entire way up to your apartment, kicking the floor like a child who was denied a toy. 

“We can tomorrow,” You tell him, climbing onto his lap and resting your hands behind his neck, watching as his eyes trail down your body before they stop between your legs. Quirking an eyebrow, you tilt his chin up and he fucking whimpers. “What’s gotten you so worked up, baby?” He huffs and buries his head into your neck, huffing again. You scratch his head, a habit you’ve long since grown used to. 

“Rex,” He shakes his head, the blood rushing to his dick again. “He was talking about people riding his face and he said it was amazing. Better than drugs,”

“You want me to ride your face?” You laugh and he nods, holding you tighter. “I’ve never tried it, I wouldn’t want to—“

“If you think your body could suffocate or hurt me by sitting on my face,” He pulls away, looking at you as if you’d asked him what’s two plus two. “Last I checked, a building dropping on me only left a scratch. And I’m pretty sure you’re not a building,” You laugh, looking away from him before thinking about it. 

“Maybe,” You inhale. “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it, I guess.”

“We don’t have to!” He quickly says. “He just got in my head and I keep—“

“Give me a day or two,” You cut him off with a kiss which he nods into. 

—

“Eve, you’ve had sex, right?” She slowly sets down her sandwich, looking up at you as you scroll through your phone, biting your thumb nail. 

“I have, yes,” She nods. “Why?”

“Well, Mark wants me to ride his face but—“

“Oh my god,” She laughs, covering her face and you frown. 

“What?” Looking at her, you can see she’s holding back another laugh. “Dude, c’mon! Don’t laugh, he seemed really excited about it!” 

“That’s a good thing,” She reassures and then shrugs. “Most guys don’t even want to, just ask any woman.”

“That’s why I’m asking you! Have you ever…?”

“All the time,” She grins. “I think you’d like it.”

“But like…” You inhale, leaning back in your seat. “What if it’s weird. Like… my ass is gonna be on his face and it’s gonna be really on his face.” You groan, dragging your hands down his face and she gives you a sympathetic smile. You couldn’t go to anyone else really for help on this, Rex would probably just call you stupid and tell you to ride Mark’s face until he passes out, Rae would be too nice, it would be too weird with Amber, and you weren’t sure if William would want to hear about the potential sexual adventures of his dear friend. Gosh, maybe you could ask the internet… but no, that would be embarrassing having it online forever. 

“(Y/n),” Eve grabs your hand and you look at her, trying not to shrink with shame. “I promise you, that’s exactly what he wants. Probably more than you’re imagining. And besides,” She lets go of your hand and leans back, picking her sandwich up again. “If it’s too weird, you can always stop.”

“I guess,” You slump down. “Any advice? Like do I move my hips, should I bounce? I don’t know, watch some porn to prepare?” She laughs and shakes her head. 

“Let him guide you,” She shrugs. “Rex loved that. Amber does, too,”

—

It’s nearly a week later when you tell him your final decision. 

“Baby?” You call, hiding your eyes behind your hands as you sit on the edge of the bed. Mark was in the kitchen, loudly watching recaps of his previous mission while deciding what groceries needed to be bought. 

“Yeah, babe?” He calls back, the fridge closing and the freezer opening. 

“I think… we should try it,” You fall back, looking up at the ceiling while begging the bed to swallow you whole. 

“Try what? That new restaurant downstairs?” 

“No,” You groan. “Me… on your face,” There’s a gust of wind and Mark is suddenly on his knees in front of you, his pupils blown and lips parted ever so slightly. Sitting up, you let out a breathy laugh. 

“Really?” He asks, looking between your eyes. 

“Yes— close the freezer—“ He does that in record time, standing in front of you while discarding his shirt to the floor without hesitation. “I thought about it and, sure, it seems nice.” You explain while he takes your shirt off. 

“Thank you so much,” He groans, peppering kisses down your neck as you slowly lower back onto the bed. “You won’t regret it, promise.” He looks at you with a big, dopey grin and you feel a bit more confident in your answer. He looks back down, trailing kisses down to your stomach while taking off your shorts and boxers, tossing them to the side without pulling away from your skin. 

You shudder as he spreads your legs, blinking up to the ceiling as your heart starts to hammer. 

“Relax, baby,” He cooes, bringing his hands to the back of your thighs and getting a solid grip on them. “Hold my shoulders.” He says while he adjusts himself. Nodding, you look down at him and do as he said, laughing as he quickly flips the position. He’s lying flat on the bed, his head resting just underneath the pillows while you’re hovering over his neck. 

You stare down at him, resting on your knees as he licks his lips, his eyes wandering all over your body with a barely hidden hunger that makes you wet. His eyes catch it, feeling the heat from you and then a drop lands on his chin. Before you can say or do anything, he moans and looks away. You pause, you know that sound and that face. Looking behind you, you find his shorts have a wet spot that’s growing and his dick is still twitching. 

“…did you cum from that?” You ask, slowly looking back at him. He just nods, too bashful to look at you properly. “That’s strangely reassuring.” Running your fingers through his hairline, he looks back up at you and gently pushes you forward. “If it’s too much—“

“You won't be.” He promises. 

“If it is, just… bang on the headboard, okay?” He huffs but nods. You nod back and let him guide you higher, his breath brushing against your folds. Staring at the wall, you hesitate before sitting, well, you’re still hovering. 

He moans immediately, his hands switching from holding you to move you up, to holding you so he can hold you down. You move to rise up but he keeps you in place, biting your thigh as a warning. 

“Mark,” You moan, his tongue brushing up through you and his nose brushing against your hood. It feels different from when he’s eaten you out before, a good difference. Your eyes flutter as you try to stay upright, his tongue dipping inside your hole as the noises coming from him sound like wet sound effects. “Fuck,” You breathe, holding onto the headboar and peer down. 

Big mistake. 

Mark’s watching you, watching your every expression and they’re only spurring him on. Your mouth opens, a broken moan coming from you as he sucks your clit, moving one hand to reach behind and start to circle your hole. You close your eyes, hanging your head back which fixes your posture and has you pressing even more down on him. His finger slips inside and you curse, unsure of which pressure feels better. You’re seeing stars at this point, your hands unsure of where to grab so you could find some type of reprieve in the bliss haven you’ve somehow found yourself inside of.  

“So good,” He moans from below you, his voice more than a little muffled because he refuses to truly detach from you. Your hips start moving, slowly, forward and back and you don’t realize that your legs are getting further apart until his tongue reaches places they never have been before. He sucks and licks, exploring the area with more enthusiasm than before. He pulls his finger out from you and instead, uses his now free hands to message your ass. He grips and pulls, rocking you back and forth on his face. 

Gasping, you grip his hair, yanking on by accident. It doesn’t deter him, instead he moans at the pain. Mark, noticing that your legs are slowly closing, let’s go of your ass and wrap his hands around your thighs again. He’s keeping your legs from closing again with firm pressure and you can feel your stomach tightening, your eyes closing as you can feel yourself getting closer. It’s happening so much faster than it usually does, tears beading on the corner of your eyes. 

“Mark,” You whimper, rocking your hips to chase the high you’re feeling. “Just like that, baby, please— fuck,” He nods, keeping his pace and pressure before he moans under you, the feeling of you cumming on his face lets him know that Rex was right. He doesn’t know why he’s never done this before. Your thighs twitch as you finish on his face, closing him in even more and he cums again, this time his dick is free from his shorts and you can feel the droplets hitting your back. 

Panting, you go to slide off of him but he brings you back in place. You whine, holding onto the headboard before looking down at him. 

“I just came,” You murmur and he gives you a greedy smile before he pouts. 

“You can take it, you can take more,” He whimpers, nuzzling into your thighs as they shake a little. “Please, baby. Just a couple more?” 

“Are you sure?” You ask, looking at his wet face. He’s panting a little, not once did he stop for air, but you guess he’s used to holding his breath at this point. 

“Mhmm,” He nods, licking his lips. “So sure, ‘m so fucking sure.”

[katscki]

You’re a Flirt

In which you flirt with bakugou and drive him crazy.

[implied Afab!reader, friends to lovers, characters are in their third year, they make out muffin crazy]

M-list

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You could say this all started this school year but then you’d be lying through your teeth.

“Hey Kats, wow, how much do you bench?” Hand running over his defined biceps just to torture him more. “Bet y’could lift me up no problem huh?”

Beet. Red. The exact reaction you crave when you tease him so. This has been an ongoing thing in your relationship ever since you were kids. For whatever reason though, he had become used to the taunting. So naturally you had to come back tenfold.

“Whatever dork. Get away from me, tryin ta finish this set.” He grumbles out, cheeks still pink.

“Yeah? Can I watch at least?” Ohhhhh yeah, the puppy dog eyes, puppy dog eyes that he can’t say no to.

“Fine god whatever just let me do my thing woman!” But you don’t miss the smirk replacing his familiar scowl when he bites back.

The compliments had always been surface level things, how his quirk was powerful, how smart he was but once everyone started to tell him the same things, you got tired. You wanted to make him embarrassed, but mostly the teasing was an outlet for what you really wanted to say.

So you then turned to more…. flirtatious methods. Running your hands through his hair and over his toned muscles. That’s what did it, that’s what brought back the reaction you so desperately craved.

Bakugou’s weighs clunk down with a heavy thud as he finished his last set turning to wipe everything down and put it away. But the fun can’t be over yet!

You run your hands up his back to rest on his shoulders and lightly massage, “I know I should offer to help stretch you out but after watching that, think I want you to stretch me out.” Seduction oozes from your voice and for the first time ever, he snaps.

Before you know it he’s grabbing your hands in his and spinning so he is inches away from your face, “D’ya get off on embarrassing me or some shit? How can you just say things you don’t mean!”

A smirk grows on your face as you look at the taller man, “How do you know I don’t mean it Kats?” That must’ve been the final straw because milliseconds after that, his lips were on yours. Albeit more forceful than you imagined your first kiss with him, but no less pleasant.

You let a hand tangle in his hair and pull causing him to let out a sinful groan. You follow shortly after when you trail your hands back up his muscles, letting them linger this time. At the feel of his greek-godness a borderline pornographic moan leaves your lips. It seemed to be the wake up call for him cause a couple seconds later, he pulled away, eyes droopy and face flushed.

“Keep your freaky shit away from me fucker,” a flick lands on your forehead, “you wanna be my girlfriend so bad? Fine. All ya had to do was ask baby.” He teases with the most beautiful boyish smile you’ve ever seen.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Sorry if it’s bad I’ve been out of practice for two years…

TAGS 🏷️:

@trafalgar-lau @mybabekatsuki @loving-katsuki @ariiluvsyou @melaniebakugo @keyz-writes @kuleo26 @sirensuki @theweasleysrule @asmaechan

[inseobts]

Hey Princess pt.2

zoro x fem!reader

part 1 - part 3

you find freedom, love, and a true family among pirates—only to risk everything, even your life, to protect them from the chains of your past.

words count: 3.6k

tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, banter, mystery backstory, angst and fluff

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

“I’m a real princess.”

Your voice is quiet but everyone hears it.

You hear Luffy suck in a soft breath, like that part still surprises him even after the poster. But no one interrupts.

You keep going.

“But I never felt like one. Not really.”

You swallow.

“They dressed me up like one. Taught me how to walk, how to speak, how to smile. I was perfect, outside. Always so perfect.”

You laugh. It’s bitter.

“I was whatever they wanted me to be. Sweet. Smart. Silent. A trophy. A ghost.”

You glance at Franky “No offense… but I started to feel like a robot.”

He raises both hands, eyes gentle “None taken, sweetheart.”

You smile, just for a second.

“Every day, I played the role. And every night, when I was alone again, I’d stare at the mirror and see a stranger looking back. A doll. A puppet with gold strings.”

Zoro’s hand tightens around yours slightly.

You don’t look at him. Not yet.

“I’m an only child,” you continue “No siblings to take the spotlight. No one to pass the weight to. Just me and the kingdom. And their expectations.”

You glance down again.

“Whenever it hurt too much, I’d run to my room. Lock the door. Breathe in silence.”

Your lips quirk “Guess that’s why I still do it now.”

Brook leans forward “Why made you choose to officially leave?”

You go quiet for a second. Then you answer “They arranged a marriage.”

Sanji goes still, just like that. You feel his body shift across the table. Controlled tension. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

You understand each other now more than ever.

“A prince I never met. I didn’t even get his name before the engagement was official.” You laugh softly “I was gonna be queen. Or a prisoner. Same thing.”

Zoro doesn’t say anything. But you feel the subtle jerk of breath he takes.

His grip on your hand grows firm, almost possessive, and it makes something stir inside you.

“At the thought of it… I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t even know what love was supposed to feel like. But I knew it wasn’t that. I knew I didn’t want to spend my life as someone’s ornament.”

You take a shaky breath.

“So I ran.”

They’re all silent now. No gasps. No protests. Just wide eyes and quiet, raw attention.

“I ran and never looked back. And then I met Luffy.”

He grins at you from across the table, mouth full “Told you I wanted a spy princess on the crew!”

You actually laugh. A real one. Brief, but real.

Then your voice softens.

“I just want to be free now. Free to live. Free to find love on my own. Free to make my own choices. My own mistakes. Free to just… be myself.”

Silence stretches.

You finally look up. Your eyes shine. Full. Glassy.

But you smile a wide, honest smile.

The kind that reaches your eyes, even if your tears stay where they are, right on the edge, refusing to fall.

No one says anything right away. But you feel Zoro’s thumb brush once, gently, against your knuckle.

Not a question.

Not a comment.

Just a quiet I’m here.

The silence doesn’t last long.

You’re still blinking back tears when Chopper climbs into your lap, curling his little arms around your waist. You don’t even know when he got up but he’s there, warm and soft, and suddenly everything feels a little more bearable.

“I’m glad you ran away,” he says simply “You’re better here.”

Nami sets her drink down and walks over, brushing your hair gently back behind your ear “I used to hide in my room too. And I wasn’t a princess. Just… trapped.”

You reach out with your free hand, the one not still held tight in Zoro’s, and take hers.

Robin gives you a soft, knowing smile from across the table “Choosing your own life is always the hardest path. But the most important one.”

Franky wipes his eyes dramatically “That was… beautiful. You’re suuuuper brave.”

Brook nods, eyes shiny “May I write a song about your freedom, Princess?”

You laugh and nod “As long as I don’t have to sing it.”

Luffy stretches back in his seat and grins like the sun “I’m glad I asked you to join.”

“Me too” you say, and you mean it.

Usopp slams his hands on the table “You know what this means? You’ve got a backstory! That’s crew material right there.”

You snort.

Eventually, one by one, they start leaving the kitchen. Some with yawns, others with smiles. Chopper hugs you again before slipping off. Sanji is last, giving Zoro a long, slow look. But he doesn’t say anything. Just nods once and walks out.

Now it’s quiet again.

You and Zoro.

Still hand in hand.

Still sitting close, like if you let go, the moment will snap.

You finally speak, voice soft “So. ‘Princess’, huh?”

Zoro glances at you sideways, his mouth quirking slightly “Didn’t know it was true when I started calling you that.”

You hum “I figured.”

He tilts his head “You never told me why you hated it before.”

You pause, fingers brushing lightly against his.

“I used to hate it and you because of it,” you admit “Because you kept reminding me of that life with it. Of what I was supposed to be. Not what I am.”

He nods, watching you closely.

You glance down at your joined hands.

“But now…” Your voice dips “Now it doesn’t sound like a cage anymore. Now it sounds like... like love.”

Zoro stills.

But then… his brow furrows.

He looks almost confused.

“You mean that prince they picked out for you?”

Your head snaps up.

“What?”

“That guy. The one you were supposed to marry. Is that who you’re talking about?”

Your heart drops.

You yank your hand away, face flushing with heat, not from embarrassment, but frustration. Maybe a little hurt.

“Are you seriously that dense?”

Zoro blinks.

“Do you think I’d be sitting here holding your hand, telling you that, if I was talking about him?”

His eyes widen a little.

Before he can say anything, you start to push your chair back, about to stand but he grabs your hand again. Firm. Strong. Not letting go.

Then, slowly, he reaches up with his other hand and touches your chin, tilting your face toward him.

His touch is gentle. Unshaking.

You stop moving.

Your eyes meet his.

“I’m not good with… this,” he says, voice low “But I’m listening now.”

Your breath catches.

You stare at him. At the serious set of his jaw. The sharp focus in his eye. The way he’s looking at you, not like a joke, not like an opponent, not like a crewmate.

Something else.

Something closer.

Something dangerous, but not in a bad way.

He still doesn’t let go. And for the first time… you don’t want him to.

His hand is still on your chin, his fingers warm and gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

You don’t move and neither does he.

The room feels like it’s holding its breath, like the Thousand Sunny itself knows something’s about to change.

And then… his gaze dips to your lips.

It’s slow. Intentional. Obvious, even. But not cocky.

There’s no smirk, no sharp comment. Just Zoro, looking at you like you’re something he didn’t realize he needed until this second.

You smile, soft and full of something you haven’t felt in years.

Peace.

Hope.

Home.

“Well,” you whisper, eyes flicking from his lips to his eyes, “Can I check off finding true love from my bucket list now?”

He lets out a small, stunned breath. Like he wasn’t expecting that from you. Like something just cracked open in his chest.

And then you lean forward.

Your lips brush his, gentle at first, barely there.

Zoro doesn’t rush. Doesn’t grip tighter.

He just kisses you back, slow and warm, like he’s finally figured out the answer to a question he didn’t know he’d been asking.

Your hand slips to his jaw, thumb tracing the scar under his eye.

He sighs softly into the kiss. And then you pull back, just a breath away.

“Okay,” you murmur, looking straight into his eye, “I’m feeling a bit too heated now.”

You dive back in.

This time, it’s not soft.

It’s hungry.

Zoro’s hands fly to your waist, gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. He pulls you forward, easily, smoothly, until you’re on his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, chest against his.

Your fingers thread into his green hair as your mouths move in sync, heat rising with every second.

He groans low into the kiss, one hand sliding up your back. And for a second, there’s no past, no poster, no titles. Just this.

Just you and him.

When you finally pull back, barely breathing, still close, he blinks once, like he’s trying to re-enter reality.

Then he frowns a little.

“Wait… During that game we played, you said you kissed a prince once. Who was that?”

You freeze.

Your whole face twists into offended betrayal as you push off his lap with a huff.

“Why,” you ask dramatically, “are you asking me that while we’re kissing like that?!”

Zoro blinks “I was just—”

“Way to ruin the mood, idiot…” you say, leaning down with a sigh.

Your face is inches from his.

Your nose brushes his.

Then you press a quick, teasing peck to his lips.

“Goodnight, swordsman.”

You turn, still smiling, and wave over your shoulder as you walk out of the room.

Zoro sits there alone, completely dazed, jaw slightly dropped.

And somewhere, deep down, he realizes something dangerous.

He’s already too far gone for you.

The next morning, the kitchen is full of the usual chaos.

Luffy’s already got rice stuck to his cheek. Usopp is mid-exaggerated story about “almost being crushed by a sleeping Sea King”, and Sanji’s serving eggs like he’s choreographing a dance, twirling plates from counter to table.

You sit between Robin and Zoro, still flushed from the night before. Every time your shoulder brushes his, you feel his arm tense, but he says nothing. Just keeps eating like it’s any other morning.

(Except he isn’t eating like normal. He’s glancing at you. Often.)

And for once, you’re okay with that.

You’re smiling. You’re full.

You’re home.

But then...

“I’m really sorry to ruin the mood,” Nami says suddenly, her voice serious, cutting through the buzz of conversation, “or remind you of it, Y/N… but we have to talk about it.”

Your stomach drops.

You already know what she’s about to say.

She sets her cup down slowly “That poster… it means your family is looking for you. And they want you back.”

The room goes quiet.

Jinbe nods solemnly “We should prepare ourselves. This isn’t something we can ignore. A bounty that says ‘Only Alive’ changes everything.”

Your heart slams once in your chest.

They’re right.

You were so caught in last night’s warmth, in the acceptance, in him, that for a little while, you forgot what it meant.

Forgot that the bounty poster wasn’t just a piece of paper.

It was a warning. A message. They’ve found you.

And now the whole world is going to know who you are.

The room is still silent, but the air has changed.

You feel it and they do, too.

Zoro turns his head toward you slightly, his eye focused on your face now, not his plate.

Luffy’s not eating. Even Brook isn’t singing.

You straighten a little, biting the inside of your cheek “I… I didn’t think they’d go this far” you whisper.

Robin speaks next, her voice calm “Royal families have influence. That kind of bounty means they’ve contacted the World Government directly. This isn’t about money. It’s about ownership.”

You flinch.

That word, ownership, crawls under your skin.

Sanji lights a cigarette but doesn’t say anything, his jaw tight as smoke curls slowly from his lips.

Zoro doesn’t speak either, but under the table, his hand brushes yours again. Not fully taking it. Just a touch, a reminder that you have someone now, that you’re not alone.

Luffy leans forward, grinning slightly “Hey. We’re not giving you back.”

Your head jerks toward him.

He grins wider, rice still stuck to his cheek “You’re part of my crew. That means you don’t belong to anyone else.”

Brook nods “Yohoho! We already claimed you, dear princess.”

Franky slams a hand on the table “Super claimed!”

You laugh. Or maybe choke. It’s hard to tell.

You nod, looking around at each of them, trying to take this in “Thank you. All of you.”

But there’s still a weight in your chest.

This is more than just a past catching up to you.

It’s a future that may try to pull you away from this. From them. From him.

You grip the edge of your plate tighter.

Zoro notices.

So does Nami.

But no one pushes you to say anything more. Not yet. Not until you’re ready.

And Zoro, quietly, under his breath, only for you, leans in and mutters “They can try. But they’re not taking you. I’ll cut through kingdoms if I have to.”

You don’t say anything but your hand finds his under the table, fingers curling into his like a lifeline.

Because that’s what this crew is and you’re not ready to give it up.

Not for anyone.

It’s been days since your poster was revealed. Since your story came out. And still, they treat you the same.

Luffy laughs just as loud. Nami scolds just as sharply. Zoro watches you with a kind of quiet fire, like he’s waiting for someone to try and take you again.

You haven’t left the Sunny much.

Even when they dock at a new island, a small one, peaceful-looking, filled with smiling villagers and white-sand roads, you still hesitate.

“I’ll stay on the ship,” you say again, standing near the railing “Just in case.”

“You said that last time” Nami reminds gently.

Franky grins “This island doesn’t even have a Marine base, sister!”

“They look nice...” Chopper adds, waving at a child on the dock who waves back cheerfully.

But your gut twists.

“I just…” You glance toward the village “I have a bad feeling.”

Zoro walks up next to you, arms crossed.

“You can protect yourself. I know that.” He speaks low, just to you “But I can protect you too.”

You blink, startled.

“And besides…” he adds with a smirk, “how am I supposed to flirt with you if you stay cooped up here?”

You roll your eyes “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“What, flirting? You kissing me on my lap wasn’t exactly subtle, Princess.”

You snort and shove him lightly.

He grabs your wrist with ease, pulls you close enough that your nose brushes his “Come with me.”

He’s not one who usually does that in front of other people, this means he’s really trying his best for making you feel comfortable.

You hesitate for a breath.

Then nod.

The village really does seem safe.

Warm smiles. Free bread. Laughter from a marketplace where Robin is already browsing books and Luffy is trying to trade seaweed for meat.

You and Zoro walk side by side, bickering gently.

He mocks the way you squint at fancy fruit names.

You tease him for walking straight into a barrel.

You laugh harder than you have in days, maybe even than you ever did in your whole life.

His hand brushes yours again and again, but doesn’t hold it.

Not until you stop to look at a little stand selling handmade earrings.

You turn to make a joke.

He’s gone.

At first, you’re just confused.

Maybe he walked ahead? Maybe someone called him?

You spin around “Zoro?”

No answer.

Just kind eyes. Curious smiles.

Too many.

And then pain explodes at the back of your head.

Darkness swallows you whole.

You wake up in silk.

Your old room.

The room you ran from.

You sit up too fast and your head spins. The walls are familiar and terrifying.

The windows are locked. The door is barred from the outside. The guards are right out of your door, you can hear their armor shifting with every breath.

You’re trapped.

No escape this time.

No Sunny. No Zoro. No crew.

Just this life you fought so hard to leave behind.

Meanwhile, on the Sunny

“She was right behind me,” Zoro says again, fists clenched “She was right there.”

Nami grips the map in her hands like she wants to tear it in half “Those smiling bastards... this was a setup.”

“They separated us on purpose,” Robin says quietly “They waited until she let her guard down.”

“I knew she didn’t want to leave the ship,” Sanji growls, slamming his hand on the table “We pushed her to go.”

“It’s my fault.” Zoro says suddenly, standing at the edge of the deck, eyes locked on the distant island.

Everyone falls silent.

“I told her I’d protect her,” he says, voice tight, low, barely controlled “I promised her.”

No one corrects him. Because he’s right.

He did.

“She trusted me.”

And now you're gone.

You’re not sure how much time passes after you wake up in that cursed room.

Could be minutes. Could be hours.

Everything feels surreal. Like a nightmare someone wrapped in velvet and perfume. The room is exactly how you left it, nothing out of place. Not the canopy bed. Not the chandelier. Not the golden-framed mirror you used to stare at with dead eyes.

Then you hear the heavy footsteps. The familiar rhythm.

Your parents.

The door opens. Two guards stand beside them like statues. Your father walks in first, cold, stern, commanding. Your mother follows, all grace and distance, like a statue come to life.

You don’t stand.

You don’t bow.

You don’t speak.

“So,” your father begins “You’re finally awake.”

You glare.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” your mother says flatly “You managed to embarrass us in every corner of the world.”

“Good to see you too” you mutter.

They ignore it.

Your father’s voice sharpens “You are a princess. You are not a pirate.”

“Don’t tell me what I am” you shoot back.

“This charade ends now,” he snaps “You’ve had your fun. But it’s time to return to your life. To your duty.”

“Even if I hate it?” you ask “Even if I don’t want it?”

Your mother’s gaze hardens “You don’t have a choice.”

“I made one when I ran,” you say, rising from the edge of the bed “And I’ll do it again.”

He laughs once, a bitter one “You won’t get that chance. You think running away once means you’ve won? You’re locked in now. We made sure of it.”

They turn toward the door. But before they leave, your father pauses.

“You should also consider what will happen to the pirates you’ve chosen to throw your lot in with.”

You freeze.

“What?”

He turns back, face unreadable “We found you. We can find them. And unlike with you, we won’t be so gentle.”

Your hands curl into fists.

“You can’t.” you breathe “You don’t know them. They’ve fought worse people. They’ve defeated warlords. Marines. They won’t let you take me.”

Your mother tilts her head “And yet… here you are.”

That shuts you up.

They see it. They enjoy it.

“And now,” your father continues, “you’ll do what you were always meant to. The Prince of Albourne arrives in three days. The wedding will take place before the month’s end.”

“No.”

Your voice is clear, firm, slicing through the tension.

Your mother’s eyes narrow “Don’t be childish.”

“I said no.”

Your father moves closer, towering over you “You will marry him. You will do your duty. You will save this kingdom’s future and your own reputation.”

“I don’t want to!” you snap “I can’t... because…”

You trail off.

They wait.

“Because what?” your mother presses.

You take a breath, then blurt it out.

“I have someone I like.”

The room stills.

Your father laughs, low and bitter “Like?”

“You LIKE someone?” your mother echoes with disbelief “How quaint.”

“That’s not—” you start.

“And who is this one you LIKE so much?” your father mocks “Another pirate? A brute? Or maybe the idiot who let you get taken?”

Your heart stings. But you don’t let it show.

“You’re unbelievable...” you whisper.

“You’re a child chasing fantasy,” your mother replies, cold “There is no love for girls like you. Only expectation.”

Tears threaten to rise. You shove past them.

You open the door of your room signing them to leave and they do, as you slam the door behind them.

And this time, when you hear the lock click from the outside it feels like a piece of you locks away too.

Three days.

You count them by the sunlight on your window.

Three days locked in your room. Three days of no freedom. Three days of silence, of pressure, of growing panic.

Tonight, you’re to meet the prince.

Tonight, your life will be locked away in a different kind of prison.

Unless…

Your hand tightens around the silver butter knife you’ve kept hidden beneath your pillow. Not much. But enough.

Lunchtime

Like always, the guards knock once and open the door.

“Your food—”

You strike.

It’s fast. Messy. One gets the knife to his arm, the other a tray to the head.

You tumble past them, their surprised grunts echoing in the corridor.

You don’t stop.

You run.

Blood trails down your leg, one of them caught your thigh with a dagger in the scuffle, but you barely feel it. The adrenaline burns hotter than pain.

Corridor after corridor.

Hall after hall.

You burst through the side doors into the garden, past the royal courtyard, across the outer walls and finally, out.

You’re outside the palace.

Free.

Almost.

You breathe hard, turning a corner and then freeze.

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Bigger than you||Lando Norris x Oscar piastri

Summary —Lando might run his mouth on the track and in interviews, always chirping at Oscar like he’s got the upper hand — but when it’s just the two of them, and Oscar’s got him pressed against the nearest wall, the only thing Lando can talk about is how big he is. And how good it feels.

Warnings Lando Norris/Oscar PiastriOscar Piastri Lando NorrisHand Jobs Size Kink Bottom Lando Norris Top Oscar Piastri Anal Sex cocky lando Slight Power Play Praise Kink mild degradation kink soft dom!Oscar height/hand/grip kink banter-into-desperation bratty-but-pliant!Lando

Word count—1753

Tagged @adventuringblind (it’s been a HAWT minute how are you?)

Lando’s still in his race suit, sleeves tied around his waist, hair damp with sweat and the remnants of champagne. His face is flushed, flushed and smug the most irritating combination in the world, Oscar thinks, watching him from the other side of the hospitality tent.

“Turn three,” Lando says to a group of engineers, gesturing like he’s reenacting a war story. “Right around the outside. Smooth as butter. He didn’t even see me coming.”

Oscar did see him coming. He’d felt it. The narrow lounge, the tires barely holding, the ghost of Lando’s front wing grazing past before slotting ahead.

Clean. Sharp. And yeah fucking annoying.

“You watching me from back there, mate?” Lando calls suddenly, eyes flicking to Oscar with that signature grin. “Need tips?”

Oscar doesn’t respond. Just lifts a water bottle to his mouth, taking a slow drink, jaw ticking slightly. The restraint is practiced. Lando knows exactly what he’s doing baiting, poking.

They’ve been playing this game for months now. Close-quarters rivalry. Tension coiled under every post-race handshake, every interview smirk. Teammates, sure but barely. Not when every tenth of a second feels like a dare.

When Lando finally saunters over all swagger and heat, face still flushed from the podium Oscar doesn’t even flinch.

“Still stewing?” Lando asks, voice low enough that it’s meant just for him. “I’d pout too if someone humiliated me like that on a Sunday.”

Oscar levels him with a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

Lando shrugs, tongue teasing the inside of his cheek. “A little.”

“Are you always this cocky after finishing second?”

Lando’s grin slips for half a second touché before it returns with sharper edges. “You were behind me. That’s all I care about.”

Oscar steps closer, voice dropping. “You sound desperate.”

Lando licks his lips, his pulse visibly jumping in his throat. “You sound jealous.”

Oscar’s eyes narrow. He takes a deliberate step into Lando’s space, so close now their chests nearly touch.

“Get in the car,” Oscar murmurs. “Now.”

Lando stiffens. “Why?”

Oscar leans in, just enough to brush their shoulders. “Because if you keep mouthing off in front of the team, they’re going to know what happens when I finally shut you up.”

Lando swallows hard.

The silence in the car is thick. Lando’s got his arms crossed, cheek resting against the cool window, pretending he’s still pissed about the pass when really, it’s the way Oscar looked at him.

Like he was going to devour him the second the doors shut behind them.

Oscar drives with one hand on the wheel, knuckles tight, jaw clenched. Lando sneaks glances at him when he thinks he won’t notice.

He notices. Of course he does.

When they pull up to the hotel, Lando unbuckles first, grabbing his bag with exaggerated casualness.

“So… we're gonna keep pretending this is just racing tension?” he says, tossing a glance over his shoulder.

Oscar steps out and slams the door behind him. “You’re exhausted.”

Lando smirks. “And yet…”

Oscar doesn’t wait. Just brushes past him, into the hotel lobby and toward the lifts. Lando follows eager, electric, every nerve lit up like he’s about to do something reckless.

They barely make it to the room before it all starts again.

They don’t speak in the elevator.

Not a word, not a glance but Lando can feel it: the weight of Oscar’s gaze when he’s not looking, the tension in his shoulders, the silent, slow-burning fuse between them.

It’s maddening.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, arms still crossed, chewing the inside of his cheek as the floor numbers tick up.

Oscar stands completely still, hands in his pockets, jaw set like he’s trying to keep it together.

Like he’s barely hanging on.

Lando risks a glance. Oscar’s eyes meet his immediately, and it’s like being hit.

Hot. Heavy. Unrelenting.

They don’t look away.

Ding.

Twelfth floor.

They step out together, still silent, but everything about their pace has changed. Faster now. Intentional.

Lando’s trying not to breathe too loud, trying not to let the excitement crawl too obviously up his spine. His legs feel like jelly, his heart like a drum in his throat. It’s not the pass in turn three, and it’s not even the way Oscar shut him down in the car.

It’s that look.

That promise.

Oscar swipes the keycard and shoves the door open like the lock offended him. Lando follows, tossing his bag onto the armchair, pulse thundering.

For a beat, Oscar’s just standing there with his back to him, like he’s thinking. Or trying not to think.

Lando tilts his head, voice low. Teasing. “You gonna brood all night, or…?”

Oscar turns.

Something in him snaps.

In three long strides he’s on Lando not speaking, not smiling, just moving, grabbing the front of his hoodie and walking him backwards with purpose.

Lando doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t want to.

He’s grinning as his back hits the wall, breath already catching.

“Guess we’re not pretending anymore, huh?”

Oscar leans in, close enough to steal the air between them. His voice is a murmur, rough and dark.

“Not when you look at me like that.”

The second the hotel door clicks shut, Lando’s at it again eyes gleaming with that cocky spark, mouth curling into the kind of smirk that usually spells trouble.

“You gonna pout all night ‘cause I passed you in turn three?” he taunts, peeling his hoodie off like it personally offended him. “Or are you finally gonna admit I’m better?”

Oscar doesn’t reply immediately. He just stands there, bag slung off his shoulder, watching Lando with that unreadable gaze half-lidded and cool, like he’s studying a particularly annoying puzzle. He closes the distance slowly, deliberately, letting the silence stretch just enough to make Lando squirm.

“You always talk this much when you’re desperate for attention?” Oscar says, voice quiet but sharp. The question cuts through the air like a blade, and Lando’s smirk twitches, falters just for a moment. But Oscar sees it. He always does.

“I’m not desperate,” Lando lies, chin tilting defiantly. “You’re just sensitive.”

Oscar hums, low and amused. “Mm. Sure.”

It’s the only warning Lando gets before Oscar steps in hands gripping his hips with practiced ease, walking him backward until the backs of his legs hit the bed. Lando’s breath catches.

Then he’s down, spine pressed to the mattress, Oscar caging him in with forearms braced on either side of his head, gaze locked on his like a challenge.

“You’re a menace,” Oscar mutters, hovering so close their noses nearly brush.

“And you like it,” Lando shoots back, but it’s thinner now, breathier. His cock stirs, heat blooming low in his belly from the shift in energy the way Oscar’s body crowds his, heavier, hotter.

Oscar grins. It’s slow, deliberate, and predatory. “You forget how much bigger I am than you?”

Lando swallows hard, eyes wide and glossy. He can feel it the breadth of Oscar’s shoulders, the solid weight of him, the casual strength in his hands as they slide under his shirt and grip his waist like they belong there. Like he belongs to Oscar.

Lando arches into the touch, trembling slightly. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Guess I forgot. Maybe you should… remind me.”

Oscar lets out a low chuckle, something dark and indulgent, before tugging Lando’s shirt over his head and tossing it aside. His hands roam freely, possessively mapping ribs, grazing nipples, gripping thighs to pull them open wider.

“You’re mouthy until I get my hands on you,” Oscar murmurs, lips brushing Lando’s neck. “Then you go all soft for me.”

“I don’t—” Lando tries, but it’s cut off by a gasp when Oscar grinds their hips together, hard cocks rubbing with agonizing friction. His thighs twitch, desperate to press closer.

“Shh,” Oscar soothes, palm wrapping around both of them, his hand big enough to cover Lando’s cock entirely, fingers curling around them both in one slick, perfect grip. “Just feel it.”

Lando groans, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck—Oscar…”

Oscar’s voice goes lower, rougher. “That’s it. So easy to wreck you.”

He strokes them slowly, deliberately the slide of his hand hot and slick, the pressure just enough to leave Lando panting. Everything about Oscar is overwhelming, from the weight of his body to the way he looks at Lando like he’s already undone.

“God, you’re so—so fucking big,” Lando gasps, hips jerking up into Oscar’s fist. “Always forget how much—shit—how much you fill me…”

“You can take it,” Oscar breathes against his skin, lips dragging across his jaw. “You always do. You open up so fucking pretty for me.”

Lando’s begging now quietly, shamefully grinding against Oscar’s fist, chasing every flick of pressure. “I want—fuck, want your cock, need to feel you—”

Oscar reaches into the drawer beside the bed without looking, like he knew this would happen. Like he was waiting for it. Lando watches through heavy-lidded eyes, dazed and flushed, as Oscar takes the lube and slicks himself with practiced ease.

Then strong arms are dragging him up the bed like he weighs nothing manhandling him into place, legs spread, body pliant.

When Oscar pushes in, slow and deep, Lando cries out a wrecked, breathless sound. “Fuck, Oscar—stretching me—so full—”

Oscar kisses him, swallowing every sound. “You like how I make you feel,” he whispers against Lando’s tongue, rocking into him with slow, punishing thrusts. “You need it.”

Lando whimpers. “Like I’m nothing—like I’m yours.”

Oscar thrusts harder. “You are mine.”

The rhythm builds, deep and steady bed creaking, skin slapping, breaths ragged. Lando clings to him, nails dragging down Oscar’s back, head spinning.

It doesn’t take long before Lando's already teetering, pushed to the edge by sheer sensation. He shatters first, untouched, cock pinned between their bodies, crying out as he spills between them.

Oscar follows with a choked moan, hips grinding deep as he fills Lando to the brim, burying his face in his neck.

They don’t move for a long time, bodies tangled, hearts racing, breaths slowing. Sweat cools between them, their skin sticky, the air thick with sex and satisfaction.

Eventually, Lando stirs, voice hoarse and teasing.

“…Still passed you in turn three.”

Oscar laughs, low and fond, and rolls them so Lando’s sprawled half-asleep on his chest.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he murmurs, tugging a blanket over them.

Lando hums, eyelids drooping, lips brushing Oscar’s collarbone.

“Yeah,” he whispers, smirking faintly. “But I’m your brat.”

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT part seventeen, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, me lowkey working all day on this idc, readers thorn implants, rafe being traded off since y/n said no bc snows so fucked up, readers reaction to finding out that rafes being sold now, free my babies

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous next

reader waking up post-procedure

the room is white. it’s not warm white or a soft white. but surgical white. it smells like bleach and chemicals and something just a little too sweet, like they tried to hide the violence in lavender.

you wake up to complete silence.

there’s no machines, no nurses, no soft beeping of a heart monitor to prove you’re still alive. there’s just the sterile hum of nothing. and the weight inside you.

at first, you can’t move. your body feels unfamiliar, like a borrowed shape. your throat is raw and your mouth tastes like metal. your skin feels too tight. your limbs float in that disjointed way they do after sedation. but it’s the weight that anchors you. it’s heavy, foreign, stretched along your back in a straight, cruel line.

you barely shift. just a twitch of your hand. and that’s all it takes.

the pain is immediate.

it slices down your spine like a wire pulled through flesh. your fingers dig into the pillow beneath you, but it does nothing. the agony blooms, and suddenly your whole body remembers how to hurt.

you stay still. you don't make a sound. you breathe through it in shallow, panicked breaths. there’s a silver tray beside the bed, and sitting on it is a mirror. your blood chills.

you stare at it for a long time. you already know. deep down, you know they did something to you. you don’t know what though, so you reach anyway, because you have to. your fingers tremble violently as they stretch toward it. they shake harder the closer they get. this isn’t bravery. this is desperation.

you drag the mirror toward you. tilt it. angle it.

you see your back.

then wish you hadn’t.

there’s a line of thorns. they’re sharp, jagged, unnatural. they’re not even resting on your skin. they’re breaking through it.

they rise from your spine in perfect, merciless symmetry, metallic and slick with blood. they shimmer under the light, some kind of alloy or bone, maybe both. you don’t know. you don’t want to know.

they’ve made you beautiful.

your stomach turns. your vision swims. your mouth opens but nothing comes out.

you sit up too fast. the pain tears through you again like a scream turned physical. you claw at your back instinctively, fingers slipping against the wetness, trying to tear them out, whatever they put in you. you don’t care if it bleeds. you want it gone.

you need it gone.

and then it hits you.

this is the punishment.

this is what they do when you say no.

you scream the first thing that comes to mind, “rafe!”

your voice cracks around the syllable. you scream his name like it’ll undo it all, like he can pull this out of you with his hands, like he’ll fix it.

the door slams open. his footsteps stutter against the floor. he stops in the doorway and just stands there, staring.

your gown is soaked. your back is glistening red and silver. you’re shaking, hunched, wild-eyed. your hands are covered in blood. his mouth parts, but nothing comes out at first.

“y/n,” he says, just once.

you try to stand, but you collapse. your knees hit the tile and you barely feel it. you’re crawling now. it’s pathetic, and you don’t care. you just need to be out.

rafe rushes forward.

“don’t— don’t touch me.”

he freezes, hands raised in the air like he’s scared of breaking you more.

“don’t look at me.” you shake your head. you’re crying now. you hadn’t noticed until your tears hit the floor.

“y/n—” he tries again.

“what did they do to me?”

it doesn’t feel like your voice. it’s guttural, hopeless. like a child.

you curl in on yourself. your hands press to your shoulders and you try to disappear. your palms sting. blood drips down your fingers. you didn’t even feel it when the thorns cut them.

rafe steps closer. his knees hit the floor, but he doesn’t reach out. he just lowers himself, until you’re eye level, and stares at you with something like horror in his face. horror and guilt.

he sees the blood, the metal, the fear. he sees the way you flinch at his presence. his eyes gloss over at the sight of you.

and still, gently, he whispers, “i didn’t know.”

that afternoon

you’re on your stomach, gown still pulled down your back, cheek pressed to a stiff pillow. the sheets are hospital thin. the world’s thinnest barrier between you and what was done.

the nurse moves quietly around you. she’s older, maybe late forties, with kind eyes and a clipboard she doesn’t seem to look at. she’s gentle, but the sting from the serum still makes your spine twitch every few seconds. still, you don’t react. you haven’t moved since they laid you here. you haven’t blinked in a while, either. you’re somewhere else, floating.

the pain is manageable. the disconnect isn’t.

rafe is sitting beside the bed in a chair that doesn’t stop creaking every time he shifts. he’s close. too close. his knee bumps the frame of the bed every few minutes like he forgets where he is. his hand is wrapped around yours, but even when he squeezes, you don’t respond. not the first time. not the third. not the fifth.

at some point he just stops trying. your hand is limp in his. your fingers don’t twitch, your breath doesn’t change. your face is slack and blank, eyes half-lidded and trained on the white wall ahead. you’ve left your body.

he knows that look.

he swallows hard, jaw clenched, and finally speaks, voice low from too much silence, “how long until she heals?”

the nurse doesn’t stop what she’s doing. she dabs a soft gauze pad around one of the thorns near your shoulder blade, soaking up a tiny line of blood that’s begun to trickle down your spine.

“i don’t know,” she says quietly.

rafe blinks. “you don’t—?”

“it’s the first time this has been done. there’s no chart. no protocol. no timeline.”

rafe’s brows furrow. he glances down at your face, your body still and unmoving, then back at her.

“yeah, obviously it’s her first time. she’s never— she hasn’t been punished like this before.”

the nurse stops. her eyes finally meet his. “no,” she says. “i mean the first time. ever. not just for her. for anyone.”

rafe stares at her like she just said the floor isn’t real.

“what?”

“the procedure,” she says, gesturing vaguely to your back, to the thorns, to the black stitching and the twisted metal threaded into your spine. “it was . . . conceptual. there were drafts, sketches. we got a briefing an hour before. no practice. no rehearsal. the doctors did what they were told. this was snow’s idea, not science.”

he leans back like the words physically hit him. “you’re saying—”

“we don’t know how her body will react. we’re treating symptoms as they appear. guessing and hoping.”

rafe’s hand tightens around yours. “so she might not get better.”

the nurse hesitates. “she might not fully heal. it’s possible the tissue never accepts the implants. it’s possible she’ll always be in pain. or that her system shuts down piece by piece. or she recovers. we don’t know. no one knows.”

he goes quiet again. his jaw clenches so tight it’s a wonder it doesn’t crack.

“what can i do?” he says finally. it’s not a plea. it’s a command he’s begging to be given.

the nurse wipes her hands, sets down the gauze. “keep her off her back. help with the bandage changes—saline rinse only. no direct pressure. she might not say when she’s in pain, so watch her eyes, watch her breathing. speak gently. warmth helps. comfort helps. the body listens when it feels safe.”

rafe nods, eyes glued to you. you still haven’t moved.

“so you guys experimented on her.”

the nurse stills. “it wasn’t my call.”

“she could’ve died, you know.”

her expression doesn’t change. “she didn’t.”

rafe’s mouth opens like he’s going to say something else, like yell maybe, or snap, or throw something, but the knock cuts him off.

he turns fast, and enobaria is in the doorway. she’s not even fully inside. just one foot in, one out, like she doesn’t want to see.

her arms are crossed, but her expression is all guilt. she barely glances at you before she drops her gaze.

“rafe,” she says quietly. “they need you outside.”

“i’m not leaving.”

“rafe.” her voice hardens. then she softens it again. “it’s not optional. just for a second.”

he opens his mouth to argue, but then he looks at you. your cheek is still pressed against the pillow. your hand is still limp in his. your eyes are still fixed on the wall like maybe it’ll open and pull you through.

you’re not here. and he can’t pull you back.

“i’ll be back, alright?” he murmurs to you. it’s a promise.

he lifts your hand and links your pinkies to be playful, like he wants to see if you’ll snap out of it just to smile. but you don’t. he just frowns and kisses the back of your hand, then your forehead. it’s quick, but careful. not for the nurse. not for the room. just for you.

he rises. the chair creaks beneath him. he doesn’t look at enobaria as he passes her. the door closes behind them.

the nurse stays at your bedside, her hands working on the final bits of dressing, more routine now, smoothing the gauze, taping the edges just right, but her attention starts to shift.

the window to the hallway is wide enough to catch the pieces of soundless conversation. she glances out through it, not too obviously, just enough to catch the movement of rafe stepping into view. he’s standing in front of snow.

snow’s surrounded by two peacekeepers. enobaria’s there too now. the nurse can’t hear what’s said, none of the words making it through the wall, but the emotions? they’re loud enough.

snow speaks first. he remains calm as ever, hands folded like he’s giving someone a pleasant lecture. something about what he says makes rafe’s head jolt back, like what the hell are you talking about? even without sound, it’s clear.

snow says something again, and this time enobaria leans in, half between the two of them, trying to either explain or defend rafe, this one’s hard to tell.

snow just shrugs in that quiet kind of confidence, like no matter what anyone says, he’ll have his way in the end. his hands remain neatly clasped in front of him. his smile doesn’t budge.

rafe, on the other hand, explodes.

he starts yelling, hands flying, body leaning forward as if sheer force could shove snow back into some kind of humanity. the nurse watches as a peacekeeper steps in to calm him, hand reaching out for his shoulder. rafe knocks it away hard, like the touch burns.

enobaria tries to get between again, stepping up fast, but another peacekeeper grabs her by the arm, muttering something as he holds her back. she hesitates for half a second before letting him pull her aside. she doesn’t look at rafe. maybe because it’s too hard.

snow backs up slightly, just enough to stay clear as two peacekeepers move in to restrain rafe. he fights them, tries elbowing one in the ribs, shoving another off him. one of them stumbles. a third rushes in. rafe throws a punch that lands.

but that’s it. that’s when it gets worse.

the numbers catch up with him. hands grab, arms twist, and he’s dragged back down the hallway, still shouting, still fighting. the nurse’s heart pounds in her ears as she watches him dig his heels in, desperate to turn around.

right before they pull him out of view, he looks back. his eyes land on the window. on you, still unmoving on the bed. not that you can see.

his mouth opens, yelling something the nurse can’t hear, but she sees the way his lips form your name.

then, just for a second, his eyes lock with hers. the nurse.

there’s panic in them. there’s fear.

and then he’s gone.

enobaria stands stiff beside snow, her face tight with something that looks a lot like guilt. snow turns to say something to her. she doesn’t answer, just stares straight ahead like her mouth’s wired shut.

and then snow looks through the window, straight at the nurse. he doesn’t smile this time. he just looks, like he’s reminding her that he sees everything. silence is survival. then he turns and walks away down the hall.

the nurse’s hands are shaking by the time she looks down at you again. your face is still slack against the pillow, your hand still cold in the crook of the sheet. you haven’t seen any of it.

you don’t know he’s gone.

and she’s never felt more useless, more scared, more ashamed. because the only reason this is happening is because you refused to be sold.

reader finds out rafes being sold now maybe (a bit short)

the house has never been this quiet. not the usual kind of quiet either.

you sit curled up on the couch in the dim living room, a blanket barely covering your legs, a bowl of berries half-eaten in your lap. the hologram tv plays in front of you, the flickering images from the capitol news casting soft blue light across your face. you don’t hear most of it. it’s just white noise now.

cassaline dropped by earlier. there were flowers, gifts, sealed letters, all from strangers who saw your pain and decided it was theirs to decorate. you only opened the ones from your parents. the others sit untouched on the coffee table.

and then the door opens.

you flinch at the sound, head turning fast. rafe walks in. the door locks behind him with a soft click. he looks . . . hollow. his eyes are dull, his jacket falls off his shoulders as he shrugs it off. he doesn’t come in further. he just stands there, fingers twitching at his sides, staring down at his hands like he doesn’t even know what they are.

“is everything okay?” you ask softly, trying not to sound worried, but it slips through anyway.

he startles like he forgot you were even there. he jerks his head toward you, eyes flicking back and forth too fast to land on you for more than a second.

“yeah,” he breathes. “i’m good. everything’s good.”

but it’s not. you feel it.

you push the blanket off, slowly rising from the couch with your arms around your ribs to keep your back from pulling too much. “i could start making something if you want,” you offer as you limp toward the kitchen.

he doesn’t answer, just murmurs something you can’t hear as he heads up the stairs. so you follow, not immediately. not until the silence gets louder that at this point you really are getting worried.

when you reach the bedroom, rafe’s already sitting on the edge of the bed, shoes kicked off, elbow on one knee and his head in his hand. he picks up the remote and flicks on the tv, trying to act casual.

but the moment the news flickers to life, he regrets it.

“today, a man of great prestige was found dead in district two. initial reports say it was a suicide, but—”

“—many are calling it cowardice.”

“—a traitor to the cause.”

a photo flashes on screen. a name you half-recognize. some elite from the capitol, you think, high-ranking. some kind of advisor or finance head, you’re not sure. the image is cold. the anchor’s voice colder.

you stop in the doorway, watching the way rafe gives in too fast, lifting his hand and pointing it to the screen like you’ll understand. it’s useless trying to keep it from you anyway.

“what?” you ask, brow furrowing. “what about it?”

he doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“that was me.”

you blink.

“what was?”

“that was me.”

your mouth goes dry. “you . . . like you mean you were there?”

he finally turns his head to face you, his eyes glassy. he doesn’t say it again. doesn’t need to.

you stand there, trying to assemble it all, but your brain doesn’t move fast enough to catch up. it can’t. your stomach’s in your throat, but your mind can’t process why. he’s freaking you out.

he wouldn’t kill for nothing. he never has. never without a reason.

“snow’s gonna kill me,” he mutters.

“for killing one person?” your voice is quiet, unsure.

he snaps his head toward you, eyes sharp now. “for killing a buyer, y/n.”

you flinch.

a buyer?

your lips part, no words forming. you try to speak, but nothing comes.

he looks away again with jaw clenched like he’s ashamed. he’s gripping his hands together, wringing them like he can squeeze the guilt out through his skin.

and suddenly it hits you. hard.

he’s—?

no.

your knees nearly buckle under you.

he’s being sold.

“no,” your voice is barely above a whisper, a sick feeling rising in your chest. this is some sick joke. “no, he— i told snow to leave you alone. at the ball. i told him—”

“doesn’t matter,” rafe mutters. it makes you falter. “he already had buyers lined up.”

you stare at him. the room feels too small now. your chest too tight. you don’t know whether to scream or cry or hit something. how long had this been going on? how long has rafe been carrying this by himself?

he still won’t meet your eyes.

and all you can think is this could be happening because you said no. this too? mutilating your body for snow’s satisfaction wasn’t enough?

it’s like your worst fears are coming to life.

there’s too much to think about, too much to swallow, and you feel it coming again. you feel sick to your stomach. this can’t be your life. it can’t be his. all because you said no.

and now he’s paying for it.

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