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a-kaash-me-outside · 3 months

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₊˚⊹ ⏱︎ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴍᴇ? ⏱︎ ⊹˚₊

♡ ft. multi. (written w toji and atsumu in mind idc). ♡ wc: 1.8k // nsfw minors dni! // ♡ contents: afab reader she/her pronouns, gendered pet names, sleepy sex, could be vaguely dubcon reader is very tired, mutual masturbation kinda?, dirty talk, established relationship, "just a sadistic little game"

―୨୧⋆ ˚ (⸝⸝ᴗ﹏ᴗ⸝⸝) ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 two seconds ago you were fast asleep, the cutest thing in the entire world. he just really had to tell you that, that's all. 𐰁 𝗓 ᶻ (⸝⸝ᴗ﹏ᴗ⸝⸝) ˚⋆୨୧―

you know it doesn’t make any sense, but before you’ve even woken up you swear you can hear his request like a dream, hazy and light and mumbled against your skin. when you open your eyes and try to take in your surroundings, the subtle smirk on his face and the tangled blankets around you and the breeze of the fan, his voice is skipping in your head.

“baby, hey, need something.”

you bring your palm to your half-closed eyes, hoping that the soft pressure of the side of your wrist and backs of your fingers will rid you of some of this confusion. your attempts to produce a questioning hum are caught in your throat, not enough energy for the vibrations to travel completely to your tongue. you swallow, his name getting trapped right alongside them.

if you were any more awake, you could see how he’s looking at you, clock the mischief sown into every one of his features and the way that he’s dragging his nails down your side, digging them into the fat of your hips. he leans down to kiss you and it lingers longer than a typical wake-up peck does, much longer actually.

“can you do something for me?” he asks, and when you don’t answer right away, your thoughts lost to the recency of slumber, he tries again, “need you to touch yourself.”

surely you didn’t hear him right.

“what?” you croak, voice weak as you push your hair out of your face. you breathe a laugh, a smile beginning to form on your lips. the earnestness of his request isn’t registering with you, not in this state. “baby, what?” you sigh, blinking slowly up at him.

“was just laying here watchin’ you sleep, thinkin’ bout how cute you are ‘n how cute it would be if you were playing with yourself like this,” he says, kissing the corner of your smile that’s now fading into shy confusion, a soft warmth spreading through your chest and cheeks.

“i-,” you huff, “hm?” you ask, moving to sit up, but he presses a kiss into your shoulder before coaxing you to stay in this position. he grips the side of the blanket, peeling it off of your body, untangling it from your limbs and kicking it to the side. it’s cold. you open your mouth to pout, reaching for the blankets on instinct, but he shakes his head. he drags his fingertips up and down your arms, pulls the hem of your sleep shirt up over your chest, watches the bounce of your tits as they’re exposed.

“shit,” he groans, “you look so fucking good.” the cool wind from the fan is ghosting over your skin, previously warm from the blanket and newly warm from the wa y your boyfriend is talking to you this morning. “god, look at your pretty nipples getting all hard, fuck. your body’s reacting before you can even think, huh?” he asks, kissing the side of your neck.

he’s right. your brain is two steps behind, the whimper comes from your throat before the feeling of his tongue on your neck even registers. your hand is moving before you remember making the decision to succumb to the moment, to his asks. in fact, both of your hands are moving, one crawling down your stomach and the other scratching at your own throat and chest.

before you’ve even snuck your hand in your waistband, he presses a kiss to your ear. “y’know what else i was thinking about?” the hum is not lost this time. it’s high-pitched and curious and the cutest thing he’s ever heard. he laughs, low against your skin. “thought about being kinda mean to you.”

this wakes you up a little more, turning your head towards him as your hands stop roaming. “what do you mean?” you ask, your first full sentence of the morning.

“start playing with yourself, pretty, then i’ll tell you, huh?” he coos, and you almost object but you see the look on his face and it’s screaming to test him, so you don’t.

you slip your fingers underneath the waistband of your panties, using your two to spread your lips apart. fuck, when did you get this wet? while he was talking to you? as you were waking up? before that? you whimper as you press the pad of your middle finger into your clit, pushing it between your sticky folds until the tip just barely enters your fluttering hole.

you press your head back into the pillow, already coming undone just by teasing yourself. you’re so enveloped in the feeling of your own fingers that when you feel his lips on you again, on your shoulder this time, you jump a little.

“that feel good?” he asks, absolutely drinking in the sight. you answer in quick nods and panting exhales. “good enough to come in a minute?”

“minute?” you question, almost stopping, but even in your state, you clock the seriousness in his tone, or maybe you’ve just known him so well for so long. instead, you start moving quicker, not teasing yourself anymore, but rubbing small circles against your sloppy clit.

he notices the change in your pace and he smirks. “you’re so smart, aren’t you?” he kisses you again, “yknow that there’s a catch here, huh?” you nod. you’re not sure you could’ve formulated it into words like that, but yes, whatever he just said. “thought you’d look so cute like this, fumbling to make yourself come so quickly, all disoriented and needy.”

you can feel his cock straining against his boxers, pressed up against your hip, softly grinded into your side as you quietly moan around your own fingers. “thought it’d be even better if i gave you some higher stakes, really made you try.”

“what stakes?” you ask, trying to focus on the conversation as you slip two fingers inside of yourself, pushing deeper and deeper, curling against your walls, attention split between hanging onto of his every word and feeling the pleasure build in your core.

“good question, baby,” he praises, hand slipping into his boxers, sucking in air through his teeth as he wraps his fist around his length. “you make yourself come in less than a minute or i won’t touch you for a week.”

your mind flashes back to the last time he gave you this exact trade-off. you didn’t take it seriously then, rolled your eyes, laughed a little bit, called his bluff. you know better now. your movements, once lazy and teasing, are now as direct and intentional as they can be while your body is still waking, muscles still warming up.

still, you’re driving your fingers inside of you quickly, switching back and forth between fucking yourself and playing with your clit, your other hand groping at your tits, rolling your nipple between the pads of your fingers. what you thought was going to be a lazy morning has turned out to be just a sadistic little game.

“good girl,” he says, eyes moving all over your body. he doesn’t even know where to look. no matter where his gaze falls, he wins. your face, screwed in determination; your hand kneading at your tit, thumb flicking over your hard nipple; your fingers fucking in and out of yourself.

he doesn’t even need to see what’s happening beneath the fabric of your panties, he’s throbbing in his palm just watching the outline of your fingers. he can see your knuckles straining against the cloth and the dark spot growing bigger and bigger as you keep fingering your needy hole.

“time’s almost up, pretty girl,” he says. he starts counting down. in between numbers, he asks, “does my baby want some help?”

you whine at the thought of his hands taking over or just adding to the sensations. you nod, a strangled, “yes, please, fuck, please, baby.” the longest string of words you’ve said all morning.

he doesn’t touch you though, leans in closer, breath soft against your ear, “next time i think i’ll just fuck you, make you come as the first thing you get to do when you wake up.” your inhale gets caught in your throat as you nod along to his words, closing your eyes tightly to focus on every syllable. “can see how messy you are through your panties ‘n i can’t believe i’m not deep inside of you right now, feelin’ it all on my cock.”

“but next time,” he says, “10,” he interrupts himself, “i don’t think you’ll need a whole minute, not if you have my cock, right?” he asks, “9,” he interrupts again, “probably only need 45 seconds, huh? 30? you could do that, right?” he grunts, “8.”

you move your hand from your tit to his forearm, trying so hard to hold on, but you can barely form a fist. everything is so much, the pleasure and the frustration of telling your fingers to move and the delay between the actions and fuck.

“7,” he says, “god, i could come in a minute too, just from feeling your creamy pussy on my cock and seeing you like this.”

you don’t need the 6 extra seconds, he can keep em. you come around your own fingers, imagining them as his cock even though they’re nothing in comparison. your body is on fire and your core is tight and he can’t keep his hands off of you right now. you look as cute and perfect as he thought you would, as he envisioned all morning, as you come against the, now soaking wet, fabric of your panties.

the come down takes twice as long, you’re convinced. you exhale, mind finally running at what feels like a normal pace as you take note of your state, of your hand in your panties and the mess on the insides of your thighs and your boyfriend with a devilishly proud grin on his face. “fuck,” you say, voice steady once again as your eyes close in bliss. you move to roll over or sit up, but you only get as far as starting to move your hand from between your legs when your knuckles brush up against something.

when you open your eyes again, you see him towering over top of you, a slow hand being placed on your hip, the other maneuvering you onto your side as he picks up your leg and puts it on his shoulder. “told ya i could come in a minute too, right? from feelin’ your creamy come-,” he grunts as his flushed head presses inside of you, “fuck, your sloppy, fuck,” his hips stutter as he snaps them against your skin, “perfect snug fuckin’ walls around me, shit.”

“gonna time me?”

♡ think' bout: toji, atsumu, geto, tsukki, gojo, oikawa, + ur fav ♡

♡ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢs ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ♡

#toji x reader #toji smut #atsumu x reader #atsumu smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #jjk x reader smut #haikyuu x reader smut #gojo x reader #gojo smut #geto x reader #geto x reader smut #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima smut #oikawa x reader #oikawa smut #toriwritesshit

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wardenparker · 6 months

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Next to Normal, part 2

Joel Miller x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Rating: E for Explicit! 18+ Word Count: 9k Warnings: Reader's age isn't pinpointed but you/she are old enough to remember the way the world worked before the Outbreak. Swearing, food. References to reader's past, trauma responses, Joel being the absolute softest and most gentle partner. Emotional vulnerability. Mutual nudity. Fingering. Hand job. Summary: In the months since you started your relationship with Joel, he has never pushed you for more. But Ellie thinks it's time to take the next step. Notes: As usual, I apologize for any typos that I might have missed. Ya girl is sleepy and there's a lot going on in life these days. This story was only going to be a one shot. And then it was juuuust going to be a two-parter. Well...this is part two of three. Stay tuned next week for the conclusion!

Read part 1 here!

Ellie fidgets at the table, frowning at the plate of breakfast that Joel put in front of her. Not because she doesn’t want it, but because she’s thinking hard about how to approach her question. It seems straightforward to her, but she’s learned in the last several months that he is touchy when you are the subject of conversation. He’s always in protection mode when it comes to you. She picks up a piece of unevenly toasted bread and frowns at it like it’s offended her until her eyes track back to Joel. “Are you gonna ask her to live with us?” She asks finally, knowing she doesn’t have to clarify who she means.

Joel stops with his fork halfway to his mouth, his own eggs nearly falling off as he stares at Ellie. “Why? What do you— has she—” he stops and drops the fork. “Why?” He wonders if you’ve dropped hint or if this is just the girl’s curiosity.

“That’s…what you’re supposed to do right? Like…old people style courtship?” She doesn’t really know what adult dating entails except that Joel seems to be spending every second of free time with you, and she likes you. You’re fun to have around and a lot easier to talk to than Joel or Tommy about some of the shit that she’s dealing with. “She hasn’t said anything. I just wondered.”

“Sometimes.” Joel admits, picking up his fork again and looking back down at his plate. “What do you think about that?” He tries to keep it casual, in untested waters dealing with this. He had never really dated while Sarah was young, too busy trying to keep everything together.

“She’s nice.” Ellie says, as though it was the easiest thing in the world. “And…we can trust her. That’s a hell of a lot better than some other people in this town.” In general she likes Jackson, but people are people and not everyone is trustworthy. Ellie knows that better than most. “Would you, like…marry her? Like Tommy and Maria?”

“I don’t know if she would ever want to get married.” Joel hasn’t discussed any of your past with Ellie, so she might not be aware of some of your hangups. He’s not ever even mentioned marriage just in case it might have been one of them. Not like he was a wedding vows kind of man himself. “I would. If she wanted to.”

“But you’re not gonna ask.” Ellie nods vaguely, not quite understanding why anybody bothers to get married anymore anyway. It seems like one of those things that doesn’t make sense in this world. A relic. “So…” The only part of it that still matters is safety, and the emotion behind all of it. “She could be here with us all the time, and I’d pretend like I don’t hear you doing stuff and that’s it? Like…” Her eyes tick up to Joel’s with rivers of curiosity in them. “Like a family?”

Joel snorts, amused at that comment because beyond kissing, doing stuff hadn’t happened. “Kind of like that. If she did, she would have say over what happens here.” He cautions. “Another adult to ‘ruin your life’.” He had rolled his eyes and laughed the first time she had come out with that statement. A true measure of a teenager, even in the shithole state the world was in, Joel could ruin her life.

“She’s better at it than you,” Ellie announces immediately, tongue stuck out as far as it will go. She doesn’t want to admit that you’re the one she goes to for advice most often now. Not him, not Maria, and definitely not Tommy. She goes to you, and you always answer her honestly.

“Ruining your life?” He lifts a brow and hums. “Maybe I need to ask her for tips then.” He’s joking, but it’s nice to see that she has found a mother-like figure in you.

“She’s better at advice.” The teen clarifies, not wanting Joel to think you’ve done anything wrong. “I mean…I’m not gonna ask you about girl stuff.”

Joel snorts and shoots her a grin. “Why not? I love everything about women.”

“But you aren’t one.” The exaggerated roll of her eyes calls him an idiot and she huffs. “Whatever. You should ask your girlfriend to live with us. That’s all I was saying.”

“Yeah?” He hums and shrugs. “I’ll see what she thinks. She can sew here, she does often enough.”

“‘Kay.” She mumbles simply, as if she didn’t just suggest an enormous change to both of their lives as casually as commenting on the color of the sky. Ellie finishes her breakfast in three bites and pushes back from the table abruptly. “School,” she adds, before grabbing her supplies from the counter nearby.

Joel watches as she bolts out the door. Since it’s not a FEDRA school, Ellie has actually been enjoying going each day. Picking up his coffee, he shakes his head. It’s Chicory but it’s better than nothing. Expecting you in a few minutes, he finishes his breakfast in peace with your own plate still warm on the stove.

The soft knock at the door comes just minutes later, and you crack the door open to slip inside without letting any heat out. The typical place for your sewing is in a large canvas bag unless it's a delicate project, so you can move it between your house or Joel's without effort. All those years of making costumes by hand for plays and parties has truly paid off. "Joel?" The smell of breakfast is welcome and comforting, and you peak around the corner to find him sitting at the table. "I just passed Ellie on her way to school. Seemed like she was in a good mood."

He chuckles and stands up, ready to pour you a cup of the coffee that is still simmering in the percolator. “She should be.” He snorts. “Christmas is coming early, apparently.”

"Or very late, depending on how you view it." Now that spring is here and the winter is solidly behind you, Jackson is flourishing again. It seems to be affecting everyone, including Ellie. A soft murmur of thanks comes with accepting the cup of coffee he has made – Joel's is far better tasting than your attempts ever were – but you set it down on the table to step closer to him with a smile. "Good morning kiss?"

“Of course.” When you ask him for a kiss, or to hold you, he’s never turned you down. Nearly in disbelief that you are so affectionate despite the past years. He steps towards you slowly and bites his lip. “Can I hold onto your hips, beautiful girl?” Sometimes you want him to and other times you would rather he not, so he still asks where you want his hands.

"Yes, please." You're feeling brave today, maybe reinvigorated by the spring just like Ellie is, and you nod as you step closer to him so he can hold you close. Maybe it's the spring, or maybe it's months of Joel always calling you his beautiful girl finally starting to sink in. You never thought anyone could think of you that way ever again, but it seems so easy with him.

He hums softly, licking his lips and shuffling closer. You are the one who moves quickly when you feel like it, but he still treats you delicately. Not because he is afraid you will shatter, but because you deserve it.

His short hair is always the perfect place for your fingers, and your arms come up around his shoulders so you can play with the hairs on the back of his neck when he leans in. These morning moments are your favourite, if you're honest. The bright sunlight and birdsong make it seem like a romantic little cottage scene, and it makes you wish that you had had the courage in the colder months to suggest that he sleep over. Or that you sleep over his place. Even just to sleep side by side would be wonderful, but you try to be cognizant of not changing things too much on Ellie all at once.

His lips are much softer since he’s been kissing you. Not as dry. Tommy rags on him, making him roll his eyes, but he would never admit that he does put a little oil on them at night to keep them from chapping and cracking when it’s his turn to stand watch at the gates.

The domesticity of the whole thing is appealing in ways that harken back to the feeling of near normalcy that Joel gives you, and you’re smiling when you finally force yourself to lean back from kissing him. “Busy day? Or do I have you to myself until Ellie gets home?”

“Nahh.” He shakes his head. “Mud’s too thick to try to set more posts, so we are waiting for it to dry in the southern area of the community garden.” He tells you. “Since I had to pull watch last night, I’m off for the next day or so.”

“It wasn’t too bad, I hope?” Overnights are tough just for the sake of a sleep schedule, but you know Joel’s shift ended at dawn and it’s a fair few hours past that now. “Did you get a nap in?”

“Not yet.” He hadn’t wanted to sleep while you were over. Not when he could spend time with you. “I will when I get tired.” He promises.

“I would have waited until after lunch to come over.” You pout at him, rather viciously, but aren’t really upset. You just don’t want Joel tiring himself out for you.

“And I wouldn’t have slept then, either.” He grumbles at you and motions towards the stove. “Eaten yet? I made you a plate.”

“Thank you.” Though you couldn’t put a finger on when it became tradition to eat breakfast together, it has certainly become a mainstay. “I brought over a few things that I’m mending for Maria, so I have plenty of work to keep me busy.” Or not is the unspoken follow up. There are definitely days that you spend entirely wrapped up in Joel.

“That’s good.” Joel nods as he motions you towards the table and brings the still warm plate over with a small hiss when it burns one of his fingers. “It’s hot.”

“Careful!” Though how he can feel anything through those callouses on his hand, you just don’t know. “Don’t need you burning your fingers off over a plate of eggs.”

He rolls his eyes and sits down beside you with a groan. “Eat.” He tells you, pointing to the food. “Pretty sure you skipped dinner last night.”

“Not intentionally.” There had been a call for anyone available to come help out with chasing some escaped animals up on the pasture north of town last night and you had gone out to help without hesitation. “But thank you for looking out for me.”

“Of course I’m going to look after you.” He huffs off your thanks and sits back down with you, his own refreshed coffee in hand. “Ellie wanted me to talk to you about something.”

“Oh?” That has you stopping with your fork halfway to your mouth. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah…everything’s good.” He quickly reassures you, frowning because he hadn’t meant to worry you. He doesn’t like the scared look in your eyes, like you’re about to be punished for some imaginary wrong. “All good, I think.”

“Okay.” Dropping the tension from your shoulders is automatic — you didn’t even realize you had seized up until you were relaxing again. “What’s going on?”

“Not sayin’ we’re doin’ this, or that we gotta—” Joel reassures you to start with, knowing that you might not think that it’s a question. “But Ellie was asking me about the future, me and you.”

“We haven’t really talked about it.” For the simple reason that in this world, the future can never be determined. There’s usually no point in betting on a horse if you don’t know it will even finish the race, so a lot of people — you and Joel included — have chosen to remain undefined. Other people, people like Tommy and Maria, have held onto the old relationship conventions as a comfort in an ever changing world.

“No, we haven’t.” Joel admits. “But maybe we should. She – and me too – we were wonderin’ if maybe it’s not a bit silly that we’re trackin’ back and forth between your place and ours.”

“It’s not too much trouble, is it?” The ice cold fear in your heart is instant, and even though he had said that nothing was wrong, you can’t help the feeling of doomed certainty that the inevitable end has been reached in this otherwise happy arrangement. It was bound to come, sooner or later. Or, at least, you’ve feared that it would.

“No,” he can see that you’re still worried and he offers you his hand. Silently asking permission to hold yours and he squeezes yours gently when you slip onto into his. “We were thinkin’ that maybe you could just— live with us?” He ventures softly. “I wouldn’t— you don’t have to worry about me expectin’ anything more—” he promises quickly. “Maybe we could just, I don’t know, sleep in the same bed? If you don’t want that, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Joel…” It isn’t a great commendation of strength on your part that you start to tear up immediately, but it’s an honest reaction if there ever was one. You squeeze his hand tightly in yours for the half-second it takes you to move out of your chair and to his side. “Can I hug you? Please?”

“Of course you can.” The fact that you ask him is probably due to him asking you. Or needing to make sure you won’t get in trouble on some subconscious level, but he easily stands and holds his arms open.

The crush of how hard you push into his arms to hug him exactly as tightly as you can gets a small oof out of him, but his arms come around you just as securely. “I’ve been trying to think of how to bring it up for weeks,” you admit quietly, feeling silly about that now that he’s broken the topic himself. “About… sleeping together, I mean…”

“Oh.” He’s not sure if you mean sleeping together or sleeping together, but he doesn’t ask. “You should have said something, beautiful girl.” He murmurs quietly into your neck, enjoying the way that you curl into him.

“I wasn’t sure how.” Joel is the only person you’ve been able to be completely candid with about your fears and anxieties, and if anything it has only made him more protective. But really? You don’t mind that. “But I’m feeling braver.”

“Do you like the idea?” He asks softly. “I know you have your own space and are used to it, but we can share ours. Ellie loves the idea, so no teenage pushback.”

“I had considered asking you to move in to mine,” you admit, overwhelmed tears turning to happy in an instant. “But I didn’t want to displace Ellie.”

“If you want that, we can see what she thinks.” Joel immediately offers. “But I think our place is a little bigger. And yours is closer to everything.”

“Bigger is better.” You can agree to that right away. The room you could give Ellie in your own house is too small to be comfortable. “I don’t mind being a little further away from town if I get to be with you.”

“Yeah?” Joel smiles slightly at the comment and nods. “Okay. Well, we’ll get you moved over here as soon as you want.” He knows you will bring your supplies so he nods towards the little nook off the living room. “Thinkin’ that could be your little shop, unless you need more room?”

“I think it should work.” The little reading nook off of the living room has space for a chair and a desk, and even a small closet built into the wall of the house that has shelves for your supplies. “If you don’t mind sacrificing the space, I think it might actually be perfect.”

“Was thinkin’ I could make you some organizers for your cloth and threads and such.” He tells you, leaning into the idea. “The bookshelves would be good for that.”

“You’ll spoil me if you do that.” It sounds wonderful, and you prop your chin on his chest to look up at him. “But I’ll spoil you with cooking if you let me.”

“I’ll get working on them today.” He promises with a grin. His cooking is okay, but yours is amazing.

“And I’ll make us a celebratory supper.” It’s the least you can do, really, but the smile on your face is bright and wide.

“Yeah?” He grins at the idea and nods. “Do you wanna start moving stuff over? I can get Tommy to help.”

“That would be a heck of a surprise for Ellie.” And you laugh a little at the idea, enjoying the ease of it. “Leave for school just having posed the question, and come home from school to find me moved in.”

“Up to you.” Joel chuckles. “She likes the idea of a family.” He wants you to know that, that the girl wants you here with them.

"I know she isn't technically either of ours." You shrug slightly, not wanting to specifically bring up the children that both you and Joel have lost. "But sometimes it feels like it."

“We worry enough about her. Annoy her enough.” He frowns slightly. “Sometimes family isn’t always blood, but the people you wish were blood.”

"Family can be the people that you adopt along the way. Or the people who adopt you. It works both ways." The two of you sit back down again, hands twined together at the table as you slowly work your way through the modest breakfast that Joel made you. "After this I'll go back to my house and pack some things up while you go see if Tommy is able to help?"

“Sounds good.” He clears his throat and bites his lip. “I don’t expect you to do any more than we’ve established you’re good with.” He reminds you quietly. “I’m gonna knock before coming into the bedroom. In case you’re, uh, changing or something.”

"I can change in the bathroom," you assure him, putting down your fork to concentrate on the far more important conversation at hand. "Or...maybe it's time we crossed that bridge. Maybe not all the way to the other side, but...we could put off a little of the moving to have...private time? Before Ellie comes home from school?" Reminding yourself that you have been feeling braver lately is the key. Joel has proven endlessly that you are safe with him, and never once given you reason to doubt it.

“Is that what you want?” Joel asks seriously. He doesn’t want you to think you have to push yourself into something you aren’t ready for because of where you will sleep at night.

"I want it, and I want to be ready for that step." Wanting is the key. Or at least you hope it is. "And I hope I know you well enough to think that you won't be upset if we reach a point that I'm not comfortable with."

“You just say the word and I’ll stop, beautiful girl.” Joel can easily promise you that. “If that’s what you’re wanting, then I guess you better finish your breakfast.”

As nerve wracking as taking that next step is, you do want to. Letting fear rule your life helps no one, and reclaiming your own strength through large and small steps is something that Joel has really helped you with. Nothing says that today has to be the day that you throw off every worry, but as you finish your breakfast you do feel absolutely certain that the decision to put one proverbial foot in front of the other and move toward intimacy with the man you’ve genuinely fallen in love with.

He lets you think about it quietly, taking his own plate and coffee cup over to the sink to start on the dishes. Knowing that despite what you might say, you could change your mind before you even finish your meal. That's okay with him. He's never pushed you, even when he's straining under his jeans and has to take himself in hand when he gets home after leaving you. He would still never push, not with something like this.

He doesn’t let you do your own dishes when you’re done eating, but he never does. Joel has deeply ingrained caretaking tendencies even if he doesn’t like to admit it. “We should…go upstairs,” you murmur, leaning against the kitchen counter beside him. “It’s more comfortable than the couch.”

Joel watches you for a moment and then nodes carefully. “We can. Do you— uh, want me to give you a minute?” He asks, unsure of what you want and how far you want this to go. “Let you…get ready?”

“I’d rather have you next to me.” His presence is, after all, what makes you feel safest. For this next step you’ll need that more than ever.

“Okay.” Reaching out, he offers you his hand with a reassuring nod. “You are in charge here.” He reminds you.

“I don’t really have any expectations for this except that we’ll lay in bed together and have some privacy.” But you can now fully admit that you hope to have the courage for more. “Let’s just…start there and see what happens?”

“That sounds good to me.” He guides you towards the stairs and lets go of your hand so he can let you go up in front of him. “We’ll take it nice and slow.”

The last time you were this nervous about being in a bad with a boyfriend was probably losing your virginity in high school, but there is a hell of a lot more emotional weight involved this morning than there was then. Joel means more to you than any of the others ever did, and that just makes you want this to go well even more. At the top of the stairs he’s beside you again and you slip your hand into his.

The walk to the bedroom doesn’t take long, the door open and his bed still rumpled. He’s never been a make the bed kind of guy and he bites his lip a little sheepishly. “Didn’t think you’d be up here.” He admits with a rueful grin. “Would have at least tossed the comforter over everything.”

“I like it better knowing the real you.” Your hand in his slips around his waist to keep him close.

Joel hums and walks towards it and then pauses a few feet from it. “Do you want to lay down with me, beautiful girl?”

“I feel like I should at least take my sweater off first.” The t-shirt you have on underneath it is typically worn but comfortable, and you find that today stripping off your warm sweater feels like taking off a lot more clothes than it really is.

Joel takes off his boots, but he leaves everything else on. It’s just a t-shirt and a flannel with his jeans. “Make sure you’re comfortable. What side of the bed do you like?” He’s a middle of the bed sleeper, so wherever you want is fine with him. He’ll adjust.

“The left, usually.” Being boxed in doesn’t feel particularly good to you, for obvious reasons. That doesn’t matter right now though, and you take off your own boots to leave to the side with Joel’s, socks stuffed neatly inside. “Is that okay?”

“Perfect.” He nods and motions to the bed. “Test it out. See if you like yours better.” If you do, he will drag that damn thing down here.

You won’t, you know that, but getting into Joel’s bed with him is a surprisingly emotional moment. Without any extra preamble — only because you’re restraining yourself from babbling out of nerves — you slide under the rumpled covers and inhale a breath of the scent that is purely his. It’s infinitely relaxing, and you close your eyes for a second to revel in how right it feels. Fear has made you think it might be awkward, but no. You’re supposed to be next to Joel. This is where you belong.

Joel is slightly tense beside you. Not wanting to jostle you too much, but he clears his throat. “I’m going to put my arm behind your head. Is that okay?”

“Let’s…” looking between you, you know that Joel asks about every single action to be courteous. To be cautious, even. And while you don’t mind being delicate to him, this might be a chance to start moving past some of that hesitance. For you, too. “Let’s just say we’re going to get comfortable?” You suggest. “Asking about every single movement…it’s going to make this harder than it needs to be. So…it’s okay with me that you touch wherever you need to while we figure this out. This…how to be comfortable together.”

He huffs out a small laugh at himself and nods. “If you don’t like something, you tell me, you got me?” He tells you, raising his brows seriously. “This bed, it’s gonna be your refuge, not your prison.”

“Okay.” Nodding, you slide closer to him under the blanket and move your arm so he can slide his under your pillow if he wants to. “I’m sorry if this is awkward…”

“You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry about.” Joel chides softly, used to hearing that when you want to pull back. “We’re just getting comfortable, that’s all.” His hand settles on your arm and he strokes his fingers over your skin lightly. “We got all the time in the world.”

Shifting even closer, you tuck yourself into his side and sigh at the bulk of him. It really is something primal in the way it relaxes you, having that broad frame of his nearby but never threatening. Sliding your arm around his waist is easy like this, and you press yourself into him comfortably. “Kinda wish I’d gotten brave enough for this ages ago,” you admit quietly.

“It’s okay, beautiful girl.” He promises, slowly sliding his hand up and down your back as you start to slowly cover half his body with your own. He pauses for just a moment before his hand ventures very sedately past the small of your back and over the swell of your butt. Giving you time to tell him no if you wanted.

Instead of hesitating it actually makes you grin, the slow and careful way that he reaches forward. Feeling admittedly cheeky, you shift your hips to wiggle your ass under his tentative fingers and end up smiling again. "It's okay, handsome," you assure him, giving him the permission that he's silently seeking. "Go ahead."

Joel groans and cups your ass firmly. “You have a great ass.” He growls softly. “Thought so from the beginning.”

"The beginning, huh?" It's something of a relief to find out that Joel was just as interested in you as you were in him early on. The first time he'd admitted it, you had literally sighed. There was a breath then, like there is now, that you didn't realize you had been holding. "I'm glad you like it."

He smirks slightly and moves to caress your ass like he had your back. “When you’re feelin’ up to it, my lips are lonely.” He teases, puckering them slightly.

It's small, and it's teasing, but it lifts so much of the tension in the room that you actually laugh and move in a little more with eagerness. If there's one undeniable truth about Joel Miller it's that he's a fantastic kisser, and you're not one to give that up when it's being offered. Especially not right now. Not when your time alone with him is both assured and indulgent.

Your lips aren’t hesitant this time. They are sure and still curved into a smile when you press them to his. Making his own laugh into your mouth that much sweeter. He wanted this to light, there’s so much heaviness in your lives, this should be as light as it can. Especially with your past. Taking the moment for the simplicity that it is.

There's something different about the taste of him this morning, like kissing Joel is somehow sweeter for the pure and simple reason that you're in bed together and nothing else. Your hand creeps up his arm and around his shoulder so your fingers can find their way into his hair, and the bubbly, joyous feeling in your chest bubbles over when you summon the courage to be the one to run your tongue along his lower lip in an open mouthed kiss. It's probably bolder than you've ever done before but the rightness of this feeling just can't be overstated.

Humming in surprise, Joel settles back slightly and lets you take charge of your kiss. Waiting to see if you would slide your tongue into his mouth or if you will leave it at just opened mouth to breath into each other. His hand squeezes your ass gently, encouraging you to do whatever you want and immediately goes back to caressing like it had before.

His hand feels huge like this, but not in an overwhelming way. In a way that makes you feel precious and...unexpectedly...a little worshipped. Up here in this bedroom nothing can hurt you, and that is another step forward in this sort of emboldening feeling that is brewing inside you. It's that burst of boldness that has you pushing into his side just a little bit more, tongue sliding into his mouth to relearn that part of him that you have explored only a handful of times before.

Joel grunts, his cock twitching and starting to harden in his pants, but he ignores it. Focusing on you as he continues to kiss you and caress you. Enjoying how you are unfurling for him.

The heat that rolls off of him in waves is intoxicating, making your head swim like it does whenever the two of you let the urge take over. It isn’t often, but it’s always good, and this morning feels even better.

The kisses are slow, languid. Pretending that time doesn't exist and every breath shared between you is suspended. He feels the way you are slowly starting to grinding on him, his thigh between yours.

Shallow, short, panting breaths are all the two of you can manage. Some gulps of air and soft, muffled moans. The floods your mind and your instincts and for the first time in over a year pleasure is what overtakes every thought, not fear.

He watches you, your eyes closed and your finger tight in his hair. Not because you are afraid, but because you are wanting more. He groans into your mouth and his hands settle on your hips, encouraging you to move if you want to with a small nudge.

It's like your mind has gone blank of everything except him, and the bliss of it is that you finally can let it go blank. The only thing you even need to know about in the world is Joel, and he is right here beside you. Half underneath you, technically. He not only wants you here with him but is actively devouring you at the same rate you are devouring him, and the freedom is nearly electric. Rocking hips have a mind of their own, and it really does take longer than you're proud of to realize that you're evening doing it. Catching yourself, you barely manage to pull back and force yourself to look Joel in the eyes through hazy vision. "Is...I didn't ask...if it's okay?"

“It’s always okay, beautiful girl.” Joel’s voice is rough, lust filled. “Whatever you want, you just do it to me.”

“I—I don’t really know what I want,” you admit, trying to catch your breathe and keep your entire body from setting on fire in his arms, but not succeeding very well. “Except…more.”

“You could let me— unbutton you jeans?” He asks as he nudges his nose against your pulse. “Use my fingers to make you feel good?”

It would be a lie to claim you hadn’t imagined what it would feel like. That you hadn’t actually dreamt about how pleasurable time with Joel would play out. While this isn’t quite like any of the scenarios you had dreamt up, it is real and it is happening right now, and you nod fiercely before pushing in again to kiss him with every ounce of courage built up inside you.

He knows this is a big step for you and he doesn’t rush it. Kissing you back while he slowly pulls his hand around your back to the front of your jeans. Pausing for a second to wait for any protest before he flicks the button open and leisurely pulls down your zipper.

He gets no protests at all, but a deep sigh bordering a moan that comes out of you with that deceptively small act of opening your pants. Your free hand slides just under the hem of his shirt, hot skin burning your fingers at first contact but only in the very best way.

“Tell me if you don’t like something,” he reminds you softly when his fingers first dip below the threadbare elastic band of your panties. “Only want you to feel good.”

Any flash of discomfort, even a small one, is too much and you lean back to find Joel’s dark eyes watching you. “Let me just take them off?” You ask quietly, not wanting to verbalize the fact that the fight pull of fabric against your skin hits a memory you don’t want to relive. As exposing as it is, naked is better.

“Whatever you want.” His hand eases out of your panties and he lays back, showing you that he’s not going to keep on.

“I want you.” The clarification is important, even as you slip off your jeans and underwear, letting them fall off the side of the bed in irrelevance. Shirt and bra are next, and even the act of shedding your own clothing — making your own choice to do this — frees another layer of fear from your shoulders. “I don’t want fear to be in the way of I can help it.”

“Do you want me to strip down?” Joel asks, wondering if you won’t like him being clothed and you naked. “How do you want me, beautiful girl?”

“How ever you’re comfortable.” Just because you stripped down does not mean that he has to. The state of your relation as always been respect and not reciprocity.

He decides that he wants to strip down too. He knows he’s not going to do anything that will make him cum, but if you’re going to live here, you should be comfortable with him.

It definitely more than you ever expected to happen today, but as Joel sheds his clothes beside you, there’s also a sense of peace in it. Reclaiming intimacy — not even sex, just intimacy and closeness — is like relieving an enormous burden that you aren’t ever sure could be lifted.

When he reaches the tired, worn out boxer briefs he is wearing, the outline of his hard cock clearly showing, he hesitates. “Would you like me to leave these on?”

A fair question, and though you hesitate for a moment, you decide firmly on, “No.” This decision to move forward together is too important to you, and it’s not as if you aren’t attracted to him. You have eyes, after all. “If you’re okay with it, I…I want to see you. Maybe…touch you?”

He groans quietly, nodding as he hooks his fingers into the band. “You can touch me wherever you want.” He promises.

He has never protested once about waiting for you to be ready. Never pressed and never pushed. Now you only hope that you won’t disappoint him when you’re actually ready to take the next step. “You can touch me, too.”

“My daddy was never good for much.” Joel starts as he slides his hands down, bringing the boxers with him. Grunting as he bends over to steps out of them. “But he taught me something that’s stuck with me.” Standing up, he looks you in your eyes. “It was about holdin’ a gun, but I guess it’s the same with holdin’ a woman.” He tells you. “Hold her like you love her. Slow and gentle, steady. That’s what I aim to do with you.”

“I—I do love you.” He wasn’t trying to get you to say it, or even saying it himself, but sitting up in his bed with a blanket around you instead of clothes…if you can’t say it now, then when can you? “You don’t have to…to say it back or anything. I just—it felt like the right time to say.”

You are sitting down, but he steps closer to you and kneels down, not wanting to tower over you to intimidate. “Baby, you should know that I— I love you.” He murmurs quietly, reaching for your hand. “Everything about you.”

"Get back in bed, Joel." Even with one of his big hands holding on to both of yours, you tug at him slightly to urge him to join you. "I...I really want to be close to you right now."

“Okay.” He groans again as he gets to his feet. “Fuckin’ knees.” He complains quietly. “Too fuckin’ old.”

“No more grand romantic gestures that involve kneeling,” you tease, pulling back the blanket so he can climb in beside you.

“Don’t worry about that.” He chuckles as he slides into the bed. “Probably the cold, but it’s been actin’ up.”

“Still.” Your arms are open to him this time, reminding yourself that there’s no need to hide. “I like you in one piece.”

This time, he is the one that is curling up to you, making sure he doesn’t seem to hover over you just in case. His cock is against your hip and he leans in to kiss you again. “You have me.”

To have it put for you so easily — that he’s yours are much as you are his — makes so much difference. It’s freeing instead of entrapping. Love rather than possession. It makes you melt into his kiss, hands grasping for him rather than being tentative about their touch. Not exactly greedy, but definitely no longer afraid.

It’s almost too easy, the way you eagerly fall into his kiss again. Your determination shining through and his hand lands on your hip again, warm and seeking. “Spread your legs, beautiful girl.” He murmurs against your lips.

It isn’t an order, but an urging that you happily agree to. Laying back on his pillows and letting him come that much closer to you, urging him to lean over your body. It isn’t looming, like he’s afraid it could be. Instead it feels like protection.

He starts at your shoulder, hands deciding they want to touch every inch of skin you will allow him. Lips kissing your chin, your jaw, just behind your ear. “So beautiful for me.” He rasps out. “So soft.”

Joel is full of endless praises, and you’ve caught yourself sometimes wondering if that’s something he does just for you or if it’s an old habit of his that goes back to the time before. It doesn’t truly make a difference, but you’ve wondered. The feeling of his hands everywhere on you could get overwhelming — or you fear that it could — but it’s just Joel. It’s the man who only makes you feel safe and protected and appreciated, and you sink down into the mattress with a sigh when his hand moves down from your shoulder. “Only for you,” you gasp out, his lips pressing the sensitive spot on your next just below your ear.

When his hand cups your breast, he doesn’t squeeze. It’s more of a massage, a gentle caress and he rubs your nipple with his thumb. “That’s my good girl.” He hums. There’s been plenty of times that you’ve gone over phrases or nicknames that might trigger you, so he’s confident that you won’t react negatively.

“Joel.” Things that seemed silly years ago aren’t so silly to you now, and the cooing softness of Joel’s usually deep, rough voice is so soothing as his work-calloused hands slide over your skin. Your far hand is tangled in the blanket as he leans over you, but the other anchors you to him instead. It explores the parts of his body you haven’t touched before — trim waist and strong thighs instead of the soft stomach and broad shoulders that you know so well. “Joel. Joel.” His name is a chant on your lips, growing shallower and lighter each time.

“That’s it.” He encourages, continuing to play with your breast until he feels your thighs press together and shift, wanting friction. “Gonna take care of you.”

It’s a promise, one you want to drown yourself in as much as you want to drown in kissing him. Deciding that you can only really do one of those things, you surge upward to press an open mouthed kiss to his lips, inviting him to devour you, too.

His hand has to nudge your thighs open again after his palm skims over your belly. Caressing it softly and he would say something, but reminding you of your past wouldn’t be right for this moment. Instead, his fingers comb through the soft curls covering you, gently working through them to slick skin underneath.

The deep sigh that emanates from you is almost revolutionary, and for the first time in longer than you care to remember, your eyes slip shut in pleasure to focus solely on the feeling of Joel’s hands on your body. Forgetting where you end and he begins was a seemingly impossible task not so long ago, but now you moan softly and shift your legs open for him even wider like a flower opening up for the sun.

“Fuck, you’re doing so good for me.” He moans, cock twitching at your surrender to the pleasure and he loves that you aren’t tensing up. His fingers slide through your folds, gathering the wetness and he starts a slow figure eight around your sex. Curling your entrance and coming back up to slide around your clit through your lips. “Feel good, beautiful girl?”

“So good.” It’s unbelievable just how good but this is part of Joel’s magic. He can just make everything else fade away. Your hips tilt up and you sigh again, sinking further into the mattress. “More, honey? Please?”

“You want my fingers inside you, beautiful girl?” He asks as he kisses down your throat. His mouth waters at the thought of suckling at your tits and he looks up at you to make sure you’re still on the same page. ‘More’ could mean just more of his rubbing your clit.

“Yes. God, please.” Nodding almost frantically, the hand that you had had tangled in his blanket comes up to grasp his shoulder and hold him close so you can kiss him endlessly.

He wants to chuckle at how desperate you sound but he just hums softly. Aware that you are actually starting to enjoy yourself. His fingers make another trip around your clit and this time, he doesn’t circle your entrance, just slowly starts to press, feeling you start to yield.

The soft moan he gets from you almost immediately makes him shiver, but you’re lost to it. Every sensation in your body has narrowed down to Joel’s touch and pushed every other thought out of your mind. Maybe he is that good with his hands or maybe it’s just how much you love him, or maybe it’s both. No matter what it is, it’s floating away with you on a cloud.

Your body doesn’t resist, you aren’t pushing him away. If anything, your hips are rolling down to meet his touch. He groans your name and nuzzles your breast with his cheek, his nose, before he finally wraps his lips around the stiff peak.

That extra burst of sensation makes you moan out loud, back arching off the bed and fingers digging into Joel’s arm to keep him from reeling back or second guessing himself. Close Is where you want him and you’re going to keep him there.

He hisses in pleasure against your breast, drunk on the sight of your eyes closed and lips parted so perfectly as you moan again. He doesn’t stop, just slowly curling his fingers up inside you to search for that pleasure spot.

Each time you moan for him is like a revelation all your own. Your body is doing all of its own talking now, rolling like waves in the ocean and pulled toward Joel’s own body like a magnet. The pull between you is so strong that when he finds your g-spot you keen and moan out his name loud enough that anyone in the house could have easily heard, but you’re too wrapped up in him to care or notice.

“That’s it, beautiful girl? That’s your spot?” He pulls off your breast long enough to crow about finding that place before he is suckling again, his fingers concentrating on that small spot just to hear you keen again.

“I—fuck—yes!” If he had asked if you even have a spot you would have said no, but he’s found it with seemingly no effort whatsoever. Like his intuitive ability to read your body language for emotions, he can read it for your pleasure as well. There’s no doubt in your mind that he could probably pluck you like an instrument of he wanted to but right now all he wants is to hear your pleasure so you do not hold back. The shock of being so vocal is one thing, but for Joel? For Joel you would repeat your yeses and moans and chants of his name for the whole world to hear.

He listens to you, feels you. Wanting to make sure that no old ghosts come between you and your goal. He moans, cock twitching and throbbing against your thigh as he continues to focus on you, ignoring his body’s demands for your own.

It might surprise him even more than it does you, when you reach for him. Your other hand had settled on his hip and was surely squeezing imprints into his flesh, but pleasure has so much taken over your mind that the slide of your hand from his hip to wrapping your fingers experimentally around the thickness of his cock makes both of you gasp.

His eyes close and he can’t help the experimental rock of his hips before he pulls himself back. Reminding himself that he needs to focus on his task.

“It’s okay.” Murmured just as soon as you turn your head, you open your eyes and place lingering kisses on Joel’s jaw. “I want to. Please?”

“Whatever you want.” Joel promises you, his dark eyes on you and alight with passion. “Just let me know what you want.”

“I want to make you feel good, too.” It is the shared aspect of the experience that makes all the difference. That one of you isn’t taking everything from the other, but that you’re sharing the moment together. That’s what makes it an act of passion and love rather than just a sexual encounter. And for you? That makes all the difference.

“You are, beautiful girl.” He promises, his fingers slick and making the most beautiful sounds as they move in and out of you.

As the pair of you devolve back into moans and sighs of each other’s names, the coil of pleasure that tightens in your belly is unmistakable. The experimental strokes of your hand wrapped around his length become surer, pace quickening, your whole body rocketing toward your own end and wanting to take him with you despite knowing that it probably isn’t going to happen that fast. It’s the haze of actual, beautiful, loving pleasure that’s settled over you like a blanket, and it’s what you want more than anything.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” Joel is moaning his encouragement and huffing against your breast. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty when you’re on the edge. You gonna cum for me?”

It’s possible you’ve entirely forgotten how to speak with how close you are, and your eyes slip closed again when you nod almost frantically. The moan from your lips is half his name and half incoherent begging, asking for the release that is so literally right at his fingertips. That only he can give you and that you hope past hoping that you can give to him too with each stroke of your fist.

He smirks, “yeah, you are.” He coos, his voice heavy with lust. “You’re gonna cum all in my hand for me.” He can feel the way your body is tensing under him, ready for the perfect moment to break apart in bliss. “My beautiful girl’s gonna cum.”

It is as much permission as you could look for, and your body seems to know it. The bow and bend in your back sharpen as the sound is strangled from your throat, cutting off his name with a desperate cry as you fall apart for his hand.

There’s something breathtaking about the way you cry out. Body quaking and trembling, not in fear, but in rapture.

The world stands still for those few moments. There is nothing at all except bliss, and the bulk of Joel's broad body above you, and the way he twitches in your hand seeming to run in perfect sync with the spasms of your own body as you come down from the clouds.

Joel doesn’t rush you, drawing it out with the slower curl of his fingers than before, kissing up your body before capturing your moans for him greedily with his mouth. Wanting to keep them for himself as he enjoys your orgasm with you.

“Joel.” It’s more of a whisper than a cry this time, when you finally open your eyes to look at him. “Tell me what you want?”

“Touch me.” He begs. “However you want. I want you to just touch me.”

Your hand had fallen away from him to make sure you didn’t squeeze too hard and accidentally hurt him at the peak or your own orgasm. Now you touch your fingers between your thighs to wet them with your own slick and wrap your hand around his cock again, feeling it twitch with the pressure and friction. Every stroke builds on the last, wanting him to feel every bit as good as you do right now.

Your touch, this time so much more sure of itself, makes his eyes fall close and his body rolls onto his back. Your own follows him so you are draped over him like a perfectly warm blanket. “Fuck, fuck, you are so— so fucking perfect.” He moans quietly. “So fuckin’ pretty.”

Praise is absolutely not lost on you, and every murmur and moan makes you work that much harder. Learning what works for him and what doesn’t isn’t difficult when Joel is so vocal, and before too long his hips are stuttering as he tries to chase the rhythm of your hand.

A shudder runs through his body, unsure if he would ever have you touch him like this. Panting as he curls his toes and his stomach tightens. “Gonna cum.” He warns you roughly.

“Show me.” You keep the pace of your movements and the same pressure with your hand and watch every movement in his body. “Let me see you, honey.”

He grunts, nodding seriously and his eyes flutter open again to focus on you. “Love you.” He knows you adoring hearing the words and he’s worked on being more vocal with you. It hadn’t helped him with Tess, he regretted not vocalizing his feelings before she died and he wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“I love you too, Joel.” And what a hell of a morning for it to be said for the first few times. You’ll never forget a single thing about any of it. Especially not the blissful relaxation on his face just half a second after every muscle in his body tenses, that moment of explosive pleasure washing over him in an enormous wave.

In the last year, orgasms had been necessary. Functional. Something to be dealt with quickly when the need came over him. Often hurried and moved on from, but from the way you keep stroking his cock and cooing after he starts to cum, he knows you have every intention of drawing this out for him. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.”

The splatter over his stomach and down your hand is a beautiful sight, one that you take in greedily before laying back beside him in bed. “I love you,” you murmur again, letting yourself sigh and bask in the moment.

Joel pants, nodding as he tries to catch his breath. “Hope to hell you do.” He chuckles. “Holy shit.”

“I do.” And it rests gently in your chest like a bird happily resting from its flight. “So much.”

He reaches for you, wrapping his arm around your back and he starts to stroke it idly. “How was that, beautiful girl? Was it worth the risk?” He knows it’s cost you to expose yourself again, mentally and physically. So he doesn’t want you to regret it.

“I’ve never been safer than I am with you.” Of that, you are completely certain. And you’ve never been more certain than you are in this moment.

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @katheriner1999 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04

N2N: @missladym1981

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Joel Miller #Joel Miller x you #Joel Miller x reader #Joel Miller x female reader #Joel Miller x f!reader #The Last of US #TLoU #TLoU HBO #reader with trauma

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chloeangelic · 5 months

Text

addressing the drama (with receipts)

I wanted to have my ducks in a row before speaking out instead of just responding; I’m not doing this to change anyone’s opinions - it’s really not possible change someone’s perception of me even if it’s based on falsehoods - but I need to do this so I know I’ve said and shown what needs to be shown, and people can do with it what they please.

To the readers and writers who have blocked me, unfollowed me, and mutuals who have stopped talking to me over this - I’m really, really sad you didn’t come to me first and give me the opportunity to explain what was going on. I understand if you wanted to distance yourself from drama but I also need you to understand that this was not discourse-drama I willingly got myself into. This was a month of frequent harassment and slander that eventually turned into bullying by a group of people using false info, hiding behind side blogs and anons, and I hoped it would blow over but it never seemed to stop. With anons turned off for most of the last two months, people have gone to my friends’ inboxes instead to harass them about me (and insult them in the process), and I can’t do this anymore.

I feel so alienated and disliked in this community that I can’t go on the dash without feeling like I shouldn’t interact with anyone out of fear that they’ll get uncomfortable seeing me in their notifs. People keep saying they want the community to get better and then they jump on the bandwagon of vague posting and RBing without taking a second to verify the claims, clearly not realizing how much hurt it causes to perpetuate it. If you’re reading this, I hope your name isn't the next one they pull out of the hat when they want someone new to push off the platform.

Explanations, timelines and receipts below.

For anyone waiting for an explanation regarding the posts and anons about me that have circulated for weeks, or waiting for receipts proving or disproving that I’m a mean girl who spends my time talking shit, here you go. I am so beyond hurt, I don’t even know what to say. I’m floored, I’m so disappointed in this community and I’m so sad. In the last two weeks, I stayed up until 4am one night receiving screenshots of posts and anons about me, I cried, I tried to understand why this has happened to me, and I have sat here day after day with no answers.

If you think I’m being melodramatic, try losing a quarter of your mutuals and having a bunch of people block you when you’ve had either no interaction with them or they’ve all been positive, and see how that feels, on top of constant rumors about you being a terrible person when you know you’ve barely had any negative interactions with anyone on the platform. I can’t be on tumblr any longer without exonerating myself and putting it out there that all of this has been one gigantic mess based on lies about me, seemingly compounded by grievances people have against Gracie (some one whose personal conversations have nothing to do with me). Either I do this, or I log out forever and only post on ao3, cause I feel like the fucking grim reaper here. Posts about me being an awful person are still circulating, despite the original post being deleted and the follow up stating that the OP has talked to me and they have apologized.

I’m not naming names in this. I will be using person A/B/C/D to make it less confusing. I’ve removed identifying information from the screenshots because even though I’m hurt by these people, I know that they will get dogpiled and harassed if I identify them, and I want it all to stop. Several have apologized to me and I have accepted.

Sometime in December, rumors started circulating that there was a “big/elite writers discord” where they talked shit about small writers (I’m not in any discords specifically for writers and I have never heard of such a server). At about the same time, person A - someone who was very active in my own, now-deleted discord server, started frequently vagueposting about me, calling me a mean girl and, intentionally or not, made it seem like I was part of this “elite group of writers”. This is someone who I have never had a negative interaction with and who seemingly out of nowhere decided that I call myself elite and I’m a terrible person.

Person B had some grievances with myself, Iris, and Gracie it seemed, so they went to person C and accused us of talking shit in our voice chats. I assume person A and B have talked about me at some point and validated each other’s claims, but I can't know that for sure. Person B messaged me from a burner account and apologized, then seemingly deleted the account after I responded.

Gracie frequently posted about us three chatting, and although I understand this might have felt alienating to some, many writers are open about having group chats with each other. All we did was write, edit, and Gracie sometimes made memes. We talked about non-fic stuff often, and when Gracie had an issue with other writers and she was upset, we talked about it. That’s what friends do. She knows that I believe those situations were handled poorly. One of those situations came to light recently - I had a very pleasant conversation with the writer involved, and we are still in touch.

I have spoken to person C, who posted the most “popular” smear post about me and some of my friends. They retracted their statements and profusely apologized to us, admitting it was based on stuff they heard from person B, showing me screenshots of the conversation. However, their original posts are still circulating through reblogs despite being deleted from their account.

Person D also posted about me and my friends, however their post was sort of ridiculous, accusing me of spending more time replying to anons than writing. I found this funny, but the way they slut shamed my friend was absolutely not humorous, and dragging a random writer in to criticize them was a strange attempt at adding fuel to the fire.

And for the receipts,

I blocked person A after seeing a handful of vague posts clearly about me, and after they interacted with every single rude anon posted about me that I saw. I think that’s reasonable, no? I’m not gonna post screenshots of their posts cause I honestly just don’t want to look at them again, they make me feel kind of sick if I'm honest, but if anyone doesn’t believe me, they are welcome to DM me and I will send.

Person B messaged me, admitted to partaking in this mess, and apologized. This is part of a LONG message:

Person C apologized over message and called me on discord. We had a conversation clearing things up, they deleted their posts and wrote a public apology.

If you need any proof that person B’s claims were, in fact, baseless, look at this exchange between person B and person C after person C had cleared things up with me.

Person D honestly just creeps me out, cause what the fuck is this? Fine if you don’t like me based on my writing or my persona on here but… Why the witch hunt?

ETA: Person C asked person D to take down their post and they never responded. This was sent prior to that, I know the full context, I just thought this specific part was worth sharing to show how vile some people allow themselves to be behind burner accounts.

What kind of behavior is this? This was from a sideblog, and I don't know what their main account is. It creeps me the fuck out knowing this person is lurking somewhere in the community.

I have hated every moment of this. None of this has been fun for me. This has completely fucked up my motivation to write and my enjoyment of it, it has made me anxious, it has messed with my self esteem, and it has made me want to log out of Tumblr and not come back.

Please, I beg, if you have an issue with me, just come to me and I promise I will have a conversation with you. You can’t tell people’s tone over anon and I don’t think that’s a good way to have a conversation, especially one about something that should be solved in private, so they remain off, but my DM’s are open.

I'm so sick of seeing vagueposts and trying to decipher if they're about me. Having to do that a bunch of times messes with your head.

I'm not sure what to do moving forward, but I needed to say my piece. I don't want to talk about this again, I want to put this behind me. I seriously hope this doesn't wreck my last remaining want to share my writing on here.

Thanks again to everywhere who has supported me in my DMs and comments, you mean the world to me 🤍🤍🤍 And if you found yourself duped by all this but change your opinion on me now or eventually, I won't hold a grudge, and I'm happy to speak again and pick up where we left off.

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comfortless · 3 months

Note

hi syl! omfg i cannot believe we are mutuals, i love your works so much. but have you heard of the midieval concept called “marriage on the gallows?” basically, a person who was given death penalty can still be saved when someone promises to marry them. all i can think about is könig going to a live hanging/ burning at the stake and using marriage on the gallows to have a wife.

not like she was framed or anything, right(????) but don’t worry, könig promises to make her happy and alive now that he’s her husband. or maybe knight! ghost was the one who was about to be killed but y/n is like “I CAN FIX HIM” and marries him instead.

chanting Torta, Torta, Torta hi!! i am hugging you for this. <3 i have heard of it! but never did i think to apply it to König and now here we are… ^^

content/warnings: forced marriage?, vague religious imagery, injury, threat of public execution, vague smut.

When you sell your soul, really sell it, you’re cutting away from the umbilical cord that tethers you to whatever waits in the darkness of the afterlife. You kneel, you pray, you bathe yourself in sacred water and parrot divine words, but you don’t realize you’ve become obscured in invisibility, a shadow, a husk.

He’s clipped her wings and the only thing left to do is end her flight, let her go tumbling down into a pit of sulfur from the rope lead tied to her neck: to die before a sea of jeering faces, horse shit and fine wine, gilded paintings and the darkened splatter of blood, dried and crisp against a wooden stage.

König knows something about that, because there’s a dense, thorny guilt curling in his chest as he looks up at the little sparrow led up to the rope with her face pushed down by a hand that doesn’t belong there.

She’s done no wrong; smiling sweetly at a man like him shouldn’t have resulted in this. His heart shatters when he hears her begin to cry, her battered face wrenched up to face the crowd by the hangman’s cruel hands.

A little, flightless bird like this could never have done what he did to get her here. Gentle, sweet things knew so little of the very blood that pulses in veins, of what a man’s innards look like spilt out on a thick blade.

But of course they will believe anything— she’s a commoner, no special asset to the village. They needed their farmers, their tailors, and men like him— the blacksmith they all shunned as though he had risen from the fiery pit he worked away at himself. They didn’t need her.

Only he did.

So when he steps through the crowd of vultures to watch as the rope is tightened around her delicate neck, his voice comes in a roar. He propositions the hangman that he will take her as his wife, haul this devil back to his shack at the village’s edge and ensure that she— he will spill no more blood.

She weakly raises her head to eye him, recognizing him immediately as the man who had accused her of murdering that stable boy only two nights prior. Her stare is not judgmental or accusatory: she doesn’t have a clue of the lengths he has went to- would go to- to tether her to him.

A fortnight later, the woman becomes his bride.

She doesn’t know what brought her such a malison, how she came to be the wife of a man who once cast his accusations toward her, but she’s grateful to the man who’s cursed her to suffer him.

There’s no celebration, no flowers or dancing. There’s a kiss she nervously leans into at the chapel, shy, while his heart bursts into flames.

She isn’t blessed with meaningful vows, only a pleading profession whispered into her ear when his kisses reach from her neck to the curve of her jaw.

It’s consummated in that darkened shack, not a candle lit where smoke has painted the walls black with ash and dust; a place where she curls her arms over him sweetly and breathes her thanks against his shoulder, where his fingers commit every curve, dip, and ridge of her to memory. His words are lost in her hair, her shoulder, her chest as he devotes every remnant of himself to her entirely. He isn’t gentle, but he tries when her tight whines and whimpers fill his ears, drowning out even his lamentations.

She tolerates him four times over before he can will himself to pull away from her warmth. The guilt is replaced by a sense of purpose, a certainty that all he’s done has been entirely for her. She tells him that she would never hurt another thing, and he whispers against her skin, “I know.”

His flightless engel does not remain downtrodden.

Each morning she wakes him with giggles, face warmed in memory of the night’s prior rapture. She bakes for him, sweet things that he’s never thought himself worthy of prior while he buries himself against her, yearns to pry apart her ribs and bury himself in her softness for all time.

He kisses at what remains of the scars along her neck when she finds him melding down steel for a new weapon, takes her into his lap just to watch the flames dance in her eyes.

#asks!#könig x reader #sorry this is so short!!

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tongue-like-a-razor · 1 year

Text

Less Talk | Part III

Jake Seresin x F!Reader

Summary: Jake can't stand Bradley's best friend. What's more, he's probably in love with her, which really pisses him off.

CW: mild angst, Hangman being a dick aka Hangman being himself, unresolved sexual tension, swearing, drinking

Part I | Part II | Masterlist

You’re watching Jake so grimly that he almost wants to give you a hug. But, the next moment, you let out a heated sigh and shake your head irritably. “God, Jake, nothing happened,” you say, as if he’s the one who’s shown up at your doorstep unannounced in the dead of night.

He gives you a stony look that, unfortunately, you don’t see because you’re no longer watching him, so his efforts go completely unnoticed. “If nothing happened, then why are you here? Past midnight. Crying.” To his chagrin, the tone of his voice is far too vexed to emulate the indifferent attitude he means to preserve.

You lick your lips and sniffle. “We had a fight,” you say.

Jake stares at you impatiently, waiting for you to look back up. When you don’t, he says, “You fight with everybody.”

This makes you look. He’s dreadfully satisfied with peeving you – the only satisfaction you’ll likely ever give him. “It was a big one, obviously.”

Jake studies the expression on your face, trying to gauge whether or not you’re hiding something. “Where is he?” he asks, feeling like he needs to punch something. And soon.

You take a long time to respond – so long that Jake almost poses the question for a second time. “I don’t know,” you finally say.

“What do you mean you ‘don’t know’?”

You shrug, your lips beginning to tremble anew. “He just left.”

What Jake experiences at the sight of the fresh tears filling your eyes is abhorrent. The simultaneous desire to alleviate your pain and beat the living shit out of Mustang offsets his entire world in a way that puts your well-being at the top of his priority list. Hell, he doesn’t even have a priority list. You are it. And with this absurd notion weighing on the ever-growing vortex of his newly discovered emotions, he resolves to tell you just what he thinks of your idiotic boyfriend. “Well, he’s obviously a moron,” he says curtly.

You glance up at him again, less angry than before. “He’s a lot like you in that respect,” you say with a hint of a smile.

Jake scoffs and, before he can stop himself, says, “I would never walk out on you.”

You stare at him for a moment before lowering your gaze awkwardly.

Jake cringes, realizing that he could have said just about anything else and it would have been better. Moreover, in his attempt to rectify the situation, he blurts out this obnoxious tidbit: “You’d never let me hear the end of it.”

You roll your eyes but then you bite into your bottom lip and your eyebrows lift inward. You glance up at him woefully and say, “I’m not that bad, am I?”

Jake watches you carefully, wondering why you’d care what he might have to say on the matter. He tries to determine what his response might be before deciding if he’s going to be honest. On the one hand, you are that bad. On the other, when it comes to you, bad takes on an entirely different connotation. “You could be worse,” he responds vaguely.

You stare at him miserably. “You can’t stand me,” you remind him.

Jake nearly laughs; that’s how absurd he finds your statement. “Well, that’s more or less mutual, is it not?”

You nod slowly.

“In any case, it’s hardly relevant since I’m not your boyfriend.”

“But what does that say about me?” you ask. “I piss off everyone around me. You said it yourself, I just can’t shut up.”

“Why should you?” he says, his anger flaring despite his every effort to control it. His response seems to catch you off-guard because you blink up at him sharply. “I just mean, who cares if you piss someone off? That’s not a you problem,” he reasons, although he’s painfully aware of just how much he’s contradicting his every complaint where you’ve been concerned.

“Well, it’s kind of my problem if my boyfriend hates me,” you say, your mouth finally relaxing into the beginnings of a smile.

Jake cocks his head to the side and purses his lips. “I don’t know,” he says. “Sounds like you just need a new boyfriend.”

You scoff and turn away. The moment your back is to him, Jake shuts his eyes and passes a hand over his face with a silent sigh. He watches you travel the length of his living room and unplug a fan that isn’t turned on. “You shouldn’t keep your electric appliances plugged in when they aren’t in use,” you mutter absently. “You’re wasting energy.”

Jake rolls his eyes despite the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “How much energy does a table fan waste when it isn’t even on?”

You shrug, glancing over your shoulder. “How many electrical devices do you currently have plugged in that aren’t ‘even on’?” you ask, using air quotes to emphasize the final two words. “It adds up, thereby increasing your carbon footprint. Imagine everybody lived as carelessly as you do?”

Jake grins broadly. “The horror.”

You nod without the tiniest bit of amusement. “My thoughts exactly.”

Jake watches you resignedly, not at all surprised that you’ve found yet another reason to reproach him. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

You eye him suspiciously, as if you don’t quite trust that he won’t poison your food.

“We’ve got some leftovers,” he says, nodding toward the kitchen through the corridor. “Have you eaten?” You consider his offer at length as though he’s proposed a shotgun wedding rather than a pot roast. “Come on,” he says, waving you over as he makes his way into the hallway. “I can’t wait to hear what you have to say about my cooking.”

…

“This is surprisingly good,” you comment as Jake pours you a glass of wine.

Jake chuckles. “That might be the first nice thing you’ve ever said to me.”

You lick your lips and smile up at him as he takes a seat across from you at the table, popping the cap off a beer. “Your turn,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows.

Jake sneers and then guzzles half his bottle in one gulp. He sets the beer down to find you watching him expectantly.

“You can’t think of anything?” you ask incredulously.

Jake runs a hand across his chin, watching your smile widen at the thought of him having nothing decent to say about you. Ironically, he can’t think of a single thing that isn’t nice, which is truly agitating him. He racks his brain trying to come up with at least one negative quality because something about you drives him absolutely crazy.

You sigh, returning your attention to your plate. “It’s fine, Seresin,” you say. “Don’t think so hard, I know you aren’t accustomed to it.”

“That,” Jake says, leaning into the table as he points a finger in your direction. “That sharp sense of humor.”

You raise your eyebrows with a laugh. “Oh, you think I’m joking?” You tilt your head sympathetically, but your smile remains.

Jake meets your gaze with an affectionate smirk, silently listing off every other ‘nice’ thing about you, including, but not limited to, the sound of your laughter. He swallows uncomfortably when you don’t look away, unsettled by the unrest in the pit of his stomach that churns every time your eyes meet. He tries to regulate his breathing before it becomes apparent that you’re actively rattling him.

The creak of the front door interrupts the obscenely prolonged period of mutual eye fucking contact. You glance toward the corridor while Jake disconcertedly rubs his eyes.

“Y/N?” Bradley says, walking into the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh.” You sigh, setting down your fork and reverting to your previously dejected state.

“Don’t tell me you guys had another fight,” Bradley says jadedly. He glances over at Jake with a grave expression which Jake means to completely ignore.

“He stormed out,” you say, sighing into your half-eaten plate. “I think I really ticked him off this time.”

Jake gives Bradley an unimpressed look when the latter starts thrusting his head around to indicate that Jake should add something to the conversation. Jake takes another gulp of his beer.

“He shouldn’t be taking off,” Bradley says when Jake remains silent. “I don’t care how angry he is.” He looks to Jake for approval.

Jake rolls his eyes. “Why are we still talking about this dumbass?”

Bradley eyes him pointedly. “Didn’t realize you’ve already discussed him,” he says, glancing between you and Jake.

You pick your fork back up and start stabbing at the meat on your plate.

“How was the rest of your evening, Rooster?” Jake asks, avoiding looking directly at him.

“Pretty good,” Bradley responds, and Jake can hear the glee in his tone without even seeing his ridiculous grin. “Yours?”

Jake aims a disdainful scowl in his direction. “Bradshaw,” he says. “You look tired.”

Bradley holds back a laugh and then turns to you. “Y/N, do you want to talk?”

You look up at your best friend with a weary smile. Your gaze slips to briefly glance at Jake before you shake your head at Bradley. “I think I’m good. Thanks.”

Bradley gives you a hug and heads for the stairs, pausing momentarily to throw Jake a final, cautionary look before heading to bed.

“I should go,” you say once Bradley leaves.

“You sure?” Jake asks. “You haven’t criticized my dishwashing skills yet. I bet I use too much water.”

You give him an amused look as you rise from your chair. “Recognizing the problem is the first step.”

He recognizes the problem alright; it’s standing right before him. “What’s the next step?”

“Well,” you say musingly. “In this case, I would say action.”

Jake nods, getting out of his seat. “I could use some of that, for sure.”

Your gaze lingers on him as you let out a soft laugh. You’re an entire table length away and yet he can feel the force of your presence as though you were pressed up against him.

“You could stick around,” he offers casually. “We could watch a movie or something.”

You continue studying him brazenly. “I’d probably ruin it for you.”

He laughs. “We could watch something I already don’t like.”

You smile back at him. “Haven’t you done that enough for one evening?”

Jake doesn’t altogether know how to respond without making it painfully obvious just how much he doesn’t not like you. “Yeah,” he says finally. “So, what’s another couple of hours?”

You’re watching him thoughtfully which makes him almost hopeful that you might agree to stay, but then you respond with, “Maybe another time.”

He nods, keeping his eyes trained on yours. “Another time,” he agrees. But as you head for the door, he decides to try another tactic. “Should you be driving after having that wine?” he asks.

You give him a flat look. “I had half a glass. If that.”

Jake shrugs slightly. “It was a big glass.”

You roll your eyes. “It’ll be fine, Seresin.” You reach for the doorknob.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if, for once, he came home, and you weren’t there?” he asks.

You look at him sharply. “He won’t be home for hours.”

Jake gestures at the open living room. “We have several fine couches. Take your pick.”

You sigh, evaluating his pitch. “No,” you say finally. “He’s already so mad at me. If I stay here, that’ll be the end of our relationship.”

This outcome sounds just dandy to Jake, but he can see the worry in your expression, so he pulls on the door and holds it open for you, following you out onto the porch to walk you to your car.

“Drive carefully,” he says once you’re seated, leaning down to peer into the car as you buckle your seatbelt.

You nod. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Thanks for the company,” he responds.

You chuckle. “Yeah, about that… sorry I imposed on your evening.”

“Yeah,” Jake agrees with a smirk. “That was kind of rude of you.” When you laugh, he adds. “No, but really, I don’t mind. Come over anytime.”

You gasp at him to simulate shock. “And subject you to my numerous opinions?”

Jake’s grin widens. “I’m getting used to tuning you out.”

“So, what exactly is it that you gain out of my company?” you ask with raised eyebrows as you start your engine.

Jake raps on the hood of your car a couple of times before responding. “I just don’t want to deprive you of my company.”

You snort. “That would be a tragedy.”

Jake lets himself admire your laugh for several seconds before straightening his back. “Have a good night, Y/N,” he says, and then he shuts your door.

You pull out of the driveway and stop your car on the side of the road. Jake watches curiously as you step out of the car. He approaches you slowly, his eyes drifting up and down your figure involuntarily. He blinks to reorient himself, exhaling sharply as he comes to stand before you. He slips his hands into his pockets to avoid the temptation of using them to pin you to your car and then running them along the curves of your body. You’re looking up at him with a sheepish expression, completely unaware of the turmoil he’s up against in this very moment. “What’s up?” he says sternly; employing exaggerated masculinity to help assuage his crippling desire to kiss you.

Instead of responding, however, you stretch up onto your tiptoes and wrap your arms around his neck. In his shock, it takes a second for Jake to loosen his rigid stance; to remember that his hands are still safely tucked into the pockets of his jeans. He draws them out slowly, holding them cautiously on either side of your body, wondering just how catastrophic it would be if he were to reciprocate the hug. “You really helped me tonight,” you say softly, your breath warming the crook of his neck.

He lets out a weak chuckle that dies the second it leaves his lips because, at that moment, you press your cheek into his shoulder. His hands close gingerly around you. He’s barely holding on, but you feel just right in his embrace. Like the dip in your waist belongs between the palms of his hands. “Glad to be of service,” he mutters, his voice a little rough as he attempts to process this turn of events.

You detach yourself from his grasp and give him a friendly smile. So friendly, it nearly kills him. “Maybe I can return the favor someday,” you say.

Jake stares at you, trying to come up with at least one favor you could do for him that isn’t sexual in nature and drawing a complete blank. “Maybe,” he says uneasily.

“Anyway,” you say. “Sleep well.”

You flash him one last smile before climbing back into your car while Jake takes several steps back, wondering how the fuck he’s going to sleep at all after having experienced that.

Read Part 4

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desceros · 4 months

Text

me: [looks at calendar, gets a wicked idea, looks into the camera] happy springtime, turtle fam! who's ready to celebrate the season?

...mating season, that is. hehe. [dodges the tomatoes]

so! i had the idea that it would be super fun to have a community-wide event where we all have a prompt and then everyone fills it in their own way.

...i then decided all the prompts i came up with were too good not to use, but also none of them were Good Enough to use exclusively, so i changed my mind and the prompt is now just MATING SEASON. with a few suggestions at the bottom of this post if you're looking for some.

since spring is coming upon us, i hereby invite everyone to join in the vernal festivities... which in turtle parlance, of course, means only one thing: write, draw, whatever your version of "mating season", then join me on march 1 to post it with the tag #TMNTSpringShellebration. we then shall browse the fine selection of our mutual artistic efforts, and basically just have a good time as a community.

here are the prompts i came up with as starters-slash-things-to-include if you're looking for a place to get started. feel free to use these at will, or use them to come up with something of your own:

“Please don’t make me explain this. It’s humiliating as is.”

Oops, Looks Like Mating Season Came A Week Early This Year

“…In all of my mating seasons, this has never happened before.”

“I told you not to come by! It’s mating season!”

Probably should have expected it to be different now that he’s not going through it alone.

Because of Shenanigans, you have to wait. Wait… Wait… ok now.

They’re not the right person for mating season… but they’re the one who’s here, so…

“Show me where it hurts."

so yeah! see you all on march 1 for the, uh, spring shellebration. party popper emoji

questions i imagine will be popping up and i hope will clear up here before my askbox swells beyond capacity under the cut to keep this post from being Way Too Long. also it's really not that serious it's just an excuse to write slash draw for everyone Please Don't Take This Thing Too Seriously It's Not That Serious:

"can i participate?" yes! it's literally just an invitation to do something. nothing fancier than that. no need to be following me or in my friend group or whatever.

"can i write (insert fic idea here)?" yep! so long as it's related to the idea of mating seasons, it flies. reader insert? hell yea. oc? hell yeah. solo turtle and his favorite pillow? go for it.

"can i draw (insert art idea here)?" yep! uh. i know tumblr has the cops watching for sin bin material, but you art people know how to deal with that. and if you don't, uh, ask the other art people. im just a feral cat in a trench coat

"how do i participate?" write/draw/collect songs for/whatever. then, on march 1, post it and tag it #TMNTSpringShellebration. also, for funsies, keep it hush hush what you're working on so we can all be super shocked when the day comes! except, y'know, that you're planning on joining in. totally do that.

"when do i post it?" march 1. whenever on that day. waves hands around in a vague gesture at time zones not mattering. seriously don't take this so seriously it's just me wanting to create cool shit with my friends with a little more structure to it

"does it have to be horny?" i mean. it's an event about mating season. so by definition it's going to be at least a little horny. but however you interpret it is cool. even if it's just. idk. leo sitting sweatily in a chair looking longingly at a glass of water bc he's thirstier than usual. be smart about things, people. i'm not your dad.

"which tmnt verse is this for?" whichever one you want it to be for!! rise! bayverse! 2007! your fan iteration! your friend's fan iteration! your mortal enemy's fan iteration! yes!

"will you be reblogging everything?" absolutely not, but this isn't an event About Me. i am incidental to the thing. it's about Us. coming together as a community. for horny turtles. puts my hands on your shoulders. do it for you. for your friends. for the community.

#text tag #feel free to reblog this around. it started out as a thing for turtle fam but we all agreed that it would be fun for The Community #anyway yeehaw let's spend all of february thinking about what to do and then the night of feb 29 doing it RAH #tmntspringshellebration

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irisintheafterglow · 5 months

Note

hi iris i hope u have been well!!

wanted to request a little fluff/mutual pining moment between Satoru and reader who's also an instructor but they only ever get to see eachother during exchange events/higher up meetings/a mission every now and then (it's not for a lack of wanting to pursue eachother but neither of them have put in the effort bc they're both have commitment issues and deem themselves unworthy of trying) i think it would be soooo cute and i'm just dying to see Satoru and reader's students tease them about their VERY obvious chemistry... and hopefully something finally coming out of it in the end :-)

hehe thank u so much and as always you're the best!!

i hate accidents, except when we went from friends to this!

wc: 2.6k

cw/tags: coworkers to lovers, idiots in love, reader and gojo have no idea what they're doing, swearing, mentions of drinking, fluffy fluffy fluff

note: hi anon! thank you so much for the ask, hope you like it!! i definitely got a little carried away writing it just because it's such a cute premise lol

likes, reblogs, and replies are always appreciated !!

A piece of paper slides inconspicuously into your peripheral vision and it takes all of your willpower not to smirk. With equal nonchalance, you carefully peek under the ripped corner of the meeting agenda and can’t help smiling at the message scrawled on it.

We’re drinking after this (not optional).

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye and see him leaning back in his office chair, arms crossed and looking like he’d rather be dipping his limbs in molten lava. Even with his blindfold, you can see the boredom in his expression and you bite your tongue to keep from laughing. His inability to appear professional was going to be the death of you both.

“Gojo, are you listening?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah,” he says with blatant dishonesty that makes you bite your bottom lip and carefully observe the dusty ceiling tiles. “I was just in…deep thought.” He tastes the last two words like philosophies to be pondered and it suddenly becomes much harder to continue to have a blank expression. Their first mistake was picking a verbal fight with him.

“Deep thought about what?” Their second mistake was letting him keep talking.

“Ah, you know, the usual things.” You can feel his attention flick to you for a moment and it gives him a wave of confidence to continue to be a little pest at a meeting neither of you wanted to be attending. It was his favorite pastime, after all, to get you to smile at his shenanigans despite the bullshit you were hearing. “The meaning of life, the wonders of love,” he begins before his volume drops so that only you could hear it, “Why this couldn’t have been a fucking email–”

“What was that?” You suppress a snort into your fist and take a sip of water, hoping the other meeting attendees couldn’t see that you were tearing up from trying not to laugh. The angry-faced higher up scowls at him, catching the biting tone but not his words. Satoru merely smiles innocently, like every utterance was of the purest and most amicable intentions.

“Nothing,” he sings and you cough into your sleeve to hide a laugh. The other higher ups with their ugly suits and balding heads look at you curiously, but all you can see is Satoru’s shit-eating grin from beside you. “I’m just worried for you, is all.” The higher-up at the front of the room scoffs, still believing the show.

“Worried? For me?”

“Mhmm,” he nods, his brows drawn in fake concern. “I just know you don’t have a lot of time left on this plane and, well, wonder why you’re choosing to spend it here,” he states with a vague gesture around the musty room. An embarrassing noise of amusement escapes from your throat and you try in vain to regain your composure, only to fall into a fit of uncontrollable coughing. Satisfied with his achievement, he abruptly stands from his chair and pulls yours away from the desk. “My work here is finished. We’re leaving.” His finger gently taps your shoulder twice and you obey, standing and heading for the door while he pushes in your chair behind you. The official at the front of the room has turned beet-red.

“The arrogance of you two–”

“We’re done here. If you say anything important, Ijichi will tell me. I doubt the possibility, though,” Satoru states with finality, opening the door for you and shooting the room of stunned officials one last smirk. Too lazy to walk through the winding halls or take the snail-paced elevator, a flick of your wrist opens a portal into an alley on the side of the building. Your colleague lets out a whistle of approval as your shoes cross from dirty carpet to asphalt, finally taking in fresh air after hours of sitting in the stale conference room. The moon shines in all of its winter glory and you shiver against the welcome chill, comforted by the chatter of the city’s nightlife. “Still up for that drink?”

“As long as you’re buying it,” you reply. “I’m gonna call the kids first and let them know I’m out.”

“Tell them I say hi,” he says without missing a beat, leaning against a nearby wall to wait for you to finish. Utahime picks up after two rings.

“Hello? Ah, you’re finally done. That’s great!” Your coworker’s voice temporarily becomes muffled while she answers questions of who she’s talking to, followed by a chorus of your name imploring you to come back. “Everyone, say hi!” Your beloved students greet you enthusiastically and you smile at their enthusiasm. “Will you be on your way soon?”

“In a little,” you say, slightly sheepish as your eyes flick over to the man behind you. “I’m gonna get a drink.”

“You’re going by yourself?”

“Not exactly,” you answer slowly and the realization hits Utahime as she breaks out into a lecture on how Satoru isn’t good enough for you. “Easy, easy. It’s just a drink, nothing else.” Your whispered attempts to placate your friend’s indignance prove futile and you settle for letting her get all of her complaints out.

“He’s a no-good playboy with a rock for a brain and a chatterbox of a mouth, you idiot,” she concludes after her lengthy rant. “I don’t want you getting hurt because he’s too scared to make any commitments.”

“I’m not making any commitments either, Utahime,” you remind her and you can imagine her rolling her eyes from the other side of the line. “It’s just a drink,” you reiterate, but you still hear her grunt of disapproval. “I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

“Mhmm,” she responds skeptically. “Don’t do anything dumb.”

“Love you too, Utahime,” you laugh, hanging up the phone and sticking it back in your pocket. “Alright, let’s go,” you call to Satoru, who eagerly pushes off the wall and drags you out of the alley. “We haven’t eaten, so we’re getting dinner too.”

“Whatever you want,” he grins. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t harbor some sort of romantic affections toward Satoru, but you were also resigned to the fact that you’d never act on it. He was the most powerful human being on the planet; how could you be worthy of loving such a man? Still, in times like this, where it was just the two of you walking hand-in-hand to who knows where, your mind tended to drift into thoughts of what could be if you weren’t in this line of work. It would be nice to love him, that’s all. Yeah, it’d be really nice to love him.

You couldn’t explain any of this to your students the next morning, though, when they interrogated you on who you were with the entire night. When you let his name slip, the shock in the room was palpable.

“See, I knew you guys had a thing for each other!” Miwa points her sword at you accusingly, far more fired up than you’d ever seen her before. “I thought I was the only one who noticed how he looked at you!”

“There is nothing of the sort, so I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you counter, pushing the sheathed blade to the side. Your other students fight back with full force.

“It’s so obvious that he likes you,” Mai says, like it’s an insult. “Teasing you all the time? Making excuses to crash your meetings?”

“Bringing you lunch if he’s within a fifty mile radius of our campus,” Nishimiya adds and her classmates nod in agreement. “Do you know how many times I’ve caught him trying to surprise you by air?”

“That could be just part of a working relationship,” you argue, but they’re relentless. “How would you know anything about his intentions? Maybe he’s just being nice!”

“I believe his intentions with you are, indeed, romantic,” Kamo reiterates and you groan, hiding your burning face in your hands. “I can’t say I don’t see the vision. You’re a powerful duo.”

“Your marriage would make the brass shit themselves,” Mai muses with a cynical glint in her eye. “Can you imagine having a baby that can send Hollow Purple through a portal?”

“Oh, their children would be so beautiful,” Miwa squeals and it’s like waterfalls of sweat come rushing from your forehead.

“Alright, alright. Let’s not talk about marriage or babies, please,” you cut in, quick to nip that conversation in the bud. You can’t tell if it’s the weather making your palms clammy or the unending tirade of comments about your dating life. “We can change the topic of conversation now,” you say in an attempt to get the heat off of you for a little bit. “Todo, how’s that idol you like so much doing?” It’s a good idea, initially, but the thought of you and Satoru together seemed to be brainwashed over your students.

“She’s wonderful, just as the two of you in love is a wonderful sight.” Todo can’t seem to help himself as he announces his enthusiasm for your romantic endeavors, teleporting across the room and swapping positions with his classmates from claps of pure excitement. Mechamaru provides a single thumbs-up when you look to him for support, and you pinch the bridge of your nose between your fingers.

“I think it’s cute how you act like you hate him and then can’t seem to stay away during events like this. Love is so complex,” Miwa sighs, resting her chin on her hand and staring off dreamily. You scoff, hoping they can’t tell how fast your heart rate has picked up. “I wish I were in love.”

“It’s not love. If anything, it’s just admiration. Yeah, it’s just admiration,” you conclude and you’re met with skeptical stares.

“Yeah, admiration of his hot bod,” Miwa mutters and you open a portal without thinking, allowing some fat drops of rain from who knows where to fall on her head. It was a common form of discipline, summoning portals to unruly weather conditions, and your students sit up a little straighter in understanding. “Fine, okay, okay. I’m done.”

“You sure? If you’re not done, I’m gonna send you to the Amazon again.”

“Yes, fine. I’m done, I promise.”

“Done with what?” You stiffen, mentally kicking yourself for not registering his presence sooner. Had he not taken up your entire attention, you would have sent Miwa to South America for the gasp of excitement she let out when Satoru appeared. It seemed that none of you knew he was listening until he leaned against the doorframe, all six feet of height taking up the entire space. He was wearing his signature shit-eating grin that made you want to choke him with his own blindfold. “You gossiping in here?”

“Nope, just going over strategy,” you lie straight to his face and he hums, not believing you for a second. “Shouldn’t you be doing that, too? With your own students?” You stand and attempt to push him out of the room, only to find him completely immovable. His hand covers yours, lacing your fingers together in a way that makes you a little dizzy.

“All in good time,” he says carefreely, as if the action with your hands was second-nature. “For now, can I steal you away for a moment? It won’t take long.” You can practically hear the waggling eyebrows from your students and nod, unable to form a biting response because of the crashing trains of thought in your mind. His hand remains holding yours as he all but pulls you outside, finally dropping it when the excited chatter of your students has subsided. “You okay? You seem a little frazzled,” he asks once you’re far enough from any eavesdropping attempts.

“Yeah, my kids are just being a little…funny, today,” you exhale, trying to hide your unease with a nervous giggle. “You know them; they love to make up their own little stories.” He raises his eyebrows in amusement, matching your pace as you walk down a random outdoor corridor of the Tokyo campus.

“Mine have actually been doing the same thing,” he confesses after a brief moment of awkward silence. “Making speculations, drawing connections. Seems to be a good exercise in pattern-recognition.” You know he means it as a joke, but all you can think about is Miwa’s comment on admiring Satoru’s ‘hot bod.’ Had his students picked up on your behavior, too?

“What are some of these connections they’re drawing?”

“Connections about my behavior around…hmm,” his voice trails off and the corner of his mouth turns down into a frown, like he was unhappy with his students’ observations. “They’ve noticed things about the way I, well,” he stammers and for the first time, you witness Gojo Satoru get tongue-tied. “Somethings that they’ve seen and heard and–”

“Satoru.” You halt both of your strides and cross your arms defensively over your chest, slightly uncomfortable from Satoru’s inability to express himself when he would otherwise be talking your ear off. “What is this about?”

“My students know I like you,” he states bluntly and your heartbeat momentarily stops pounding in your ears. His students know that he what? “And they also theorize,” he stops to clear his throat, adjusting his collar and avoiding your eyes, “that you may reciprocate the same feelings.” Any words that you can form get caught in your throat, an odd mixture of happiness, shock, and pure dread stirring around in your brain. All you could do is blink at him, dumbly, while he shifts between the balls of his feet. “Please, say something.”

“You like me,” you repeat, tasting the words like a fancy wine you’ve never tried before breaking out into the widest smile you’ve ever felt. “Holy shit, you like me?”

“You’re smiling,” he states, still trying to process what was happening. “That’s a good thing, right?”

“Holy shit, you like me!” Your voice raises on its own and you take a step back in surprise, covering your face with your hands to try and contain your emotions. “What the fuck, Satoru?”

“Yeah, that’s,” he mumbles as he watches you celebrate, “that’s how I’m feeling too.”

“Wait, so what do we do now?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t expect to get this far,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck and combing his fingers through his hair. “I was waiting for you to slap me and tell me to go to hell.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I didn’t think you liked me back,” he sputters and the joy in both you and Satoru’s chests finally breaks loose in a fit of unending laughter. “Holy shit, I was so worried for nothing.”

“They’re gonna be so excited when we get back, they won’t be able to focus on the Exchange Event.”

“I don’t think I can focus on the Exchange Event.”

“Then we can postpone it!” You both flinch as a voice that was definitely not one of yours calls from behind a nearby wall, followed by a terrified oh, shit! as Satoru goes barreling around the corner and drags out the culprits by the collars of their shirts. Yuuji, the pink-haired student from Tokyo, and Miwa both try to explain themselves as they dangle weightlessly from Satoru’s hands. “Gojo, sir, we swear we weren’t trying to–”

“Hold on,” you pause Yuuji’s explanation, sensing some extra energy signatures that weren’t succeeding at hiding themselves. “Come out now, or I’m opening the portal to the Arctic,” you command in the open air and watch the leaves rustle as the rest of the Tokyo and Kyoto students fall from a nearby tree. “It’s rude to eavesdrop,” you chuckle as Nishimiya picks a few branches from Mai’s hair. “Go clean yourselves up and then we can begin the games.”

“You free this weekend after the games to go someplace?” Satoru whispers in your ear once all of the students are gone. “I need a break from the prying eyes of teenagers.”

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #satoru x you #satoru x reader #satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #ask iris!

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love-rosaline · 9 days

Text

how can i be guilty as sin?

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ what if he’s written ‘mine’ on my upper thigh only in my mind?

enemies to lovers // pierre gasly x fem!reader

sequel - am i allowed to cry?

authors note - don’t fully know what i’m doing, so i’m sorry if it’s sucks, but if you enjoy my writing and want to request something then feel free to do so! :)

Hate wasn’t a strong enough word for what Pierre felt towards you, and the very same could be said for how you felt about him. You’d lost count of the amount of times your mutual friends would ask you precisely why this was, and neither of you were ever able to give an exact answer. At least not one that should be confessed out loud.

Pierre was well aware he was attractive enough to get almost any girl he wanted to fold for his attention, but not you. You were confident, you would flirt with anyone you wanted to so effortlessly, and you were just so annoyingly pretty. And what irritated him beyond belief was the fact he knew you were truly lovely, bubbly and sweet, just not to him. The moment he approached you’d tense up, expression falling flat and brows sinking into a disapproving frown. He wasn’t sure what he’d done for you to act so begrudgingly towards him, but he couldn’t get you out of his head.

You were never a fan of parties. They were practically a cocktail of social anxiety, sensory overload, and a debilitating pressure to fit in with the drunken dolts around you. But you decided you could make an exception on this occasion, after all, Charles was your best friend and who were you to miss his birthday celebrations?

Up until this point in the night, you had been leaning against the kitchen countertop overlooking the bustle of the party, engrossed in casual conversation with Alex, a glass of champagne in hand. Of course, she was your confidante, she knew each and every one of your secrets, so when she caught Pierre sauntering over in the corner of her eye, she sent you a playful grin before slinking away. This left you attempting to grapple at her arm to draw her back towards you, preventing her from isolating you with the Frenchman.

“Alexandra-”

“Hello you.” You internally groaned, practically hearing the cocky smirk before actually seeing it.

“Pierre.” You sarcastically smiled. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“The pleasures all mine, really.” he rolled his eyes, letting out a theatric sigh before speaking again. “C’mon chérie, how long will it take for you to admit you at least tolerate me?”

“Tolerate being the operative word.” You flatly responded, swirling what little alcohol was left in your glass before tipping your head back to down the remains as if it were liquid courage. “At least make yourself useful, pass the champagne.” You gesture vaguely to the bottle stood beside Pierre, just out of your reach.

“What’s the magic word?”

”Oh yeah, never mind, I’ll get it myself.” You push yourself off the kitchen surface, moving to shuffle around him, but just as you went to grab the bottle he hooked his arm around your middle, gently restricting you from taking hold of the alcohol. You groan softly in protest. “You’re a pain in my ass Gasly, you know that?”

“Uh huh. Do you wanna know what I think?”

“Enlighten me.” His jaw slightly clenched at your bored tone, but he held his ground, taking the smallest step closer to you.

“You want me.” You could have easily denied the accusation, but you found yourself revelling in the way he positioned his body so close to yours, lips ghosting your outer ear as his hand slid down from your waist to rest comfortably on your hip. “You want me, you’re just too afraid to admit it,”

You weakly swallowed the lump in your throat, placing a hand on his chest and gently pushing him away, maybe even a little reluctantly. He smiled down at you, seeing your walls break down right there in front of him.

Shit.

#pierre gasly x reader #pierre gasly #pierre gasly x y/n #pierre gasly imagine #charles leclerc x reader #lando norris x reader #pierre gasly x you #f1 imagines #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x female reader #enemies to lovers #f1

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cacoetheswriting · 1 year

Text

pearl: march 1984

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader word count: 3.2k chapter summary: eddie realises he might like you as more than just his best friend.

content warnings: best friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, suggestive & mature themes, adult language, use of pet names, emotional hurt / comfort, self-doubt / insecurities, recreational drug use, mentions of alcohol - if i missed anything, pls let me know!

& psa: images used in the header don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also described vaguely, if at all, in the story.

pearl masterlist

Detention.

Frankly, a terrible concept and quite possibly one of the worst ways to punish misbehaviour ‘cause who did it really benefit, really? Definitely not the students since it just made them resent everyone involved in the situation even more, and not the teachers either as they do not want to be stuck minding careless brats after their already exhaustingly long day at work.

Detention was dumb. And you weren't just thinking that because of the half-crumpled slip in your hand.

Exhaling, you slowly open the classroom door and enter. There’s a hesitant sway in your strut as you approach the desk, handing the mangled piece of paper to the teacher that drew the short straw today — Mrs. Click.

Judging by the look on her face, she was just as happy to be doing this as you were, only reaffirming your already strong belief that detention was in fact dumb.

“Take a seat,” Mrs. Click grumbles before burying her nose back in the book she was reading.

You don’t bother responding, she clearly wouldn’t care anyway. Turning instead on your heel, you scan the room of delinquents until your eyes land on the one specific culprit that landed you in this mess in the first place.

Not surprisingly, Eddie’s eyes are already on you. He’s got a stupid, shit-eating grin plastered across his face and you can’t help but to roll your eyes at him — what a dingus.

“I can’t believe you’re actually pleased with yourself,” you huff while sitting down in the free spot next to him.

The metalhead chuckles silently before sliding his chair closer towards you.

“And I can’t believe you’re actually annoyed with me,” he teases in response, “It’s just as much your fault as it is mine.”

Your brows string together. “Are you shitting me, Eds?”

He shrugs, still smirking. “I’m just saying, princess—”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“—, if it wasn’t for your inability to control yourself around me, we wouldn’t be here,” Eddie teases, nonchalantly throwing one arm around the back of your chair.

“Eddie, and I say this with love, you’re delusional.”

“Quiet,” Mrs. Click calls out without lifting her head.

Letting out a faint breath, you lean in your best friend's direction. The curly-haired teen mirrors your movement and the two of you are now mere inches apart — a proximity that in recent months has become all too familiar. But not in a weird way. Eddie was still just your friend, nothing different. Not really. Simply, ever since it became apparent you would be graduating without him this year, being as close to one another as platonically possible, brought some comfort.

“As I was saying,” you begin in a whisper, “I was simply trying to get you to stop annoying me with your childish behaviour. I didn’t think you would land us in detention.”

He gasps inaudibly, placing a hand to his cheek as his mouth pops into an ‘o’ shape. Again, you roll your eyes at his dramatics then gently flick his forehead in an attempt to get him to quit it. The metalhead’s smile is wide as he lets his arm fall back down onto the desk.

“Well, I just hope you didn’t have any plans tonight,” Eddie teases, the shit-eating grin plastered across his face growing wider by the second.

“As a matter of fact, I did have plans. Thanks to you, Eds, I had to cancel on a friend of mine. We were supposed to go to the movies. I should be drowning in popcorn and overpriced soda, instead I’m stuck here with you,” your response is honest and there’s a hint of annoyance detectable in the sound of your voice.

Eddie’s eyes widen slightly and for a split-second you think you said something that hurt his feelings, but then he opens his mouth, confirming your suspicion about not feeling an inch of remorse for landing you in this hell.

“Princess, you’re hurting my feelings. I didn’t realise you had other friends.”

“I told you not to call me that,” it comes out in a half-hiss, half-giggle.

“Quiet,” Mrs. Click repeats and you glance in her direction. Her tone was slightly more stern yet she still doesn’t lift her head from the book in front of her, although you are mighty aware the third warning wouldn’t be as congenial.

Since you seriously did not want to have to do this again tomorrow, ignoring Eddie’s quiet babbling, you reach inside you backpack to retrieve a cassette player. Proceeding to make eye contact with the curly-haired boy, you place the headphones around your ears, silently showcasing you were done with the conversation and just wanted to be left alone for the remainder of your mutual time in this teen prison.

Thankfully, Eddie seems to get the hint. He drags his fingers across his lips in a zip-like motion before shooting you a wink and leaning backwards in his chair.

As the metalhead was no stranger to passing time when forced to stay longer after school, he spent the next hour or so taking what he believed to be a much deserved nap. You on the other hand spent the entire hour staring at the clock on the wall with intensity.

Time dragged. The cassette ended long ago and you felt no effort to rewind it, instead sitting in silence with the headphones still covering your ears.

Eventually, Mrs. Click clears her throat and you immediately turn your attention to her.

“Alright,” she begins and glances at the watch strapped to her wrist before looking up at the group, “I hope you all learned your lesson and we won’t have to see the majority of you here again.”

Her eyes flicker to Eddie and she sighs, “Mr. Munson, please be cautious not to drag your friends into your messes in the future, understood?”

“Noted, ma’am.” Eddie offers a charming smile and you can’t help but snicker next to him, a reaction that causes the denim clad teen to nudge your side with his elbow.

“Good,” the teacher nods at his response, “You’re all free to go then.”

Scrambling from your seat, you slide a bag strap up your arm, resting it on your shoulder, before walking towards the door. Eddie is close behind, as always. He says a sweet goodbye to Mrs. Click and he hurries after you out of the school building.

“I don’t know about you,” Eddie quips, unlocking his van, “But this was a lot of fun. We should definitely do it again sometime.”

You find yourself rolling your eyes once again while settling into the passenger seat.

“Eddie, please be serious. This isn’t funny, this was detention.”

He chuckles lightheartedly. “So? I get detention like every other day, you know that. These teachers, they have it out against me,” he says in his usual theatrical tone.

“They don’t have it out against you, Eds. Everyone wants to see you succeed.”

But he ignores you.

“Can I have that tape you were listening to earlier?”

He’s swift to change the subject because he knows where this conversation is heading — you graduating, him staying behind — and you're painfully aware he doesn’t want to talk about it right now, (or ever, if he could have things his way).

Eddie has only once admitted that he can’t bear the thought of you leaving and he wasn’t entirely sober when he said it, leading you to believe he didn’t even remember talking about it.

Considering avoidance of the topic also worked in your favour, you obey and hand Eddie the tape. He rewinds it with ease and places it inside the cassette player of his van. The first couple of tough yet vulnerable notes from Janis Joplin’s Pearl album blare through the shitty speakers.

Eddie starts the van, rhythmically tapping his fingers against the steering wheel and a smile tugs at your lips as you watch him begin mouthing the lyrics. His eyes are on the road ahead, his curly brown locks are blowing with the light breeze coming in through the parted window.

“Hey, Eds, since you ruined my plans for the afternoon, wanna drive down to Lover’s Lake and share some of your stash with me?”

Eddie smirks at the question.

“Lover’s Lake, huh? Is this your sneaky way of getting me to make out with you, princess? ‘Cause you know you don’t have to convince me too much.”

“No, shut up,” you scoff and playfully smack his bicep, “this is your way of apologising for landing me in detention. Also, in your dreams, hot shot.”

“Ugh,” the metalhead groans, “can we please just agree the fault lies with us both? I can’t have you making me feel guilty until the end of time,” he whines and glances in your direction, “And, side note, aren’t you always the one telling me to chase my dreams?”

Eddie’s insinuation isn’t lost on you, but this kind of flirting blurred the line between platonic and something more which was dangerous so close to your departure.

“You’re an idiot.”

He laughs, looking back at the road as the song ends and the next begins. Eddie starts to hum along with the melody and you watch him, slowly bobbing your head to the beat. The soft sounds he’s producing are so angelic, it causes your heart to soar then crack all at once.

Playing cat and mouse with the subject of graduation worked for you too because you weren't entirely sure you could handle the real world without Eddie. He’s been a permanent fixture in your life for years now. The only person who truly knew every single thing about you. The only person that’s ever cared.

“Okay,” he says eventually, breaking you away from your thoughts, “Lovers Lake it is, princess.”

You gently smack his bicep once again. “Seriously, Eds, don’t call me that.”

“Sorry,” but he’s not. You're certain he’s not. Just like you know he’ll do it again, and again you will tell him not too.

The drive to the new destination is relatively quick. Eddie finds a space to park and cuts the engine causing the music to end mid tune. He tilts his head to look at you, wiggling his dark brows, and you can’t help but giggle at his ridiculousness while unfastening your seatbelt.

You proceed to squeeze in between the seats, into the back of his beat up van. Eddie follows suit, although one of his many metal chains gets caught somewhere in the process and he gets stuck.

“Ehm,” he clears his throat, “A little help please.”

You laugh then skoot towards his trapped frame, scanning for the culprit.

There’s a sudden shift in dynamic. It’s a little strange. Proximity usually isn’t an issue, but you can feel his eyes on you, scanning the side of your face, as you tug at the chain, fingers grazing against him. The air feels unnaturally heavy and you're fighting with yourself not to meet his wandering gaze.

“You know this thing has doors, right?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Eddie bites back playfully.

“Don’t lie,” you begin, fingers mangled around the chain causing this current situation, “You like to stare at my—” But you catch yourself by biting on the inside of your cheek before the rest of the sentence slips from your lips.

There is a semi-awkward moment of silence.

Still avoiding his gaze, you eventually untangle Eddie’s metal chain, freeing him from his shackles, and push back further into the van. The curly haired boy sits across from you and in the spirit of continuous avoidance of yet another topic, he’s quick to whip out a pre-rolled joint from the inside pocket of his denim jacket then lights it.

“Go ahead, princess,” he offers, the joint between his fingers, ready for you.

“No, no,” you protest, “Dealer first.”

He lets out a lighthearted chuckle but shakes his head. “Take it,” he pouts, “it’s heavy, my arm is starting to hurt.”

“Did anyone ever tell you how dramatic you can be?” you joke but give in, taking the joint and placing it carefully between your lips.

It’s moments like these that are your favourite. It is moments like these that make you think how lucky you are to have Eddie in you life.

But it’s also moments like these that make you realise how fucking hard it’s going to be to say goodbye.

And Eddie feels exactly the same way.

Landing the two of you in detention wasn’t the plan. It just sorta happened and honestly, rather selfishly, he was glad that it did. God only knew how many afternoons he had left with his best friend, so he had to make every single one of them count.

This one was turning out to be quite perfect. Just you two, sitting in the back of his beat-up van, about to share a joint.

Eddie observes as you closes your eyes, inhaling the smoke. A warm feeling settles in his core. Honestly, he found himself experiencing this certain tingle more and more lately, although he couldn’t quite decipher whether it was because you were leaving soon and this was serendipity towards everything the two of you share, or whether there was a different underlying reason, one he was undoubtedly afraid to act on.

— Most likely the latter.

Simply put, you had waltzed into his life and flipped it completely. Eddie had spent years putting up emotional barriers, guarding and shielding his heart from further suffering, yet after the very first conversation he held with you, the walls started to crumble.

The metalhead adored your openness, honesty, and effortless ability to be unapologetically yourself. No bullshit. You brought out this sweetness in him, a side he didn’t even know he had. It was as if you took a metaphorical sledgehammer and banged against his emotional barriers until there was almost nothing left.

Almost.

“So,” Eddie begins as you take another puff, “tell me, what’s your favourite song on the record? ‘Cause I don’t think I’ve ever asked you.”

“On Pearl?”

He nods as you pass him the joint.

“Probably A Woman Left Lonely, the lyrics are just next level. I mean all of her songs have these hidden meanings and a level of emotional maturity I can only hope to reach one day, but A Woman Left Lonely in particular…”

“Well, the fevers of the night, they burn an unloved woman,” Eddie quotes melodically before taking a puff and your eyes widen in surprise. A reaction that causes a chuckle to escape his lips.

“What? Didn’t peg me for a Joplin fan? I am a musician, after all.” Eddie quips as you reach for the joint, which he gives up without question. “Or did you think I forgot Pearl is your favourite album?”

“No, I—” you hesitate and Eddie can tell you're not sure what to say. “What’s your favourite song then?” you asks instead and he smacks his lips together, pondering the question for a moment.

You pass back the joint and he takes it from between your fingers to light it again before inhaling, then exhaling a heap of smoke.

“Me and Bobby McGee,” Eddie answers eventually, “I know it’s not a Joplin original but her voice, damn, she does things with that song that literally make me feel weak.”

A smile circles your lips. “Sing some of it for me.”

The request catches Eddie off guard and you can sense his hesitation because you're quick to add a witty remark, “You are a musician, after all.”

The slight jab at his earlier point makes Eddie smirk. “Touché, princess. Touché.”

And you shrugs as if it’s nothing, but the mischievous glimmer in your eyes devices you. Eddie knows you know that he can’t refuse you. He knows you know there is nothing in this world he wouldn’t do for you. He knows you knows that when it comes to him, you hold all the power.

“Okay,” the metalhead clears his throat and reaches for an acoustic guitar hidden under a blanket. With the joint still between his fingers, he begins to strum the intro chords from memory: G - C/G G - C/G G.

Your gaze is fixated on his frame. He can feel your attentive eyes on him as you tap the palms of your hands against your knees in rhythm.

This isn’t the first time the two of you have done this. Thinking about it now, he actually tends to play the guitar for you a lot, although it’s usually more heavy metal than blues rock, and he hardly ever sings just for you, so he's wondering, why did you ask him to sing? And why was he suddenly feeling nervous?

“Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waitin’ for a train. When I’s feelin’ near as faded as my jeans,” Eddie warbles melodically, now playing D7, “Bobby’s thumbed a diesel down, just before it rained. And rode us all the way into New Orleans.” C/G G

“I pulled my harpoon out of my dirty red bandana. I’s playin’ soft while Bobby sang the blues,” he effortlessly switches to C and muster up enough courage to look up at you — which could have been a big mistake because the smile gracing your near perfect features nearly causes him to fumble up the next part of the lyrics.

“Windshield wipers slappin’ time, I’s holdin’ Bobby’s hand in mine. We sang every song that driver knew.”

D7 C

“Freedom is just another word for nothin' left to lose. Nothin', don't mean nothin' hon' if it ain't free, no-no.” Eddie continues, strumming G, and to his pleasant surprise, you join in for the next part of the chorus, harmonising without flaw.

“And feelin' good was easy, Lord, when he sang the blues. You know feelin' good was good enough for me. Good enough for me and my Bobby McGee.” G A A

He holds the last chord for a second longer, not breaking eye contact. His heart is battering inside his rib cage and if he didn’t know any better, he would say it was about to explode.

After ultimately coming to a full stop, Eddie rests his arm on the neck of the instrument. Neither of you speaks for a moment. You're beaming at him and he can’t help but return the happy expression, before putting the bud of what was left of the joint between his lips.

“I guess you are a musician,” you quip and Eddie smirks.

“You doubted me?”

“Maybe.”

You're teasing. Eddie doesn't care though. All he really wants to know is if you liked his mini rendition of the song. Although, wanting to spare himself the humiliation just in case you didn’t, he doesn't dare ask for you opinion.

But it seems you can read his mind ‘cause as he manoeuvres to open the sliding door and discard the reminisce of the joint, you tells him exactly what’s on your mind.

“In all seriousness, that was like really really good, Eds. From now on, I’m definitely going to ask you to sing for me more often. Perhaps A Woman Left Lonely next? Or not just Janis,” you ramble excitedly, once again unknowingly causing his worries to dissipate.

Proceeding to sit beside you, Eddie once again reaches for the guitar. You let your head fall on his shoulder as his fingers strum random chords.

“You know that Irish band U2? I think your voice would really suit Sunday Bloody Sunday. Or, actually, any of their songs really.”

And as you continue listing different artists, an unfamiliar feeling settles in Eddie's core.

Well, shit.

pearl masterlist | main masterlist

#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fix it fic #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson best friend #bestfriend!eddie #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x best friend reader #eddie munson story #eddie munson series #pearl (eddies version)

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arealphrooblem · 1 year

Text

Mutually Assured Destruction Pt 2

THANK YOU SO MUCH to the huge response to this, I never expected that being so new to this circle of writers. I squealed at every like and reblog and comment.

Synopsis: Villain x Civilian. Civilian can sense other people's powers through auras but hides this ability. They are terrified of the most boring person at their office job, who hides the most powerful aura Civilian has ever felt.

Part 1 here. Tagging @heroes-villains-side-blog and @follow-me-into-the-fog

The taqueria was dimly lit with Formica tables and brightly colored murals of vaguely Mexican landscapes, which meant the tacos were obscenely good.

Civilian tried hard not to be grateful as they bit into their taco as delicately as they could, their fingers stained with the mess of the previous taco. Jonathan’s tacos, on the other hand, had remarkable structural integrity and did not break once.

“How are you doing that?” they blurted out.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow as he dotted away taco grease with his napkin. “Doing what?”

“Your tacos don’t fall apart. How?”

“Perhaps that’s my power.” He smirked.

Civilian rolled their eyes, trying not to let the spike in their heart rate show on their face. So caught up in the surrealness of a dinner date, they had almost forgotten just what a precarious position they were in.

In fact, despite the blatant coercion to be here, this did not rank as the worst date Civilian ever had. Not even in the top ten. Jonathan paid for dinner, fetched napkins and extra beer, and allowed Civilian the space to quietly freak out while he ate in contented silence.

“I’ve never had a taco shell that didn’t break in my entire life, so I almost believe you.”

He gives them that same calculating stare he did in the elevator. “You’re not curious about what I can do?”

“No.” (A lie).

“Really? Not even a little?”

“I think knowing would make it worse.” (The truth).

Just knowing his aura has garnered too much attention as it was.

He smirked. “Afraid if you knew, I’d never let you go?”

Hearing their deepest fear voiced aloud caused a dizzy swoop in their gut. It wasn’t just Jonathan Civilian had to worry about. If anyone knew their true power, they would be a target to the Agency, to other villains, to the government. They could kiss their freedom goodbye.

Being “courted” by Jonathan was the least of their worries, and yet it meant the the threat of their freedom as a constant presence. If there was a chance Civilian could talk their way out of this arrangement, they had to take it.

Civilian swallowed. “You’re not actually serious about this, right? This fake dating thing?”

“Of course I’m serious.” He leaned forward across the table and Civilian unconsciously mirrored him. “I have certain plans in place. You are the one person who could disrupt them.”

“The last thing I want is to get involved with whatever the hell it is you’re doing,” Civilian hissed. “I’m not a hero.”

“There’s no way I can know right now that with any certainty. And so, until I do, you will have a very dedicated and considerate partner.”

Civilian bit back a groan as they imagined the kind of gossip this sudden relationship would inspire, especially since Civilian tried so hard to avoid Jonathan before. Wait a second . . .

“HR doesn’t allow workplace relationships,” they said triumphantly. “They would fire us.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he found Civilian’s protests amusing. “That rule only bans relationships between superiors and the people that work under them. It doesn’t apply to us. Don’t worry, I will file our relationship with HR tomorrow morning since tonight marks our first date.”

Shit damn fuck. Civilian could protest the relationship or they could report Jonathan to HR for stalking or harassment but that only puts a target on Civilian’s back for his retaliation. He could kill them or worse -- report them.

Mutually assured destruction.

Jonathan drains the rest of his beer before nodding to Civilian’s unfinished food.

“Let me get you a to-go box and we shall be on our way, then?”

He drove them back to the parking garage at work and walked Civilian to their car. Civilian wasted no time getting their keys out, gripped by the sudden fear that perhaps Jonathan would reconsider letting them walk free.

And indeed when his hand darted out and gripped their door before it could shut, Civilian’s heart leaped in their throat.

“You’re going to leave before our goodnight kiss?” he asked, his gaze expectant and serious.

“What?” Civilian choked.

He held that stare for a moment before an evil smirk broke across his face.

“The look on your face. I should be insulted at how abhorrent the thought is to you. Goodnight, Civilian. I will see you in the morning.”

A threat and a promise.

Civilian feels the weight of his stare all the way out to the streets.

Part Three Here

#my writing #not a prompt #mutually assured destruction #civilian x villain #villain x civilian #hero x villian #villain x hero #now with fake dating!

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ay0nha · 8 months

Note

Buggy searching out reader after a fight and showing up to her doorstep like a puppy looking for help

feel free to make it angsty or fluffy (or smutty lol)...reader could be an ex-marine and hates pirates so it's not clear whether or not they like each other (spoiler they do)

PAIRING: OPLA!Buggy x f!reader

WORD COUNT: 2.3K

WARNINGS: ANGST, canon-typical things, cursing, smoking, descriptions of injuries/fucked up shit Buggy did, mutual pining, brief mention of reader being a former marine, vague description of smuggler!reader, soft touches, enemies ish to lovers, etc.

A/N: This was fun lol. It's a little weird and experimental (?) for me? So, she got a little messy as I was getting excited to just Get This Out, so it didn't sit in my drafts. I want more buggy angst lol. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in any OPLA things or along the lines. Enjoy.

!!!COMMENTS ENCOURAGED!!!

(tags: @gingernut1314)

There were reasons habits quickly morphed into vices, something immoral and wicked. Yet, you were lethal, the definition of torment. Your silhouette alone was enough to send Buggy spiraling.

Each step toward you felt unreliable and fuzzy, making Buggy question if he reattached his limbs correctly. His gut felt twisted with a foreign feeling that he wanted to trap away. He wondered if he buried the feeling deep enough if it would turn to treasure or become forgotten rot.

“Buggy.” Your voice even irritated him. Yet, he found relief in finding you alone. “Third time this month. Careful…I’m starting to get a big head.”

“That sounds like a medical problem…” He mumbled with little enthusiasm and a half-hearted smirk, “...should probably get seen for that.”

“Admitting you care, eh?” You teased. You were preoccupied, cigarette dangling from your lip and bobbing with every word. “What can I help you with?”

The receipts tended to be formidable, but you couldn't help but feel your concentration falter when you were met with uncharacteristic silence. Typically, you were shy of whiplash from an unwarranted insult or backhanded compliment. However, once your eyes landed on Buggy, you only saw deep anger veiling desperation.

“How serious is it?” Your pen was settled beside the book, whatever records you were once concerned with dismissed. Buggy looked awful—his posture gave away his exhaustion and discomfort.

“What? Can’t we skip the part where I say ‘the other guy looks worse’?” His busted lip ticked with dry humor. There were rumors he was in trouble, but that paled compared to the truth you knew about Buggy.

“Depends.” You frowned. “That other guy isn’t stopping by, is he?” If it were true, you’d have to lay low, something you never had time for. “This is why I don’t like your kind.”

“My kind?” Buggy continued unamused. You weren’t more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing to him. You were a smuggler. Plain and simple. It was impossible for something to stay hidden from you for long. “You’re not far off, sweetheart.”

His terms of endearment never held affection, but he seemed to soften this time for some reason—almost pleading between the lines. You held a trained expression, taking a moment of consideration.

Your typical jobs with him were small. Typically, they consisted of information that he could coax out of you for trinkets. He brought the world to you. Other times, you moved things through the shadows to an even darker location.

This was different, you decided.

Stalking toward the clown, you saw how the pain mapped on his body. “You look awful.”

The jester’s bow was fueled by pained sarcasm. Although his abilities helped, Buggy's flesh was still pliable. His jaw was a deep-set purple, contrasting the faded red of his cracked lips. It was hard to distinguish what was paint and what was blood. His eyes were bloodshot with broken blood vessels, and there were gashes littering every place imaginable.

You were surprised he was still standing. You noted how his breath became labored, as if holding onto what he could before he collapsed entirely. But looking between his eyes, you saw the struggle he had deciding what was worth his final breath: business or pleasure.

—

At the atrium of the town, your home went unnoticed. The average eye missed it, but those who could look past the unassuming home knew what lay behind the walls. You were particular with your arrangements, always done tightly and if challenged dangerously.

Buggy learned the hard way of earning your loose alliance. The scar you left behind cinched on his side, and sometimes, if he found you lingering in his mind, he swore he felt it ache. Yet, just being in your presence seemed to be the closest thing to a remedy.

“You can’t just show up like this.” Your scolding was shallow, there only as a buffer. You distanced yourself from the pirate despite the intimacy you provided.

The handful of candles in the room glowed yellow, highlighting the dark corners that threatened to swallow everything whole. Your fingers trailed various cabinets, pulling out necessities: make-shift gauze, old booze, and something loosely resembling thread.

“Then, don’t leave a key under your mat.” Buggy hadn’t bothered with the front door, stumbling through a window once locked. The so-called key was that he knew how to dance around your traps, dragging in an air of death.

“Hilarious.”

“Gimme a minute...” He raised his uncovered hand.“... I’ll come up with something better.”

The irony hadn’t set in yet, but whoever had hurt him made it personal. Buggy’s middle fingers were gone, not detached, but entirely ripped off.

“Oh—” You bubbled with laughter lightly, “—that must’ve hurt.”

“Well, aren’t you a twisted one?” Buggy’s tone was flat, but his eyes tracked you. He silently begged you to put him out of his misery.

“What’s twisted is you, Buggy.” The decision had already been made to help him, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t draw it out. “You come here asking for my mercy and expect it for free…”

Buggy’s throat went dry, his tongue barely able to wet his own lips without tasting blood. He leaned through your threshold, head hung, leaving a trail of blood with every uncomfortable shift. His breath was heavy, wheezing with effort to remain upright.

There was no use in prayers. The gore set the air with dust that could never settle; a blood-warm heat had set into your marrow, never to be forgotten; Buggy had been dragged to your doorstep like a cat bringing in fowl.

Buggy spoke low as if the neighbors would hear. He hadn’t even wanted to hear himself, knowing his desperation. “...can’t you play favorites for once?”

“That’s a trick question.” Your facade had slipped. Your response was a second too quick, letting warmth trickle throughout his chest.

Buggy’s ears rang at the admission. Your words filled the room and stuck like honey.

You were always thinking. You were intentional; everything was thought out, and if it wasn’t, you were still level-headed. It wasn’t hard to recognize his behavior patterns; he knew what he was doing. Finally, though, everything became a second thought as you reached him with intent, tilting his chin to expose his neck.

“Easy, puppet.” Buggy caught your wrist. The tight hold was a warning moments away from a fracture. “Pity isn’t your color.”

Buggy fed off cruelty that incited fear. It was foolish to think he could do the same to you.

“How naive of you to think this is what pity looks like.” Your voice was soft and steady, pent-up venom behind every word. “Before me is a shell of a man playing pirate—”

You paused to regain your wrist. Regret flashed over Buggy’s features, but he held onto every one of your words. His humor was his defense, and beyond that, he was pliable in your hands. There was little room for recovery.

“—don’t fault me for something you let get out of hand.” You finished.

Fear clawed its way up Buggy’s throat, determined to make itself known. It fought with another emotion he was too proud to name. He wasn't unfamiliar with loss. But this. The feeling was wild. Sentimental.

The small candles’ fire illuminated the room only so much, hiding the loneliness of the small space. Very little signs of life filled the room, but your supplies dominated the counters. It was a tick you picked up from the Marines that you couldn’t shake. On nights when sleep was hard to find, you would organize and filter through everything in preparation for nothing.

It seemed wrong to encourage the relief you felt, finally putting what you had to use. But its familiarity was oddly cathartic. So, with clean hands, you began.

“Lean forward—” You instructed. The chill in your tone softened as Buggy struggled. “—move slowly. Slowly.”

You’d already discarded his hat; scorched by the battle, it had lost most of its form. You moved slowly, calculated with every experimental touch. The years of back and forth and treachery never lead you to believe Buggy would be sitting at your mercy.

He grunted as you removed his jacket. It was tattered and drenched with rainwater. The leather of the chair protested against being ruined. Each layer removed revealed every minute it took for him to arrive.

“Were you shot? Show me where it hurts. ” You prompted bluntly. The training was still ingrained; your mind filtered through a clinical set of diagnostic questions, your hands moved with practice, and you were returned. “Dizzy? Light-headed? Anything like that?”

His skin pricked. Your touch tickled him, but he leaned into it fully. Buggy was used to touch hurting or leading to something that hurt. He put far too much faith in you, unlike the others. He humanized you. It would be a mistake if you did the same.

“No, no,” Buggy shook his head, the action unsteady. “My ribs—” He coughed with discomfort when you pressed against his side. “Fuck—”

Your hands were steady as you worked. The gauze was taut in the right places, and Buggy’s body finally relaxed. He received a good beating, but nothing bed rest would fix. While you tided, you rambled on about the possibility of a fever, infections, and whatever else came out of your mouth to ignore the feeling of his severe gaze.

“You’ve changed,” Buggy muttered sharply. He took in your entirety. You held yourself well; you’d matured into your confidence unrestrained. Without him, you soared.

“And you’ve fallen.” Your mouth fidgeted with a frown. Your head remained leveled with his, bandages secured at his temples.

Buggy’s bloodshot eyes darted between your own. He wanted to tell you that you were the brevity of his curse, his burden. His mind was always riddled with reflections, constantly ruminating about possibilities that could bring so-called success. You quieted it and saw him for what he was good and evil. He gave all of himself to you.

“Oh yeah?” He encouraged.

You only noticed now the position you were standing in, not entirely between his legs, but knees brushing with every motion. Intentional or not, Buggy took advantage, bruised knuckles, finding a place just shy of your pant’s fabric.

“I got you something.” He whispered. Buggy knew you well enough that the seed that only he could nourish had been planted. It was only moments before you’d cave. “Check my pocket; the left one.”

A strange feeling surfaced, pulling away, but you were enticed. Buggy learned your tastes, knowing you placed value on rarities. There was no rhyme or reason behind it, possibly besides the fact that each trinket was tangible evidence that you were on his mind. Therefore, there was no stop to the allure. You explored his discarded jacket, eagerness fueling your search.

“Jesus, Buggy!” You cursed from the texture alone. Buggy fulfilled his titles, always sporadic with his behavior and anger. The blood was warm and fresh, staining your palm as if making sure it was now shared blood on your hands.

You flung the nose to the floor, cartilage still firm and skin still stringy with the residue of its owner. The image alone told you everything. The scene was explicit—nothing could be saved from Buggy’s carnage.

“Oops.” He wheezed an ill-timed laugh. To be seated in the depths of your home, he still sought out an advantage. “Must be the other pocket.”

“It’s too late for your pranks.” You spat. Your kindness felt thrown back in your face. The faint embarrassment morphed into anger. “Don't you get this is exactly why I—

“I forgot, you don’t like my kind.” Buggy chose malice as his only form of self-preservation. The statement mocked you and your previous life sewing up Marines that Buggy most likely sent you. “How selfish to think everything is about you.”

Buggy detached his bandaged hand with the little energy he had left, going to the correct pocket. He let his defensiveness stew, already committing to the rash gift he’d brought for you. It was heavy on its return to you.

Reaching out, your heart dropped to your stomach. The glass was pristine, and the snowglobe’s inner frost moved your heartbeat to your ears. You refused to shake it, nervous your uneasy hands would break something so inherently precious.

Holding it tightly to your chest, your eyes were blown wide, pouring into Buggy’s. It was clear to you now the state he was in was of a transactional purpose. He offered himself for the trivial object. It spoke of the confusion of feelings that drowned Buggy. Pain became inherent to his life, functioning as a scale of value.

The greater the risk, the greater the reward.

“Do you like it?” Buggy’s voice surpassed the thumping in your ears.

When you were young, you threw things out of your bedroom window to learn how they would break. Many of them did not—the plastic dolls and plush toys landed safely on the grassy yard below—but the wooden toys did break, or at least they came apart.

One day, you found a snow globe. A winter village stood inside, with snow-covered roofs and chimneys shooting up into the domed sky.

This snow globe was the last thing you threw out of your window, not because your mother scolded you, which she did, but because this snow globe smashed so gloriously—an explosion of crystal, water, snow, and glitter, the village utterly destroyed —you thought you wouldn’t be able to replicate such destruction again.

It was bullshit then, and it was bullshit now. Moving and letting go was never in the stars for you. Or the tea leaves. Or in the deep lines of your palm. You were destined for destruction.

You’d told Buggy this once. Your state of inebriation fostered the interaction, the memory far more fuzzy for you than for him. It was told nonlinearly, but he followed it well as if he were then to witness it himself. He understood its value to you even if he couldn’t fully understand it. It wasn’t odd or facetious. It was your greatest regret that he became determined to restore.

“Yes.”

#q #buggy the clown #buggy #buggy one piece #buggy fic #captain buggy #captian buggy #buggy x reader #buggy x f!reader #buggy the genius jester #opla!buggy x f!reader #opla!buggy x reader #opla!buggy #one piece buggy #buggy d clown #op buggy

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