it's loving fictional characters time

I'm 20! AO3: ThatOneChick22

[thischickwritessometimes]

chicken soup for the soul

You can also read this on AO3!

It wasn’t like you’d necessarily been waiting for Mike to come home. That would be weird and wrong and also far overstepping your bounds as his neighbor. Spying out your window for his car to come back from work would absolutely be taking it too far. So you had your blinds more-or-less closed (they were actually just barely peeking open so that you could get some sun and that was definitely the only reason), your headphones on to blast music (one side of them was hanging off your ear so you could listen to the ambient sounds of your house and not the sound of a car pulling into a driveway), and your mind buried in a good book (you hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes).

Okay, so maybe you were waiting. But you had made too much chicken noodle soup for dinner tonight and you knew that he liked it. And Abby liked it too, so it was basically a triple win for you: make Abby happy, get rid of your extra soup, and see Mike for a few minutes. Everyone would be happy overall—you just had to wait for the babysitter to leave after Mike got back.

You liked their babysitter well enough—her name was Max, you thought—but it wasn’t really her that you wanted to see tonight. So even though you absolutely could drop off the soup to her and leave, you were here at your window, waiting. Like a normal person.

You were worrying your lip and going to check the clock again when the sound of an old car pulling in came from your half-cracked window.

Which. Was also normal. It was stuffy in the house, okay?

You were trying to justify your own actions to yourself now, and that’s how you knew it was bad. As if the fact that you brought over food at least once a week wasn’t a big enough sign. Honestly, if Mike didn’t know that you were head-over-heels for him by now then he was either incredibly oblivious or just plain not interested, and you weren’t sure which would be worse for you. You sighed and rubbed your forehead before standing up and heading over to the fridge. You grabbed the bigger container of soup to bring over, then paused for a minute, waiting to see Max’s pickup truck pull out of the Schmidt’s driveway.

Once it was gone, you pulled on your shoes, paused to check that your hair hadn’t done anything weird in the past few hours, and then headed over. You paused in front of their door for a second, taking a deep breath before grabbing onto your container again and knocking.

There was nothing for a second, then footsteps.

“Max, did you forget something…?” You heard as Mike opened the door, rubbing his eyes before he recognized you.

“Hey,” you said with a little smile, feeling nerves explode in your stomach, even though you saw him semi-frequently. “I made too much food tonight and was wondering if maybe you and Abby would want some?” You raised the container like an offering.

Mike looked at you for a second, then exhaled a little. A faint smile appeared on his tired face, and he backed away from the door, leaving enough room for you to slide past him. “Yeah, come on in.” You slid past him carefully, feeling the heat from his chest on the skin of your arm. He smelled good, which really should be impossible for a man who just got done with a security shift. Mike Schmidt managed to once again defy all your possible expectations in the best way.

“You keep bringing over food and I’m gonna start to expect it,” he said as you traipsed over to his kitchen, setting the container down on the table before turning to look at him. “You really don’t have to, you know.”

“I’m just bad at portioning stuff out,” you said with a shrug, lying through your teeth. You’d been cooking for yourself for a long time, you could definitely make one-person meals. But he didn’t need to know that.

“Sure,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not complaining, I guess. Abby will love it too.”

“It’s been too long since I’ve actually seen her,” you said, tipping your head to the right. “She doing alright?”

“Same as always. Drawing lots of pictures, talking to her imaginary friends. Normal things.” He shrugged a little.

“I’ll have to stop by on a Saturday and bring her a treat or something,” you mused. “I’ve got to hear all about her new drawings.”

“I’m sure she’d like that,” he said, and you could see him eyeing the soup on the table.

“You been home long?” You asked, even though you knew the answer, and he shook his head. “Let me get you some of this, then. You’re probably starved.”

“I can dish it out—” he said, but you’d already grabbed a bowl. You gave him a little smile and a wink.

“Go sit down, Mike,” you said while starting to pour the soup into the bowl. “You look beat.”

“You don’t have to take care of me,” he said, you rolled your eyes.

“I know. I just want to.”

He didn’t say anything after that, but he did give you a nod, looking up at you with his big brown eyes before looking back down to his hands, which were tapping out the rhythm of some silent song that only he could hear. You watched his fingers for a minute while the soup spun circles in the microwave, the faint hums from the machine filling the empty air. His hands were strong, with thick fingers calloused from the various jobs he’d worked at over time. Short nails, not necessarily trimmed nicely, but rather kept short out of necessity. Probably bitten—you’d caught him biting them once or twice when he was thinking or stressed. They looked like the perfect size to hold—

And then the microwave went off, making you scramble to turn it off before the beeping bothered Abby, who you assumed was asleep. Probably for the best that it’d gone off when it had, even if you wouldn’t have minded just looking at Mike for a little longer.

He was pretty. Handsome in ways that made you think that he could have been some big-name actor in a different life. It was always tempting to just keep your eyes on him, even though you knew you really shouldn’t.

“Soup is done,” you said, pulling out a spoon and testing the broth and a noodle to make sure that it’d warmed up evenly. It was warm all the way through, so you stuck the spoon in and slid it over to him, pausing for a second. “Shoot, I put my mouth on that one—let me get you a new spoon. Sorry, Mike.”

“Nah,” he answered, grabbing the handle of the spoon and bringing it up to his mouth, “it’s fine.” He swallowed, and you watched the way his neck moved, having to forcefully wrench your mind away from the thoughts that started to creep in. He was too attractive, it just wasn’t fair. A hardworking guy who was strong, kind, a good big brother, and handsome? It was like putting a marshmallow in front of a kid and telling them not to touch it. Pure torture.

Especially when you were basically having an indirect kiss because he ate with your spoon—

You had to remind yourself that you were a fully grown adult and that you didn’t need to get excited about indirect kisses. You had to draw a line somewhere, after all.

“Well, I’ll get out of your hair,” you said after a second. Mike finished another bite of soup and then looked at you again. He roughly swiped the back of his hand over his mouth and then cleared his throat.

“You can stay,” he said and gestured to the seat next to him. “Abby is asleep, not like I’ve got much else to do tonight.”

“Didn’t you just get off of work? I don’t want to keep you awake if you’re tired.”

“I think I can survive staying awake for a little longer,” he said with a wry smile. “‘sides, I think I found a show you’d like.”

You looked at him carefully, then huffed out a quiet laugh. “Alright, if you insist. I can’t turn down a good movie, after all. But if you feel tired at all, you tell me and I’ll leave.”

He waved you off and then went back to his soup, quickly finishing it off before standing up, bowl in hand. You held your hand out to take it from him, but he gently nudged your arm down with his elbow. “You made dinner, you don’t do dishes,” he said as he walked past you. “It’s a rule in this house, you know.”

You were ignoring the way that comment made you feel, but you were glad that he was facing the sink now and not you because your face was bright red. “You have rules in this house? Crazy.”

You heard the sink turn on as he rinsed the bowl off, and then a brief clatter as it landed in what you assumed was the dishwasher. “And here I was thinking that Abby was the only smart aleck here,” he called to you as he walked back in, casually wiping his hands on his jeans. He looked at you just standing in the kitchen and a small smile crept across his face.

“Well?” He asked, smile fading to just the edges of his lips, “you going to sit down to watch the show or are we just gonna end up standing around all night?”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling as you sat down on his couch. There was a blanket folded next to you and you grabbed it. “Yeah, yeah. What are we watching, anyway?”

“New show I found called The Immortal and the Restless. It’s trash, but it’s nice to relax to.” He sat down next to you, so close you could feel the heat from his skin on yours. You let your leg relax a little, falling closer to his as you unfolded the blanket and spread it across both of your laps.

“Can’t have a movie without a blanket,” you said when he raised an eyebrow at you. “It’s practically a crime if you don’t.”

“I’d hate to run into the police tonight, so I guess I’ll accept it,” he said, tugging a little more towards him. The blanket was big enough that you both fit pretty comfortably beneath it, unfortunately.

Not unfortunately. Shut up, brain.

He flicked on the show, and you let your mind wander as the story of a vampire and his scorned lover, Clara, played on the TV. Mike was right. It was trash, but in a kind of fun way. The cliffhangers were a little hamfisted, but they did pique your interest for the next part of the story. It was interesting enough that you could tune in if needed, but you could also let your mind wander when you were bored. Like now. Because Mike was next to you, and he was clearly more invested in the story than he’d let on before, his head concentrated on the TV, eyes darting back and forth between the characters as they interacted. Which just made it easier for you to watch him, to observe the way faint expressions crossed his face, spelling out what he was feeling through minuscule details.

Your eyes traced over the line of his jaw, which was dotted with soft stubble, and then up to where his broad nose sat, slightly crooked, like it’d been broken and re-fixed when he was younger. His hair hung over his forehead, curling slightly at the edges and sticking up messily in the back. You wanted to run your fingers through it, flattening the particularly egregious parts—or maybe making it worse, mussing the faint curls into a nest of something partly untangleable.

You were just about to turn away from your careful observation of his face when he huffed a little and slung his arm up to the top of the couch, not quite over your shoulders but so close you could feel the warmth of his arm radiating over your back. Your face flushed, and you abruptly turned to look at the show, where Vlad the vampire was once again denying that his son was actually his.

He wasn’t even touching you, but the closeness made your heart beat faster and the butterflies in your stomach start their wingbeats. You let them flutter as you tuned back into the show, paying attention to the chaos that was happening onscreen. Minutes passed, and just as you were tempted to look back at Mike, you felt something fall onto your shoulder. Confused, you turned to see Mike asleep in what was quite possibly the least comfortable position ever. His neck was craned at an uncomfortable angle with his arm still on the top of the couch, meaning that he was partly asleep on his own shoulder and partly asleep on yours.

“Oh, Mike,” you said quietly, and carefully shifted yourself to make him more comfortable, pulling his arm down from the top of the couch so that he could rest his head more comfortably against you. He let out a quiet murmur of something that you couldn’t catch and buried his head into your shoulder, exhaling lightly before stilling again, his breathing deep and even. Unable to resist, you carefully leaned over and dropped a soft kiss on the top of his head before looking back to the TV for a second, relaxing in the warmth of him next to you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You woke up slowly, blinking several times as your vision slowly cleared up. Your mouth was dry, and you swallowed a few times, trying your best to gather up some moisture. The TV in front of you was playing something loud, and you narrowed your eyes at it, mind slowly trying to take in what had happened.

That was when you heard a deep groan from behind you and felt a hand on your stomach pulling you closer to the warm body behind you. You just accepted it at first, snuggling backward into them, but then you heard a young voice from in front of you that had you sitting bolt upright.

“Why didn’t you tell me you guys were going to have a sleepover?” Abby asked, standing in front of you, her arms crossed. “I want to have a sleepover too, no fair.”

“Abby!” You gasped, and from behind you there came a quiet groan from who you now knew had to be Mike.

“Abs?” He said, his voice deep and husky with sleep. His hand was still on your hip, fingers lightly tightening as he pulled himself from the depths of sleep. You ignored how good his voice sounded and how much the touch of his hand had you flustered in favor of trying to smooth your hair down from where it was undoubtedly a mess. “What’re you talking ‘bout…”

You could tell when he noticed you because his voice cut off quickly as he pulled his hand off you and you heard a rustling noise behind you as he sat up as well. You also noticed him quickly grabbing the blanket that you guys must have fallen asleep under and placing it over his lap, which only made your embarrassed blush brighter.

“Sorry Abby,” you said running your hands through your hair nervously, “we didn’t mean to have a sleepover without you—I must have just fallen asleep by accident.”

She gave you a look that only a ten-year-old could give, and you gave her what you hoped was a winning smile. “Fine,” she said eventually, and then just sat down in front of the TV, near your feet. She didn’t say anything else to you, which was pretty much typical for her. She did, however, let you lean forward and card your fingers through her messy hair, content to watch whatever cartoon had turned on in the night.

“I’m sorry,” Mike said as he shifted around, looking at you. “Didn’t mean to keep you here all night.”

“I mean, I fell asleep too,” you said with a little laugh. “Not just your fault, Mike. Maybe the blanket was tempting fate.”

“Maybe,” he said with a shake of his head and a hint of a smile on his face. “Well…can I offer you breakfast to make up for it? And for you making dinner last night?”

Abby turned to look at you from the carpet, eyes big. You gave her a smile and a huff of your breath. “Well, only if Miss Abby is okay with it.”

“Yes,” she said, and that was it. But she did scoot a little closer to your feet so you could play with her hair more easily.

“Guess you’re staying then,” Mike said and hauled himself up, letting the blanket fall to the floor. “I’ll get started.”

“You need any help?”

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head, “Wouldn’t be much of a repayment if I made you help me cook.”

“If you say so,” you responded and pulled Abby’s hair back to start braiding it. “Do you want two braids?”

She nodded, and you started separating the sections and crossing them over each other, Abby pulling out a hair tie she’d apparently been keeping on her wrist to hand up to you. Little girls and their collections of hair ties.

As you hummed quietly and Abby watched her show, you heard Mike puttering around in the kitchen, pots clanging and the smell of bacon beginning to drift over to where you sat. After you finished off Abby’s hair —it didn’t take long, her hair was fairly short— you tied it off and tossed it lightly over her shoulder. You gave her a little tap on the shoulder. “There you go, sweetheart.”

“Thanks,” she said, and then looked at you. “Do you want to see my drawings?”

“Of course I do,” you said, and she stood up excitedly, grabbing your hand and tugging you towards her room, already talking about her imaginary friends.

You weren’t sure how long it’d taken her to show you all her new drawings, but by the time Mike was calling you for breakfast, she was starting on a new one. She pointed out how she was drawing you standing next to her, holding hands with her as she held hands with Mike as well. Beside you was a child wearing a yellow striped shirt, and next to Mike was a kid in blue wearing a top hat. She was starting on another kid when Mike yelled for you to come and get food.

“Come on Abs,” you said with a smile, “let's grab breakfast real quick, and then we can come back to drawing. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Can my friends come too?” She pointed to the empty space next to you. You nodded.

“Absolutely they can.”

You walked into the kitchen, where Mike had laid out plates and cups that were filled with orange juice. He was just placing a pile of pancakes on the table when you walked in, Abby instantly beelining to what must have been ‘her’ seat. You looked over the spread and smiled.

“I didn’t realize you were such a cook, Mike! I would have stopped bringing stuff over ages ago if I knew.”

“You better not,” Abby said, “You make good food. Mike sucks at making soup.”

“You didn’t have to call me out, Abs,” Mike said with a huff of laughter. “But you’re right. Pancakes are about where my cooking skills begin and end.”

“Well I’m excited to partake in your five-star dish,” you said with a little laugh as you sat down next to Mike, brushing arms. “It looks great. Thank you.”

“Any time,” he said with a shrug. “ ‘s not a big deal.” He nodded to the food, and you saw Abby pile pancakes on her plate, digging in quickly. “You gonna eat or what?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t dignify him with a response, instead pulling up your chair and grabbing your own pancakes which, upon further investigation, you realized had chocolate chips in them. You bit into them with relish, letting out a happy noise at the taste. “Oh, those are good.”

Mike just watched you with a fond smile on his face before he looked down to his plate. You felt your cheeks color slightly at the look on his face before you looked down yourself, focusing on the food. You ate in contented silence for the rest of the meal until Abby pushed her plate away.

“I’m done,” she said and stood up. “Thanks, Mike. My friends say thanks too.” She looked at you and then gave you a little smile. “Thanks for doing my hair.”

“Any time, Abs. You’ll have to show me your drawings at some point when you get them finished.” She nodded solemnly and then ran off to her room, which made you laugh.

“Well, Mike, thanks for the impromptu sleepover and the breakfast. I’ll have to make it back up to you at some point.” You stood up from the table and grabbed your plate. “I can start by doing the dishes.”

“I got it,” he said, standing up as well, and you held up a hand and waved a finger in his face.

“No way, Michael. Do you recall your rule from last night?”

He gave a little chuckle. “Should have known that’d come back to bite me. Can I at least help a little?”

You looked at him skeptically but relented easily enough. “Just because I like you,” you said, heart fluttering as one side of his mouth raised into a half-grin. “But you’re on drying duty.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, lazily raising one arm to give you half a salute. You smacked him on the arm in retaliation, which just made him drop it back down to his side, where he nudged you lightly on your own side before grabbing the plates stacked on the table and heading over to the sink. You followed suit, scooping up forks and knives in one hand while stacking cups with the other. You placed them in the sink and then pulled out the soap and started scrubbing, Mike next to you, your arms brushing with every dish you washed and he dried. It was peaceful, and you ignored the way that your heart threatened to beat out of your chest with every contact.

You also ignore the way that your eyes kept falling onto his biceps, which were strong and also unnecessarily toned for someone who was just doing the dishes. Seriously. How did he manage to make them look so good? It wasn’t like he was the biggest guy ever, but here he was, with the arms of some higher being. Unfair. Also very nice to look at, so maybe you were just lucky?

Either way, you finished cleaning the dishes far too soon for your liking. Reluctantly, you wrung out the sponge you were using and placed it in the now-empty sink, taking a step back as Mike finished wiping off the last glass.

“Thanks for helping,” you said and huffed a little. “And letting me sleep over, feeding me breakfast, and showing me a fantastically trashy show. I’m sure there’s more I could thank you for too, but overall it’s been a really great start to the weekend.”

“I think I should be thanking you,” he said. “I slept better last night than I have in…months, probably. Not to mention dinner.”

Your face flushed at the mention of how you two had fallen asleep together. It had been unbelievably comfortable—and honestly, it just felt right. You wished you could wake up that way every day, surrounded by his warmth and with his large hands cradling your sides gently. Mike was still looking at you, and you grasped for a response. “I, uh, any time?”

That was the wrong thing to say. Absolutely wrong. Why did you even bother opening your mouth if stuff like this was going to come out of it? Honestly, couldn’t you go more than five minutes without shoving your foot down your throat?

“I mean! The dinner! Or the sleeping if you really need it but that would be weird of me to say except I totally already said it and oh my gosh I just need to shut up.”

You buried your face in your hands. You could feel the heat from your cheeks radiating onto your palms.

“I might have to take you up on that,” Mike said, and you peeked up from your hands. There was a light flush on his cheeks as well, and he wasn’t really looking you in the eye. “On the second account. I think it’s probably my turn to get you dinner.”

You froze, then looked up at him fully. Was he really asking what you thought he was?

“What about it? Just you and me, we can go get dinner sometime.” He looked at you for a second, and then his eyes darted away for a second as you watched the blush spread down his neck.

“Like, as a date?” Your heart pounded in anticipation; your question hung in the air, waiting for his response. You bit the inside of your lip as you waited for his answer.

“Yeah,” he finally said, nodding. “A date.” He looked you in the eyes as he said it, and you could see the sincerity written in them.

You felt a wide smile start to cross your face as you started nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, I would love that so much, oh my gosh.”

“Awesome,” he breathed out. “Okay. I’ll call you? And we can set up a time then?”

“That sounds perfect,” you said, still smiling at him, cheeks hurting with how large your grin was. “Or, you know, come over.”

“I forgot I could do that,” he said sheepishly, eyes darting away from yours for a second before returning to meet your gaze. “Yeah. I’ll come over.”

You both stood there, smiling at each other for a while. His brown eyes shone, and you were starting to notice little flecks of green in their depths—but then you spotted the clock behind his head and realized that you were about to be late for a meet-up with your friends.

“Shoot,” you said and pulled away from him as you started looking around for your shoes. “I have to go. I’m gonna be so late—I mean, it’s unbelievably worth it to be late, but still.”

Mike helped you look, and when he found your shoes hidden underneath the couch, he handed them over. You carefully tugged them on and stood up straight as you looked at him again. “I’d better hear from you tonight, Mike Schmidt. I’ve waited way too long for you to ask me out already.”

“Don’t worry,” he said as he guided you to the front door and held it open for you, “I don’t think I could wait any longer either.”

You gave him a giddy grin and took a step outside before halting and pivoting back towards him. “Oh shoot, I totally forgot something.”

“Oh, what?” He asked, and that was when you carefully cradled his cheek in your hand and leaned up to deliver a soft kiss on his cheek. You pulled back after a second to see his bright red face, and that was when you let out a little laugh, a quick “Okay, bye!” and ran to your home.

When you got back inside your house, you saw Mike carefully touch his cheek as he closed his front door, face still red.

You couldn’t wait until later.

(a/n: I love this guy so much oh my gosh he's so cute and such a good brother and AAAAHHHHH!!! Also sorry its been so long since i posted I'm much more active on ao3)

[cocorara]

i've been playing mysme again aaaaaaa T_T

[soappbar]

shigeo is autistic and reigen is a good father figure

im going mob psychotic sorry for stalking the entire fandom for the past week

[inkskinned]

you said you were stuck in a time loop, which was fine. i feel like late-stage capitalism has us all in a time loop, ammiright? you came barging in at 5:33. in the morning. i hadn't even processed the idea of coffee.

but you had this look of utter panic in your eyes. terror like the ocean. you grabbed my cheeks. im in a time loop.

i don't know why in movies the first reaction is to deny it. when someone is panicking like that, it's not appropriate to ask them to calm down. it didn't matter if i believed it, what mattered was that you believed it so much that it was consuming you.

so here we are. i pour you some of the dark roast. "you look like utter and entire hell," i say.

you push your fingers into your eyes. "you always say that."

i try to think of something funny to say that i wouldn't have said on previous time loops, but jokes don't land without the proper timing (lol). "remind me to think -"

"-yeah, of a joke that only works in the future. and before you say anything, i know you're pissed i just stole your punchline." you bolt the coffee, which is wild. it's very hot. you don't seem to notice.

i blow on mine to cool it down. i both am very pissed at you and also i can't see you in this amount of panic without wanting to help. but i'm also not really sure what we are, not since i saw you kiss her like that, no offense. it just was like, kind of rude when you knew i liked you.

and besides. i'm just like, barely a person. i write omegaverse fanfiction. i love the concept of a time loop, but what the fuck am i gonna do? send an alpha in there? i open my mouth.

you point at me. "you're about to ask why me. and then say some disparaging shit about yourself. i'm just a nerd who plays dnd or something. that self-own is slightly different each time." you sigh. "i know you think you can't really help me. i don't know who can help me. i only came to you because you fucking believe me." you check your watch, sigh, and throw your head back. you cover your eyes with one hand. "i've come here on 26 separate revolutions," you say. "you have believed me every time. and yeah, i have no idea how you fit into this but i just -" you sigh again. "i just like fucking talking to someone about it."

"do you need more cof-" i start, but you're already holding the empty cup out. i frown at it. "you're not getting any more until you promise not to bolt this one like an animal."

you laugh a little and sit up, pushing your hair out of your face. "okay, that's new dialogue. but to be fair to you, i'm not usually this rude. i'm still pretty new at all of this." you check your watch again. another sigh. i guess you're cruising for a personal best in the Sigh Olympics.

i almost tell you im not an NPC but i've played enough video games to know i'm very much an NPC. i pour you another cup. "so what happens in the loop?"

"really bad explosion." you mutter into the mug. you put your elbows on the table (rude) and bury your face in your arms like an angsty teenager. one hand floats up while you talk, because evidently you literally can't talk without your hands. "i have to save the day and there's this bomb and i have no bomb training and it keeps moving, you know."

"do i die?"

you peek up from your arms. "yeah. bigtime. you keep trying to run or stay or do anything and you always super die."

"oh."

"to be fair, like, everyone dies in it though.... so you're in good company."

i hate that you make me laugh. i hate that being around you always feels tingly and strange, this electric tension between us. something that is evidently (given how you stuck your tongue down a stranger's throat literally 3 days ago) (well. 3 for me) super one-sided. i take a sip of my coffee and close my eyes.

i die today, i guess. a little spark of panic starts at the top of my hands and starts whipping up my wrists.

"shit," you say. you look at your watch and jump to your feet. "i have to go. if i can come back, i will. i am still trying to figure out when is best to do everything, you know? the order of stuff. maybe morning isn't good for us."

i look up at you and think about how you keep kissing me in the back of my car and in alleyways and in the dark. and i can never fucking get a read on you. and i also think about how incredibly panicked you look. how broken. how long have you been doing this? "i don't want to die," i say.

you glance downwards. "well, you're not really dead, you'll come back in the loop."

"but i will have died." my hands are shaking. i am trying really hard to stay calm.

you push your hands through your hair again. "i really have to go. i will have this discussion with the next version of you, though. it is like, something i am thinking about."

"but i don't get a next version," i say. i don't really have the language for this, because i haven't had 26 tries with you. i only have my memories: you, a week ago. drunk and telling me you loved me in my ear. you, kissing her anyway. you, months ago, throwing up on my birthday, whispering to me i ruin everything i touch, always, over and over. please don't ask. i can't ever fucking have that be you.

i run my finger along the rim of the mug. "i don't want to die in this one."

you seem baffled by this. "i get that but - time will reset, you'll be fine, you won't even remember we talked about this."

"but i know now." i stand up too. "i have to live the rest of this day knowing i could die. knowing i probably am going to."

"you could always die, to be fair."

i feel my hands get out of control. "earlier, you said i always say a different insult about myself. what if you're just going through different parallel universes and those are all just different - but real - versions of myself? what if you're not in a time loop, you're in a fucking universe loop?"

"if it helps, i've wondered this too. also, you're hot in all of them. if that helps."

i point at you. "no flirting. i'm trying to figure out if i die today."

"who's flirting?" you catch my wild hands and give me that long, perfect smile. like we're in this together. "i won't let ya die." you check your watch and sigh again. "well. maybe not this time."

i grit my teeth. you are so not making quips at me while i try to explain the existential dread i'm having. "does the time loop reset if i fucking kill you?"

"honestly i don't know how long it continues after i die, because i just wake up. it could be that the loop goes until the explosion for everyone, and we're all in the loop, or it could be that when i die, the loop restarts. when i die i wake up, is all."

i pull away from you and stalk into the kitchen and start doing all 3 of my dishes. "okay, first, you know i was joking. and secondly, this is exactly my point. you don't know if this is just a parallel universe. maybe in the ones where you died, the explosion happened and nobody reset and it's just you travelling." i have to stop and push the heel of my palm into my eyeball. "... how often have you died?"

i look at you. you look at me. you give me this very sad, halfway smile and a little what can ya do shrug. something in that action seems so old and weary that i want to burst into tears.

"i have to go," you say. "really. for real. there's this family of five i save from getting into a car crash. and i know it's like oh but we're all gonna die in the explosion anyway, what's the point. and..." you shrug again. "it matters to me, is all. at least i saved them for now. at least i saved anything."

you pad over to me and wrap me in a tight hug. you always seem so tall against me. i feel your cheek rest against the top of my head for a moment. for a second, it's just us, and the space is warm, and my heart is a little broken hare.

you leave me there, and i stand in my stupid badly lit kitchen with my stupid mugs. i think about you. i start texting my mom that she needs to get out of the city, but it feels pointless.

i don't know what to do. tomorrow is the same day for you. but i have to prepare to die in my today.

[nothingbizzare]

Learn to be kind to yourself

[zimternet]

quit lookin at me like that and eat ur damn food

[nakathemoth]

i mean. yeah

[banana-banshee]

Hairstyle buddies ✨

[campyvillain]

EVERYONE shut the FACK UP IM ON PUTER

[andypantsx3]

˖˚˳⊹ — you're invited to 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝒃𝒐𝒚 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓, a shouto x reader open collab!

summer is on its way in the northern hemisphere, and what better time than the year's hottest season to celebrate bnha's hottest boy!! :3 let's give the shouto stans (me) some cool summer refreshments!!

˖˚˳⊹ — 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆: shouto 😌💕(collab title is 'pretty boy summer' but that's just the timing; a summer theme is not necessary to include!!)

˖˚˳⊹ — 𝒇𝒊𝒄 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔: fic should contain endgame shouto x reader; poly shouto x reader x other character allowed as well! any theme, genre & rating accepted, including nsfw + sfw, fluff, smut, dark content, etc. please be as inclusive as possible with references to reader's body type + skin, eye, and hair color & texture; preferably exclude where possible.

˖˚˳⊹ — 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒕: minimum 500 words, no maximum. one submission per person please!!

˖˚˳⊹ — 𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔: art should contain shouto, shouto x reader, or poly shouto x reader x other character! any theme & rating accepted, including nsfw + sfw, dark content, etc. if rendering reader or parts of reader's body, please considering rendering reader in grayscale!!

˖˚˳⊹ — 𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔: this is an 18+ collab. you must have an age indicator clearly displayed on your blog to participate!!

˖˚˳⊹ — 𝒕𝒐 𝒋𝒐𝒊𝒏: please send me an ask or DM stating that you intend to participate by june 15, 2024, along with any other details (piece title, summary, warnings, etc) you have by then! i'll put you into a separate masterlist post that will be updated as pieces are posted.

˖˚˳⊹ — 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆: august 10, 2024! once you have posted, please send me a link to your work. please also tag your piece with #prettyboysummercollab so i can find it in case i lose links!! if you are a writer, please include the title, summary, and word count. if you are an artist please include the title (if applicable), a brief description, & warnings (if applicable).

*also a quick note i will be out of the country july 23 - august 5 so if you send me your piece there may be some delay adding to the masterlist. apologies in advance!

[thumb-taks]

I am BEGGING YOU GUYS HES A BIRD

Stop taking the bird motif out of him. let him keep his wings. no more cape. let him be a bird.

[thischickwritessometimes]

I don't ever really post here but there are people finding my Wilbur fics here and I feel uncomfortable about ever having written those! So I might end up taking them down/untagging them as Wilbur. Because he's a terrible person who deserves to rot.

[biggestsimponhere]

Star wars men you will always be famous, i’m in love with them.

[perotovar]

#when pedro does The Thing™ | insp

[morning-star-joy]

daydreams

Pairing: Joel x F!Reader, Post-Outbreak Jackson Era

Summary: It's been years since Joel's kissed anybody, and your lips are all he can think about.

Tags/Warnings: Soft, Touch-Starved, Pining Joel. Grumpy x Sunshine. Resolved Tension. Mentions of alcohol and food consumption. Brief mentions of sexual desire. Entirely in Joel's POV. No mention of Reader's age or appearance other than wearing lipstick in one scene.

Wordcount: 6.4k

A/N: Really enjoyed exploring an entire Joel x Reader fic all in his head, focusing on how he falls in love with Reader. Big thank you to @joelsgreys who was excited about this idea with me, and @cupofjoel who always inspires me with her own amazing work (and that Clicker joke she made that ended up in this fic hehe)!

Here's my Kofi if you're interested in supporting my work further💜

Beautiful dividers by @saradika

Masterlist

People fucking love you.

It was the first of many things that Joel was burdened to discover about you, small facts and inconsequential incidents about who you were as a person that floated around in his subconscious until they burrowed under his skin, much like you did.

He could remember checking his patrol schedule on the board one chilly autumn day. A scarf that was decades old but new to him, too soft for his rough skin, was wrapped around his neck and keeping him warm while he peered over the heads of two men crowding in front of the arranged names.

Despite Joel’s size, he had always been good at not being seen if he didn’t want to be, at least when it counted. It was a harder habit to keep up with in Jackson, a place where everybody wanted to know anybody at all. The feeling of at least one set of eyes on him at all times when he walked the streets was an odd juxtaposition to the foreign comfort that radiated inside the town’s tall walls.

Not a watch kept on him, but curiosity that peered at him around every corner. He had thought it would die down eventually, but it lingered with a stubbornness even years later.

Now though, both men didn’t have a care in the world for his presence behind him, crowding around the board and a pair of names he couldn’t quite glimpse until one of them turned, jumping at the sight of the unintentionally imposing figure at their back.

“Oh!” the man let out a noise of surprise before recomposing. He was a newer patrolman, his name starting with a C, Chuck or something. “Joel, hey man. Didn’t see you there.”

The familiarity in the way his name is spoken makes Joel bristle for a moment, but he calms his raised hackles before it can be noticed.

Back in Boston, his name had been a familiar one spoken too. But hints of apprehension, even fear crept around the syllables of those who knew it, those who had heard it whispered in the alleys of where he’d left somebody’s blood splattered against the dilapidated brick walls.

“Hey,” the other patrolman offers in greeting when he notices the pair aren’t alone anymore, and Joel nods, glancing towards the two names their heads had been bent down around when they moved out of the way.

There’s a name he doesn’t have a face to place to it, another person new to patrol. He’d only seen the name in passing on the board each time he checked assignments recently, though this time it's right above his own, listed as his partner on his next route.

“Lucky man,” the other patrolman says with a clap to Joel’s shoulder, and he hates it, jaw setting tight enough that the first patrolman gently nudges his friend away with a wary look.

“I’m always stuck with Willy,” the first one says, and Joel glances back towards the board, searching for that name and seeing it paired with Chad. Names for faces, a common courtesy in the settlement, one he still had a hard time keeping up with sometimes, even years into being here. “Been dying for a chance to head out with her.”

There’s a gesture back towards the name paired with Joel’s, and he stares at the letters written into the thin wooden plaques that are used to arrange assignments on the board. Stares so much even as his fellow patrolmen leave, chattering amongst themselves about Joel’s new partner as he frowns in confusion over why it wasn’t his brother’s name.

“You could use some friends,” Tommy explains with a jovial smile when Joel shows up on his doorstep to question him about the change, though there’s an undertone of ribbing to his tone that makes Joel glare at the younger man. “I figure she’s the perfect one to bring you out of that stubborn shell.”

Joel scoffs at that, brows still knitted together in frustration as he gets ready for bed the night before he’ll have to wake up early to head out with this unknown person on patrol. He’s annoyed over the idea of something as irrelevant as socialization trumping protection on his route, frustrated that he’d have to watch his own back for the dangers only a human could pose, as much as the trail ahead of him for Infected.

But then he meets you, and he understands.

At least, Joel understands why those men had been jealous of his patrol partner when he shows up at the assignment board the next morning, hoping to grab a hot drink in one of the thermoses provided before heading out. He prays for at least the last dregs of some coffee when he sees a small gathering of other patrolmen, including the two from before. All smiles and laughter, until one turns their head towards him.

Joel meets your eyes for the first time, a smile gracing your face as he does so, and he understands.

“Joel Miller,” is the first thing you ever say to him by way of greeting, uttering the syllables in near disbelief, like he’s some fabled myth you’ve finally caught a glimpse of. There’s an infectious, positive energy in the way you say his name to him, in the way you say everything, he’ll come to find. Like there’s things in the world still worthy of being spoken with such excitement. “Good to finally meet you.”

He just nods, eyes flickering to the disappointment on the faces of those gathered around you as your attention focuses solely on him. You move closer, holding up two thermoses in hand, Joel’s gaze narrowing down to them as you gesture with each and ask, “Coffee or tea?”

With a blink, he stares at each before looking back up into your face, noticing the hint of amusement across your features as his lips part, and the first thing he utters in your presence is an awkward hedge of, “Uh.”

Your lips quirk up into a wider smile, and Joel notices then that for all its brightness, it's almost half a smirk. There’s humor in your gaze, and he feels those sharp hackles of his start to rise again until you clarify kindly, “Which do you prefer?”

His brows knit together, looking back down into your hands, and he realizes you’re offering him the choice of which one he wants for the morning.

“Coffee,” he says instantly before his mind can catch up, and the point of your teeth peek past your lips now in a grin when you pass the thermos to him.

“Smart man,” you comment in passing, oblivious to how the two simple words will stick into his mind and replay themselves in the exact tone of your voice for weeks to come. “I prefer tea, anyway.”

You raise your own thermos to his, eyes twinkling with that same good humor, that warm mirth that suddenly makes Joel’s stomach flip when you add, “Looks like the start of a beautiful partnership.”

It is.

Joel hates to admit it, but you work startlingly well together.

He’s paranoid at first, glancing back over his shoulder at you every now and then, but your eyes are always trained on the area around you, keeping diligent watch. Except for when he’s staring at you for too long, for reasons he doesn’t know yet, or is too stubborn to believe.

You somehow always catch him in those stolen moments, smiling at him when he whips his head back around to refocus on the trail in front of him. Sometimes there’s a soft chuckle under your breath when he does so, and those are the times he stubbornly faces ahead for the rest of patrol, so you won’t see the heat creeping into his face that he curses every time you bring it out of him.

He’s too goddamn old to be blushing like a schoolboy, but around you, his body betrays his age and does it anyway.

Sometimes you talk to him. Joel can’t figure out for the life of him why. You certainly aren’t the type to ever be searching for conversation, a whole host of willing participants to speak with you gathering around you every morning before you set out for patrol with him.

But you talk to him anyway. Offer things about yourself and ask him questions in return, ones he hardly answers with more than a few words, if he even replies at all.

That doesn’t bother you. You continue the conversation, and though he barely says a thing, you manage to make him still feel involved. Like you’re not just talking at him, but with him.

It’s just something about you, Joel eventually realizes. There’s a charm about you that goes beyond just a natural charisma. It’s a force of gravity, as inexplicable as it is irresistible, pulling in those around you, and they don’t even care. They want it.

Because you’re not simply bubbly and friendly, but you’re warm. Warm and bright, pure sunshine that brighten up the shortening days, and at some point through that fall of patrolling with you, Joel finds himself riding beside you instead of in front of you.

He nods more to what you say, following along better to whatever stories you’re sharing that morning, tales you never seem to run out of. He starts to answer your questions with sentences instead of words. Sometimes, he sneaks glances at you, and he’s always shocked in the moments when you’re already looking at him.

At first, Joel thinks he’s caught you in those moments. But you just smile at him when his eyes meet yours, unbothered by him noticing your attention on him, and he’s the one turning away yet again, facing the trees away from you so you won’t notice what that soft laughter of yours does to him.

You’re also more than capable in a fight, proving yourself time and time again in sticky situations, and soon enough, Joel doesn’t really mind waking up those early mornings when he knows you’ll be waiting for him with a thermos in each hand. He looks forward to an unnecessary apology on your lips if there’s no coffee that day, and the way you make him take a hot drink anyway—sometimes a pastry too, gently chiding him on taking better care of himself.

“I need you all big and strong for patrol,” you teased him once, but you still glance up and down his body with an appreciation he doesn’t think should be for him, even as he greedily drinks it in anyway. 

Then you wink, and he finds himself unable to make eye contact with you for the rest of the day.

Even then, he knows you’ll have his back, as he has yours.

Yeah, you work well together.

So well, in fact, that he finds his mood takes a sharp decline when he checks the assignment board months into being on patrol with you, and sees Tommy’s name paired with his again.

It makes sense. Winter arrives in Jackson, and with it, increased numbers of Infected on patrol. Joel needs to work with Tommy to clear out the routes hit the worst by hordes, for the good of the settlement.

Joel had never hated practicality before, but he does in that moment he first sees your name paired with Chad.

Chad, the young man with a stupid grin on his face while his buddy expresses jealousy over the “luck” of his assignment, and Joel hates the feeling of the same jealousy curling in his gut.

He hates it when you’re not waiting for him in the mornings. Hates it when your smile isn’t for him, when he’s not listening to your voice express every emotion imaginable in whatever story you’re telling him.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s feeling, doesn’t know that he’s lonely until he’s waiting for Tommy one morning when his brother kisses Maria goodbye before going on patrol.

It only hits him then, with the warm, open affection Tommy gazes at his wife with before leaving, and how she watches him with fondness as he goes. Only then does he feel the hollow ache in his chest, a gaping hole that’s only caved in deeper when your presence came and went.

He’s still thinking about it that night when sleep won’t come to him. Rubbing together his lips, chapped from the cold winter air from being outside all day, he wonders when the last time he’d had another mouth pressed to it.

Jesus, when’s the last time he kissed someone?

It’s a stupid thing to think, an embarrassing thought that has him turning onto his stomach and burying his face into his pillow. His arms outstretched beneath it, he groans into the fabric, trying to shove away the emptiness even as it continues to ache.

It fucking aches, and it shouldn’t. He was too old, had gone through too damn much to even care about kissing anybody.

So he tells himself he doesn’t. Convinces himself he couldn’t give less of a fuck about not being able to remember the last time he’d kissed somebody. Pretends he doesn't care about holding another person in his arms, lips pressed together just for the sake of it.

Joel likes to think he does a pretty good job of not caring about it, up until the next time he sees you.

You’re standing at the table of food and drink before patrol, eyes scanning over the pastries available with an intense look of deliberation for what you were craving that morning. When you find what you want, your lips part, tongue darting out to lick them in anticipation of your treat, and Joel’s blood runs hot in a way he thought himself no longer capable of.

He watches with rapt attention as you bring the scone to your mouth for a bite, how crumbs of it flake off onto your lips while you nod in satisfaction at the taste.

It’s a taste Joel wants to capture for himself. He wants to find the sweetness of the pastry on your lips, to press his mouth to yours and have you fill that emptiness, to have you soothe that ache in him with the exploration and discovery of you.

“Joel Miller!”

He blinks, hazy vision refocusing on the tantalizing soft look of your lips to see them curved up into a smile, and his eyes flicker up to see you looking right at him as you call to him, speaking his name like he’s still some legend you can’t believe exists until you see him again.

Yet again, he’s caught right in the center of your web—so many times now, that he almost starts to wonder if he willingly walks into it. Merciless to whatever you intend to do with him now that you have him right there, right where you want him.

But you just smile, head tilted with your gazes locked together, and suddenly he doesn’t care if you trap him or if he’s giving himself to you. You have him, and that’s enough.

Then, your lips part, tongue catching those crumbs still stuck to the corner of your upper lip, and Joel’s own lips part, breath hitching through them.

You notice.

You have to notice, because the edge of your smile curls up even more, eyes striking with the joy of a newfound discovery about the stoic man you’d found steadfast by your side for months of patrol, a silent presence now outright ogling you the same way everybody else did.

Everywhere you went, you were sure to find people lazing about in the warm rays of sunlight you cast from your very soul.

Joel wondered if you ever got tired with how much you gave. 

How much everyone took.

And now here he was, taking just the same. Your stunning vision reduced to an idle daydream, one you’d caught him in the very first moment he’d had it. 

Joel thought about what he must look like to you then. Just a lonely old man, longing for a touch. Like a mangy stray turning up at your doorstep, desperate just for the offhand chance of an ounce of kindness you had made the grave mistake of showing him before.

Because now he would always be back, aching for more.

Pathetic.

He turns from you at the sharp voice of self-hatred in his mind, walking away at the same moment you take a step forward. Joel brushes past those other souls just as eager, just as desperate for your attention as he tries to get far away from what you make him feel.

But it stays knotted up in his chest, ever more evident in your absence, the memory of your smile like a pain throbbing in his bones, ringing in his mind when he brushes off Tommy’s concern with a gruff “doesn’t matter” before heading out.

Because it doesn’t.

It doesn’t matter.

But it does.

Jackson had not only brought safety and comfort, but the luxury of wanting.

And, dear Lord, he wanted.

He hasn’t stopped wanting, not since that first morning when he really noticed the curve of your lips, the shape of them taunting and tempting him. 

Now he notices them every time he sees you. The slight quiver of them in a brush of cold winter wind, and how you pull a tube of homemade chapstick out of the pocket of your jacket to run over them. How you rub your lips together to spread it along each gorgeous line and indentation before popping them out with a smack, and Joel nearly fucking moans at the sight the first time.

God, he wants so badly.

He needs, he thinks sometimes, on the coldest, darkest nights. Thoughts of your mouth and what it would be capable of plaguing his mind as he breathes hotly into his pillow and tries to stay still, tries not to rut into the mattress just from the thoughts of what a simple kiss from you would feel like, giving and taking until it was impossible to tell where he ended and you began.

Because it was you.

It was always you.

Some days, it’s all Joel can think about. Your eyes, your hands, your laughter, but most of all, every bend and curve of your lips. 

It’s embarrassing how much just the mere thought of you consumes him. 

And it’s frightening, the power you would have over him if daydreams ever became reality.

What makes it even worse, is that he thinks you know. Joel’s almost sure of it, the way your eyes linger on him whenever you pout or purse your lips together at something especially grumpy that he says.

It’s like you’re doing it on purpose now, and he falls for it anyway, gazing at the fullness of your mouth, the most beautiful color he’s ever seen, with an aching want that he pretends never happened when it turns up into a smile.

Time and time again, you catch him wanting.

And you let him.

You never make a move to stop him, to call him out on it. Instead, you feed the fire, with a kindness in your smile and a mischief in your eyes that Joel is fucking addicted to.

If all you’re doing is stringing him along, he’s more than willing to let you do it, if it only means that the joy that lights up your face whenever you see him never dies out.

He sees it again one afternoon when he runs into you on the street, a bundle of produce from the greenhouses tucked underneath one arm that he almost offers to carry for you by some forgotten reflex, manners he used to have, when you distract him with a question of, “Are you going to that dinner for the patrolmen Maria is putting on?”

“Uh.” Joel winces at how he always finds himself hedging around you. He doesn’t think the things he’s said in your presence is enough to fill a page, even though you’ve plagued his thoughts enough that he could write a whole fucking book on you. 

There’s already a little smirk on your face as he hesitates, and he clears his throat, shifting on his feet with startling uncertainty you always drag from him as he finally responds gruffly, “Yeah, I s’pose so.”

“Great!” you chirp, your free hand patting him on the chest as you move to brush past him, fingers idling on the buttons of his flannel, gliding down along them in a way that sets all his nerve endings alight. “Save me a seat, would you?”

His body turns with the motion of you stepping past him to watch you go, breath caught in his throat as he wonders if you’re joking or not.

Regardless, he saves you a seat when that night comes.

It’s not like anybody wants to sit with him anyway. Most of the others seem to avoid him like the plague. Even years into being in the town, and Joel still feels like he sticks out like a sore thumb.

He doesn’t blame them. Even with his rough exterior growing softer than it had been in decades, he was a shit conversation partner. Joel just didn’t know how to do the things that they did anymore, not amongst strangers. He was happy enough with his own people, and he wishes that he was back home, playing guitar or watching movies with Ellie instead of sitting here alone, reminded constantly of everything he was lacking in.

When he’s asked if the seat next to him is taken so somebody can sit with their friend, Joel hesitates, resisting the urge to just get up and leave altogether when a familiar voice rings out, “It is!”

His head turns, and there you are, face aglow with a warm smile when you round the table towards him, and Joel is already halfway up out of his seat before he even realizes what he’s doing.

Your smile turns to him, eyes brightening with a spark at his quick movement that makes his heart pound in his chest, before you’re taking the back of the chair from the other patrolman’s grasp with a sweet, “Thanks, Astrid.”

When you start to pull the chair back further to sit, Joel takes it from you to do it for you, and it’s the first time he sees genuine surprise flash through your eyes. Still, you smile, and there’s a quiver of excitement to your lips that turns his aching into a yearning the longer he looks at them.

It’s also then when he notices that they’re painted, a shade of lipstick that fills them out further, complimenting your beauty with the way you had dressed so finely for the occasion tonight.

To sit next to him?

The question of futile hope echoes in his mind as you sink into the chair with a grin you’re trying to hide, and his hands are shaking as he pushes the chair in and takes his seat next to you again, something he also tries to hide as he folds them together and tucks them under the table.

When a bottle of wine is offered around, Joel can’t hold in a quiet chuckle at the way you jump in excitement for a glass. It's tilted in your fingers, the liquid swirling gently around the glass before you take a sip, and he’s enraptured by the sight of your lips wrapping around the rim, unable to glance away from the mark you leave on it once you set it back onto the table.

He’s fixated on that lipstick stain, can’t fucking look away from the shape of your lips painted onto the glass, and Joel starts to vividly imagine you leaving that mark on him instead. He wants evidence of your kiss all along his skin, down the collar of his shirt, smeared across his own lips as he takes your mouth in his, again and again.

He wants those marks trailing down, down, wants those painted lips teasing him until it smears all across that pretty face, wants them wrapped around his—

“Joel.”

His head snaps up, catching the gaze of his brother across from him. Tommy’s brow arches in question as he asks, “You good?”

“Yeah.” Joel clears his throat when his voice comes out thick, shifting in his seat while his folded hands move into his lap, shifting the napkin to help his new…issue. “Yeah, ‘m fine.”

“Really?” Tommy asks, his gaze one of suspicion, and maybe a bit of amusement as he drawls, “‘Cause I asked you if you wanted a glass of wine about three times, and you didn’t respond.”

Joel pales at being caught, jaw ticking with annoyance at the glee in his brother’s eyes when they snap to you sitting beside him, and he reasserts roughly, “I’m fine.”

Tommy backs off then, turning his attention somewhere else, and Joel almost relaxes until you hold your glass out to him and offer with a smile, “Want to try some of mine?”

The look in your eyes when the blood rushes back into Joel’s cheeks is nothing but goddamn trouble, and he fucking loves it.

You watch him as he stares at the mark of your lips on the glass. He imagines what it would be like to wrap his own lips around it, wondering if he’d taste you with the wine, and he quickly clears the lump that tightens in his throat before mumbling, “No, thank you, ma’am.”

A grin plays on your lips at that, and he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more in his life than to kiss you at that moment. He wants to grab your face and pull you into him so fucking bad, wants your mouth to claim him, bruise him, make him hurt until he heals.

Instead, he keeps his hands to himself, still folded in his lap in a vice grip over his napkin now when you tease, “Ma’am, huh? I think I like that one.”

You wink, and all the blood flooding into his face suddenly rushes south.

Without a doubt, you had him completely fucked.

You talk to Joel the entire night.

Your head is turned to him throughout dinner, and you ask him more questions than ever before. Unlike your patrols, where you were content to tell stories, and he content to listen, you gently prod him to tell you his own. 

Joel’s voice is quiet when he assents, the low, gentle timbre hardly audible over the din of conversation around the long table. He’s sure he must be boring, a drab collection of colors long washed out in comparison to your blinding vibrancy, but you may as well have been the only two in the room with the way you listen to him.

You’re leaning in with your chin resting on a closed fist, nodding along to what he says with eyes dancing over his face so intently, as if to memorize him the same way he did you.

He’s surprised that he wants you to.

At the end of the dinner, when everybody’s bellies are full and they’re filtering out the door, Joel isn’t even shocked that he’s unwilling to leave your side. Though he is startled when the question slips quietly past his lips, “Mind if I walk you home, darlin’?”

You look back from where you were grabbing your jacket with wide eyes, stunned at the unexpected question and the pet name that had escaped him without a second thought. For a moment, he’s worried he finally scared you away, but then you smile.

“I’d like that.”

Joel nods, trying to calm the racing of his heart as he gently tugs the jacket from your grip and helps you put it on. He doesn’t miss the shiver that runs through you when his fingers brush against your skin, and suddenly there’s a feeling of anticipation simmering low in his belly, a warmth that spreads through his chest when the two of you stroll under the streetlights and eventually reach your doorstep.

You don’t let him turn away.

Somehow, he ends up on your couch. His boots and coat are left by your front door as he sits next to you, a glass of wine finally in his hand to ease the strain of his nerves. Your legs are tucked comfortably underneath yourself, the side of your face resting on the back of the couch, gazing up at him as you talk about nothing in particular.

You never seem to run out of questions for him. He answers the ones he can, and you’re not offended when he avoids the others. 

Tonight, Joel asks you questions too. Things he once thought didn’t matter anymore, but right now, he wants to know them all—where you grew up, your favorite movie, the concerts you’d been to before the world went to hell.

It becomes a back and forth—you ask him a question, he answers. Then it’s his turn to ask a question, and you answer.

Hours go by, wine is refilled, and when it’s your turn again, you ask him with such startling gentleness, “How long has it been since you kissed someone?”

Joel freezes.

His breath catches in his throat, and he can’t bring himself to look at you. He knows that when he does, he’ll see for sure that you’ve been aware of his pining, his fantasies, all along, and he doesn’t think he can face that.

Instead, he takes another long sip of wine, swallowing down the liquid courage before he answers lowly, “It’s, uh...been a while.”

Silence falls between you then, with more weight to it than any before in that night, and he has to fill it. So he does with the first thing that springs to his mind, “What about you?”

You hum thoughtfully, even as his heart lurches in his chest when the question spills from his lips. He can’t believe he actually fucking asked that, and then you actually answer it, “A couple months ago.”

Joel’s head snaps up, eyes glancing over your face as you trace the rim of your glass with a thoughtful expression.

“Was it…” he hesitates, before deciding he may as well say whatever he wants now that he’s already gone ahead and fucked it all up by asking about it in the first place, “good?”

“Nah,” you sigh, shrugging casually as you smirk in amusement at the recollection, “it’s like he was eating my face.”

Joel snorts at that, brow arching as he retorts dryly, “You go on a date with a Clicker or somethin’?”

You laugh then, head tilting back with the joyful sound, and he realizes it’s something he wants to hear for the rest of his life, even as you playfully nudge his shoulder and mutter, “Shut up.”

He chuckles along with you, looking back down into his glass as a sigh falls from his lips, and he mumbles more to himself than you, “Not sure I’d be much better, at this point.”

Suddenly, you shift beside him, pulling his attention back to you as you sit up straight. There’s a spark of interest kindling in your eyes, one that makes his throat go dry as your eyes slowly scan over his face, down to his lips.

They part under your attention, and your pupils dilate in the darkness of the room, pulling a soft exhale from Joel’s mouth at the sight of you wanting.

You.

Wanting.

“I don’t know about that,” you murmur as you set your glass down on your coffee table, then do the same with his, tugging it easily from his grasp before leaning in towards him. “But we could find out.”

Joel licks his lips, and you’re on your hands and knees now, crawling towards him on the couch as his eyelids flutter and he rasps out, “I—darlin’, I don’t think I—”

“You don’t want to?” you whisper, stopping instantly at the idea of going too far, and horror rushes through him at the thought of you believing he didn’t want you.

“No, that’s not—” he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. He exhales heavily into his palm, trying to find the words before he removes it to admit, “I just…don’t think it’d be that enjoyable for ya.”

You scoff, leaning forward to settle on your knees right beside him, fingertips finding the edge of his jawline. They run across it, and Joel’s eyes fall shut, sighing from the sensation of being touched after so long, of it being your hands on his face when you cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones so softly. 

You stroke his skin like you were holding something delicate, and not a living, breathing instrument of death with the scars to prove it right under your palms.

What did you see in him?

“Joel,” you breathe, and a whimper gets caught in his throat, his eyes blinking back open, struggling to refocus on you under the heavy heat of the moment. “Do you want to?”

He doesn’t have to think twice, doesn’t even want to as his voice comes out in a hoarse whisper, a desperate beg of, “Yes.”

Your lips are on his then, and his hand finds the small of your back, tugging you into him as he groans into the mouth he’s been dreaming of, day and night, for months on end.

Joel tries to be gentle with it, but it feels so fucking good, and God, now his hands are shaking. He has to grip onto your waist tightly to anchor himself to the moment, to remind himself that you’re there. This isn’t one of his vivid daydreams, or images that taunt him in his sleep that he’ll wake up painfully hard from.

No, you’re here, lips pliable and just as wanting as his when his tongue tentatively traces the shape of them, knowing the curve of your mouth from long stolen glimpses even with his eyes closed, even through just the touch of his lips to them alone. 

Your mouth opens eagerly, and he licks into it, moans deeply into the sweet taste of you. His hand slides up your back to cup your neck, fingers tangling into the back of your hair as he tugs you forward by the waist until you’re settled in his lap, so he can wrap you up and pull you into him completely.

When your lips leave his, he tries to chase them with a whine stuck in the back of his throat, and he can feel that pretty smile pressed to his skin when you kiss along his bearded jaw and down the strength of his neck as it strains under your attention. 

Joel’s head falls back, sinking into the couch with the feeling of your lips descending, until there’s a sweet bite of pain that pulls his lips apart. It tugs a throaty grunt straight from the pit of heat building in his lower stomach, his hips bucking up hard into your own.

His hands are clutching your waist, the sweet syllables of your name pouring from his mouth like a prayer. The sound of his desperation, his need for you vibrates against your lips as you suck a mark on his neck, your tongue flattening against it and pulling another weak bucking up of his hips.

Your head lifts, gazing down at him with lidded eyes and a giddy smile at this mountain of a man you’d pulled apart and wrapped around your finger so easily, before you tap that very finger against the same spot on your own neck.

Joel’s jaw drops.

“I—sweetheart, I—”

He can’t find the words, can’t explain how he’s afraid he’s far too rough to do such a thing. It’s been too long, he’s out of practice, and the last thing he wants is to hurt you.

You just smile down at what he leaves unspoken, some look in your eyes that makes him tremble as you brush your hands through his hair and whisper, “You’re capable of much more softness than you realize, Joel Miller.”

A warmth eases his concern at your words, and he lets you guide his face to your neck, his lips finding your skin for a tentative kiss there. You’re putting yourself in his hands now, trusting him not to break you, just as he trusts you to lead him through this forgotten territory until it was familiar to him again.

Joel breathes you in, large hands grasping at your back as he pulls your body firmly against his, tongue darting out to taste your skin before he bites down softly.

There’s a moan that floats from your lips then, the most sweet, seductive music to his ears that’ll replay in his mind for nights to come, and Joel sucks at the skin, eager to leave his mark on you as you did him. He’s grasping desperately at your body now as you grind down into his lap, unwilling to ever let you go now that he has you.

Heavy breaths fill the air as you bring his face back up to yours, and you just kiss. Lips swelling from the attention, and Joel never wants to stop, even though he knows he’ll have to eventually.

When he does, the two of you finally needing to actually catch your breath, your forehead rests against his with a quiet sigh. It sounds dangerously like contentment, and it takes a moment before Joel realizes that such a thing isn’t so dangerous anymore.

Your nose bumps against his, and he whispers hoarsely, “How was that?”

You laugh, sounding just as breathless and raspy as him, and he can’t stop the goofy smile that stretches across his face when you hum, “Mm, I’ll need more evidence before I draw any conclusions.”

Joel’s lips meet yours again, a softer kiss shared this time, leaving the promise of more that he’d never thought he’d be able to make before he pulls back, and your smile returning his own tells him all he’s ever needed to know.

“That can be arranged.”

[tatooineknights]

Luke Skywalker in Star Wars (1977)

[skipppppy]

Something about FNAF 3 and Fazbear Frights taking place in 2023 in our current social media landscape