those bad, bad, ships

Something quick and messy (heh heh) to get back in the groove of writing. Hope it pleases you still, Anon!

“You do look so much better from this angle,” Joxter purrs, “You should treat me to it more often.”

Snufkin growls, though the effect is entirely lost with his father's dick stuck halfway down his throat. Joxter runs his fingers through those beautiful curls, sharp claws getting caught on the tangled strands. Resting his fingers at the base of Snufkin's neck, stroking absently, he guides the younger one into smoother movements, thrusting into the wet heat of his mouth with languid strokes.

“Perhaps I have done something to deserve it?” His voice is edging on breathlessness, the sloppiness of Snufkin's tongue against the underside of his cock unbearable. But Joxter forces the corner of his lips into a self-satisfied smirk. “Or perhaps you just like this, then?”

His son pulls off to throw him a dangerous glare, the flush of his cheeks is either embarrassment or arousal, Joxter doesn't care to find out. “Perhaps I should stop,” Snufkin says firmly."You're enjoying this a bit too much I think."

“Pity...” Joxter strokes himself instead, the friction of his rough hand and the spit enough to edge him on. As much as he would love to have Snufkin suck him off until he is satisfied, the sight of the boy on his knees in front of him does bring other ideas to mind. “I was under the impression you were having fun?”

Snufkin doesn't answer, throwing his glance to a corner of the room. Joxter is sure it is embarrassment this time. His hand moves upward and Snufkin parts his lips automatically, proving the truthfulness of his words.

“So eager,” Joxter says but pulls on his son's hair to stop him, relishing in the surprised little gasp he gets in response. His hips buck forward as his movements get rougher, jerking himself in quick, uneven strokes now. It only takes a few more seconds for him to finish, what with the delicious sight in front of him. His orgasm blinds him for a moment, but when he opens his eyes again he gets treated to an even better view.

Snufkin's lips are still parted. Joxter can see a sliver of pink when his tongue darts out to lap at the cum smeared across his lips. More of it clings to the boy's cheeks and chin, with one stray dollop even reaching his forehead and dirtying his hair. The very image of ruined innocence.

It is truly a shame Joxter is not able to capture the moment so he might remain privy to it forever, though he's sure it is a memory that will often be revisited when he is alone on the road.

“How foul-” Snufkin says, sticking his tongue out with a frown, and Joxter can't help but kneel down to wipe some of it away with a finger. Those dark eyes fall on him next, clouded with need and he knows exactly what his son is after.

I started with the SFW one to get in the groove of things but I did kind of stray from the prompt a bit, sorry.

Hope you enjoy this little piece of Joxkin fluff, Anon!

It takes a good while for Snufkin to realize that what he is feeling for his father isn’t typical.

That the way his heart seems to skip a beat whenever the Joxter smiles at him, all mischief and sharp canines, isn’t normal. Or the way his skin feels heated whenever they touch, the slightest brush of a hand against his hip sending his mind reeling.

Joxter has a way of looking at people like he can read their minds and Snufkin wishes ever so dearly that this is just a silly impression he has.

The thing is, Snufkin never had a crush before. And he never had a father before either. So, it isn’t really all that strange that for the first few weeks he mistakes all these new and unfamiliar feelings for childlike admiration, equal parts curiosity and excitement.

The Joxter is good at telling stories. Snufkin isn’t sure if he believes all of them. In fact, most of them are quite fantastical, with dramatic flourishes and unrealistic strokes of luck that leave him doubting the sincerity of the words no matter how prettily they are strung together. But he finds that it doesn’t matter either way. It is the manner in which his father tells them, gesturing idly and easily while his body lays back against a tree, his hat tipped away from his face so Snufkin can see his eyes light up at every fanciful embellishment of the truth.

And it definitely helps that the Joxter is good at listening too. It is with some awkwardness that Snufkin tried to explain his nomadic routine, his inherent need for solitude which has so often been met with confusion and incomprehension by others. But his father just nodded, shrugged his shoulders.

“It is always better when one gets the freedom to do as one pleases, with disregard of boring conventions,” He had said softly, a grin tugging barely at his lips. “Besides, as I see it, you will get to see the world this way, which is very fortunate,” He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against the side of Snufkin’s face. “And the world will get to see you, which is more fortunate still.”

Those last words had been accompanied with a wink that left Snufkin feeling like he missed something vital. He had asked Moominpappa about it later but he had merely rolled his eyes and huffed that the Joxter was always so impractically cryptic.

But just a few days after that it becomes more than clear to him. The Joxter is full of jokes, witty remarks at his friend's expense mostly but also genuine funny quips that betray the razor-sharp mind that he much rather pretends he doesn't have. Snufkin smiles at them, genuinely, but he is reserved by nature and he knows the Joxter notices.

“You should smile more often, my dear,” He tells Snufkin, the tips of his fingers lingering against Snufkin's cheek, brushing into his hair. “You are much prettier that way.”

And just like that, he realizes.

“I don't know what to do about this,” Snufkin tells Moomin eventually, mere hours after the realization, when the odd feeling has been building in his stomach for weeks now and he feels like he is going to puke or pass out or worse. Whatever is worse than passing out in your own puke. “It's so silly.”

Moomin hums in agreement,fixes the flowers on Snufkin's hat. “Very silly.”

“I don't think I ever liked somebody as much,” He feels his face heat up in embarrassment, covers it with his hands. “Except for you, of course.”

Moomin laughs, slightly breathless and leans closer. “Of course.”

“I don't know what to do about it.”

“Well,” And when Moomin sits back Snufkin looks at him desperately. “Perhaps you can start by telling him.”

He opens his mouth to retort, to tell his friend that that is the worst possible idea. That he would much rather do anything besides that. Maybe he can leave early this year, set out before autumn and hope that by next spring the Joxter has found something or somebody else to occupy him with and Snufkin never has to see him again.

But that thought is so unbearable he can't quite voice it.

“It's-” He tries, resists the urge to cover his face again but scrunches up his nose instead. “It's weird. It's wrong. I can't do this- He's my father, Moomintroll.”

“Well, it's...” Moomin casts his eyes skyward, as if the answer could be written in the clouds, but when he looks back at Snufkin his expression is sincere. “It's unusual. But the Joxter is a very unusual person. And so are you. So somehow it kind of fits, I think.”

He lets those words sink in, lets them wander around his mind for a minute to see if they hold true. Snufkin never was one for rules, or doing what other people did. Or doing what other people thought he should do either, for that matter. And the Joxter is just so very peculiar in his own way.

Still, he holds on to the thought for a few days more, seeing if his conviction will change.

Then there comes a day when the summer sun is shining blindingly bright down the valley, the air is warm and heavy and it's the perfect weather to be lazy, to lay around and do absolutely nothing. The Joxter seems to think so at least, stretched out on the grass, with his ankles crossed over each other and his head resting on his hands. Snufkin tries not to be too conspicuous peaking at his father from the corner of his eyes, gripping the fishing rod in his hands tight enough that his knuckles turn white, but it's hard.

Hard because Joxter is staring at him too, sunlight catching on the blue of his eyes, making them look even brighter somehow. Snufkin swallows uneasily.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, casual and easy and not at all like the sight of the Joxter's smirk is making his stomach turn into knots.

“I hope not,” The Joxter answers just as lazily, but doesn't stop looking, voice low and soft. “I'm simply enjoying the view.”

Snufkin turns back to the river, watches the ripples on the water with unnecessary scrutiny. “The valley is beautiful this time of year.” He can't see his own reflection but doesn't need to for him to know the cursed blushing is there again.

His father doesn't respond. Merely watches him with that insufferable smile of his, a face that knows everything already. But if he did Snufkin wouldn't need to tell him at all, would he?

He nearly jumps out of his skin when his father puts one arm around his waist, tugging at him, creeping too close for comfort. The fishing rod falls out of Snufkin's hands and rolls down the slope, but he doesn't even notice. He's too busy trying to compose himself as the Joxter pulls him against his body. “You are always so tense,” He says.” It's worrying.”

Snufkin tries waiting for his heart to calm down but it won't, intent on beating its way out of his chest at this pace. His father is warm and smells vaguely like tobacco and the forest and it's making it hard to think. “And you would know about worrying?” He manages.

“I know nothing about worrying,” The Joxter answers quite unhelpfully, but Snufkin lets him because it means he doesn't need to move for some seconds more. “But I do think you are worrying about the wrong things.”

Snufkin angels his head back, feels the Joxter press into him harder still and his pulse is rapid, too quick for comfort. He closes his eyes. “You think?”

And then those lips are pressing into his, stealing whatever little remained of his breath. For a moment he can't think, the entire world narrowing down in their shared heat, the sun ever so bright and the sound of the water in his ears. His father draws back, sighs his contentment into the air between them.

“This is wrong.” Snufkin mumbles, but doesn't look away.

“Quite so,” Joxter answers and when he smiles Snufkin can see his fangs, just barely peeking through. Ignores the way it sends a shiver down his spine. “But if you allow me to, I'm sure I can change your mind.”

Snufkin nods briefly, catches his father's lips for another kiss.

o: never seen Bob’s Burgers tbh, but i do like me some enemies to lovers

he's laid out in the grass, eyes squinted closed and body lax, and the thought is one that sneaks in, slow and careful, all apple-red and unlike him.

it is not exactly words, as much as it's an emotion, a desire. he thinks of his father, here in the sun, warm and relaxed, and he thinks of fur beneath his own palms, of bodies twined closed- of the Joxter, held in his paws like something to treasure and keep, and the thought of it is so sudden, so startling that Snufkin's face rushes with blood, embarrassment and something young, and he turns over in his spot, presses the angle of his wrist to his mouth and withers.

it is not sin, which perhaps is the worst part of it. it is spring-fresh and bright, is it that tentative first kiss of youth, and here he is, thinking of it like a youngling, barely fit to thread the world on his own.

he buries the thought of it deep, and when his cheeks cool down, he crawls to his feet and disappears into the woods for a while, restless and in need of space, because even then, the thought buried, it still seeps in.

the second time, he's with his father.

that makes it worse, of course. they're not side-by-side, not as close as a part of Snufkin longs for, but the Joxter is there, a hovering, comforting present.

and then the thought is there, as sudden as the rain is in spring.

he's fishing, feet in the water and pants rolled up, and the water ripples, sound loud and startling, as he jerks in surprise.

he does not have to be looking at his father to know he's gazing down, curious.

"it's nothing," he says, but his voice comes out tight and breakable, and in a moment there is the soft padding of feet, a shadow stretching across him.

the Joxter sits down beside him, close enough that they touch, and Snufkin stares down at his toes, the reflection of his kin right there, close enough to touch.

(the thought that had snuck in was of warmth and languid summer days. of the joxter, pressed up against him, content and warm, snufkin's hand buried in his hair. it had been a thought that made his heart ache, made his blood sing.)

"it's nothing," he repeats, wavery and weaker than he means to, his paws tight on his fishing pole. his father reaches out, touches the soft spot of his elbow, and Snufkin's paws goes numb.

his fishing pole plunks into the water, and he turns around to the Joxter so quick he gets whiplash.

and then there's paws on his cheeks, bright blue eyes looking at him, rapt and deep enough to drown in, and Snufkin doesn't think.

he kisses the Joxter, a flurry of movements- clashing lips and teeth, his chest gaping wide, and it is the rush of youth, thoughtless and stupid, that makes him do this.

the Joxter tastes like fruit. sweet, juicy. like something to long for, and never have.

Snufkin pulls away, wipes his mouth. is climbing to his feet in the same breath, eyes wide and heart hammering, and he's two feet away, panic setting in, when there's a sharp yank on his tail.

he yelps. stumbles back.

"where do you think you're going?" the joxter asks, and Snufkin turns, face bleeding red, eyes stinging.

his father is red-mouthed, soft-eyed. he is not looking at Snufkin with contempt, or anything at all, except a soft warmth that reminds Snufkin is fire and flames, of cold winter days wrapped in layers upon layers.

"sit down," Joxter says, tone patient. Snufkin does so, mechanical, numb.

the Joxter chuckles, softly so, and bends down to fish his pole out of the water. he presses it into Snufkin's hands, and then, like it has always been so, tugs him in for a kiss.

"don't complicate it," he says, still tasting like fruit. like comfort, like heat, like spring.

Snufkin's face is warm, is hot, but he doesn't resist- just kisses the Joxter, one more time, warm in his chest, and turns back to his fishing.