A Portrait Of Chris Evans I Did To Practice Textures, Shadows And Highlights (Photoshop CS6, About 8-9

I could literally die for him.

That look is just so… 😍

It would be a very lonely world if you, as a man, had to resort to that kind of behavior in order to feel value, in order to feel like you’re taken seriously. It’s cowardly…

Sebastian Stan on abusive men

Down With Love: Preview

((not my gif, I couldn’t find it!! :( )), but none the less….this is bucky’s look. for obvious reasons

                                            The summary:

Bucky Barnes had been through a lot In his lifetime, so he thanked the stars when he met you. You had met by chance, which led to the two of you happy in a relationship in the Heart of New York. After three months of living together, you finally bring up the former Russian Assasin’s newest nightmare - meeting your parents.

notes: only a preview and starting a FRESH tag list for this one. A Little bit of sexy times mentioned.

7:46 pm., new york.

It had been twenty minutes in, and you couldn’t believe that you felt as if you were watching it for the first time. Snuggled in your blankets, you had no care in the world as you watched your small screen paint the picture of your favorite film. Unable to hold back your grin, the grit, and comedy of When Harry Met Sally had echoed throughout your apartment. It wasn’t the only sound, however, you could hear Nat King Cole from the bedroom. You were all dressed for the night, wearing your best dress - your rather distinguished coat you only wore on special occasions. You were told earlier today to dress in such a way, for some reason tonight was special - and the more you thought about it, the more your heart would race. You pulled your eyes from the TV for only a moment, not realizing that you would freeze at the sight of the man you lived with walking out of your shared room. Bucky Barnes, dressed in only slacks and a button up shirt - paired with the leather jacket you loved. 

“And what do you think you’re doing?” He grinned, his eyes trailing across your blanket.

“Just catching a few minutes.” You bit your lip, feeling your heart flutter at how good he looked.

“Few minutes?” Bucky questioned, his boots clicking across your hardwood floors - he stood just to the side of you, releasing a soft chuckle.

“What?” You sounded almost too defensive, “Aw come on, you were taking too long.”

“I was taking too long, huh?” Bucky smirked down at you, “Darlin, you watch this movie four times a week. This ain’t got nothing to do with me taking too long.”

“Fair.” You hid your smile, looking back to the screen, “I just can’t help it, their story is so-”

Bucky sighed, dropping to the couch - he placed his arm behind you. There he sat beside you, his blue eyes staring with a hint of amusement.

“Don’t look at me like that!” You playfully hit his chest, “This is a story that-”

“I know.” He grinned, “Watch it all you want, doll.”

“Oh so this is the big night, huh?” You could only smile, trailing his features - appreciating the haircut he got last week.

“Well-” Bucky took a deep breath, looking to his watch, “We have reservations at eight. But we can skip them.”

“What is up with you?” You furrowed your brow, noticing that he hadn’t stopped smiling since he entered the room.

“I just think it’s cute.” He chuckled, his hand slowly making it’s way to your hair - playing softly with the strands you could tell he was transfixed.

“What?” You crossed your arms, suddenly curious.

“You look beautiful,” Bucky whispered, his finger finding your knock-off diamond earing. Playing once again, you watched his lips form a smirk.

“Don’t start that-” You took a breath, feeling your heart race speed up with every touch, “We’ll never get out of here.”

“I think we can afford to-” Bucky whispered deviously, and before you could protest - his lips had nearly lunged forward to your neck, kissing in just the right spot, nibbling to make his mark.

The Best Is Yet To Come || Lo’ak x fem!Metkayina reader

Summary: finally, Lo'ak opens up about his true feelings, not only about the Payakan situation, but also regarding you 💙

Warnings: none, pure fluff & Neteyam interrupting the confession of Lo'ak's feelings for the reader 😤

Word count: 2203

Author: Rouge

A/N: prior to reading, it’s important to know that: the reader is female Metkayina ✤  there is no particular feeling between Lo'ak & Tsireya - he’s more interested in the reader ✤ Neteyam’s into Tsireya ✤ you'll find a glossary underneath the fic

The reefs of Pandora were more than breathtaking. The reef amazed you with its diversity, with its wide range of different colors, as well as many types of creatures living there. Having been Metkayina, you have been taught to look beyond the mundane. Water was both life and death, so to immerse yourself in this very specific kind of relationship with it was indispensable.

It was not anticipated that newcomers would arrive, especially forest people, Omaticaya. With Tsireya's assignment to show the newcomers their new home, you also took part in this task. Truthfully, you were curious about this new family that was about to settle among Metkayina. As opposed to your clan - their hands were slimmer and less muscular; their tails had funny fur covering the tips, and they had thinner legs. There was no doubt in your mind that they would have difficulty adapting to your environment.

Nevertheless, within a few weeks, the Sully family made great progress - they learned to ride ilu and how to fish, and Jake Sully's youngest son even developed an unusual relationship with Payakan, a tulkun outcast.

_________________

Sunset came in its boldest blaze, as if Eywa had painted rainbow-flames across the evening sky. You were coated in a light mist of salty air from the ocean breeze, blowing gently towards the shore. Sitting on the sand with Tsireya and Lo'ak, who grew closer to the two of you, you watched the eclipse coming across the sky; throughout the area, beautiful turquoise and violet hues began to appear.

"The thought of Payakan choosing you still baffles me," Tsireya whispered to Lo'ak. 

With a single nod, you also glanced at the young Omaticaya. "Tsireya's right. It seems to me that Eywa has something great planned for you, Lo'ak."

As he listened to both of your words, young Omaticaya nodded his head occasionally; some of his braids moved back and forth as he did. "I still don't understand why your clan refuses to accept Payakan's innocence."

There was an exchange of glances between you and Tsireya.

Taking a moment to calm herself, Tsireyspoke. "Loak," she started gently, "You know he is the one responsible for those deaths, according to the Tulkun Way."

"It's unfair," he replied, shrugging within his arms as he traced shapes in the sand with one of his fingers.

As if to ease his anger and sorrow, she placed her palm on his shoulder and whispered, "This is how it is, Lo'ak."

After letting out a deep sigh, the young man got up. "Even though I understand, I find it highly unfair that he must pay for the rest of his life for fighting against sawtute." When Lo’ak had finished speaking, he walked along the shoreline alone, leaving you and Tsireya behind.

Tsireya looked after Lo’ak while he walked away. "He's so upset. I don't know how to cheer him up." 

You got up and dusted the sand crystals off your legs, saying "I'll try to speak with him once more."

Tsireya nodded in acknowledgement. "I think it's worth a try. Just remember to be gentle."

"I always am," you laughed and hugged your best friend before attempting to locate Lo'ak.

_________________

Not long afterwards, you spotted him petting his ilu while sitting on a wooden pier, almost outside the village. You watched him from a distance for a while. Tsireya was right - he was extremely upset over the situation with his spirit brother. As you were considering leaving him alone there so he could collect his thoughts and find his inner peace again, he spotted you out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head to you and laughed lightly, "Have you ever been told how bad you are at sneaking up on people?"

As you approached him, you spread your arms wide. "Too many times, actually," you replied with a shrug. As you sat beside him, you rubbed your hands together and put your legs in the water. "Lo'ak, listen, I know that..."

"I appreciate both you and Tsireya's efforts to comfort me, but..." He paused to rub his temple. "It's not that easy, I'm sure you understand my point of view."

While you gazed at Lo'ak's sadness written on his face, you said, "I understand, even though it might sound foolish. I truly understand how you feel."

A hollow look crossed his face as he watched the horizon, asking, "Do you really?"

“Sran, Lo’ak. Oel ngati kameie.”

Lo'ak looked directly at your face bathed in the last rays of the setting sun after he stopped petting his ilu's head. The way he stared at your huge eyes made it seem as if he was trying to glean every little sparkle from them. There was an obvious attempt to express a thought, but he could not find the appropriate words to do so, so he continued looking at your face, moving his gaze from your eyes to your cheekbones and lips. “Listen…”

With your palm raised, you signaled him to remain silent. While your palm rested on his chest, your eyes were never taken away from his. "Listen to me now, please. The tulkuns were violent creatures who fought among themselves for territory and revenge during the time of the First Songs, one of the earliest recollections of Na'vi history. This way of life was eventually abandoned by the tulkuns, who adopted a pacifistic philosophy in which killing is strictly forbidden, even if it is justified, as in self-defense cases. Thus, any tulkun who acts against the Tulkun Way and kills is outcast from the tulkuns. The tulkuns and my clan share a close relationship, as you might have heard, so any outcast tulkuns are rejected by us as well. It is nonetheless my strong belief that Payakan will have an opportunity to make amends, sooner nor later."

Lo'ak held his breath without even realizing it as his eyes widened. As you spoke in a reassuring tone, Lo'ak's heart calmed a little; the belief you had that Payakan could atone eased Lo'ak's soul as well. "Do you really think it would happen, Y/N?"

“Yes.” Lo'ak grew quiet as he thought once again about everything you had said. Having anxious thoughts was like riding an ikran around the village over and over again, faster and faster - it was more than pointless, so the young Omaticaya decided to push them out of his mind. In view of the beautiful eclipse that swept over the world, Lo'ak raised his head up, letting a quiet sigh out. "I strongly believe that Eywa knows... That Eywa knows he was innocent and tried to fight back after his mother and friends were killed."

Initially hesitantly, you took his five-finger palm in yours and squeezed it tightly, smiling at him. "Would you be kind enough to smile for me, Lo'ak? I don't like it... I mean, my clan don't like it when our guests are sad."

Observing your face as carefully as he could, he tilted his head to one side, considering your words. "Do they really worry about me or is it you who are concerned?" He mused.

Oh! There were moments when you wished you weren't so sensitive, that you could conceal your emotions more easily; within an instant, your cheeks were rosy and your hidden emotions were evident to everyone around. Those yellowish eyes of his were fixed on you; they were the most beautiful and understanding you've ever seen. “Lo’ak…” You started, but he touched your cheek, he rubbed his thumb against your skin, making you hold back your breath and nuzzle against his palm a tiny bit.

"Oeru lu fpom. I'm glad I met you. My family is so fortunate to have you and Tsireya as friends. You seem like such a sweet person," he complimented.

You whispered, "Oh, stop it" but his closeness had an unusual influence on you; your heart pounded as if you were being chased by akula, your skin was hot, and your pupils dilated. "I like you too, Lo'ak," you whispered back.

Suddenly Lo'ak leaned forward and gently placed his lips against yours, without a thought in his mind.

Initially, you blinked, surprised, but soon lost yourself in the sensation. Despite being messy and uncertain, his kiss was sweet and full of promises of a better tomorrow. During the kiss, you were at your most pure and vulnerable selves. There were a million loving thoughts condensed into one moment in that kiss. His lips tasted like the sweetest nectar you've ever tasted. Immediately after the kiss was broken, you looked into his eyes hesitantly, just like he did. “Lo’ak…”

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have kissed you," he apologized, gathering his composure as he rose from the pier.

"No, no, Lo'ak!" You blinked and got up as well, following him.

Lo'ak's ilu put his head over the surface of the water to observe the situation.

“I'm so sorry, I have no idea what I was guided by. I didn't want to sully your honor," he said, getting from the pier to the sandy beach.

"Lo'ak!" you yelled as you tried to stop him.

The young Omaticaya took no notice at all and tried to walk away as quickly as he could.

"Lo'ak te Suli Tsyeyk’itan!" You shouted after him.

It was only that that made him pause and look back at you.

As you approached him, you shook your head in disbelief. Observing him with your bluish eyes, you asked, "You kissed me and now you are running away? You, the one who survived meeting with Payakan alone? What is it that you are afraid of?”

As he avoided your gaze, Lo’ak whispered, "Rejection. Rejection is what I fear most."

You took a hold of his palms, squeezing them, fixing your eyes on his face. "Please, hear me out, Lo'ak. I need you to know that you matter. Not only to me, but to the fate of this planet. You need to acknowledge your worth. Be confident. Start feeling the difference you actually make," you reached out and touched his cheek lightly, your other hand was put to his chest. “As I told you before, oel ngati kameie. The confidence and certainty you feel about your own self is what I want to see from you, for I admire you, my dear. And about the kiss... Your belief that you sullied my honor is terribly misguided,” you chuckled lightly, blushing yet again.

"I thought you didn't like it," Lo'ak replied, licking his lips as they became so dry he could no longer bear the feeling.

"I've been kissed a few times before," you told him openly, "but none have been as heartwarming and perfect as yours." You could see the gratitude within the sparkles of joy in his eyes.

"Look at that! I didn't know my little bro is such a skilled kisser!" Suddenly, a vibrant tone came from behind, and you saw no one else but Neteyam, Lo'ak's older brother, approaching you.

Your anger about Neteyam destroying the moment full of trust and thrill made you grin at him a little too wryly. "Neteyam."

As Lo'ak asked, his tone was filled with anger, "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? It's well after the eclipse, and mother is worried about you," the older brother explained with a shrug. “Come on, let’s get you back home.”

Upon seeing his brother's smug grin, Lo'ak rolled his eyes and requested, "Just give us a minute."

When Neteyam walked away into the substantial distance, Lo'ak focused on you again. "I was wondering if you would like to hang out tomorrow? We might go to Payakan.”

"I think I'll be able to join you if you help me with fishing and net weaving," you told him with a smile, but deep inside you were really more than thrilled by the thought of spending more time with Lo’ak.

"You got it!" He smiled eagerly, and kissed you again, harder this time.

The actions of Lo'ak had not gone unnoticed by Neteyam, who whistled a few times. "Well, well, look at you, kiddos! It might be a good idea for me to tell mother to start preparing for your wedding, bro. Love is in the air!”

"Lay off of him, Neteyam," you warned as you leaned closer to him, "Or I'll have to open up about what I saw a few days ago."

In an instant, Neteyam stopped grinning; his eyes narrowed, turning into tiny gaps. "Don't you dare, Y/N."

Lo'ak exclaimed, "Hey, I wanna know!"

A smirk danced around your lips as you looked hardly at Neteyam and said, "Your older brother was making out with Tsireya."

Lo'ak chuckled loudly and opened his eyes wider. "Knew it! I saw you staring at her. Look at you, bro, you aren't wasting your time."

After shaking his head and groaning loudly, Neteyam turned and walked away, gesturing at Lo'ak to follow.

Lo'ak kissed your cheek briefly. "See you tomorrow!" He bid you farewell as he chased after his brother, lining up with him shortly after.

While watching him leave, your heart raced within your chest. There was no doubt in your mind that the best was yet to come.

Glossary:

sawtute - humans (“sky people”)

tulkun - a large, intelligent marine creature native to the oceans of Pandora

ilu - a sea creature, the direhorse of the Pandoran oceans

sran - yes (colloquial)

oel ngati kameie - I see you

oeru lu fpom - I’m happy

akula - a Pandoran ocean animal

Chris Hemsworth & Mark Ruffalo

𝐌𝐮𝐥𝐞 || 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Summary: A betrayal causes both you and Joel to fight for your life.

Word Count: 5.1K!

CW: In order: Horror themes. Bodies. Gory imagery, fighting infected. Wearing Joel’s clothes. Fluffiest, softest, sappiest, most tooth rotting smut. Orgasm denial. Fingering. I have been a fan of the game for YEARS, given it is the first episode of TLOU TV I am basing most of Joel’s character off game Joel. Gif credit unknown.

Tease: “… You’re not wearin’ anythin’ under that, are you?” He whispers.

The static firework-like display of spores ejecting from the corpse slumped against the opposite wall had captured your attention despite the delicate situation you found yourself in. The tendrils of fungus creep up the walls, painting them with streaks of muted peaches and reds, not unlike human flesh. It bursts from the fruiting body as violently as a bomb going off. You suppose that’s what it is, a bomb detonating slowly, killing those that breathe in the cordyceps spores.

Your gas mask sits tight on your face, digging into the skin of your nose to effectively create an airtight seal to prevent the malignant disease from entering your lungs and turning you from the inside out. Even through the dirtied visor of your mask, you can see that the corpse has fused to the ground and wall it was once sat up against, calcifying to the brick and plaster. It’s reaching its final stages of the infection: complete takeover, encroaching upon any space it can find. You didn’t doubt that in 6 months it would fill the whole room.

Despite the crawling sensation that itches across your skin at the idea of fungus creeping from your body in the cover of darkness, you couldn’t deny the morbid beauty of the scene before you. It oddly reminds you of different breeds of coral, like the kind that clings to the Great Barrier Reef. There are tan-coloured, fan-like protrusions, long strands of crimson and tubal fungi that bust directly from the chest of the deceased. Silvery dust spores glisten under the beam of your flashlight, giving the abandoned house you had entered an almost glittery effect.

“Oi. C’mon.” Your smuggling partner's Texan typically cold baritone cuts through the uneasy hush in the room. “We stand in this shithole any longer and we’ll be ambushed.”

Peering up from the putrefied body, you find Joel Miller gazing back at you, jerking his head to the door in a silent order to urge you out of the rotten room. Stepping away from the body, you walk towards the exit.

“How much longer?” You ask, studying his weary expression. The two of you had been travelling for hours, on red alert for infected or human danger alike. Outside of the quarantine zone was a death trap, and Joel always insisted you both never get too comfortable. Always be cautious.

“Half an hour tops,” Joel rumbles, holding the door open as you step through. His hands smear it with blood as you walk by, the ghost of his fingerprints leaving ribbons of crimson against the surface.

The blood had belonged to a medicine dealer called Cain. Joel had been working for him, the two of you smuggling the precious supplies into the quarantine zones in return for ration cards and weapons. You and Joel must have made ten, hell, fifteen runs for this crooked fuck, only for Cain to send the two of you on a dodgy mission. You’d both been jumped by the middlemen who were meant to hand off the medicine- when under duress, they admitted to ‘just following orders’.

It hadn’t taken you both long to find Cain and took even less time to dispatch him. Joel had taken his time and, as always, you turned your back on the shrieks of agony as Joel delivered justice. Though he had been particularly brutal this time around, the crunching of bones and cartilage was loud enough to be heard over the dying screams.

Said cries of pain and the extended period of torture had drawn the attention of several Runners and Clickers. They’d overrun the smuggling tunnels somehow, obstructing your return to the quarantine zone and safety. It had been the fight of your life, and the two of you were damn near out of ammunition and energy to battle the waves of infected.

“You okay?” You croak, almost afraid to speak into the silence between the two of you as you stumble through the darkness, navigating using only the dying light of Joel’s torch. A small reprieve from the onslaught of runners.

“Yeah,” he grunts, his eyes drifting over in your direction. “Wanna get home. Think I hurt my ankle back there, fighting the clicker.” If it hurts enough to admit it, it must be bad. Yet Joel maintains a strong pace, refusing to allow the pain to slow him down. He was stubborn like that, the two of you always arguing about his thick-headed disposition.

You nod in silence, eyes on the floor and focusing on not tripping over loose bricks despite running this smuggling tunnel with Joel for years. It was probably so familiar that you could walk it blindfolded. The walls of this small passage had seen the slow and subtle changes in the dynamics of your relationship.

It had seen the beginnings of your partnership and witnessed you constantly vying for Joel’s approval to extend the coalition you had fought so hard to convince him for. The cracks in the walls had observed the slow-growing kinship between the two of you, jokes told and three-sentence conversations shared. The shards of glass swept into the corners of the floor had heard the difficulty you both had continuing those discussions after you had stupidly gotten drunk on this old whiskey Joel had found, kissing him in the early hours of the morning when he finally carried you to bed.

That was a few weeks ago, and he still hadn’t been able to maintain eye contact with you for more than a few seconds. Like a child unable to look into his mother's eyes when telling a lie.

Grabbing ahold of the cold handle of the metal door ahead of you, you force it down to open it. The door jams on the opposite side, not moving despite putting all of your weight behind it to the point the edges of the handgrip leave a rectangular imprint in your palm.

“Joel?” You call him, “Gonna need you to open this.”

“Yes Ma’am,” he responds, the same way he always has. He steps forward, the soles of his boots scuffing the floor as he approaches.

Joel shifts his shoulder against the flat of the door, hooking the handle downwards with his calloused, bloody palm and uses his strength to push against the blockage. The hinges of the door strain under the pressure, squealing in the silence as Joel grits his teeth.

He grunts loudly, heaving the door so the obstruction falls away from the entrance, clattering to the floor with a racket that ricochets off the wall. It echoes all the way down the corridor. You freeze, the deafening sound causing the hair on your forearms to stand on end.

The chill on your skin only intensifies with the blood-curdling groans that sound from the blackness.

“Fuck-“ you stammer, Joel’s hand quick to settle between your shoulder blades to push you forward through the open door. Adrenaline courses through you like a live wire, singeing your extremities and curdling your stomach as Joel forces his way through the door and pulls the pipe from his backpack.

Amongst the panic, you still manage to note that a metal storage unit that had once been set against the wall had been tipped on its side, forcing the door shut. Joel had used it just this morning to grab ammo before heading out for the medicine drop. Someone had forced it over- didn’t take a genius to figure out who.

“Gonna have to run,” Joel pushes you forward, causing your feet to stumble as you desperately grasp for your rudimentary shiv. It slices your fingers open as you grab for it in the darkness, terror pushing your body forward in a sprint. You can hear the thudding of Joel’s boots just behind you, and the screams and wails of the infected as you chase you down the tight corridors.

It feels as though seconds and hours pass simultaneously, your lungs burning as you suck in gasps of air through your gas mask. Your muscles are seizing, cramping up and your fingers sting with the cuts that you sustained from your blade. Over the all-encompassing sound of shrieking from the creatures and your sharp, shakey inhale, you can hear Joel urging you forwards. “Go Go Go! You got it darlin’ keep goi-“

It hits you like a runaway freight train at top speed. Thundering into you, a Clicker knocks you from your feet with an utterly horrifying scream. Pain shoots up your ribcage as you slam into the uneven floor, a discarded glass bottle shattering beneath your body and cutting into you. You’re scrabbling with the beast, its nails digging into your flesh as you stab blindly at its shoulder, your other palm on its sternum to hold it away from your throat while you scream for Joel.

“Joel, fuck!” You sob in fear, the clickers jaws gnashing at your exposed jugular, growling and snapping. In the pitch blackness, you can smell the damp, mouldy scent weeping from the fungus on its skin, the metallic, bloody twang of human meat on its tongue that wafts over your face as it heaves its breath onto you.

Your biceps scream under the strain of its weight as you feel the fungal growths on its face lightly brush at your throat as the creature goes in for the kill. Just as you feel its teeth skim your flesh, a sickening crunch sounds, and a hot splatter of viscous blood drenches your face as Joel removes the blade of the shiv he had plunged into its skull.

“Fuck, y’alright?” His gruff voice shouts over the din the approaching runners make from down the hall. He doesn’t really give you the chance to answer him, grabbing ahold of your hand and wrenching you out from underneath the limp body of the Clicker before pulling you along in a sprint.

You sob with relief as you both turn the corner to the exit. Joel wastes no time, running ahead to force the door open so it’s ready when you approach. It swings open so easily as if it senses your desperation, and you launch yourself into the safety of the building that serves as an entrance to the tunnel. Joel isn’t far behind, slamming the door shut on the hoard and bolting it shut with a thick wooden plank that you’d both been using as a stopper.

The room swims, the image of the door swirling in your vision as you lean your back against the wall, taking deep, heaving breaths in what both was an attempt to feed oxygen back to your lungs and also to alert your body to the fact you were alive.

You barely have a moment to thank God when Joel is on you in an instant.

“Good Christ,” he heaves his gas mask off his face, blood-soaked palms taking ahold of your chin as his deep, earthy irises flit over you, searching for damage with a panicked expression. You note it’s the longest he’s looked at you in weeks. “Sure you’re okay? Jesus fuck, I thought-“

He’s twisting your head from side to side, checking your throat for bites. The infected are pounding on the secured metal door, but the noise is drowned out, faded as you watch Joel tend to you. You like him this close, you can see the freckles under his eyes. You’re not sure whether it’s the adrenaline of survival or if there was a crack in your mask and the spores had driven you crazy, but you are almost certain that Andromeda lies somewhere within the constellation of the minute spots of melanin.

“Joel,” you whisper, breathless for a whole other reason than the fact you just fought for your life, “Joel, I’m okay.”

You watch your partner hesitate for a moment, checking over you one last time before setting his lips in a firm line, his panicked eyes growing protective in an instant. “Don’t fuckin’ scare me like that again. Y’hear?”

Cross-legged in Joel’s bathtub, hours after escaping the tunnels, you use rainwater and a sponge to scrub the Clicker blood from your skin. Even now, years after the outbreak, you found yourself silently pining to the walls in the bathroom for hot, running water. They were no genie, and never responded to your wishes, but your wordless complaints often made you feel better as you scrubbed cold water over your body.

The droplets are tinted maroon as they run down your legs, seeping down the drain beneath you as you meticulously work each disgusting patch of blood from your skin. Despite telling Joel that the Clicker hadn’t bitten you, it still came as a palpable relief to scrub away the grime and not see a single mark in the crescent shape of teeth anywhere.

You did, however, have some brutal cuts across your ribs from falling into the glass bottle in the tunnel. They’re like lightning slashes, open and sore as you run a fresh washcloth over the wounds. At the very least, they were superficial and didn’t need stitches. The last thing you needed was to be burdensome right now.

Stepping out of the bath, you wrap yourself in a towel, scrubbing at your face with your sore hands. At least the slices on your fingers from your blade had stopped weeping blood. You’re sore, and mildly damaged, but otherwise alive. Alive. The proof is in the reflection that stares back at you when you glance in the bathroom mirror. Though- you certainly look as though you had just stared death in the face.

You open the door of the bathroom slowly, tentatively stepping into Joel’s bedroom. He’s sitting on the bed, slowly easing his boot from his sore ankle with a hiss of complaint. It does look painful, swelling until the definition in the bone was encroached upon by inflammation, and you have no doubt it’s been throbbing with pain inside his boot the entire journey back home.

“I think you’ll need to take a break for a while,” you gently urge Joel from your place in the doorway, who nods simply in return. Yes, he was stubborn, sometimes downright pigheaded, but he would never be stupid enough to go outside hindered by an injury. There were more than enough ration cards to tide you both over until Joel was fit enough to do another run safely.

“You can- uh, grab some’a my clothes from my closet, if you need,” he rumbles, moving to untie the boot on his other foot and avoiding your gaze. “Don’t want you to have’ta put your clothes back on. They’re covered in clicker brains.”

“Thanks, Joel,” you whisper, despite the shiver of disgust that runs down your spine. Slowly padding your bare feet across his wooden floor, you approach his closet. All of the shirts and flannels he owns are thread-bare, soft to the touch from wear. You grasp at a grey and black flannel, dropping the towel to the floor as you pull the comfortable clothing over your head.

Joel is silent, his back turned to you as you dress. Perhaps it’s from years of knowing him, or it’s seeing how tight the muscles of his back are through the fabric of his shirt, but you know something is amiss. The discontent rolls off him in waves.

Wordlessly, you climb onto the mattress, approaching Joel from behind. He seems to tense up further, even if momentarily before his muscles ease again. You stay seated firmly behind him, just outside of his peripheral vision as you attempt to breach the topic of conversation in a way that the stubborn mule of a man won’t shut down.

“Is it the pain?” You ask delicately, voice soft as a feather as you watch him feel his swollen ankle with the tips of his fingers.

“No. No, it ain’t, I just-“ he exhales sharply, as though he’s urging the words from his mouth, expelling them from his lungs. “No I just really thought that I’d lost you for a minute there, ‘n’ I just…” He trails off, leaving the unspoken words to admit what he couldn’t.

That he couldn’t bear to lose you.

You nod slowly, despite knowing he can’t see you, as the realisation sets in. He cares about you more than he shows, more than he lets on.

Softly, you lay your palm against his back, between his shoulder blades. In the low light of the bedroom, Joel’s silver hairs gleam as he turns his head around to look at you. You feel his nerves before you see them, feel the shaky exhale he lets out against your hand.

“I’m still here,” you whisper to him, capturing his gaze as you attempt to bring him down from the fear that must have seized him. You drag your palm down his back slowly, and in turn, he leans his body towards you at an achingly slow pace. Your stomach is doing somersaults thanks to the way he gazes at you, watching the nervous trail of your tongue over your lower lip.

“I know,” he answers back, his gruff voice so much softer sounding in this fragile moment. He inches towards you, and you can see the fine creases in the edges of his eyes, the constellations of his freckles even in the limited lighting. “I know I just-… Wanna feel it.”

It’s almost as though there’s a static moment, fizzling in the air as the tip of his nose brushes yours. He parts his lips softly, ghosting them over your own in a touch CW that’s barely there but sets your blood ablaze. His breath, exhaled through his nose, tickles your red-hot cheeks and you grip onto his t-shirt until your knuckles turn white. You wait for the plunge, for the powder keg of your heart lodged between your ribs to burst with his kiss.

Cautiously, Joel touches his lips to yours in a kiss that sparks up your spine. His lips are slightly chapped, his moustache and beard scraping gently against your skin as you lean into the kiss, letting out a soft moan of relief.

Your fingertips are tingling as you brush them up Joel’s neck, cupping his face to hold him there. He’s so gentle with you, like he’s afraid you’ll turn to dust in his hands. Joel has lived the past 20 years surviving, trying so desperately to stay alive. You’re not sure what that meant for him- the horrid things he had to do- but in this moment he’s so delicate with you, his knuckles brushing across your jaw as if those same fingers hadn’t squeezed triggers for two decades.

Working your own fingers into his curls, you feel the vibrations of Joel’s moans against your lips. It isn’t overtly sexual, it’s as though it’s a sound of comfort- of appreciation for being shown some tenderness. He responds to your touches by tracing his tongue over your lower lip, deepening the kiss and pulling you closer.

“Joel,” you whisper against his open mouth. He’s panting softly, hands moving to your hips to hold you in place like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. “Joel, lay back.”

“… Yes Ma’am,” he murmurs, a hint of a smile spreading against your lips. You find yourself relieved he didn’t argue, finding this nerve-wracking enough. It’s as though the two of you are inexperienced teenagers, fumbling with each other and fighting the butterflies in your guts. As brutal as the world you both fought to survive in was, there’s an innocence settling between you, nervous laughs shared as Joel lays back slowly against the pillows.

He gazes back at you as the crown of his head settles, holding his breath as he awaits your next move. Swallowing thickly, you watch Joel’s hand slowly reach for your knee. He swirls his thumb in uneven circles over your patella, gently coaxing you out of your shell. “You good, darlin’?”

“Yeah,” You whisper breathlessly, the soft and innocent touch leaving tingles in its wake. “Yeah ‘m fine.”

Joel, the hardened bastard that he is, doesn’t give much away. However, you see the edge of his lips lilt upwards at your less-than-convincing answer sliding his palm up the bare skin of your thighs. His hands are warm, calloused from hauling ass across the country and slicing open Clicker throats to protect you.

Swallowing thickly, you loop your thigh over his hip to straddle his waist. He watches you, his dark lashes dipping low as he witnesses you seat yourself across his abdomen. As you sit, the leather of Joel’s belt bites into the soft skin of your flesh.

“… You’re not wearin’ anythin’ under that, are you?” He whispers. It’s less of a question than it is a statement, those dark, mahogany eyes gazing up at you with a knowing expression. It’s intimidating, and you find yourself unable to answer with anything other than a slow shake of your head.

Joel responds with a low chuckle, tutting slightly as he brushes his palms further up your legs. They disappear under the worn fabric of his flannel, settling against your hip bones as his fingertips brush the curve of your bare ass.

Ever the gentleman, Joel stills his movements there and awaits your next orders, his eyelids heavy. You let a shaky breath escape your lips despite trying so hard to appear cool and collected, and you can practically feel the amusement emanating from the man beneath you.

Taking control, you trace the hem of Joel’s shirt and ease your fingers beneath it. Again, he’s warm to the touch, a human bonfire. It reminds you of the same level of comfort, the heat of the flames licking the skin of your cheeks in the cold autumnal air and providing relief from the numbing chill.

You don’t rush this, dragging the shirt from his body achingly slowly. Scars litter Joel’s skin, silver against the melanin. Sometimes large, wide and brutal across his ribs, others small and circular, barely noticeable. You notice them. You love them all.

Joel lifts his arms for you to raise the fabric over his head, and you reward him by pressing gentle kisses to the exposed skin of his neck. He hums softly at the gentle touches of your lips, his fingertips squeezing into the soft flesh of your hips. You’re almost certain he can feel the way you’re smiling.

“Mhm, Darlin’” he grumbles softly, using his hold on you to slowly grind your hips down over the soft flesh of his stomach, angled perfectly. It causes you both to stutter to a halt, your own pause caused by the spark of arousal that blooms through your abdomen at the friction to your clit.

Joel slowly uses one of his hands to grab the back of his flannel that you wear, sitting you up. His irises are inky black as he looks up at you, startling you into submission. Stoic, he says nothing, but looks pointedly down at his stomach to divert your attention. Uncertain, you follow his gaze.

It’s utterly mortifying. Across the tanned, freckled skin of his stomach is a silvery-pink scar. Following the same direction, a wet steak of your slick traces where Joel had pushed your hips down onto him. Shock and humiliation flood you all at once.

“Oh my God, Jo-! I’m so sorry-,” you stammer quickly, but Joel is grabbing ahold of the collar of his flannel with both hands, using very little of his impressive strength to pop the buttons on the stupid thing. The buttons go flying, rattling as they roll across the wooden floor and banging as they ping off the wardrobe. He exposes your breasts to his eyes, drinking in the view like he does whenever he sees a beautiful sunset while smuggling across the state. He stops and stares and takes it all in, just like he does with you.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry about,” he insists, not allowing you to feel embarrassed a moment longer as he uses his grip once again to push your hips against him. Perhaps it’s the shock of his unfiltered satisfaction, or the arousal he draws from you once again, but you don’t find yourself fighting with him. Instead, you lean your head back as he directs your body exactly where he wants it, pushing your cunt against him and drawing delicious swirls of pleasure throughout your abdomen.

“That’s it Darlin’. Just relax,” he murmurs, clearly pleased as you begin to match his movements by rolling your hips along with his touch. Your palms rest against his muscular pectorals, nails digging in whenever he catches your clit just right. Sometimes he hisses in pain, sometimes he groans in delight.

The muscles of your thighs clench against his waist as the walls of your cunt flutter around nothing. Your jaw is slack, your mouth falling open as you crease your brows together and feel the surge.

“Fuck,” you hear Joel curse, the gravel of his voice tipping you ever closer, “I can feel your pulse.” He sounds incredulous.

“D-Don’t-“ you gasp, teetering on the edge of an utterly devastating orgasm. Your eyes are squeezed shut, focusing on that feeling that barely holds the seams of your soul together when he shocks you completely, using his strength to lift your hips from him just as your release bubbles up.

A sound of utter anguish reaches your ears, and it takes a moment for the pulse of your heart in your ears to subside before you realise it came from you. Joel is chuckling, kissing your trembling hands in an uncharacteristically soft move. Though- you suppose all of this is out of character.

“Nuh-uh,” Joel chastises you gently, in an almost mocking tone. He’s enjoying seeing you fall to pieces for him, even if it is just because you look so pretty over him. “I want you to look at me. Want to see it in your eyes when you cum.”

“Joel,” you wail, in utter disbelief as he shakes his head at your complaint. He’s not listening. Instead, he draws tight circles on the inside of your thigh. His touch is wet, your slick drenching the inside of your legs and showing how desperate you are if your impassioned whining wasn’t enough to convince him of your need to come undone.

“Listen here, Darlin,” he orders in that same tone he uses when on supply runs, the kind that makes you warm and fuzzy, “I ain’t gonna ask you to do nothin’ for me. Want you to feel good. The least you can give me is that pretty face.”

You swallow again, like you’re parched and only he can quench your desperation. Silently, in bitter defeat, you resign to a nod.

“Yeah?” He urges, wanting to hear you say it.

“Yeah,” you choke out.

“Good girl.”

Again, you moan out like you’re in pain, Joel rewarding your vulnerability by slowly slipping two fingers into your drenched cunt. You’re so worked up, so slick he doesn’t need to open you up. Your cunt takes the intrusion of his digits greedily, and your thighs begin to shake at the intense relief it grants you.

Agonisingly slowly, Joel eases his fingers out of you before plunging them back in. He doesn’t need to go fast, the drawn-out drags of his fingertips against the walls of your cunt enough to work up your arousal, but you know that he’s setting this pace to watch the micro-expressions on your face.

Your brows pinch together, and your lips form subtle shapes that indicate his technique is working. He’s watching your pupils dilate, your nostrils flare as you inhale sharply when he touches that spot inside you that makes your vision go fuzzy.

“Joel,” you wheeze, the dexterity of his fingers driving you very quickly to the precipice of something soul-shattering. The pads of his finger focus on that spot that makes your body tremble, and you’re sobbing above him, tears streaking your face. “Oh God, Joel, I can’t last-“

“It’s okay,” he urges you, so calm that he almost appears lazy as he curls his fingers inside you. “You know what to do.”

The bastard hurls you over the edge of the cliff he’s built for you, pushing the pad of his thumb against your clit. The most intense burst of pleasure explodes beneath your skin, streaming through your blood vessels as your body crumbles inwards. You’re not sure if he’s even circling your clit, if he’s moving his fingers because it’s so visceral that you can’t see, can’t hear, don’t experience anything other than the liquid heat that drips through you.

When you come to, Joel is humming softly, stroking his palm over the back of your head and easing you down from the clouds he sent you to with a gentle touch. You’re lying across his chest, his arms seemingly having pulled you against him during your blinding relief. You’re sticky with sweat, as though you’re coated in honey.

Joel smells like the apocalypse. Like earth and mud that has been wet with rain. The sharp smell of gunpowder clings to his skin, having coated the shirt he wore only minutes before. There’s the musk of his sweat, the tang that sticks to his skin despite the rain that you had walked home in after leaving the tunnels. It had washed away the smell of the blood and the grime but left every part of Joel.

“Oh fuck,” you choke out, and Joel can’t help but chuckle at the way you sound so fucked out. He presses a gentle kiss to your temple as he soothes your aching muscles from their contractions.

The rise and fall of his chest ease you down from your heightened state of shock, and your partner slowly peels the destroyed flannel from your skin. The thin bed sheets float across your body to give you some privacy, Joel wanting you to feel comfortable and respected despite him utterly destroying you literally moments before.

“That good, mhmm?” It’s said with Joel’s typically flat intonation, but you know he’s amused.

“Shut up Joel,” you whisper, still breathless. God, had he just stolen the air from your lungs? It’s as though every functioning part of your body has stalled, taken up entirely with bliss.

“Hell, you’re stubborn,” he mumbles, and it’s like he puts a spark up your ass, body jolting into action.

“Excuse me?! I’m stubborn-?!”

END

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Bakugou being so in love with you but he won’t ever admit it, my beloved.

Can you imagine Bakugou, who’s been in love with you since the moment he met you, catching you one evening trying to bake cupcakes in the kitchen. And he can see how angry and frustrated you are instantly, even without the evidence of many many failed attempts strewn all over the countertop.

Uneven batter, burnt edges, no rise— each time seems to get worse, even though you’re following the recipe to a T. But it’s late, you’re exhausted, and the only pleasure you have now is eating the leftover cake mix off your wooden spoon as you sit on the counter overlooking the mess you know you’ll have to clean up.

“You’ll get sick eating raw cake batter, dumbass.” Bakugou rolls his eyes as he looks at the mess of burnt cupcake failures strewn across the kitchen, “Why don’t you just buy yourself a cake?”

“Because I wanted to make the cupcakes,” You pout pathetically, dumping the spoon into the sink as you prepare to start the tedious cleanup.

“But you can’t bake for shit.” Bakugou scoffs.

“I know,” You heave a sigh, “But it’s Valentines tomorrow, and I thought—”

You trailed off, not knowing how to explain to Bakugou that the cupcakes were supposed to be for him.

But of course Bakugou doesn’t realise that, however perceptive he thinks he is he can’t see the big, fat crush you’ve had on him for just as long. Trying to ignore the ache in his chest at the thought of you gifting these cupcakes to someone else as he shoulders you out of the way with your dirty bowl, sticking it beneath the warm stream of water as he begins to clean it up.

“You don’t need to do that, Bakugou. I made the mess, I can—”

“Shut up, shitty woman,” He rolls his eyes, trying to mask the pained rasp in his throat, “We’re gonna bake the best fuckin’ cupcakes you’ve ever had.”

And he’s right. The cupcakes that now sit cooling on the counter look perfect, all of them the same shape and consistency as you watch Bakugou hover over them with the piping bag as he swirls the orange mixture onto each one with precision.

He doesn’t say a word when you’re finished, only a gruff grunt as he excuses himself from the kitchen. Cheeks flushed pink from the praise you’d given him, the sweetest words from you.

“Have you got a valentine, Bakugou?”

“Nah, it’s a stupid fuckin’ holiday.” He despised the glow of hurt that flashed through your eyes at that, despised that he was the one to make you feel shitty about trying to do something nice.

When the truth is, he loved that you were trying to bake cupcakes for someone, it showed just how sweet, kind and perfect you really were— he just wished you were baking those stupid cupcakes for him.

If only he knew that you’d wanted them to be perfect because they were for him.

And now you weren’t going to gift them to him because he thought it was a stupid holiday, and it was a stupid idea to think he might actually want them.

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